{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_8724/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_8724","id":"gutenberg_8724","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8724","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholics -- Fiction","Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages -- Fiction","Clergy -- Fiction","Rome (Italy) -- Fiction"],"text":"THE THREE CITIES\n\n\n\n                               ROME\n\n\n\n                                BY\n\n                            EMILE ZOLA\n\n\n\n                TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY\n\n\n\n                              PART IV\n\n\n\nX\n\nIN his anxiety to bring things to a finish, Pierre wished to begin his\ncampaign on the very next day. But on whom should he first call if he\nwere to steer clear of blunders in that intricate and conceited\necclesiastical world? The question greatly perplexed him; however, on\nopening his door that morning he luckily perceived Don Vigilio in the\npassage, and with a sudden inspiration asked him to step inside. He\nrealised that this thin little man with the saffron face, who always\ntrembled with fever and displayed such exaggerated, timorous discretion,\nwas in reality well informed, mixed up in everything. At one period it\nhad seemed to Pierre that the secretary purposely avoided him, doubtless\nfor fear of compromising himself; but recently Don Vigilio had proved\nless unsociable, as though he were not far from sharing the impatience\nwhich must be consuming the young Frenchman amidst his long enforced\ninactivity. And so, on this occasion, he did not seek to avoid the chat\non which Pierre was bent.\n\n\"I must apologise,\" said the latter, \"for asking you in here when things\nare in such disorder. But I have just received some more linen and some\nwinter clothing from Paris. I came, you know, with just a little valise,\nmeaning to stay for a fortnight, and yet I've now been here for nearly\nthree months, and am no more advanced than I was on the morning of my\narrival.\"\n\nDon Vigilio nodded. \"Yes, yes, I know,\" said he.\n\nThereupon Pierre explained to him that Monsignor Nani had informed him,\nthrough the Contessina, that he now ought to act and see everybody for\nthe defence of his book. But he was much embarrassed, as he did not know\nin what order to make his visits so that they might benefit him. For\ninstance, ought he to call in the first place on Monsignor Fornaro, the\n/consultore/ selected to report on his book, and whose name had been\ngiven him?\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed Don Vigilio, quivering; \"has Monsignor Nani gone as far\nas that--given you the reporter's name? That's even more than I\nexpected.\" Then, forgetting his prudence, yielding to his secret interest\nin the affair, he resumed: \"No, no; don't begin with Monsignor Fornaro.\nYour first visit should be a very humble one to the Prefect of the\nCongregation of the Index--his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti; for he\nwould never forgive you for having offered your first homage to another\nshould he some day hear of it.\" And, after a pause, Don Vigilio added, in\na low voice, amidst a faint, feverish shiver: \"And he /would/ hear of it;\neverything becomes known.\"\n\nAgain he hesitated, and then, as if yielding to sudden, sympathetic\ncourage, he took hold of the young Frenchman's hands. \"I swear to you, my\ndear Monsieur Froment,\" he said, \"that I should be very happy to help\nyou, for you are a man of simple soul, and I really begin to feel worried\nfor you. But you must not ask me for impossibilities. Ah! if you only\nknew--if I could only tell you of all the perils which surround us!\nHowever, I think I can repeat to you that you must in no wise rely on my\npatron, his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera. He has expressed absolute\ndisapproval of your book in my presence on several occasions. Only he is\na saint, a most worthy, honourable man; and, though he won't defend you,\nhe won't attack you--he will remain neutral out of regard for his niece,\nwhom he loves so dearly, and who protects you. So, when you see him,\ndon't plead your cause; it would be of no avail, and might even irritate\nhim.\"\n\nPierre was not particularly distressed by this news, for at his first\ninterview with the Cardinal, and on the few subsequent occasions when he\nhad respectfully visited him, he had fully understood that his Eminence\nwould never be other than an adversary. \"Well,\" said he, \"I will wait on\nhim to thank him for his neutrality.\"\n\nBut at this all Don Vigilio's terrors returned. \"No, no, don't do that;\nhe would perhaps realise that I have spoken to you, and then what a\ndisaster--my position would be compromised. I've said nothing, nothing!\nSee the cardinals to begin with, see all the cardinals. Let it be\nunderstood between us that I've said nothing more.\" And, on that occasion\nat any rate, Don Vigilio would speak no further, but left the room\nshuddering and darting fiery, suspicious glances on either side of the\ncorridor.\n\nPierre at once went out to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti. It was ten\no'clock, and there was a chance that he might find him at home. This\ncardinal resided on the first floor of a little palazzo in a dark, narrow\nstreet near San Luigi dei Francesi.* There was here none of the giant\nruin full of princely and melancholy grandeur amidst which Cardinal\nBoccanera so stubbornly remained. The old regulation gala suite of rooms\nhad been cut down just like the number of servants. There was no\nthrone-room, no red hat hanging under a /baldacchino/, no arm-chair\nturned to the wall pending a visit from the Pope. A couple of apartments\nserved as ante-rooms, and then came a /salon/ where the Cardinal\nreceived; and there was no luxury, indeed scarcely any comfort; the\nfurniture was of mahogany, dating from the empire period, and the\nhangings and carpets were dusty and faded by long use. Moreover, Pierre\nhad to wait a long time for admittance, and when a servant, leisurely\nputting on his jacket, at last set the door ajar, it was only to say that\nhis Eminence had been away at Frascati since the previous day.\n\n  * This is the French church of Rome, and is under the protection\n    of the French Government.--Trans.\n\nPierre then remembered that Cardinal Sanguinetti was one of the suburban\nbishops. At his see of Frascati he had a villa where he occasionally\nspent a few days whenever a desire for rest or some political motive\nimpelled him to do so.\n\n\"And will his Eminence soon return?\" Pierre inquired.\n\n\"Ah! we don't know. His Eminence is poorly, and expressly desired us to\nsend nobody to worry him.\"\n\nWhen Pierre reached the street again he felt quite bewildered by this\ndisappointment. At first he wondered whether he had not better call on\nMonsignor Fornaro without more ado, but he recollected Don Vigilio's\nadvice to see the cardinals first of all, and, an inspiration coming to\nhim, he resolved that his next visit should be for Cardinal Sarno, whose\nacquaintance he had eventually made at Donna Serafina's Mondays. In spite\nof Cardinal Sarno's voluntary self-effacement, people looked upon him as\none of the most powerful and redoubtable members of the Sacred College,\nalbeit his nephew Narcisse Habert declared that he knew no man who showed\nmore obtuseness in matters which did not pertain to his habitual\noccupations. At all events, Pierre thought that the Cardinal, although\nnot a member of the Congregation of the Index, might well give him some\ngood advice, and possibly bring his great influence to bear on his\ncolleagues.\n\nThe young man straightway betook himself to the Palace of the Propaganda,\nwhere he knew he would find the Cardinal. This palace, which is seen from\nthe Piazza di Spagna, is a bare, massive corner pile between two streets.\nAnd Pierre, hampered by his faulty Italian, quite lost himself in it,\nclimbing to floors whence he had to descend again, and finding himself in\na perfect labyrinth of stairs, passages, and halls. At last he luckily\ncame across the Cardinal's secretary, an amiable young priest, whom he\nhad already seen at the Boccanera mansion. \"Why, yes,\" said the\nsecretary, \"I think that his Eminence will receive you. You did well to\ncome at this hour, for he is always here of a morning. Kindly follow me,\nif you please.\"\n\nThen came a fresh journey. Cardinal Sarno, long a Secretary of the\nPropaganda, now presided over the commission which controlled the\norganisation of worship in those countries of Europe, Africa, America,\nand Oceanica where Catholicism had lately gained a footing; and he thus\nhad a private room of his own with special officers and assistants,\nreigning there with the ultra-methodical habits of a functionary who had\ngrown old in his arm-chair, closely surrounded by nests of drawers, and\nknowing nothing of the world save the usual sights of the street below\nhis window.\n\nThe secretary left Pierre on a bench at the end of a dark passage, which\nwas lighted by gas even in full daylight. And quite a quarter of an hour\nwent by before he returned with his eager, affable air. \"His Eminence is\nconferring with some missionaries who are about to leave Rome,\" he said;\n\"but it will soon be over, and he told me to take you to his room, where\nyou can wait for him.\"\n\nAs soon as Pierre was alone in the Cardinal's sanctum he examined it with\ncuriosity. Fairly spacious, but in no wise luxurious, it had green paper\non its walls, and its furniture was of black wood and green damask. From\ntwo windows overlooking a narrow side street a mournful light reached the\ndark wall-paper and faded carpets. There were a couple of pier tables and\na plain black writing-table, which stood near one window, its worn\nmole-skin covering littered with all sorts of papers. Pierre drew near to\nit for a moment, and glanced at the arm-chair with damaged, sunken seat,\nthe screen which sheltered it from draughts, and the old inkstand\nsplotched with ink. And then, in the lifeless and oppressive atmosphere,\nthe disquieting silence, which only the low rumbles from the street\ndisturbed, he began to grow impatient.\n\nHowever, whilst he was softly walking up and down he suddenly espied a\nmap affixed to one wall, and the sight of it filled him with such\nabsorbing thoughts that he soon forgot everything else. It was a coloured\nmap of the world, the different tints indicating whether the territories\nbelonged to victorious Catholicism or whether Catholicism was still\nwarring there against unbelief; these last countries being classified as\nvicariates or prefectures, according to the general principles of\norganisation. And the whole was a graphic presentment of the long efforts\nof Catholicism in striving for the universal dominion which it has sought\nso unremittingly since its earliest hour. God has given the world to His\nChurch, but it is needful that she should secure possession of it since\nerror so stubbornly abides. From this has sprung the eternal battle, the\nfight which is carried on, even in our days, to win nations over from\nother religions, as it was in the days when the Apostles quitted Judaea\nto spread abroad the tidings of the Gospel. During the middle ages the\ngreat task was to organise conquered Europe, and this was too absorbing\nan enterprise to allow of any attempt at reconciliation with the\ndissident churches of the East. Then the Reformation burst forth, schism\nwas added to schism, and the Protestant half of Europe had to be\nreconquered as well as all the orthodox East.\n\nWar-like ardour, however, awoke at the discovery of the New World. Rome\nwas ambitious of securing that other side of the earth, and missions were\norganised for the subjection of races of which nobody had known anything\nthe day before, but which God had, nevertheless, given to His Church,\nlike all the others. And by degrees the two great divisions of\nChristianity were formed, on one hand the Catholic nations, those where\nthe faith simply had to be kept up, and which the Secretariate of State\ninstalled at the Vatican guided with sovereign authority, and on the\nother the schismatical or pagan nations which were to be brought back to\nthe fold or converted, and over which the Congregation of the Propaganda\nsought to reign. Then this Congregation had been obliged to divide itself\ninto two branches in order to facilitate its work--the Oriental branch,\nwhich dealt with the dissident sects of the East, and the Latin branch,\nwhose authority extended over all the other lands of mission: the two\nforming a vast organisation--a huge, strong, closely meshed net cast over\nthe whole world in order that not a single soul might escape.\n\nIt was in presence of that map that Pierre for the first time became\nclearly conscious of the mechanism which for centuries had been working\nto bring about the absorption of humanity. The Propaganda, richly dowered\nby the popes, and disposing of a considerable revenue, appeared to him\nlike a separate force, a papacy within the papacy, and he well understood\nthat the Prefect of the Congregation should be called the \"Red Pope,\" for\nhow limitless were the powers of that man of conquest and domination,\nwhose hands stretched from one to the other end of the earth. Allowing\nthat the Cardinal Secretary held Europe, that diminutive portion of the\nglobe, did not he, the Prefect, hold all the rest--the infinity of space,\nthe distant countries as yet almost unknown? Besides, statistics showed\nthat Rome's uncontested dominion was limited to 200 millions of Apostolic\nand Roman Catholics; whereas the schismatics of the East and the\nReformation, if added together, already exceeded that number, and how\nsmall became the minority of the true believers when, besides the\nschismatics, one brought into line the 1000 millions of infidels who yet\nremained to be converted. The figures struck Pierre with a force which\nmade him shudder. What! there were 5 million Jews, nearly 200 million\nMahommedans, more than 700 million Brahmanists and Buddhists, without\ncounting another 100 million pagans of divers creeds, the whole making\n1000 millions, and against these the Christians could marshal barely more\nthan 400 millions, who were divided among themselves, ever in conflict,\none half with Rome and the other half against her?* Was it possible that\nin 1800 years Christianity had not proved victorious over even one-third\nof mankind, and that Rome, the eternal and all-powerful, only counted a\nsixth part of the nations among her subjects? Only one soul saved out of\nevery six--how fearful was the disproportion! However, the map spoke with\nbrutal eloquence: the red-tinted empire of Rome was but a speck when\ncompared with the yellow-hued empire of the other gods--the endless\ncountries which the Propaganda still had to conquer. And the question\narose: How many centuries must elapse before the promises of the Christ\nwere realised, before the whole world were gained to Christianity, before\nreligious society spread over secular society, and there remained but one\nkingdom and one belief? And in presence of this question, in presence of\nthe prodigious labour yet to be accomplished, how great was one's\nastonishment when one thought of Rome's tranquil serenity, her patient\nstubbornness, which has never known doubt or weariness, her bishops and\nministers toiling without cessation in the conviction that she alone will\nsome day be the mistress of the world!\n\n  * Some readers may question certain of the figures given by M.\n    Zola, but it must be remembered that all such calculations\n    (even those of the best \"authorities\") are largely guesswork.\n    I myself think that there are more than 5 million Jews, and\n    more than 200 millions of Mahommedans, but I regard the alleged\n    number of Brahmanists and Buddhists as exaggerated. On the\n    other hand, some statistical tables specify 80 millions of\n    Confucianists, of whom M. Zola makes no separate mention.\n    However, as regards the number of Christians in the world, the\n    figures given above are, within a few millions, probably\n    accurate.--Trans.\n\nNarcisse had told Pierre how carefully the embassies at Rome watched the\ndoings of the Propaganda, for the missions were often the instruments of\none or another nation, and exercised decisive influence in far-away\nlands. And so there was a continual struggle, in which the Congregation\ndid all it could to favour the missionaries of Italy and her allies. It\nhad always been jealous of its French rival, \"L'Oeuvre de la Propagation\nde la Foi,\" installed at Lyons, which is as wealthy in money as itself,\nand richer in men of energy and courage. However, not content with\nlevelling tribute on this French association, the Propaganda thwarted it,\nsacrificed it on every occasion when it had reason to think it might\nachieve a victory. Not once or twice, but over and over again had the\nFrench missionaries, the French orders, been driven from the scenes of\ntheir labours to make way for Italians or Germans. And Pierre, standing\nin that mournful, dusty room, which the sunlight never brightened,\npictured the secret hot-bed of political intrigue masked by the\ncivilising ardour of faith. Again he shuddered as one shudders when\nmonstrous, terrifying things are brought home to one. And might not the\nmost sensible be overcome? Might not the bravest be dismayed by the\nthought of that universal engine of conquest and domination, which worked\nwith the stubbornness of eternity, not merely content with the gain of\nsouls, but ever seeking to ensure its future sovereignty over the whole\nof corporeal humanity, and--pending the time when it might rule the\nnations itself--disposing of them, handing them over to the charge of\nthis or that temporary master, in accordance with its good pleasure. And\nthen, too, what a prodigious dream! Rome smiling and tranquilly awaiting\nthe day when she will have united Christians, Mahommedans, Brahmanists,\nand Buddhists into one sole nation, of whom she will be both the\nspiritual and the temporal queen!\n\nHowever, a sound of coughing made Pierre turn, and he started on\nperceiving Cardinal Sarno, whom he had not heard enter. Standing in front\nof that map, he felt like one caught in the act of prying into a secret,\nand a deep flush overspread his face. The Cardinal, however, after\nlooking at him fixedly with his dim eyes, went to his writing-table, and\nlet himself drop into the arm-chair without saying a word. With a gesture\nhe dispensed Pierre of the duty of kissing his ring.