NONES
In which Cardinal del Poggetto arrives, with Bernard Gui and the other men of Avignon, and then each one does something different.

Men who had already known one another for some time, men who without knowing one another had each heard the others spoken of, exchanged greetings in the courtyard with apparent meekness. At the abbot’s side, Cardinal Bertrand del Poggetto moved like a man accustomed to power, as if he were virtually a second pope himself, and to one and all, especially to the Minorites, he distributed cordial smiles, auguring splen?did agreement for the next day’s meeting and bearing explicit wishes for peace and good (he used deliberately this expression dear to the Franciscans) from John XXII.
“Excellent,” he said to me, when William was kind enough to introduce me as his scribe and pupil. Then he asked me whether I knew Bologna and he praised its beauty to me, its good food and its splendid university, inviting me to visit the city, rather than return one day, as he said, among those German people of mine who were making our lord Pope suffer so much. Then he extended his ring for me to kiss, as he directed his smile at someone else.
For that matter, my attention immediately turned to the person of whom I had heard most talk recently: Bernard Gui, as the French called him, or Bernardo Guidoni or Bernardo Guido, as he was called elsewhere.
He was a Dominican of about seventy, slender and erect. I was struck by his gray eyes, capable of staring without any expression; I was to see them often flash with ambiguous light, shrewd both in concealing thoughts and passions and in deliberately conveying them.
In the general exchange of greetings, he was not affectionate or cordial like the others, but always and just barely polite. When he saw Ubertino, whom he already knew, he was very deferential, but stared at him in a way that gave me an uneasy shudder. When he greeted Michael of Cesena, his smile was hard to decipher, and he murmured without warmth, “You have been awaited there for some time,” a sentence in which I was unable to catch either a hint of eagerness or a shadow of irony, either an injunction or, for that matter, a sugges?tion of interest. He met William, and when he learned who he was, he looked at him with polite hostility: not because his face betrayed his secret feelings, I was sure of that (even while I was unsure that he harbored any feelings at all), but because he certainly wanted William to feel he was hostile. William returned his hostility, smiling at him with exaggerated cordiality and saying, “For some time I have been wanting to meet a man whose fame has been a lesson to me and an admonition for many important decisions that have inspired my life.” Certainly words of praise, almost of flattery, for anyone who did not know, as Bernard did know well, that one of the most important decisions in William’s life had been to abandon the position of inquisitor. I derived the impression that, if William ............