\n\n\"I desired to offer my homage to your Eminence,\" said the young man. \"Is\nyour Eminence unwell?\"\n\n\"No, no, it's nothing but a dreadful cold which I can't get rid of. And\nthen, too, I have so many things to attend to just now.\"\n\nPierre looked at the Cardinal as he appeared in the livid light from the\nwindow, puny, lopsided, with the left shoulder higher than the right, and\nnot a sign of life on his worn and ashen countenance. The young priest\nwas reminded of one of his uncles, who, after thirty years spent in the\noffices of a French public department, displayed the same lifeless\nglance, parchment-like skin, and weary hebetation. Was it possible that\nthis withered old man, so lost in his black cassock with red edging, was\nreally one of the masters of the world, with the map of Christendom so\ndeeply stamped on his mind, albeit he had never left Rome, that the\nPrefect of the Propaganda did not take a decision without asking his\nopinion?\n\n\"Sit down, Monsieur l'Abbe,\" said the Cardinal. \"So you have come to see\nme--you have something to ask of me!\" And, whilst disposing himself to\nlisten, he stretched out his thin bony hands to finger the documents\nheaped up before him, glancing at each of them like some general, some\nstrategist, profoundly versed in the science of his profession, who,\nalthough his army is far away, nevertheless directs it to victory from\nhis private room, never for a moment allowing it to escape his mind.\n\nPierre was somewhat embarrassed by such a plain enunciation of the\ninterested object of his visit; still, he decided to go to the point.\n\"Yes, indeed,\" he answered, \"it is a liberty I have taken to come and\nappeal to your Eminence's wisdom for advice. Your Eminence is aware that\nI am in Rome for the purpose of defending a book of mine, and I should be\ngrateful if your Eminence would help and guide me.\" Then he gave a brief\naccount of the present position of the affair, and began to plead his\ncause; but as he continued speaking he noticed that the Cardinal gave him\nvery little attention, as though indeed he were thinking of something\nelse, and failed to understand.\n\n\"Ah! yes,\" the great man at last muttered, \"you have written a book.\nThere was some question of it at Donna Serafina's one evening. But a\npriest ought not to write; it is a mistake for him to do so. What is the\ngood of it? And the Congregation of the Index must certainly be in the\nright if it is prosecuting your book. At all events, what can I do? I\ndon't belong to the Congregation, and I know nothing, nothing about the\nmatter.\"\n\nPierre, pained at finding him so listless and indifferent, went on trying\nto enlighten and move him. But he realised that this man's mind, so\nfar-reaching and penetrating in the field in which it had worked for\nforty years, closed up as soon as one sought to divert it from its\nspecialty. It was neither an inquisitive nor a supple mind. All trace of\nlife faded from the Cardinal's eyes, and his entire countenance assumed\nan expression of mournful imbecility. \"I know nothing, nothing,\" he\nrepeated, \"and I never recommend anybody.\" However, at last he made an\neffort: \"But Nani is mixed up in this,\" said he. \"What does Nani advise\nyou to do?\"\n\n\"Monsignor Nani has been kind enough to reveal to me that the reporter is\nMonsignor Fornaro, and advises me to see him.\"\n\nAt this Cardinal Sarno seemed surprised and somewhat roused. A little\nlight returned to his eyes. \"Ah! really,\" he rejoined, \"ah! really--\nWell, if Nani has done that he must have some idea. Go and see Monsignor\nFornaro.\" Then, after rising and dismissing his visitor, who was\ncompelled to thank him, bowing deeply, he resumed his seat, and a moment\nlater the only sound in the lifeless room was that of his bony fingers\nturning over the documents before him.\n\nPierre, in all docility, followed the advice given him, and immediately\nbetook himself to the Piazza Navona, where, however, he learnt from one\nof Monsignor Fornaro's servants that the prelate had just gone out, and\nthat to find him at home it was necessary to call in the morning at ten\no'clock. Accordingly it was only on the following day that Pierre was\nable to obtain an interview. He had previously made inquiries and knew\nwhat was necessary concerning Monsignor Fornaro. Born at Naples, he had\nthere begun his studies under the Barnabites, had finished them at the\nSeminario Romano, and had subsequently, for many years, been a professor\nat the University Gregoriana. Nowadays Consultor to several Congregations\nand a Canon of Santa Maria Maggiore, he placed his immediate ambition in\na Canonry at St. Peter's, and harboured the dream of some day becoming\nSecretary of the Consistorial Congregation, a post conducting to the\ncardinalate. A theologian of remarkable ability, Monsignor Fornaro\nincurred no other reproach than that of occasionally sacrificing to\nliterature by contributing articles, which he carefully abstained from\nsigning, to certain religious reviews. He was also said to be very\nworldly.\n\nPierre was received as soon as he had sent in his card, and perhaps he\nwould have fancied that his visit was expected had not an appearance of\nsincere surprise, blended with a little anxiety, marked his reception.\n\n\"Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment,\" repeated the prelate,\nlooking at the card which he still held. \"Kindly step in--I was about to\nforbid my door, for I have some urgent work to attend to. But no matter,\nsit down.\"\n\nPierre, however, remained standing, quite charmed by the blooming\nappearance of this tall, strong, handsome man who, although five and\nforty years of age, was quite fresh and rosy, with moist lips, caressing\neyes, and scarcely a grey hair among his curly locks. Nobody more\nfascinating and decorative could be found among the whole Roman prelacy.\nCareful of his person undoubtedly, and aiming at a simple elegance, he\nlooked really superb in his black cassock with violet collar. And around\nhim the spacious room where he received his visitors, gaily lighted as it\nwas by two large windows facing the Piazza Navona, and furnished with a\ntaste nowadays seldom met with among the Roman clergy, diffused a\npleasant odour and formed a setting instinct with kindly cheerfulness.\n\n\"Pray sit down, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment,\" he resumed, \"and tell me to\nwhat I am indebted for the honour of your visit.\"\n\nHe had already recovered his self-possession and assumed a /naif/, purely\nobliging air; and Pierre, though the question was only natural, and he\nought to have foreseen it, suddenly felt greatly embarrassed, more\nembarrassed indeed than in Cardinal Sarno's presence. Should he go to the\npoint at once, confess the delicate motive of his visit? A moment's\nreflection showed him that this would be the best and worthier course.\n\"Dear me, Monseigneur,\" he replied, \"I know very well that the step I\nhave taken in calling on you is not usually taken, but it has been\nadvised me, and it has seemed to me that among honest folks there can\nnever be any harm in seeking in all good faith to elucidate the truth.\"\n\n\"What is it, what is it, then?\" asked the prelate with an expression of\nperfect candour, and still continuing to smile.\n\n\"Well, simply this. I have learnt that the Congregation of the Index has\nhanded you my book 'New Rome,' and appointed you to examine it; and I\nhave ventured to present myself before you in case you should have any\nexplanations to ask of me.\"\n\nBut Monsignor Fornaro seemed unwilling to hear any more. He had carried\nboth hands to his head and drawn back, albeit still courteous. \"No, no,\"\nsaid he, \"don't tell me that, don't continue, you would grieve me\ndreadfully. Let us say, if you like, that you have been deceived, for\nnothing ought to be known, in fact nothing is known, either by others or\nmyself. I pray you, do not let us talk of such matters.\"\n\nPierre, however, had fortunately remarked what a decisive effect was\nproduced when he had occasion to mention the name of the Assessor of the\nHoly Office. So it occurred to him to reply: \"I most certainly do not\ndesire to give you the slightest cause for embarrassment, Monseigneur,\nand I repeat to you that I would never have ventured to importune you if\nMonsignor Nani himself had not acquainted me with your name and address.\"\n\nThis time the effect was immediate, though Monsignor Fornaro, with that\neasy grace which he introduced into all things, made some ceremony about\nsurrendering. He began by a demurrer, speaking archly with subtle shades\nof expression. \"What! is Monsignor Nani the tattler! But I shall scold\nhim, I shall get angry with him! And what does he know? He doesn't belong\nto the Congregation; he may have been led into error. You must tell him\nthat he has made a mistake, and that I have nothing at all to do with\nyour affair. That will teach him not to reveal needful secrets which\neverybody respects!\" Then, in a pleasant way, with winning glance and\nflowery lips, he went on: \"Come, since Monsignor Nani desires it, I am\nwilling to chat with you for a moment, my dear Monsieur Froment, but on\ncondition that you shall know nothing of my report or of what may have\nbeen said or done at the Congregation.\"\n\nPierre in his turn smiled, admiring how easy things became when forms\nwere respected and appearances saved. And once again he began to explain\nhis case, the profound astonishment into which the prosecution of his\nbook had thrown him, and his ignorance of the objections which were taken\nto it, and for which he had vainly sought a cause.\n\n\"Really, really,\" repeated the prelate, quite amazed at so much\ninnocence. \"The Congregation is a tribunal, and can only act when a case\nis brought before it. Proceedings have been taken against your book\nsimply because it has been denounced.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, denounced.\"\n\n\"Of course. Complaint was laid by three French bishops, whose names you\nwill allow me to keep secret, and it consequently became necessary for\nthe Congregation to examine the incriminated work.\"\n\nPierre looked at him quite scared. Denounced by three bishops? Why? With\nwhat object? Then he thought of his protector. \"But Cardinal Bergerot,\"\nsaid he, \"wrote me a letter of approval, which I placed at the beginning\nof my work as a preface. Ought not a guarantee like that to have been\nsufficient for the French episcopacy?\"\n\nMonsignor Fornaro wagged his head in a knowing way before making up his\nmind to reply: \"Ah! yes, no doubt, his Eminence's letter, a very\nbeautiful letter. I think, however, that it would have been much better\nif he had not written it, both for himself and for you especially.\" Then\nas the priest, whose surprise was increasing, opened his mouth to urge\nhim to explain himself, he went on: \"No, no, I know nothing, I say\nnothing. His Eminence Cardinal Bergerot is a saintly man whom everybody\nvenerates, and if it were possible for him to sin it would only be\nthrough pure goodness of heart.\"\n\nSilence fell. Pierre could divine that an abyss was opening, and dared\nnot insist. However, he at last resumed with some violence: \"But, after\nall, why should my book be prosecuted, and the books of others be left\nuntouched? I have no intention of acting as a denouncer myself, but how\nmany books there are to which Rome closes her eyes, and which are far\nmore dangerous than mine can be!\"\n\nThis time Monsignor Fornaro seemed glad to be able to support Pierre's\nviews. \"You are right,\" said he, \"we cannot deal with every bad book, and\nit greatly distresses us. But you must remember what an incalculable\nnumber of works we should be compelled to read. And so we have to content\nourselves with condemning the worst /en bloc/.\"\n\nThen he complacently entered into explanations. In principle, no printer\nought to send any work to press without having previously submitted the\nmanuscript to the approval of the bishop of the diocese. Nowadays,\nhowever, with the enormous output of the printing trade, one could\nunderstand how terribly embarrassed the bishops would be if the printers\nwere suddenly to conform to the Church's regulation. There was neither\nthe time nor the money, nor were there the men necessary for such\ncolossal labour. And so the Congregation of the Index condemned /en\nmasse/, without examination, all works of certain categories: first,\nbooks which were dangerous for morals, all erotic writings, and all\nnovels; next the various bibles in the vulgar tongue, for the perusal of\nHoly Writ without discretion was not allowable; then the books on magic\nand sorcery, and all works on science, history, or philosophy that were\nin any way contrary to dogma, as well as the writings of heresiarchs or\nmere ecclesiastics discussing religion, which should never be discussed.\nAll these were wise laws made by different popes, and were set forth in\nthe preface to the catalogue of forbidden books which the Congregation\npublished, and without them this catalogue, to have been complete, would\nin itself have formed a large library. On turning it over one found that\nthe works singled out for interdiction were chiefly those of priests, the\ntask being so vast and difficult that Rome's concern extended but little\nbeyond the observance of good order within the Church. And Pierre and his\nbook came within the limit.\n\n\"You will understand,\" continued Monsignor Fornaro, \"that we have no\ndesire to advertise a heap of unwholesome writings by honouring them with\nspecial condemnation. Their name is legion in every country, and we\nshould have neither enough paper nor enough ink to deal with them all. So\nwe content ourselves with condemning one from time to time, when it bears\na famous name and makes too much noise, or contains disquieting attacks\non the faith. This suffices to remind the world that we exist and defend\nourselves without abandoning aught of our rights or duties.\"\n\n\"But my book, my book,\" exclaimed Pierre, \"why these proceedings against\nmy book?\"\n\n\"I am explaining that to you as far as it is allowable for me to do, my\ndear Monsieur Froment. You are a priest, your book is a success, you have\npublished a cheap edition of it which sells very readily; and I don't\nspeak of its literary merit, which is remarkable, for it contains a\nbreath of real poetry which transported me, and on which I must really\ncompliment you. However, under the circumstances which I have enumerated,\nhow could we close our eyes to such a work as yours, in which the\nconclusion arrived at is the annihilation of our holy religion and the\ndestruction of Rome?\"\n\nPierre remained open-mouthed, suffocating with surprise. \"The destruction\nof Rome!\" he at last exclaimed; \"but I desire to see Rome rejuvenated,\neternal, again the queen of the world.\" And, once more mastered by his\nglowing enthusiasm, he defended himself and confessed his faith:\nCatholicism reverting to the principles and practices of the primitive\nChurch, drawing the blood of regeneration from the fraternal Christianity\nof Jesus; the Pope, freed from all terrestrial royalty, governing the\nwhole of humanity with charity and love, and saving the world from the\nfrightful social cataclysm that threatens it by leading it to the real\nKingdom of God: the Christian communion of all nations united in one\nnation only. \"And can the Holy Father disavow me?\" he continued. \"Are not\nthese his secret ideas, which people are beginning to divine, and does\nnot my only offence lie in having expressed them perhaps too soon and too\nfreely? And if I were allowed to see him should I not at once obtain from\nhim an order to stop these proceedings?\"\n\nMonsignor Fornaro no longer spoke, but wagged his head without appearing\noffended by the priest's juvenile ardour. On the contrary, he smiled with\nincreasing amiability, as though highly amused by so much innocence and\nimagination. At last he gaily responded, \"Oh! speak on, speak on; it\nisn't I who will stop you. I'm forbidden to say anything. But the\ntemporal power, the temporal power.\"\n\n\"Well, what of the temporal power?\" asked Pierre.\n\nThe prelate had again become silent, raising his amiable face to heaven\nand waving his white hands with a pretty gesture. And when he once more\nopened his mouth it was to say: \"Then there's your new religion--for the\nexpression occurs twice: the new religion, the new religion--ah, /Dio/!\"\n\nAgain he became restless, going off into an ecstasy of wonderment, at\nsight of which Pierre impatiently exclaimed: \"I do not know what your\nreport will be, Monseigneur, but I declare to you that I have had no\ndesire to attack dogma. And, candidly now, my whole book shows that I\nonly sought to write a work of pity and salvation. It is only justice\nthat some account should be taken of one's intentions.\"\n\nMonsignor Fornaro had become very calm and paternal again. \"Oh!\nintentions! intentions!\" he said as he rose to dismiss his visitor. \"You\nmay be sure, my dear Monsieur Froment, that I feel much honoured by your\nvisit. Naturally I cannot tell you what my report will be; as it is, we\nhave talked too much about it, and, in fact, I ought to have refused to\nlisten to your defence. At the same time, you will always find me ready\nto be of service to you in anything that does not go against my duty. But\nI greatly fear that your book will be condemned.\" And then, as Pierre\nagain started, he added: \"Well, yes. It is facts that are judged, you\nknow, not intentions. So all defence is useless; the book is there, and\nwe take it such as it is. However much you may try to explain it, you\ncannot alter it. And this is why the Congregation never calls the accused\nparties before it, and never accepts from them aught but retraction pure\nand simple. And, indeed, the wisest course would be for you to withdraw\nyour book and make your submission. No? You won't? Ah! how young you are,\nmy friend!\"\n\nHe laughed yet more loudly at the gesture of revolt, of indomitable pride\nwhich had just escaped his young friend, as he called him. Then, on\nreaching the door, he again threw off some of his reserve, and said in a\nlow voice, \"Come, my dear Abbe, there is something I will do for you. I\nwill give you some good advice. At bottom, I myself am nothing. I deliver\nmy report, and it is printed, and the members of the Congregation read\nit, but are quite free to pay no attention to it. However, the Secretary\nof the Congregation, Father Dangelis, can accomplish everything, even\nimpossibilities. Go to see him; you will find him at the Dominican\nconvent behind the Piazza di Spagna. Don't name me. And for the present\ngood-bye, my dear fellow, good-bye.\"\n\nPierre once more found himself on the Piazza Navona, quite dazed, no\nlonger knowing what to believe or hope. A cowardly idea was coming over\nhim; why should he continue this struggle, in which his adversaries\nremained unknown and indiscernible? Why carry obstinacy any further, why\nlinger any longer in that impassionating but deceptive Rome? He would\nflee that very evening, return to Paris, disappear there, and forget his\nbitter disillusion in the practice of humble charity. He was traversing\none of those hours of weakness when the long-dreamt-of task suddenly\nseems to be an impossibility. However, amidst his great confusion he was\nnevertheless walking on, going towards his destination. And when he found\nhimself in the Corso, then in the Via dei Condotti, and finally in the\nPiazza di Spagna, he resolved that he would at any rate see Father\nDangelis. The Dominican convent is there, just below the Trinity de'\nMonti.\n\nAh! those Dominicans! Pierre had never thought of them without a feeling\nof respect with which mingled a little fear. What vigorous pillars of the\nprinciple of authority and theocracy they had for centuries proved\nthemselves to be! To them the Church had been indebted for its greatest\nmeasure of authority; they were the glorious soldiers of its triumph.\nWhilst St. Francis won the souls of the humble over to Rome, St. Dominic,\non Rome's behalf, subjected all the superior souls--those of the\nintelligent and powerful. And this he did with passion, amidst a blaze of\nfaith and determination, making use of all possible means, preachings,\nwritings, and police and judicial pressure. Though he did not found the\nInquisition, its principles were his, and it was with fire and sword that\nhis fraternal, loving heart waged war on schism. Living like his monks,\nin poverty, chastity, and obedience--the great virtues of those times of\npride and licentiousness--he went from city to city, exhorting the\nimpious, striving to bring them back to the Church and arraigning them\nbefore the ecclesiastical courts when his preachings did not suffice. He\nalso laid siege to science, sought to make it his own, dreamt of\ndefending God with the weapons of reason and human knowledge like a true\nforerunner of the angelic St. Thomas, that light of the middle ages, who\njoined the Dominican order and set everything in his \"Summa Theologiae,\"\npsychology, logic, policy, and morals. And thus it was that the\nDominicans filled the world, upholding the doctrines of Rome in the most\nfamous pulpits of every nation, and contending almost everywhere against\nthe free sprit of the Universities, like the vigilant guardians of dogma\nthat they were, the unwearying artisans of the fortunes of the popes, the\nmost powerful amongst all the artistic, scientific, and literary workers\nwho raised the huge edifice of Catholicism such as it exists to-day.\n\nHowever, Pierre, who could feel that this edifice was even now tottering,\nthough it had been built, people fancied, so substantially as to last\nthrough all eternity, asked himself what could be the present use of the\nDominicans, those toilers of another age, whose police system and whose\ntribunals had perished beneath universal execration, whose voices were no\nlonger listened to, whose books were but seldom read, and whose /role/ as\n/savants/ and civilisers had come to an end in presence of latter-day\nscience, the truths of which were rending dogma on all sides. Certainly\nthe Dominicans still form an influential and prosperous order; but how\nfar one is from the times when their general reigned in Rome, Master of\nthe Holy Palace, with convents and schools, and subjects throughout\nEurope! Of all their vast inheritance, so far as the Roman curia is\nconcerned, only a few posts now remain to them, and among others the\nSecretaryship of the Congregation of the Index, a former dependency of\nthe Holy Office where they once despotically ruled.\n\nPierre was immediately ushered into the presence of Father Dangelis. The\nconvent parlour was vast, bare, and white, flooded with bright sunshine.\nThe only furniture was a table and some stools; and a large brass\ncrucifix hung from the wall. Near the table stood the Father, a very thin\nman of about fifty, severely draped in his ample white habit and black\nmantle. From his long ascetic face, with thin lips, thin nose, and\npointed, obstinate chin, his grey eyes shone out with a fixity that\nembarrassed one. And, moreover, he showed himself very plain and simple\nof speech, and frigidly polite in manner.\n\n\"Monsieur l'Abbe Froment--the author of 'New Rome,' I suppose?\" Then\nseating himself on one stool and pointing to another, he added: \"Pray\nacquaint me with the object of your visit, Monsieur l'Abbe.\"\n\nThereupon Pierre had to begin his explanation, his defence, all over\nagain; and the task soon became the more painful as his words fell from\nhis lips amidst death-like silence and frigidity. Father Dangelis did not\nstir; with his hands crossed upon his knees he kept his sharp,\npenetrating eyes fixed upon those of the priest. And when the latter had\nat last ceased speaking, he slowly said: \"I did not like to interrupt\nyou, Monsieur l'Abbe, but it was not for me to hear all this. Process\nagainst your book has begun, and no power in the world can stay or impede\nits course. I do not therefore realise what it is that you apparently\nexpect of me.\"\n\nIn a quivering voice Pierre was bold enough to answer: \"I look for some\nkindness and justice.\"\n\nA pale smile, instinct with proud humility, arose to the Dominican's\nlips. \"Be without fear,\" he replied, \"God has ever deigned to enlighten\nme in the discharge of my modest duties. Personally, be it said, I have\nno justice to render; I am but an employee whose duty is to classify\nmatters and draw up documents concerning them. Their Eminences, the\nmembers of the Congregation, will alone pronounce judgment on your book.\nAnd assuredly they will do so with the help of the Holy Spirit. You will\nonly have to bow to their sentence when it shall have been ratified by\nhis Holiness.\"\n\nThen he broke off the interview by rising, and Pierre was obliged to do\nthe same. The Dominican's words were virtually identical with those that\nhad fallen from Monsignor Fornaro, but they were spoken with cutting\nfrankness, a sort of tranquil bravery. On all sides Pierre came into\ncollision with the same anonymous force, the same powerful engine whose\ncomponent parts sought to ignore one another. For a long time yet, no\ndoubt, he would be sent from one to the other, without ever finding the\nvolitional element which reasoned and acted. And the only thing that he\ncould do was to bow to it all.\n\nHowever, before going off, it occurred to him once more to mention the\nname of Monsignor Nani, the powerful effect of which he had begun to\nrealise. \"I ask your pardon,\" he said, \"for having disturbed you to no\npurpose, but I simply deferred to the kind advice of Monsignor Nani, who\nhas condescended to show me some interest.\"\n\nThe effect of these words was unexpected. Again did Father Dangelis's\nthin face brighten into a smile, but with a twist of the lips, sharp with\nironical contempt. He had become yet paler, and his keen intelligent eyes\nwere flaming. \"Ah! it was Monsignor Nani who sent you!\" he said. \"Well,\nif you think you need a protector, it is useless for you to apply to any\nother than himself. He is all-powerful. Go to see him; go to see him!\"\n\nAnd that was the only encouragement Pierre derived from his visit: the\nadvice to go back to the man who had sent him. At this he felt that he\nwas losing ground, and he resolved to return home in order to reflect on\nthings and try to understand them before taking any further steps. The\nidea of questioning Don Vigilio at once occurred to him, and that same\nevening after supper he luckily met the secretary in the corridor, just\nas, candle in hand, he was on his way to bed.\n\n\"I have so many things that I should like to say to you,\" Pierre said to\nhim. \"Can you kindly come to my rooms for a moment?\"\n\nBut the other promptly silenced him with a gesture, and then whispered:\n\"Didn't you see Abbe Paparelli on the first floor? He was following us,\nI'm sure.\"\n\nPierre often saw the train-bearer roaming about the house, and greatly\ndisliked his stealthy, prying ways. However, he had hitherto attached no\nimportance to him, and was therefore much surprised by Don Vigilio's\nquestion. The other, without awaiting his reply, had returned to the end\nof the corridor, where for a long while he remained listening. Then he\ncame back on tip-toe, blew out his candle, and darted into Pierre's\nsitting-room. \"There--that's done,\" he murmured directly the door was\nshut. \"But if it is all the same to you, we won't stop in this\nsitting-room. Let us go into your bed-room. Two walls are better than\none.\"\n\nWhen the lamp had been placed on the table and they found themselves\nseated face to face in that bare, faded bed-chamber, Pierre noticed that\nthe secretary was suffering from a more violent attack of fever than\nusual. His thin puny figure was shivering from head to foot, and his\nardent eyes had never before blazed so blackly in his ravaged, yellow\nface. \"Are you poorly?\" asked Pierre. \"I don't want to tire you.\"\n\n\"Poorly, yes, I am on fire--but I want to talk. I can't bear it any\nlonger. One always has to relieve oneself some day or other.\"\n\nWas it his complaint that he desired to relieve; or was he anxious to\nbreak his long silence in order that it might not stifle him? This at\nfirst remained uncertain. He immediately asked for an account of the\nsteps that Pierre had lately taken, and became yet more restless when he\nheard how the other had been received by Cardinal Sarno, Monsignor\nFornaro, and Father Dangelis. \"Yes, that's quite it,\" he repeated,\n\"nothing astonishes me nowadays, and yet I feel indignant on your\naccount. Yes, it doesn't concern me, but all the same it makes me ill,\nfor it reminds me of all my own troubles. You must not rely on Cardinal\nSarno, remember, for he is always elsewhere, with his mind far away, and\nhas never helped anybody. But that Fornaro, that Fornaro!\"\n\n\"He seemed to me very amiable, even kindly disposed,\" replied Pierre;\n\"and I really think that after our interview, he will considerably soften\nhis report.\"\n\n\"He! Why, the gentler he was with you the more grievously he will saddle\nyou! He will devour you, fatten himself with such easy prey. Ah! you\ndon't know him, /dilizioso/ that he is, ever on the watch to rear his own\nfortune on the troubles of poor devils whose defeat is bound to please\nthe powerful. I prefer the other one, Father Dangelis, a terrible man, no\ndoubt, but frank and brave and of superior mind. I must admit, however,\nthat he would burn you like a handful of straw if he were the master. And\nah! if I could tell you everything, if I could show you the frightful\nunder-side of this world of ours, the monstrous, ravenous ambition, the\nabominable network of intrigues, venality, cowardice, treachery, and even\ncrime!\"\n\nOn seeing Don Vigilio so excited, in such a blaze of spite, Pierre\nthought of extracting from him some of the many items of information\nwhich he had hitherto sought in vain. \"Well, tell me merely what is the\nposition of my affair,\" he responded. \"When I questioned you on my\narrival here you said that nothing had yet reached Cardinal Boccanera.\nBut all information must now have been collected, and you must know of\nit. And, by the way, Monsignor Fornaro told me that three French bishops\nhad asked that my book should be prosecuted. Three bishops, is it\npossible?\"\n\nDon Vigilio shrugged his shoulders. \"Ah!\" said he, \"yours is an innocent\nsoul! I'm surprised that there were /only/ three! Yes, several documents\nrelating to your affair are in our hands; and, moreover, things have\nturned out much as I suspected. The three bishops are first the Bishop of\nTarbes, who evidently carries out the vengeance of the Fathers of\nLourdes; and then the Bishops of Poitiers and Evreux, who are both known\nas uncompromising Ultramontanists and passionate adversaries of Cardinal\nBergerot. The Cardinal, you know, is regarded with disfavour at the\nVatican, where his Gallican ideas and broad liberal mind provoke perfect\nanger. And don't seek for anything else. The whole affair lies in that:\nan execution which the powerful Fathers of Lourdes demand of his\nHoliness, and a desire to reach and strike Cardinal Bergerot through your\nbook, by means of the letter of approval which he imprudently wrote to\nyou and which you published by way of preface. For a long time past the\ncondemnations of the Index have largely been secret knock-down blows\nlevelled at Churchmen. Denunciation reigns supreme, and the law applied\nis that of good pleasure. I could tell you some almost incredible things,\nhow perfectly innocent books have been selected among a hundred for the\nsole object of killing an idea or a man; for the blow is almost always\nlevelled at some one behind the author, some one higher than he is. And\nthere is such a hot-bed of intrigue, such a source of abuses in this\ninstitution of the Index, that it is tottering, and even among those who\nsurround the Pope it is felt that it must soon be freshly regulated if it\nis not to fall into complete discredit. I well understand that the Church\nshould endeavour to retain universal power, and govern by every fit\nweapon, but the weapons must be such as one can use without their\ninjustice leading to revolt, or their antique childishness provoking\nmerriment!\"\n\nPierre listened with dolorous astonishment in his heart. Since he had\nbeen at Rome and had seen the Fathers of the Grotto saluted and feared\nthere, holding an authoritative position, thanks to the large alms which\nthey contributed to the Peter's Pence, he had felt that they were behind\nthe proceedings instituted against him, and realised that he would have\nto pay for a certain page of his book in which he had called attention to\nan iniquitous displacement of fortune at Lourdes, a frightful spectacle\nwhich made one doubt the very existence of the Divinity, a continual\ncause of battle and conflict which would disappear in the truly Christian\nsociety of to-morrow. And he could also now understand that his delight\nat the loss of the temporal power must have caused a scandal, and\nespecially that the unfortunate expression \"a new religion\" had alone\nbeen sufficient to arm /delatores/ against him. But that which amazed and\ngrieved him was to learn that Cardinal Bergerot's letter was looked upon\nas a crime, and that his (Pierre's) book was denounced and condemned in\norder that adversaries who dared not attack the venerable pastor face to\nface might, deal him a cowardly blow from behind. The thought of\nafflicting that saintly man, of serving as the implement to strike him in\nhis ardent charity, cruelly grieved Pierre. And how bitter and\ndisheartening it was to find the most hideous questions of pride and\nmoney, ambition and appetite, running riot with the most ferocious\negotism, beneath the quarrels of those leaders of the Church who ought\nonly to have contended together in love for the poor!\n\nAnd then Pierre's mind revolted against that supremely odious and idiotic\nIndex. He now understood how it worked, from the arrival of the\ndenunciations to the public posting of the titles of the condemned works.\nHe had just seen the Secretary of the Congregation, Father Dangelis, to\nwhom the denunciations came, and who then investigated the affair,\ncollecting all documents and information concerning it with the passion\nof a cultivated authoritarian monk, who dreamt of ruling minds and\nconsciences as in the heroic days of the Inquisition. Then, too, Pierre\nhad visited one of the consultive prelates, Monsignor Fornaro, who was so\nambitious and affable, and so subtle a theologian that he would have\ndiscovered attacks against the faith in a treatise on algebra, had his\ninterests required it. Next there were the infrequent meetings of the\ncardinals, who at long intervals voted for the interdiction of some\nhostile book, deeply regretting that they could not suppress them all;\nand finally came the Pope, approving and signing the decrees, which was a\nmere formality, for were not all books guilty? But what an extraordinary\nwretched Bastille of the past was that aged Index, that senile\ninstitution now sunk into second childhood. One realised that it must\nhave been a formidable power when books were rare and the Church had\ntribunals of blood and fire to enforce her edicts. But books had so\ngreatly multiplied, the written, printed thoughts of mankind had swollen\ninto such a deep broad river, that they had swept all opposition away,\nand now the Index was swamped and reduced to powerlessness, compelled\nmore and more to limit its field of action, to confine itself to the\nexamination of the writings of ecclesiastics, and even in this respect it\nwas becoming corrupt, fouled by the worst passions and changed into an\ninstrument of intrigue, hatred, and vengeance. Ah! that confession of\ndecay, of paralysis which grew more and more complete amidst the scornful\nindifference of the nations. To think that Catholicism, the once glorious\nagent of civilisation, had come to such a pass that it cast books into\nhell-fire by the heap; and what books they were, almost the entire\nliterature, history, philosophy, and science of the past and the present!\nFew works, indeed, are published nowadays that would not fall under the\nban of the Church. If she seems to close her eyes, it is in order to\navoid the impossible task of hunting out and destroying everything. Yet\nshe stubbornly insists on retaining a semblance of sovereign authority\nover human intelligence, just as some very aged queen, dispossessed of\nher states and henceforth without judges or executioners, might continue\nto deliver vain sentences to which only an infinitesimal minority would\npay heed. But imagine the Church momentarily victorious, miraculously\nmastering the modern world, and ask yourself what she, with her tribunals\nto condemn and her gendarmes to enforce, would do with human thought.\nImagine a strict application of the Index regulations: no printer able to\nput anything whatever to press without the approval of his bishop, and\neven then every book laid before the Congregation, the past expunged, the\npresent throttled, subjected to an intellectual Reign of Terror! Would\nnot the closing of every library perforce ensue, would not the long\nheritage of written thought be cast into prison, would not the future be\nbarred, would not all progress, all conquest of knowledge, be totally\narrested? Rome herself is nowadays a terrible example of such a\ndisastrous experiment--Rome with her congealed soil, her dead sap, killed\nby centuries of papal government, Rome which has become so barren that\nnot a man, not a work has sprung from her midst even after five and\ntwenty years of awakening and liberty! And who would accept such a state\nof things, not among people of revolutionary mind, but among those of\nreligious mind that might possess any culture and breadth of view?\nPlainly enough it was all mere childishness and absurdity.\n\nDeep silence reigned, and Pierre, quite upset by his reflections, made a\ngesture of despair whilst glancing at Don Vigilio, who sat speechless in\nfront of him. For a moment longer, amidst the death-like quiescence of\nthat old sleeping mansion, both continued silent, seated face to face in\nthe closed chamber which the lamp illumined with a peaceful glow. But at\nlast Don Vigilio leant forward, his eyes sparkling, and with a feverish\nshiver murmured: \"It is they, you know, always they, at the bottom of\neverything.\"\n\nPierre, who did not understand, felt astonished, indeed somewhat anxious\nat such a strange remark coming without any apparent transition. \"Who are\n/they/?\" he asked.\n\n\"The Jesuits!\"\n\nIn this reply the little, withered, yellow priest had set all the\nconcentrated rage of his exploding passion. Ah! so much the worse if he\nhad perpetrated a fresh act of folly. The cat was out of the bag at last!\nNevertheless, he cast a final suspicious glance around the walls. And\nthen he relieved his mind at length, with a flow of words which gushed\nforth the more irresistibly since he had so long held them in check. \"Ah!\nthe Jesuits, the Jesuits! You fancy that you know them, but you haven't\neven an idea of their abominable actions and incalculable power. They it\nis whom one always comes upon, everywhere, in every circumstance.\nRemember /that/ whenever you fail to understand anything, if you wish to\nunderstand it. Whenever grief or trouble comes upon you, whenever you\nsuffer, whenever you weep, say to yourself at once: 'It is they; they are\nthere!' Why, for all I know, there may be one of them under that bed,\ninside that cupboard. Ah! the Jesuits, the Jesuits! They have devoured\nme, they are devouring me still, they will leave nothing of me at last,\nneither flesh nor bone.\"\n\nThen, in a halting voice, he related the story of his life, beginning\nwith his youth, which had opened so hopefully. He belonged to the petty\nprovincial nobility, and had been dowered with a fairly large income,\nbesides a keen, supple intelligence, which looked smilingly towards the\nfuture. Nowadays, he would assuredly have been a prelate, on the road to\nhigh dignities, but he had been foolish enough to speak ill of the\nJesuits and to thwart them in two or three circumstances. And from that\nmoment, if he were to be believed, they had caused every imaginable\nmisfortune to rain upon him: his father and mother had died, his banker\nhad robbed him and fled, good positions had escaped him at the very\nmoment when he was about to occupy them, the most awful misadventures had\npursued him amidst the duties of his ministry to such a point indeed,\nthat he had narrowly escaped interdiction. It was only since Cardinal\nBoccanera, compassionating his bad luck, had taken him into his house and\nattached him to his person, that he had enjoyed a little repose. \"Here I\nhave a refuge, an asylum,\" he continued. \"They execrate his Eminence, who\nhas never been on their side, but they haven't yet dared to attack him or\nhis servants. Oh! I have no illusions, they will end by catching me\nagain, all the same. Perhaps they will even hear of our conversation this\nevening, and make me pay dearly for it; for I do wrong to speak, I speak\nin spite of myself. They have stolen all my happiness, and brought all\npossible misfortune on me, everything that was possible, everything--you\nhear me!\"\n\nIncreasing discomfort was taking possession of Pierre, who, seeking to\nrelieve himself by a jest, exclaimed: \"Come, come, at any rate it wasn't\nthe Jesuits who gave you the fever.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, it was!\" Don Vigilio violently declared. \"I caught it on the\nbank of the Tiber one evening, when I went to weep there in my grief at\nhaving been driven from the little church where I officiated.\"\n\nPierre, hitherto, had never believed in the terrible legend of the\nJesuits. He belonged to a generation which laughed at the idea of\nwehr-wolves, and considered the /bourgeois/ fear of the famous black men,\nwho hid themselves in walls and terrorised families, to be a trifle\nridiculous. To him all such things seemed to be nursery tales,\nexaggerated by religious and political passion. And so it was with\namazement that he examined Don Vigilio, suddenly fearing that he might\nhave to deal with a maniac.\n\nNevertheless he could not help recalling the extraordinary story of the\nJesuits. If St. Francis of Assisi and St. Dominic are the very soul and\nspirit of the middle ages, its masters and teachers, the former a living\nexpression of all the ardent, charitable faith of the humble, and the\nother defending dogma and fixing doctrines for the intelligent and the\npowerful, on the other hand Ignatius de Loyola appeared on the threshold\nof modern times to save the tottering heritage by accommodating religion\nto the new developments of society, thereby ensuring it the empire of the\nworld which was about to appear.\n\nAt the advent of the modern era it seemed as if the Deity were to be\nvanquished in the uncompromising struggle with sin, for it was certain\nthat the old determination to suppress Nature, to kill the man within\nman, with his appetites, passions, heart, and blood, could only result in\na disastrous defeat, in which, indeed, the Church found herself on the\nvery eve of sinking; and it was the Jesuits who came to extricate her\nfrom this peril and reinvigorate her by deciding that it was she who now\nought to go to the world, since the world seemed unwilling to go any\nlonger to her. All lay in that; you find the Jesuits declaring that one\ncan enter into arrangements with heaven; they bend and adjust themselves\nto the customs, prejudices, and even vices of the times; they smile, all\ncondescension, cast rigourism aside, and practice the diplomacy of\namiability, ever ready to turn the most awful abominations \"to the\ngreater glory of God.\" That is their motto, their battle-cry, and thence\nsprings the moral principle which many regard as their crime: that all\nmeans are good to attain one's end, especially when that end is the\nfurtherance of the Deity's interests as represented by those of the\nChurch. And what overwhelming success attends the efforts of the Jesuits!\nthey swarm and before long cover the earth, on all sides becoming\nuncontested masters. They shrive kings, they acquire immense wealth, they\ndisplay such victorious power of invasion that, however humbly they may\nset foot in any country, they soon wholly possess it: souls, bodies,\npower, and fortune alike falling to them. And they are particularly\nzealous in founding schools, they show themselves to be incomparable\nmoulders of the human brain, well understanding that power always belongs\nto the morrow, to the generations which are growing up and whose master\none must be if one desire to reign eternally. So great is their power,\nbased on the necessity of compromise with sin, that, on the morrow of the\nCouncil of Trent, they transform the very spirit of Catholicism,\npenetrate it, identify it with themselves and become the indispensable\nsoldiers of the papacy which lives by them and for them. And from that\nmoment Rome is theirs, Rome where their general so long commands, whence\nso long go forth the directions for the obscure tactics which are blindly\nfollowed by their innumerable army, whose skilful organisation covers the\nglobe as with an iron network hidden by the velvet of hands expert in\ndealing gently with poor suffering humanity. But, after all, the most\nprodigious feature is the stupefying vitality of the Jesuits who are\nincessantly tracked, condemned, executed, and yet still and ever erect.\nAs soon as their power asserts itself, their unpopularity begins and\ngradually becomes universal. Hoots of execration arise around them,\nabominable accusations, scandalous law cases in which they appear as\ncorruptors and felons. Pascal devotes them to public contempt,\nparliaments condemn their books to be burnt, universities denounce their\nsystem of morals and their teaching as poisonous. They foment such\ndisturbances, such struggles in every kingdom, that organised persecution\nsets in, and they are soon driven from everywhere. During more than a\ncentury they become wanderers, expelled, then recalled, passing and\nrepassing frontiers, leaving a country amidst cries of hatred to return\nto it as soon as quiet has been restored. Finally, for supreme disaster,\nthey are suppressed by one pope, but another re-establishes them, and\nsince then they have been virtually tolerated everywhere. And in the\ndiplomatic self-effacement, the shade in which they have the prudence to\nsequester themselves, they are none the less triumphant, quietly\nconfident of their victory like soldiers who have once and for ever\nsubdued the earth.\n\nPierre was aware that, judging by mere appearances, the Jesuits were\nnowadays dispossessed of all influence in Rome. They no longer officiated\nat the Gesu, they no longer directed the Collegio Romano, where they\nformerly fashioned so many souls; and with no abode of their own, reduced\nto accept foreign hospitality, they had modestly sought a refuge at the\nCollegio Germanico, where there is a little chapel. There they taught and\nthere they still confessed, but without the slightest bustle or display.\nWas one to believe, however, that this effacement was but masterly\ncunning, a feigned disappearance in order that they might really remain\nsecret, all-powerful masters, the hidden hand which directs and guides\neverything? People certainly said that the proclamation of papal\nInfallibility had been their work, a weapon with which they had armed\nthemselves whilst feigning to bestow it on the papacy, in readiness for\nthe coming decisive task which their genius foresaw in the approaching\nsocial upheavals. And thus there might perhaps be some truth in what Don\nVigilio, with a shiver of mystery, related about their occult\nsovereignty, a seizin, as it were, of the government of the Church, a\nroyalty ignored but nevertheless complete.\n\nAs this idea occurred to Pierre, a dim connection between certain of his\nexperiences arose in his mind and he all at once inquired: \"Is Monsignor\nNani a Jesuit, then?\"\n\nThese words seemed to revive all Don Vigilio's anxious passion. He waved\nhis trembling hand, and replied: \"He? Oh, he's too clever, too skilful by\nfar to have taken the robe. But he comes from that Collegio Romano where\nhis generation grew up, and he there imbibed that Jesuit genius which\nadapted itself so well to his own. Whilst fully realising the danger of\nwearing an unpopular and embarrassing livery, and wishing to be free, he\nis none the less a Jesuit in his flesh, in his bones, in his very soul.\nHe is evidently convinced that the Church can only triumph by utilising\nthe passions of mankind, and withal he is very fond of the Church, very\npious at bottom, a very good priest, serving God without weakness in\ngratitude for the absolute power which God gives to His ministers. And\nbesides, he is so charming, incapable of any brutal action, full of the\ngood breeding of his noble Venetian ancestors, and deeply versed in\nknowledge of the world, thanks to his experiences at the nunciatures of\nParis, Vienna, and other places, without mentioning that he knows\neverything that goes on by reason of the delicate functions which he has\ndischarged for ten years past as Assessor of the Holy Office. Yes, he is\npowerful, all-powerful, and in him you do not have the furtive Jesuit\nwhose robe glides past amidst suspicion, but the head, the brain, the\nleader whom no uniform designates.\"\n\nThis reply made Pierre grave, for he was quite willing to admit that an\nopportunist code of morals, like that of the Jesuits, was inoculable and\nnow predominated throughout the Church. Indeed, the Jesuits might\ndisappear, but their doctrine would survive them, since it was the one\nweapon of combat, the one system of strategy which might again place the\nnations under the dominion of Rome. And in reality the struggle which\ncontinued lay precisely in the attempts to accommodate religion to the\ncentury, and the century to religion. Such being the case, Pierre\nrealised that such men as Monsignor Nani might acquire vast and even\ndecisive importance.\n\n\"Ah! if you knew, if you knew,\" continued Don Vigilio, \"he's everywhere,\nhe has his hand in everything. For instance, nothing has ever happened\nhere, among the Boccaneras, but I've found him at the bottom of it,\ntangling or untangling the threads according to necessities with which he\nalone is acquainted.\"\n\nThen, in the unquenchable fever for confiding things which was now\nconsuming him, the secretary related how Monsignor Nani had most\ncertainly brought on Benedetta's divorce case. The Jesuits, in spite of\ntheir conciliatory spirit, have always taken up a hostile position with\nregard to Italy, either because they do not despair of reconquering Rome,\nor because they wait to treat in due season with the ultimate and real\nvictor, whether King or Pope. And so Nani, who had long been one of Donna\nSerafina's intimates, had helped to precipitate the rupture with Prada as\nsoon as Benedetta's mother was dead. Again, it was he who, to prevent any\ninterference on the part of the patriotic Abbe Pisoni, the young woman's\nconfessor and the artisan of her marriage, had urged her to take the same\nspiritual director as her aunt, Father Lorenza, a handsome Jesuit with\nclear and kindly eyes, whose confessional in the chapel of the Collegio\nGermanico was incessantly besieged by penitents. And it seemed certain\nthat this manoeuvre had brought about everything; what one cleric working\nfor Italy had done, was to be undone by another working against Italy.\nWhy was it, however, that Nani, after bringing about the rupture, had\nmomentarily ceased to show all interest in the affair to the point even\nof jeopardising the suit for the dissolution of the marriage? And why was\nhe now again busying himself with it, setting Donna Serafina in action,\nprompting her to buy Monsignor Palma's support, and bringing his own\ninfluence to bear on the cardinals of the Congregation? There was mystery\nin all this, as there was in everything he did, for his schemes were\nalways complicated and distant in their effects. However, one might\nsuppose that he now wished to hasten the marriage of Benedetta and Dario,\nin order to stop all the abominable rumours which were circulating in the\nwhite world; unless, indeed, this divorce secured by pecuniary payments\nand the pressure of notorious influences were an intentional scandal at\nfirst spun out and now hastened, in order to harm Cardinal Boccanera,\nwhom the Jesuits might desire to brush aside in certain eventualities\nwhich were possibly near at hand.\n\n\"To tell the truth, I rather incline to the latter view,\" said Don\nVigilio, \"the more so indeed as I learnt this evening that the Pope is\nnot well. With an old man of eighty-four the end may come at any moment,\nand so the Pope can never catch cold but what the Sacred College and the\nprelacies are all agog, stirred by sudden ambitious rivalries. Now, the\nJesuits have always opposed Cardinal Boccanera's candidature. They ought\nto be on his side, on account of his rank, and his uncompromising\nattitude towards Italy, but the idea of giving themselves such a master\ndisquiets them, for they consider him unseasonably rough and stern, too\nviolent in his faith, which unbending as it is would prove dangerous in\nthese diplomatic times through which the Church is passing. And so I\nshould in no wise be astonished if there were an attempt to discredit him\nand render his candidature impossible, by employing the most underhand\nand shameful means.\"\n\nA little quiver of fear was coming over Pierre. The contagion of the\nunknown, of the black intrigues plotted in the dark, was spreading amidst\nthe silence of the night in the depths of that palace, near that Tiber,\nin that Rome so full of legendary tragedies. But all at once the young\nman's mind reverted to himself, to his own affair. \"But what is my part\nin all this?\" he asked: \"why does Monsignor Nani seem to take an interest\nin me? Why is he mixed up in the proceedings against my book?\"\n\n\"Oh! one never knows, one never knows exactly!\" replied Don Vigilio,\nwaving his arms. \"One thing I can say, that he only knew of the affair\nwhen the denunciations of the three bishops were already in the hands of\nFather Dangelis; and I have also learnt that he then tried to stop the\nproceedings, which he no doubt thought both useless and impolitic. But\nwhen a matter is once before the Congregation it is almost impossible for\nit to be withdrawn, and Monsignor Nani must also have come into collision\nwith Father Dangelis who, like a faithful Dominican, is the passionate\nadversary of the Jesuits. It was then that he caused the Contessina to\nwrite to Monsieur de la Choue, requesting him to tell you to hasten here\nin order to defend yourself, and to arrange for your acceptance of\nhospitality in this mansion, during your stay.\"\n\nThis revelation brought Pierre's emotion to a climax. \"You are sure of\nthat?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh! quite sure. I heard Nani speak of you one Monday, and some time ago\nI told you that he seemed to know all about you, as if he had made most\nminute inquiries. My belief is that he had already read your book, and\nwas extremely preoccupied about it.\"\n\n\"Do you think that he shares my ideas, then? Is he sincere, is he\ndefending himself while striving to defend me?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, no, not at all. Your ideas, why he certainly hates them, and\nyour book and yourself as well. You have no idea what contempt for the\nweak, what hatred of the poor, and love of authority and domination he\nconceals under his caressing amiability. Lourdes he might abandon to you,\nthough it embodies a marvellous weapon of government; but he will never\nforgive you for being on the side of the little ones of the world, and\nfor pronouncing against the temporal power. If you only heard with what\ngentle ferocity he derides Monsieur de la Choue, whom he calls the\nweeping willow of Neo-Catholicism!\"\n\nPierre carried his hands to his temples and pressed his head\ndespairingly. \"Then why, why, tell me I beg of you, why has he brought me\nhere and kept me here in this house at his disposal? Why has he\npromenaded me up and down Rome for three long months, throwing me against\nobstacles and wearying me, when it was so easy for him to let the Index\ncondemn my book if it embarrassed him? It's true, of course, that things\nwould not have gone quietly, for I was disposed to refuse submission and\nopenly confess my new faith, even against the decisions of Rome.\"\n\nDon Vigilio's black eyes flared in his yellow face: \"Perhaps it was that\nwhich he wished to prevent. He knows you to be very intelligent and\nenthusiastic, and I have often heard him say that intelligence and\nenthusiasm should not be fought openly.\"\n\nPierre, however, had risen to his feet, and instead of listening, was\nstriding up and down the room as though carried away by the whirlwind of\nhis thoughts. \"Come, come,\" he said at last, \"it is necessary that I\nshould know and understand things if I am to continue the struggle. You\nmust be kind enough to give me some detailed particulars about each of\nthe persons mixed up in my affair. Jesuits, Jesuits everywhere? /Mon\nDieu/, it may be so, you are perhaps right! But all the same you must\npoint out the different shades to me. Now, for instance, what of that\nFornaro?\"\n\n\"Monsignor Fornaro, oh! he's whatever you like. Still he also was brought\nup at the Collegio Romano, so you may be certain that he is a Jesuit, a\nJesuit by education, position, and ambition. He is longing to become a\ncardinal, and if he some day becomes one, he'll long to be the next pope.\nBesides, you know, every one here is a candidate to the papacy as soon as\nhe enters the seminary.\"\n\n\"And Cardinal Sanguinetti?\"\n\n\"A Jesuit, a Jesuit! To speak plainly, he was one, then ceased to be one,\nand is now undoubtedly one again. Sanguinetti has flirted with every\ninfluence. It was long thought that he was in favour of conciliation\nbetween the Holy See and Italy; but things drifted into a bad way, and he\nviolently took part against the usurpers. In the same style he has\nfrequently fallen out with Leo XIII and then made his peace. To-day at\nthe Vatican, he keeps on a footing of diplomatic reserve. Briefly he only\nhas one object, the tiara, and even shows it too plainly, which is a\nmistake, for it uses up a candidate. Still, just at present the struggle\nseems to be between him and Cardinal Boccanera. And that's why he has\ngone over to the Jesuits again, utilising their hatred of his rival, and\nanticipating that they will be forced to support /him/ in order to defeat\nthe other. But I doubt it, they are too shrewd, they will hesitate to\npatronise a candidate who is already so compromised. He, blunder-head,\npassionate and proud as he is, doubts nothing, and since you say that he\nis now at Frascati, I'm certain that he made all haste to shut himself up\nthere with some grand strategical object in view, as soon as he heard of\nthe Pope's illness.\"\n\n\"Well, and the Pope himself, Leo XIII?\" asked Pierre.\n\nThis time Don Vigilio slightly hesitated, his eyes blinking. Then he\nsaid: \"Leo XIII? He is a Jesuit, a Jesuit! Oh! I know it is said that he\nsides with the Dominicans, and this is in a measure true, for he fancies\nthat he is animated with their spirit and he has brought St. Thomas into\nfavour again, and has restored all the ecclesiastical teaching of\ndoctrine. But there is also the Jesuit, remember, who is one\ninvoluntarily and without knowing it, and of this category the present\nPope will prove the most famous example. Study his acts, investigate his\npolicy, and you will find that everything in it emanates from the Jesuit\nspirit. The fact is that he has unwittingly become impregnated with that\nspirit, and that all the influence, directly or indirectly brought to\nbear on him comes from a Jesuit centre. Ah! why don't you believe me? I\nrepeat that the Jesuits have conquered and absorbed everything, that all\nRome belongs to them from the most insignificant cleric to his Holiness\nin person.\"\n\nThen he continued, replying to each fresh name that Pierre gave with the\nsame obstinate, maniacal cry: \"Jesuit, Jesuit!\" It seemed as if a\nChurchman could be nothing else, as if each answer were a confirmation of\nthe proposition that the clergy must compound with the modern world if it\ndesired to preserve its Deity. The heroic age of Catholicism was\naccomplished, henceforth it could only live by dint of diplomacy and\nruses, concessions and arrangements. \"And that Paparelli, he's a Jesuit\ntoo, a Jesuit!\" Don Vigilio went on, instinctively lowering his voice.\n\"Yes, the humble but terrible Jesuit, the Jesuit in his most abominable\n/role/ as a spy and a perverter! I could swear that he has merely been\nplaced here in order to keep watch on his Eminence! And you should see\nwith what supple talent and craft he has performed his task, to such a\npoint indeed that it is now he alone who wills and orders things. He\nopens the door to whomsoever he pleases, uses his master like something\nbelonging to him, weighs on each of his resolutions, and holds him in his\npower by dint of his stealthy unremitting efforts. Yes! it's the lion\nconquered by the insect; the infinitesimally small disposing of the\ninfinitely great; the train-bearer--whose proper part is to sit at his\ncardinal's feet like a faithful hound--in reality reigning over him, and\nimpelling him in whatsoever direction he chooses. Ah! the Jesuit! the\nJesuit! Mistrust him when you see him gliding by in his shabby old\ncassock, with the flabby wrinkled face of a devout old maid. And make\nsure that he isn't behind the doors, or in the cupboards, or under the\nbeds. Ah! I tell you that they'll devour you as they've devoured me; and\nthey'll give you the fever too, perhaps even the plague if you are not\ncareful!\"\n\nPierre suddenly halted in front of his companion. He was losing all\nassurance, both fear and rage were penetrating him. And, after all, why\nnot? These extraordinary stories must be true. \"But in that case give me\nsome advice,\" he exclaimed, \"I asked you to come in here this evening\nprecisely because I no longer know what to do, and need to be set in the\nright path--\" Then he broke off and again paced to and fro, as if urged\ninto motion by his exploding passion. \"Or rather no, tell me nothing!\" he\nabruptly resumed. \"It's all over; I prefer to go away. The thought\noccurred to me before, but it was in a moment of cowardice and with the\nidea of disappearing and of returning to live in peace in my little nook:\nwhereas now, if I go off, it will be as an avenger, a judge, to cry aloud\nto all the world from Paris, to proclaim what I have seen in Rome, what\nmen have done there with the Christianity of Jesus, the Vatican falling\ninto dust, the corpse-like odour which comes from it, the idiotic\nillusions of those who hope that they will one day see a renascence of\nthe modern soul arise from a sepulchre where the remnants of dead\ncenturies rot and slumber. Oh! I will not yield, I will not make my\nsubmission, I will defend my book by a fresh one. And that book, I\npromise you, will make some noise in the world, for it will sound the\nlast agony of a dying religion, which one must make all haste to bury\nlest its remains should poison the nations!\"\n\nAll this was beyond Don Vigilio's mind. The Italian priest, with narrow\nbelief and ignorant terror of the new ideas, awoke within him. He clasped\nhis hands, affrighted. \"Be quiet, be quiet! You are blaspheming! And,\nbesides, you cannot go off like that without again trying to see his\nHoliness. He alone is sovereign. And I know that I shall surprise you;\nbut Father Dangelis has given you in jest the only good advice that can\nbe given: Go back to see Monsignor Nani, for he alone will open the door\nof the Vatican for you.\"\n\nAgain did Pierre give a start of anger: \"What! It was with Monsignor Nani\nthat I began, from him that I set out; and I am to go back to him? What\ngame is that? Can I consent to be a shuttlecock sent flying hither and\nthither by every battledore? People are having a game with me!\"\n\nThen, harassed and distracted, the young man fell on his chair in front\nof Don Vigilio, who with his face drawn by his prolonged vigil, and his\nhands still and ever faintly trembling, remained for some time silent. At\nlast he explained that he had another idea. He was slightly acquainted\nwith the Pope's confessor, a Franciscan father, a man of great\nsimplicity, to whom he might recommend Pierre. This Franciscan, despite\nhis self-effacement, would perhaps prove of service to him. At all events\nhe might be tried. Then, once more, silence fell, and Pierre, whose\ndreamy eyes were turned towards the wall, ended by distinguishing the old\npicture which had touched him so deeply on the day of his arrival. In the\npale glow of the lamp it gradually showed forth and lived, like an\nincarnation of his own case, his own futile despair before the sternly\nclosed portal of truth and justice. Ah! that outcast woman, that stubborn\nvictim of love, weeping amidst her streaming hair, her visage hidden\nwhilst with pain and grief she sank upon the steps of that palace whose\ndoor was so pitilessly shut--how she resembled him! Draped with a mere\nstrip of linen, she was shivering, and amidst the overpowering distress\nof her abandonment she did not reveal her secret, misfortune, or\ntransgression, whichever it might be. But he, behind her close-pressed\nhands, endowed her with a face akin to his own: she became his sister, as\nwere all the poor creatures without roof or certainty who weep because\nthey are naked and alone, and wear out their strength in seeking to force\nthe wicked thresholds of men. He could never gaze at her without pitying\nher, and it stirred him so much that evening to find her ever so unknown,\nnameless and visageless, yet steeped in the most bitter tears, that he\nsuddenly began to question his companion.\n\n\"Tell me,\" said he, \"do you know who painted that old picture? It stirs\nme to the soul like a masterpiece.\"\n\nStupefied by this unexpected question, the secretary raised his head and\nlooked, feeling yet more astonished when he had examined the blackened,\nforsaken panel in its sorry frame.\n\n\"Where did it come from?\" resumed Pierre; \"why has it been stowed away in\nthis room?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" replied Don Vigilio, with a gesture of indifference, \"it's nothing.\nThere are heaps of valueless old paintings everywhere. That one, no\ndoubt, has always been here. But I don't know; I never noticed it\nbefore.\"\n\nWhilst speaking he had at last risen to his feet, and this simple action\nhad brought on such a fit of shivering that he could scarcely take leave,\nso violently did his teeth chatter with fever. \"No, no, don't show me\nout,\" he stammered, \"keep the lamp here. And to conclude: the best course\nis for you to leave yourself in the hands of Monsignor Nani, for he, at\nall events, is a superior man. I told you on your arrival that, whether\nyou would or not, you would end by doing as he desired. And so what's the\nuse of struggling? And mind, not a word of our conversation to-night; it\nwould mean my death.\"\n\nThen he noiselessly opened the doors, glanced distrustfully into the\ndarkness of the passage, and at last ventured out and disappeared,\nregaining his own room with such soft steps that not the faintest\nfootfall was heard amidst the tomb-like slumber of the old mansion.\n\nOn the morrow, Pierre, again mastered by a desire to fight on to the very\nend, got Don Vigilio to recommend him to the Pope's confessor, the\nFranciscan friar with whom the secretary was slightly acquainted.\nHowever, this friar proved to be an extremely timid if worthy man,\nselected precisely on account of his great modesty, simplicity, and\nabsolute lack of influence in order that he might not abuse his position\nwith respect to the Holy Father. And doubtless there was an affectation\nof humility on the latter's part in taking for confessor a member of the\nhumblest of the regular orders, a friend of the poor, a holy beggar of\nthe roads. At the same time the friar certainly enjoyed a reputation for\noratory; and hidden by a veil the Pope at times listened to his sermons;\nfor although as infallible Sovereign Pontiff Leo XIII could not receive\nlessons from any priest, it was admitted that as a man he might reap\nprofit by listening to good discourse. Nevertheless apart from his\nnatural eloquence, the worthy friar was really a mere washer of souls, a\nconfessor who listens and absolves without even remembering the\nimpurities which he removes in the waters of penitence. And Pierre,\nfinding him really so poor and such a cipher, did not insist on an\nintervention which he realised would be futile.\n\nAll that day the young priest was haunted by the figure of that ingenuous\nlover of poverty, that delicious St. Francis, as Narcisse Habert was wont\nto say. Pierre had often wondered how such an apostle, so gentle towards\nboth animate and inanimate creation, and so full of ardent charity for\nthe wretched, could have arisen in a country of egotism and enjoyment\nlike Italy, where the love of beauty alone has remained queen. Doubtless\nthe times have changed; yet what a strong sap of love must have been\nneeded in the old days, during the great sufferings of the middle ages,\nfor such a consoler of the humble to spring from the popular soil and\npreach the gift of self to others, the renunciation of wealth, the horror\nof brutal force, the equality and obedience which would ensure the peace\nof the world. St. Francis trod the roads clad as one of the poorest, a\nrope girdling his grey gown and his bare feet shod with sandals, and he\ncarried with him neither purse nor staff. And he and his brethren spoke\naloud and freely, with sovereign florescence of poetry and boldness of\ntruth, attacking the rich and the powerful, and daring even to denounce\nthe priests of evil life, the debauched, simoniacal, and perjured\nbishops. A long cry of relief greeted the Franciscans, the people\nfollowed them in crowds--they were the friends, the liberators of all the\nhumble ones who suffered. And thus, like revolutionaries, they at first\nso alarmed Rome, that the popes hesitated to authorise their Order. When\nthey at last gave way it was assuredly with the hope of using this new\nforce for their own profit, by conquering the whole vague mass of the\nlowly whose covert threats have ever growled through the ages, even in\nthe most despotic times. And thenceforward in the sons of St. Francis the\nChurch possessed an ever victorious army--a wandering army which spread\nover the roads, in the villages and through the towns, penetrating to the\nfiresides of artisan and peasant, and gaining possession of all simple\nhearts. How great the democratic power of such an Order which had sprung\nfrom the very entrails of the people! And thence its rapid prosperity,\nits teeming growth in a few years, friaries arising upon all sides, and\nthe third Order* so invading the secular population as to impregnate and\nabsorb it. And that there was here a genuine growth of the soil, a\nvigorous vegetation of the plebeian stock was shown by an entire national\nart arising from it--the precursors of the Renascence in painting and\neven Dante himself, the soul of Italia's genius.\n\n  * The Franciscans, like the Dominicans and others, admit, in\n    addition to the two Orders of friars and nuns, a third Order\n    comprising devout persons of either sex who have neither the\n    vocation nor the opportunity for cloistered life, but live in\n    the world, privately observing the chief principles of the\n    fraternity with which they are connected. In central and\n    southern Europe members of these third Orders are still\n    numerous.--Trans.\n\nFor some days now, in the Rome of the present time, Pierre had been\ncoming into contact with those great Orders of the past. The Franciscans\nand the Dominicans were there face to face in their vast convents of\nprosperous aspect. But it seemed as if the humility of the Franciscans\nhad in the long run deprived them of influence. Perhaps, too, their\n/role/ as friends and liberators of the people was ended since the people\nnow undertook to liberate itself. And so the only real remaining battle\nwas between the Dominicans and the Jesuits, both of whom still claimed to\nmould the world according to their particular views. Warfare between them\nwas incessant, and Rome--the supreme power at the Vatican--was ever the\nprize for which they contended. But, although the Dominicans had St.\nThomas on their side, they must have felt that their old dogmatic science\nwas crumbling, compelled as they were each day to surrender a little\nground to the Jesuits whose principles accorded better with the spirit of\nthe century. And, in addition to these, there were the white-robed\nCarthusians, those very holy, pure, and silent meditators who fled from\nthe world into quiet cells and cloisters, those despairing and consoled\nones whose numbers may decrease but whose Order will live for ever, even\nas grief and desire for solitude will live. And then there were the\nBenedictines whose admirable rules have sanctified labour, passionate\ntoilers in literature and science, once powerful instruments of\ncivilisation, enlarging universal knowledge by their immense historical\nand critical works. These Pierre loved, and with them would have sought a\nrefuge two centuries earlier, yet he was astonished to find them building\non the Aventine a huge dwelling, for which Leo XIII has already given\nmillions, as if the science of to-day and to-morrow were yet a field\nwhere they might garner harvests. But /cui bono/, when the workmen have\nchanged, and dogmas are there to bar the road--dogmas which totter, no\ndoubt, but which believers may not fling aside in order to pass onward?\nAnd finally came the swarm of less important Orders, hundreds in number;\nthere were the Carmelites, the Trappists, the Minims, the Barnabites, the\nLazzarists, the Eudists, the Mission Fathers, the Servites, the Brothers\nof the Christian Doctrine; there were the Bernadines, the Augustinians,\nthe Theatines, the Observants, the Passionists, the Celestines, and the\nCapuchins, without counting the corresponding Orders of women or the Poor\nClares, or the innumerable nuns like those of the Visitation and the\nCalvary. Each community had its modest or sumptuous dwelling, certain\ndistricts of Rome were entirely composed of convents, and behind the\nsilent lifeless facades all those people buzzed, intrigued, and waged the\neverlasting warfare of rival interests and passions. The social evolution\nwhich produced them had long since ceased, still they obstinately sought\nto prolong their life, growing weaker and more useless day by day,\ndestined to a slow agony until the time shall come when the new\ndevelopment of society will leave them neither foothold nor breathing\nspace.\n\nAnd it was not only with the regulars that Pierre came in contact during\nhis peregrinations through Rome; indeed, he more particularly had to deal\nwith the secular clergy, and learnt to know them well. A hierarchical\nsystem which was still vigorously enforced maintained them in various\nranks and classes. Up above, around the Pope, reigned the pontifical\nfamily, the high and noble cardinals and prelates whose conceit was great\nin spite of their apparent familiarity. Below them the parish clergy\nformed a very worthy middle class of wise and moderate minds; and here\npatriot priests were not rare. Moreover, the Italian occupation of a\nquarter of a century, by installing in the city a world of functionaries\nwho saw everything that went on, had, curiously enough, greatly purified\nthe private life of the Roman priesthood, in which under the popes women,\nbeyond all question, played a supreme part. And finally one came to the\nplebeian clergy whom Pierre studied with curiosity, a collection of\nwretched, grimy, half-naked priests who like famished animals prowled\naround in search of masses, and drifted into disreputable taverns in the\ncompany of beggars and thieves. However, he was more interested by the\nfloating population of foreign priests from all parts of Christendom--the\nadventurers, the ambitious ones, the believers, the madmen whom Rome\nattracted just as a lamp at night time attracts the insects of the gloom.\nAmong these were men of every nationality, position, and age, all lashed\non by their appetites and scrambling from morn till eve around the\nVatican, in order to snap at the prey which they hoped to secure. He\nfound them everywhere, and told himself with some shame that he was one\nof them, that the unit of his own personality served to increase the\nincredible number of cassocks that one encountered in the streets. Ah!\nthat ebb and flow, that ceaseless tide of black gowns and frocks of every\nhue! With their processions of students ever walking abroad, the\nseminaries of the different nations would alone have sufficed to drape\nand decorate the streets, for there were the French and the English all\nin black, the South Americans in black with blue sashes, the North\nAmericans in black with red sashes, the Poles in black with green sashes,\nthe Greeks in blue, the Germans in red, the Scots in violet, the Romans\nin black or violet or purple, the Bohemians with chocolate sashes, the\nIrish with red lappets, the Spaniards with blue cords, to say nothing of\nall the others with broidery and bindings and buttons in a hundred\ndifferent styles. And in addition there were the confraternities, the\npenitents, white, black, blue, and grey, with sleeveless frocks and capes\nof different hue, grey, blue, black, or white. And thus even nowadays\nPapal Rome at times seemed to resuscitate, and one could realise how\ntenaciously and vivaciously she struggled on in order that she might not\ndisappear in the cosmopolitan Rome of the new era. However, Pierre,\nwhilst running about from one prelate to another, frequenting priests and\ncrossing churches, could not accustom himself to the worship, the Roman\npiety which astonished him when it did not wound him. One rainy Sunday\nmorning, on entering Santa Maria Maggiore, he fancied himself in some\nwaiting-room, a very splendid one, no doubt, but where God seemed to have\nno habitation. There was not a bench, not a chair in the nave, across\nwhich people passed, as they might pass through a railway station,\nwetting and soiling the precious mosaic pavement with their muddy shoes;\nand tired women and children sat round the bases of the columns, even as\nin railway stations one sees people sitting and waiting for their trains\nduring the great crushes of the holiday season. And for this tramping\nthrong of folks of small degree, who had looked in /en passant/, a priest\nwas saying a low mass in a side chapel, before which a narrow file of\nstanding people had gathered, extending across the nave, and recalling\nthe crowds which wait in front of theatres for the opening of the doors.\nAt the elevation of the host one and all inclined themselves devoutly,\nbut almost immediately afterwards the gathering dispersed. And indeed why\nlinger? The mass was said. Pierre everywhere found the same form of\nattendance, peculiar to the countries of the sun; the worshippers were in\na hurry and only favoured the Deity with short familiar visits, unless it\nwere a question of some gala scene at San Paolo or San Giovanni in\nLaterano or some other of the old basilicas. It was only at the Gesu, on\nanother Sunday morning, that the young priest came upon a high-mass\ncongregation, which reminded him of the devout throngs of the North. Here\nthere were benches and women seated, a worldly warmth and cosiness under\nthe luxurious, gilded, carved, and painted roof, whose tawny splendour is\nvery fine now that time has toned down the eccentricities of the\ndecoration. But how many of the churches were empty, among them some of\nthe most ancient and venerable, San Clemente, Sant' Agnese, Santa Croce\nin Gerusalemme, where during the offices one saw but a few believers of\nthe neighbourhood. Four hundred churches were a good many for even Rome\nto people; and, indeed, some were merely attended on fixed ceremonial\noccasions, and a good many merely opened their doors once every year--on\nthe feast day, that is, of their patron saint. Some also subsisted on the\nlucky possession of a fetish, an idol compassionate to human sufferings.\nSanta Maria in Ara Coeli possessed the miraculous little Jesus, the\n\"Bambino,\" who healed sick children, and Sant' Agostino had the \"Madonna\ndel Parto,\" who grants a happy delivery to mothers. Then others were\nrenowned for the holy water of their fonts, the oil of their lamps, the\npower of some wooden saint or marble virgin. Others again seemed\nforsaken, given up to tourists and the perquisites of beadles, like mere\nmuseums peopled with dead gods: Finally others disturbed one's faith by\nthe suggestiveness of their aspects, as, for instance, that Santa Maria\nRotonda, which is located in the Pantheon, a circular hall recalling a\ncircus, where the Virgin remains the evident tenant of the Olympian\ndeities.\n\nPierre took no little interest in the churches of the poor districts, but\ndid not find there the keen faith and the throngs he had hoped for. One\nafternoon, at Santa Maria in Trastevere, he heard the choir in full song,\nbut the church was quite empty, and the chant had a most lugubrious sound\nin such a desert. Then, another day, on entering San Crisogono, he found\nit draped, probably in readiness for some festival on the morrow. The\ncolumns were cased with red damask, and between them were hangings and\ncurtains alternately yellow and blue, white and red; and the young man\nfled from such a fearful decoration as gaudy as that of a fair booth. Ah!\nhow far he was from the cathedrals where in childhood he had believed and\nprayed! On all sides he found the same type of church, the antique\nbasilica accommodated to the taste of eighteenth-century Rome. Though the\nstyle of San Luigi dei Francesi is better, more soberly elegant, the only\nthing that touched him even there was the thought of the heroic or\nsaintly Frenchmen, who sleep in foreign soil beneath the flags. And as he\nsought for something Gothic, he ended by going to see Santa Maria sopra\nMinerva,* which, he was told, was the only example of the Gothic style in\nRome. Here his stupefaction attained a climax at sight of the clustering\ncolumns cased in stucco imitating marble, the ogives which dared not\nsoar, the rounded vaults condemned to the heavy majesty of the dome\nstyle. No, no, thought he, the faith whose cooling cinders lingered there\nwas no longer that whose brazier had invaded and set all Christendom\naglow! However, Monsignor Fornaro whom he chanced to meet as he was\nleaving the church, inveighed against the Gothic style as rank heresy.\nThe first Christian church, said the prelate, had been the basilica,\nwhich had sprung from the temple, and it was blasphemy to assert that the\nGothic cathedral was the real Christian house of prayer, for Gothic\nembodied the hateful Anglo-Saxon spirit, the rebellious genius of Luther.\nAt this a passionate reply rose to Pierre's lips, but he said nothing for\nfear that he might say too much. However, he asked himself whether in all\nthis there was not a decisive proof that Catholicism was the very\nvegetation of Rome, Paganism modified by Christianity. Elsewhere\nChristianity has grown up in quite a different spirit, to such a point\nthat it has risen in rebellion and schismatically turned against the\nmother-city. And the breach has ever gone on widening, the dissemblance\nhas become more and more marked; and amidst the evolution of new\nsocieties, yet a fresh schism appears inevitable and proximate in spite\nof all the despairing efforts to maintain union.\n\n  * So called because it occupies the site of a temple to\n    Minerva.--Trans.\n\nWhile Pierre thus visited the Roman churches, he also continued his\nefforts to gain support in the matter of his book, his irritation tending\nto such stubbornness, that if in the first instance he failed to obtain\nan interview, he went back again and again to secure one, steadfastly\nkeeping his promise to call in turn upon each cardinal of the\nCongregation of the Index. And as a cardinal may belong to several\nCongregations, it resulted that he gradually found himself roaming\nthrough those former ministries of the old pontifical government which,\nif less numerous than formerly, are still very intricate institutions,\neach with its cardinal-prefect, its cardinal-members, its consultative\nprelates, and its numerous employees. Pierre repeatedly had to return to\nthe Cancelleria, where the Congregation of the Index meets, and lost\nhimself in its world of staircases, corridors, and halls. From the moment\nhe passed under the porticus he was overcome by the icy shiver which fell\nfrom the old walls, and was quite unable to appreciate the bare, frigid\nbeauty of the palace, Bramante's masterpiece though it be, so purely\ntypical of the Roman Renascence. He also knew the Propaganda where he had\nseen Cardinal Sarno; and, sent as he was hither and thither, in his\nefforts to gain over influential prelates, chance made him acquainted\nwith the other Congregations, that of the Bishops and Regulars, that of\nthe Rites and that of the Council. He even obtained a glimpse of the\nConsistorial, the Dataria,* and the sacred Penitentiary. All these formed\npart of the administrative mechanism of the Church under its several\naspects--the government of the Catholic world, the enlargement of the\nChurch's conquests, the administration of its affairs in conquered\ncountries, the decision of all questions touching faith, morals, and\nindividuals, the investigation and punishment of offences, the grant of\ndispensations and the sale of favours. One can scarcely imagine what a\nfearful number of affairs are each morning submitted to the Vatican,\nquestions of the greatest gravity, delicacy, and intricacy, the solution\nof which gives rise to endless study and research. It is necessary to\nreply to the innumerable visitors who flock to Rome from all parts, and\nto the letters, the petitions, and the batches of documents which are\nsubmitted and require to be distributed among the various offices. And\nPierre was struck by the deep and discreet silence in which all this\ncolossal labour was accomplished; not a sound reaching the streets from\nthe tribunals, parliaments, and factories for the manufacture of saints\nand nobles, whose mechanism was so well greased, that in spite of the\nrust of centuries and the deep and irremediable wear and tear, the whole\ncontinued working without clank or creak to denote its presence behind\nthe walls. And did not that silence embody the whole policy of the\nChurch, which is to remain mute and await developments? Nevertheless what\na prodigious mechanism it was, antiquated no doubt, but still so\npowerful! And amidst those Congregations how keenly Pierre felt himself\nto be in the grip of the most absolute power ever devised for the\ndomination of mankind. However much he might notice signs of decay and\ncoming ruin he was none the less seized, crushed, and carried off by that\nhuge engine made up of vanity and venality, corruption and ambition,\nmeanness and greatness. And how far, too, he now was from the Rome that\nhe had dreamt of, and what anger at times filled him amidst his\nweariness, as he persevered in his resolve to defend himself!\n\n  * It is from the Dataria that bulls, rescripts, letters of\n    appointment to benefices, and dispensations of marriage,\n    are issued, after the affixture of the date and formula\n    /Datum Romae/, \"Given at Rome.\"--Trans.\n\nAll at once certain things which he had never understood were explained\nto him. One day, when he returned to the Propaganda, Cardinal Sarno spoke\nto him of Freemasonry with such icy rage that he was abruptly\nenlightened. Freemasonry had hitherto made him smile; he had believed in\nit no more than he had believed in the Jesuits. Indeed, he had looked\nupon the ridiculous stories which were current--the stories of\nmysterious, shadowy men who governed the world with secret incalculable\npower--as mere childish legends. In particular he had been amazed by the\nblind hatred which maddened certain people as soon as Freemasonry was\nmentioned. However, a very distinguished and intelligent prelate had\ndeclared to him, with an air of profound conviction, that at least on one\noccasion every year each masonic Lodge was presided over by the Devil in\nperson, incarnate in a visible shape! And now, by Cardinal Sarno's\nremarks, he understood the rivalry, the furious struggle of the Roman\nCatholic Church against that other Church, the Church of over the way.*\nAlthough the former counted on her own triumph, she none the less felt\nthat the other, the Church of Freemasonry, was a competitor, a very\nancient enemy, who indeed claimed to be more ancient than herself, and\nwhose victory always remained a possibility. And the friction between\nthem was largely due to the circumstance that they both aimed at\nuniversal sovereignty, and had a similar international organisation, a\nsimilar net thrown over the nations, and in a like way mysteries, dogmas,\nand rites. It was deity against deity, faith against faith, conquest\nagainst conquest: and so, like competing tradesmen in the same street,\nthey were a source of mutual embarrassment, and one of them was bound to\nkill the other. But if Roman Catholicism seemed to Pierre to be worn out\nand threatened with ruin, he remained quite as sceptical with regard to\nthe power of Freemasonry. He had made inquiries as to the reality of that\npower in Rome, where both Grand Master and Pope were enthroned, one in\nfront of the other. He was certainly told that the last Roman princes had\nthought themselves compelled to become Freemasons in order to render\ntheir own difficult position somewhat easier and facilitate the future of\ntheir sons. But was this true? had they not simply yielded to the force\nof the present social evolution? And would not Freemasonry eventually be\nsubmerged by its own triumph--that of the ideas of justice, reason, and\ntruth, which it had defended through the dark and violent ages of\nhistory? It is a thing which constantly happens; the victory of an idea\nkills the sect which has propagated it, and renders the apparatus with\nwhich the members of the sect surrounded themselves, in order to fire\nimaginations, both useless and somewhat ridiculous. Carbonarism did not\nsurvive the conquest of the political liberties which it demanded; and on\nthe day when the Catholic Church crumbles, having accomplished its work\nof civilisation, the other Church, the Freemasons' Church of across the\nroad, will in a like way disappear, its task of liberation ended.\nNowadays the famous power of the Lodges, hampered by traditions, weakened\nby a ceremonial which provokes laughter, and reduced to a simple bond of\nbrotherly agreement and mutual assistance, would be but a sorry weapon of\nconquest for humanity, were it not that the vigorous breath of science\nimpels the nations onwards and helps to destroy the old religions.\n\n  * Some readers may think the above passages an exaggeration, but\n    such is not the case. The hatred with which the Catholic\n    priesthood, especially in Italy, Spain, and France, regards\n    Freemasonry is remarkable. At the moment of writing these lines\n    I have before me several French clerical newspapers, which\n    contain the most abusive articles levelled against President\n    Faure solely because he is a Freemason. One of these prints, a\n    leading journal of Lyons, tells the French President that he\n    cannot serve both God and the Devil; and that if he cannot give\n    up Freemasonry he would do well to cease desecrating the abode\n    of the Deity by his attendance at divine service.--Trans.\n\nHowever, all Pierre's journeyings and applications brought him no\ncertainty; and, while stubbornly clinging to Rome, intent on fighting to\nthe very end, like a soldier who will not believe in the possibility of\ndefeat, he remained as anxious as ever. He had seen all the cardinals\nwhose influence could be of use to him. He had seen the Cardinal Vicar,\nentrusted with the diocese of Rome, who, like the man of letters he was,\nhad spoken to him of Horace, and, like a somewhat blundering politician,\nhad questioned him about France, the Republic, the Army, and the Navy\nEstimates, without dealing in the slightest degree with the incriminated\nbook. He had also seen the Grand Penitentiary, that tall old man, with\nfleshless, ascetic face, of whom he had previously caught a glimpse at\nthe Boccanera mansion, and from whom he now only drew a long and severe\nsermon on the wickedness of young priests, whom the century had perverted\nand who wrote most abominable books. Finally, at the Vatican, he had seen\nthe Cardinal Secretary, in some wise his Holiness's Minister of Foreign\nAffairs, the great power of the Holy See, whom he had hitherto been\nprevented from approaching by terrifying warnings as to the possible\nresult of an unfavourable reception. However, whilst apologising for\ncalling at such a late stage, he had found himself in presence of a most\namiable man, whose somewhat rough appearance was softened by diplomatic\naffability, and who, after making him sit down, questioned him with an\nair of interest, listened to him, and even spoke some words of comfort.\nNevertheless, on again reaching the Piazza of St. Peter's, Pierre well\nunderstood that his affair had not made the slightest progress, and that\nif he ever managed to force the Pope's door, it would not be by way of\nthe Secretariate of State. And that evening he returned home quite\nexhausted by so many visits, in such distraction at feeling that little\nby little he had been wholly caught in that huge mechanism with its\nhundred wheels, that he asked himself in terror what he should do on the\nmorrow now that there remained nothing for him to do--unless, indeed, it\nwere to go mad.\n\nHowever, meeting Don Vigilio in a passage of the house, he again wished\nto ask him for some good advice. But the secretary, who had a gleam of\nterror in his eyes, silenced him, he knew not why, with an anxious\ngesture. And then in a whisper, in Pierre's ear, he said: \"Have you seen\nMonsignor Nani? No! Well, go to see him, go to see him. I repeat that you\nhave nothing else to do!\"\n\nPierre yielded. And indeed why should he have resisted? Apart from the\nmotives of ardent charity which had brought him to Rome to defend his\nbook, was he not there for a self-educating, experimental purpose? It was\nnecessary that he should carry his attempts to the very end.\n\nOn the morrow, when he reached the colonnade of St. Peter's, the hour was\nso early that he had to wait there awhile. He had never better realised\nthe enormity of those four curving rows of columns, forming a forest of\ngigantic stone trunks among which nobody ever promenades. In fact, the\nspot is a grandiose and dreary desert, and one asks oneself the why and\nwherefore of such a majestic porticus. Doubtless, however, it was for its\nsole majesty, for the mere pomp of decoration, that this colonnade was\nreared; and therein, again, one finds the whole Roman spirit. However,\nPierre at last turned into the Via di Sant' Offizio, and passing the\nsacristy of St. Peter's, found himself before the Palace of the Holy\nOffice in a solitary silent district, which the footfall of pedestrians\nor the rumble of wheels but seldom disturbs. The sun alone lives there,\nin sheets of light which spread slowly over the small, white paving. You\ndivine the vicinity of the Basilica, for there is a smell as of incense,\na cloisteral quiescence as of the slumber of centuries. And at one corner\nthe Palace of the Holy Office rises up with heavy, disquieting bareness,\nonly a single row of windows piercing its lofty, yellow front. The wall\nwhich skirts a side street looks yet more suspicious with its row of even\nsmaller casements, mere peep-holes with glaucous panes. In the bright\nsunlight this huge cube of mud-coloured masonry ever seems asleep,\nmysterious, and closed like a prison, with scarcely an aperture for\ncommunication with the outer world.\n\nPierre shivered, but then smiled as at an act of childishness, for he\nreflected that the Holy Roman and Universal Inquisition, nowadays the\nSacred Congregation of the Holy Office, was no longer the institution it\nhad been, the purveyor of heretics for the stake, the occult tribunal\nbeyond appeal which had right of life and death over all mankind. True,\nit still laboured in secrecy, meeting every Wednesday, and judging and\ncondemning without a sound issuing from within its walls. But on the\nother hand if it still continued to strike at the crime of heresy, if it\nsmote men as well as their works, it no longer possessed either weapons\nor dungeons, steel or fire to do its bidding, but was reduced to a mere\n/role/ of protest, unable to inflict aught but disciplinary penalties\neven upon the ecclesiastics of its own Church.\n\nWhen Pierre on entering was ushered into the reception-room of Monsignor\nNani who, as assessor, lived in the palace, he experienced an agreeable\nsurprise. The apartment faced the south, and was spacious and flooded\nwith sunshine. And stiff as was the furniture, dark as were the hangings,\nan exquisite sweetness pervaded the room, as though a woman had lived in\nit and accomplished the prodigy of imparting some of her own grace to all\nthose stern-looking things. There were no flowers, yet there was a\npleasant smell. A charm expanded and conquered every heart from the very\nthreshold.\n\nMonsignor Nani at once came forward, with a smile on his rosy face, his\nblue eyes keenly glittering, and his fine light hair powdered by age.\nWith hands outstretched, he exclaimed: \"Ah! how kind of you to have come\nto see me, my dear son! Come, sit down, let us have a friendly chat.\"\nThen with an extraordinary display of affection, he began to question\nPierre: \"How are you getting on? Tell me all about it, exactly what you\nhave done.\"\n\nTouched in spite of Don Vigilio's revelations, won over by the sympathy\nwhich he fancied he could detect, Pierre thereupon confessed himself,\nrelating his visits to Cardinal Sarno, Monsignor Fornaro and Father\nDangelis, his applications to all the influential cardinals, those of the\nIndex, the Grand Penitentiary, the Cardinal Vicar, and the Cardinal\nSecretary; and dwelling on his endless journeys from door to door through\nall the Congregations and all the clergy, that huge, active, silent\nbee-hive amidst which he had wearied his feet, exhausted his limbs, and\nbewildered his poor brain. And at each successive Station of this Calvary\nof entreaty, Monsignor Nani, who seemed to listen with an air of rapture,\nexclaimed: \"But that's very good, that's capital! Oh! your affair is\nprogressing. Yes, yes, it's progressing marvellously well.\"\n\nHe was exultant, though he allowed no unseemly irony to appear, while his\npleasant, penetrating eyes fathomed the young priest, to ascertain if he\nhad been brought to the requisite degree of obedience. Had he been\nsufficiently wearied, disillusioned and instructed in the reality of\nthings, for one to finish with him? Had three months' sojourn in Rome\nsufficed to turn the somewhat mad enthusiast of the first days into an\nunimpassioned or at least resigned being?\n\nHowever, all at once Monsignor Nani remarked: \"But, my dear son, you tell\nme nothing of his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti.\"\n\n\"The fact is, Monseigneur, that his Eminence is at Frascati, so I have\nbeen unable to see him.\"\n\nThereupon the prelate, as if once more postponing the /denouement/ with\nthe secret enjoyment of an artistic /diplomate/, began to protest,\nraising his little plump hands with the anxious air of a man who\nconsiders everything lost: \"Oh! but you must see his Eminence; it is\nabsolutely necessary! Think of it! The Prefect of the Index! We can only\nact after your visit to him, for as you have not seen /him/ it is as if\nyou had seen nobody. Go, go to Frascati, my dear son.\"\n\nAnd thereupon Pierre could only bow and reply: \"I will go, Monseigneur.\"\n\n\n\nXI\n\nALTHOUGH Pierre knew that he would be unable to see Cardinal Sanguinetti\nbefore eleven o'clock, he nevertheless availed himself of an early train,\nso that it was barely nine when he alighted at the little station of\nFrascati. He had already visited the place during his enforced idleness,\nwhen he had made the classical excursion to the Roman castles which\nextend from Frascati to Rocco di Papa, and from Rocco di Papa to Monte\nCavo, and he was now delighted with the prospect of strolling for a\ncouple of hours along those first slopes of the Alban hills, where,\namidst rushes, olives, and vines, Frascati, like a promontory, overlooks\nthe immense ruddy sea of the Campagna even as far as Rome, which, six\nfull leagues away, wears the whitish aspect of a marble isle.\n\nAh! that charming Frascati, on its greeny knoll at the foot of the wooded\nTusculan heights, with its famous terrace whence one enjoys the finest\nview in the world, its old patrician villas with proud and elegant\nRenascence facades and magnificent parks, which, planted with cypress,\npine, and ilex, are for ever green! There was a sweetness, a delight, a\nfascination about the spot, of which Pierre would have never wearied. And\nfor more than an hour he had wandered blissfully along roads edged with\nancient, knotty olive-trees, along dingle ways shaded by the spreading\nfoliage of neighbouring estates, and along perfumed paths, at each turn\nof which the Campagna was seen stretching far away, when all at once he\nwas accosted by a person whom he was both surprised and annoyed to meet.\nHe had strolled down to some low ground near the railway station, some\nold vineyards where a number of new houses had been built of recent\nyears, and suddenly saw a stylish pair-horse victoria, coming from the\ndirection of Rome, draw up close by, whilst its occupant called to him:\n\"What! Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, are you taking a walk here, at this early\nhour?\"\n\nThereupon Pierre recognised Count Luigi Prada, who alighted, shook hands\nwith him and began to walk beside him, whilst the empty carriage went on\nin advance. And forthwith the Count explained his tastes: \"I seldom take\nthe train,\" he said, \"I drive over. It gives my horses an outing. I have\ninterests over here as you may know, a big building enterprise which is\nunfortunately not progressing very well. And so, although the season is\nadvanced, I'm obliged to come rather more frequently than I care to do.\"\n\nAs Prada suggested, Pierre was acquainted with the story. The Boccaneras\nhad been obliged to sell a sumptuous villa which a cardinal of their\nfamily had built at Frascati in accordance with the plans of Giacomo\ndella Porta, during the latter part of the sixteenth century: a regal\nsummer-residence it had been, finely wooded, with groves and basins and\ncascades, and in particular a famous terrace projecting like a cape above\nthe Roman Campagna whose expanse stretches from the Sabine mountains to\nthe Mediterranean sands. Through the division of the property, Benedetta\nhad inherited from her mother some very extensive vineyards below\nFrascati, and these she had brought as dowry to Prada at the very moment\nwhen the building mania was extending from Rome into the provinces. And\nthereupon Prada had conceived the idea of erecting on the spot a number\nof middle-class villas like those which litter the suburbs of Paris. Few\npurchasers, however, had come forward, the financial crash had\nsupervened, and he was now with difficulty liquidating this unlucky\nbusiness, having indemnified his wife at the time of their separation.\n\n\"And then,\" he continued, addressing Pierre, \"one can come and go as one\nlikes with a carriage, whereas, on taking the train, one is at the mercy\nof the time table. This morning, for instance, I have appointments with\ncontractors, experts, and lawyers, and I have no notion how long they\nwill keep me. It's a wonderful country, isn't it? And we are quite right\nto be proud of it in Rome. Although I may have some worries just now, I\ncan never set foot here without my heart beating with delight.\"\n\nA circumstance which he did not mention, was that his /amica/, Lisbeth\nKauffmann, had spent the summer in one of the newly erected villas, where\nshe had installed her studio and had been visited by all the foreign\ncolony, which tolerated her irregular position on account of her gay\nspirits and artistic talent. Indeed, people had even ended by accepting\nthe outcome of her connection with Prada, and a fortnight previously she\nhad returned to Rome, and there given birth to a son--an event which had\nagain revived all the scandalous tittle-tattle respecting Benedetta's\ndivorce suit. And Prada's attachment to Frascati doubtless sprang from\nthe recollection of the happy hours he had spent there, and the joyful\npride with which the birth of the boy inspired him.\n\nPierre, for his part, felt ill at ease in the young Count's presence, for\nhe had an instinctive hatred of money-mongers and men of prey.\nNevertheless, he desired to respond to his amiability, and so inquired\nafter his father, old Orlando, the hero of the Liberation.\n\n\"Oh!\" replied Prada, \"excepting for his legs he's in wonderfully good\nhealth. He'll live a hundred years. Poor father! I should so much have\nliked to install him in one of these little houses, last summer. But I\ncould not get him to consent; he's determined not to leave Rome; he's\nafraid, perhaps, that it might be taken away from him during his\nabsence.\" Then the young Count burst into a laugh, quite merry at the\nthought of jeering at the heroic but no longer fashionable age of\nindependence. And afterwards he said, \"My father was speaking of you\nagain only yesterday, Monsieur l'Abbe. He is astonished that he has not\nseen you lately.\"\n\nThis distressed Pierre, for he had begun to regard Orlando with\nrespectful affection. Since his first visit, he had twice called on the\nold hero, but the latter had refused to broach the subject of Rome so\nlong as his young friend should not have seen, felt, and understood\neverything. There would be time for a talk later on, said he, when they\nwere both in a position to formulate their conclusions.\n\n\"Pray tell Count Orlando,\" responded Pierre, \"that I have not forgotten\nhim, and that, if I have deferred a fresh visit, it is because I desire\nto satisfy him. However, I certainly will not leave Rome without going to\ntell him how deeply his kind greeting has touched me.\"\n\nWhilst talking, the two men slowly followed the ascending road past the\nnewly erected villas, several of which were not yet finished. And when\nPrada learned that the priest had come to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti,\nhe again laughed, with the laugh of a good-natured wolf, showing his\nwhite fangs. \"True,\" he exclaimed, \"the Cardinal has been here since the\nPope has been laid up. Ah! you'll find him in a pretty fever.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why, because there's bad news about the Holy Father this morning. When I\nleft Rome it was rumoured that he had spent a fearful night.\"\n\nSo speaking, Prada halted at a bend of the road, not far from an antique\nchapel, a little church of solitary, mournful grace of aspect, on the\nverge of an olive grove. Beside it stood a ruinous building, the old\nparsonage, no doubt, whence there suddenly emerged a tall, knotty priest\nwith coarse and earthy face, who, after roughly locking the door, went\noff in the direction of the town.\n\n\"Ah!\" resumed the Count in a tone of raillery, \"that fellow's heart also\nmust be beating violently; he's surely gone to your Cardinal in search of\nnews.\"\n\nPierre had looked at the priest. \"I know him,\" he replied; \"I saw him, I\nremember, on the day after my arrival at Cardinal Boccanera's. He brought\nthe Cardinal a basket of figs and asked him for a certificate in favour\nof his young brother, who had been sent to prison for some deed of\nviolence--a knife thrust if I recollect rightly. However, the Cardinal\nabsolutely refused him the certificate.\"\n\n\"It's the same man,\" said Prada, \"you may depend on it. He was often at\nthe Villa Boccanera formerly; for his young brother was gardener there.\nBut he's now the client, the creature of Cardinal Sanguinetti. Santobono\nhis name is, and he's a curious character, such as you wouldn't find in\nFrance, I fancy. He lives all alone in that falling hovel, and officiates\nat that old chapel of St. Mary in the Fields, where people don't go to\nhear mass three times in a year. Yes, it's a perfect sinecure, which with\nits stipend of a thousand francs enables him to live there like a peasant\nphilosopher, cultivating the somewhat extensive garden whose big walls\nyou see yonder.\"\n\nThe close to which he called attention stretched down the slope behind\nthe parsonage, without an aperture, like some savage place of refuge into\nwhich not even the eye could penetrate. And all that could be seen above\nthe left-hand wall was a superb, gigantic fig-tree, whose big leaves\nshowed blackly against the clear sky. Prada had moved on again, and\ncontinued to speak of Santobono, who evidently interested him. Fancy, a\npatriot priest, a Garibaldian! Born at Nemi, in that yet savage nook\namong the Alban hills, he belonged to the people and was still near to\nthe soil. However, he had studied, and knew sufficient history to realise\nthe past greatness of Rome, and dream of the re-establishment of Roman\ndominion as represented by young Italy. And he had come to believe, with\npassionate fervour, that only a great pope could realise his dream by\nseizing upon power, and then conquering all the other nations. And what\ncould be easier, since the Pope commanded millions of Catholics? Did not\nhalf Europe belong to him? France, Spain, and Austria would give way as\nsoon as they should see him powerful, dictating laws to the world.\nGermany and Great Britain, indeed all the Protestant countries, would\nalso inevitably be conquered, for the papacy was the only dike that could\nbe opposed to error, which must some day fatally succumb in its efforts\nagainst such a barrier. Politically, however, Santobono had declared\nhimself for Germany, for he considered that France needed to be crushed\nbefore she would throw herself into the arms of the Holy Father. And thus\ncontradictions and fancies clashed in his foggy brain, whose burning\nideas swiftly turned to violence under the influence of primitive, racial\nfierceness. Briefly, the priest was a barbarian upholder of the Gospel, a\nfriend of the humble and woeful, a sectarian of that school which is\ncapable alike of great virtues and great crimes.\n\n\"Yes,\" concluded Prada, \"he is now devoted to Cardinal Sanguinetti\nbecause he believes that the latter will prove the great pope of\nto-morrow, who is to make Rome the one capital of the nations. At the\nsame time he doubtless harbours a lower personal ambition, that of\nattaining to a canonry or of gaining assistance in the little worries of\nlife, as when he wished to extricate his brother from trouble. Here, you\nknow, people stake their luck on a cardinal just as they nurse a 'trey'\nin the lottery, and if their cardinal proves the winning number and\nbecomes pope they gain a fortune. And that's why you now see Santobono\nstriding along yonder, all anxiety to know if Leo XIII will die and\nSanguinetti don the tiara.\"\n\n\"Do you think the Pope so very ill, then?\" asked Pierre, both anxious and\ninterested.\n\nThe Count smiled and raised both arms: \"Ah!\" said he, \"can one ever tell?\nThey all get ill when their interest lies that way. However, I believe\nthat the Pope is this time really indisposed; a complaint of the bowels,\nit is said; and at his age, you know, the slightest indisposition may\nprove fatal.\"\n\nThe two men took a few steps in silence, then the priest again asked a\nquestion: \"Would Cardinal Sanguinetti have a great chance if the Holy See\nwere vacant?\"\n\n\"A great chance! Ah! that's another of those things which one never\nknows. The truth is people class Sanguinetti among the acceptable\ncandidates, and if personal desire sufficed he would certainly be the\nnext pope, for ambition consumes him to the marrow, and he displays\nextraordinary passion and determination in his efforts to succeed. But\ntherein lies his very weakness; he is using himself up, and he knows it.\nAnd so he must be resolved to every step during the last days of battle.\nYou may be quite sure that if he has shut himself up here at this\ncritical time, it is in order that he may the better direct his\noperations from a distance, whilst at the same time feigning a retreat, a\ndisinterestedness which is bound to have a good effect.\"\n\nThen Prada began to expatiate on Sanguinetti with no little complacency,\nfor he liked the man's spirit of intrigue, his keen, conquering appetite,\nhis excessive, and even somewhat blundering activity. He had become\nacquainted with him on his return from the nunciature at Vienna, when he\nhad already resolved to win the tiara. That ambition explained\neverything, his quarrels and reconciliations with the reigning pope, his\naffection for Germany, followed by a sudden evolution in the direction of\nFrance, his varying attitude with regard to Italy, at first a desire for\nagreement, and then absolute rejection of all compromises, a refusal to\ngrant any concession, so long as Rome should not be evacuated. This,\nindeed, seemed to be Sanguinetti's definite position; he made a show of\ndisliking the wavering sway of Leo XIII, and of retaining a fervent\nadmiration for Pius IX, the great, heroic pope of the days of resistance,\nwhose goodness of heart had proved no impediment to unshakable firmness.\nAnd all this was equivalent to a promise that he, Sanguinetti, would\nagain make kindliness exempt from weakness, the rule of the Church, and\nwould steer clear of the dangerous compounding of politics. At bottom,\nhowever, politics were his only dream, and he had even formulated a\ncomplete programme of intentional vagueness, which his clients and\ncreatures spread abroad with an air of rapturous mystery. However, since\na previous indisposition of the Pope's, during the spring, he had been\nliving in mortal disquietude, for it had then been rumoured that the\nJesuits would resign themselves to support Cardinal Pio Boccanera,\nalthough the latter scarcely favoured them. He was rough and stern, no\ndoubt, and his extreme bigotry might be a source of danger in this\ntolerant age; but, on the other hand, was he not a patrician, and would\nnot his election imply that the papacy would never cease to claim the\ntemporal power? From that moment Boccanera had been the one man whom\nSanguinetti feared, for he beheld himself despoiled of his prize, and\nspent his time in devising plans to rid himself of such a powerful rival,\nrepeating abominable stories of Cardinal Pio's alleged complaisance with\nregard to Benedetta and Dario, and incessantly representing him as\nAntichrist, the man of sin, whose reign would consummate the ruin of the\npapacy. Finally, to regain the support of the Jesuits, Sanguinetti's last\nidea was to repeat through his familiars that for his part he would not\nmerely maintain the principle of the temporal power intact, but would\neven undertake to regain that power. And he had a full plan on the\nsubject, which folks confided to one another in whispers, a plan which,\nin spite of its apparent concessions, would lead to the overwhelming\nvictory of the Church. It was to raise the prohibition which prevented\nCatholics from voting or becoming candidates at the Italian elections; to\nsend a hundred, then two hundred, and then three hundred deputies to the\nChamber, and in that wise to overthrow the House of Savoy, and establish\na Federation of the Italian provinces, whereof the Holy Father, once more\nplaced in possession of Rome, would become the august and sovereign\nPresident.\n\nAs Prada finished he again laughed, showing his white teeth--teeth which\nwould never readily relinquish the prey they held. \"So you see,\" he\nadded, \"we need to defend ourselves, since it's a question of turning us\nout. Fortunately, there are some little obstacles in the way of that.\nNevertheless, such dreams naturally have great influence on excited\nminds, such as that of Santobono, for instance. He's a man whom one word\nfrom Sanguinetti would lead far indeed. Ah! he has good legs. Look at him\nup yonder, he has already reached the Cardinal's little palace--that\nwhite villa with the sculptured balconies.\"\n\nPierre raised his eyes and perceived the episcopal residence, which was\none of the first houses of Frascati. Of modern construction and\nRenascence style, it overlooked the immensity of the Roman Campagna.\n\nIt was now eleven o'clock, and as the young priest, before going up to\npay his own visit, bade the Count good-bye, the latter for a moment kept\nhold of his hand. \"Do you know,\" said he, \"it would be very kind of you\nto lunch with me--will you? Come and join me at that restaurant yonder\nwith the pink front as soon as you are at liberty. I shall have settled\nmy own business in an hour's time, and I shall be delighted to have your\ncompany at table.\"\n\nPierre began by declining, but he could offer no possible excuse, and at\nlast surrendered, won over, despite himself, by Prada's real charm of\nmanner. When they had parted, the young priest only had to climb a street\nin order to reach the Cardinal's door. With his natural expansiveness and\ncraving for popularity, Sanguinetti was easy of access, and at Frascati\nin particular his doors were flung open even to the most humble cassocks.\nSo Pierre was at once ushered in, a circumstance which somewhat surprised\nhim, for he remembered the bad humour of the servant whom he had seen on\ncalling at the Cardinal's residence in Rome, when he had been advised to\nforego the journey, as his Eminence did not like to be disturbed when he\nwas ill. However, nothing spoke of illness in that pleasant villa,\nflooded with sunshine. True, the waiting-room, where he was momentarily\nleft alone, displayed neither luxury nor comfort; but it was brightened\nby the finest light in the world, and overlooked that extraordinary\nCampagna, so flat, so bare, and so unique in its beauty, for in front of\nit one ever dreams and sees the past arise. And so, whilst waiting,\nPierre stationed himself at an open window, conducting on to a balcony,\nand his eyes roamed over the endless sea of herbage to the far-away\nwhiteness of Rome, above which rose the dome of St. Peter's, at that\ndistance a mere sparkling speck, barely as large as the nail of one's\nlittle finger.\n\nHowever, the young man had scarcely taken up this position when he was\nsurprised to hear some people talking, their words reaching him with\ngreat distinctness. And on leaning forward he realised that his Eminence\nin person was standing on another balcony close by, and conversing with a\npriest, only a portion of whose cassock could be seen. Still, this\nsufficed for Pierre to recognise Santobono. His first impulse, dictated\nby natural discretion, was to withdraw from the window, but the words he\nnext heard riveted him to the spot.\n\n\"We shall know in a moment,\" his Eminence was saying in his full voice.\n\"I sent Eufemio to Rome, for he is the only person in whom I've any\nconfidence. And see, there is the train bringing him back.\"\n\nA train, still as small as a plaything, could in fact be seen approaching\nover the vast plain, and doubtless it was to watch for its arrival that\nSanguinetti had stationed himself on the balcony. And there he lingered,\nwith his eyes fixed on distant Rome. Then Santobono, in a passionate\nvoice, spoke some words which Pierre imperfectly understood, but the\nCardinal with clear articulation rejoined, \"Yes, yes, my dear fellow, a\ncatastrophe would be a great misfortune. Ah! may his Holiness long be\npreserved to us.\" Then he paused, and as he was no hypocrite, gave full\nexpression to the thoughts which were in his mind: \"At least, I hope that\nhe will be preserved just now, for the times are bad, and I am in\nfrightful anguish. The partisans of Antichrist have lately gained much\nground.\"\n\nA cry escaped Santobono: \"Oh! your Eminence will act and triumph.\"\n\n\"I, my dear fellow? What would you have me do? I am simply at the\ndisposal of my friends, those who are willing to believe in me, with the\nsole object of ensuring the victory of the Holy See. It is they who ought\nto act, it is they--each according to the measure of his means--who ought\nto bar the road to the wicked in order that the righteous may succeed.\nAh! if Antichrist should reign--\"\n\nThe recurrence of this word Antichrist greatly disturbed Pierre; but he\nsuddenly remembered what the Count had told him: Antichrist was Cardinal\nBoccanera.\n\n\"Think of that, my dear fellow,\" continued Sanguinetti. \"Picture\nAntichrist at the Vatican, consummating the ruin of religion by his\nimplacable pride, his iron will, his gloomy passion for nihility; for\nthere can be no doubt of it, he is the Beast of Death announced by the\nprophecies, the Beast who will expose one and all to the danger of being\nswallowed up with him in his furious rush into abysmal darkness. I know\nhim; he only dreams of obstinacy and destruction, he will seize the\npillars of the temple and shake them in order that he may sink beneath\nthe ruins, he and the whole Catholic world! In less than six months he\nwill be driven from Rome, at strife with all the nations, execrated by\nItaly, and roaming the world like the phantom of the last pope!\"\n\nIt was with a low growl, suggestive of a stifled oath, that Santobono\nresponded to this frightful prediction. But the train had now reached the\nstation, and among the few passengers who had alighted, Pierre could\ndistinguish a little Abbe, who was walking so fast that his cassock\nflapped against his hips. It was Abbe Eufemio, the Cardinal's secretary,\nand when he had perceived his Eminence on the balcony he lost all\nself-respect, and broke into a run, in order that he might the sooner\nascend the sloping street. \"Ah! here's Eufemio,\" exclaimed the Cardinal,\nquivering with anxiety. \"We shall know now, we shall know now.\"\n\nThe secretary had plunged into the doorway below, and he climbed the\nstairs with such rapidity that almost immediately afterwards Pierre saw\nhim rush breathlessly across the waiting-room, and vanish into the\nCardinal's sanctum. Sanguinetti had quitted the balcony to meet his\nmessenger, but soon afterwards he returned to it asking questions,\nventing exclamations, raising, in fact, quite a tumult over the news\nwhich he had received. \"And so it's really true, the night was a bad one.\nHis Holiness scarcely slept! Colic, you were told? But nothing could be\nworse at his age; it might carry him off in a couple of hours. And the\ndoctors, what do they say?\"\n\nThe answer did not reach Pierre, but he understood its purport as the\nCardinal in his naturally loud voice resumed: \"Oh! the doctors never\nknow. Besides, when they refuse to speak death is never far off. /Dio/!\nwhat a misfortune if the catastrophe cannot be deferred for a few days!\"\n\nThen he became silent, and Pierre realised that his eyes were once more\ntravelling towards Rome, gazing with ambitious anguish at the dome of St.\nPeter's, that little, sparkling speck above the vast, ruddy plain. What a\ncommotion, what agitation if the Pope were dead! And he wished that it\nhad merely been necessary for him to stretch forth his arm in order to\ntake and hold the Eternal City, the Holy City, which, yonder on the\nhorizon, occupied no more space than a heap of gravel cast there by a\nchild's spade. And he was already dreaming of the coming Conclave, when\nthe canopy of each other cardinal would fall, and his own, motionless and\nsovereign, would crown him with purple.\n\n\"But you are right, my friend!\" he suddenly exclaimed, addressing\nSantobono, \"one must act, the salvation of the Church is at stake. And,\nbesides, it is impossible that Heaven should not be with us, since our\nsole desire is its triumph. If necessary, at the supreme moment, Heaven\nwill know how to crush Antichrist.\"\n\nThen, for the first time, Pierre distinctly heard the voice of Santobono,\nwho, gruffly, with a sort of savage decision, responded: \"Oh! if Heaven\nis tardy it shall be helped.\"\n\nThat was all; the young man heard nothing further save a confused murmur\nof voices. The speakers quitted the balcony, and his spell of waiting\nbegan afresh in the sunlit /salon/ so peaceful and delightful in its\nbrightness. But all at once the door of his Eminence's private room was\nthrown wide open and a servant ushered him in; and he was surprised to\nfind the Cardinal alone, for he had not witnessed the departure of the\ntwo priests, who had gone off by another door. The Cardinal, with his\nhighly coloured face, big nose, thick lips, square-set, vigorous figure,\nwhich still looked young despite his sixty years, was standing near a\nwindow in the bright golden light. He had put on the paternal smile with\nwhich he greeted even the humblest from motives of good policy, and as\nsoon as Pierre had knelt and kissed his ring, he motioned him to a chair.\n\"Sit down, dear son, sit down. You have come of course about that\nunfortunate affair of your book. I am very pleased indeed to be able to\nspeak with you about it.\"\n\nHe himself then took a chair in front of that window overlooking Rome\nwhence he seemed unable to drag himself. And the young priest, whilst\napologising for coming to disturb his rest, perceived that he scarcely\nlistened, for his eyes again sought the prey which he so ardently\ncoveted. Yet the semblance of good-natured attention was perfect, and\nPierre marvelled at the force of will which this man must possess to\nappear so calm, so interested in the affairs of others, when such a\ntempest was raging in him.\n\n\"Your Eminence will, I hope, kindly forgive me,\" continued the young\npriest.\n\n\"But you have done right to come, since I am kept here by my failing\nhealth,\" said the Cardinal. \"Besides, I am somewhat better, and it is\nonly natural that you should wish to give me some explanations and defend\nyour work and enlighten my judgment. In fact, I was astonished at not yet\nhaving seen you, for I know that your faith in your cause is great and\nthat you spare no steps to convert your judges. So speak, my dear son, I\nam listening and shall be pleased indeed if I can absolve you.\"\n\nPierre was caught by these kind words, and a hope returned to him, that\nof winning the support of the all-powerful Prefect of the Index. He\nalready regarded this ex-nuncio--who at Brussels and Vienna had acquired\nthe worldly art of sending people away satisfied with indefinite promises\nthough he meant to grant them nothing--as a man of rare intelligence and\nexquisite cordiality. And so once more he regained the fervour of his\napostolate to express his views respecting the future Rome, the Rome he\ndreamt of, which was destined yet again to become the mistress of the\nworld if she would return to the Christianity of Jesus, to an ardent love\nfor the weak and the humble.\n\nSanguinetti smiled, wagged his head, and raised exclamations of rapture:\n\"Very good, very good indeed, perfect! Oh! I agree with you, dear son.\nOne cannot put things better. It is quite evident; all good minds must\nagree with you.\" And then, said he, the poetic side deeply touched him.\nLike Leo XIII--and doubtless in a spirit of rivalry--he courted the\nreputation of being a very distinguished Latinist, and professed a\nspecial and boundless affection for Virgil. \"I know, I know,\" he\nexclaimed, \"I remember your page on the return of spring, which consoles\nthe poor whom winter has frozen. Oh! I read it three times over! And are\nyou aware that your writing is full of Latin turns of style. I noticed\nmore than fifty expressions which could be found in the 'Bucolics.' Your\nbook is a charm, a perfect charm!\"\n\nAs he was no fool, and realised that the little priest before him was a\nman of high intelligence, he ended by interesting himself, not in Pierre\npersonally, but in the profit which he might possibly derive from him.\nAmidst his feverish intrigues, he unceasingly sought to utilise all the\nqualities possessed by those whom God sent to him that might in any way\nbe conducive to his own triumph. So, for a moment, he turned away from\nRome and looked his companion in the face, listening to him and asking\nhimself in what way he might employ him--either at once in the crisis\nthrough which he was passing, or later on when he should be pope. But the\nyoung priest again made the mistake of attacking the temporal power, and\nof employing that unfortunate expression, \"a new religion.\" Thereupon the\nCardinal stopped him with a gesture, still smiling, still retaining all\nhis amiability, although the resolution which he had long since formed\nbecame from that moment definitive. \"You are certainly in the right on\nmany points, my dear son,\" he said, \"and I often share your views--share\nthem completely. But come, you are doubtless not aware that I am the\nprotector of Lourdes here at Rome. And so, after the page which you have\nwritten about the Grotto, how can I possibly pronounce in your favour and\nagainst the Fathers?\"\n\nPierre was utterly overcome by this announcement, for he was indeed\nunaware of the Cardinal's position with respect to Lourdes, nobody having\ntaken the precaution to warn him. However, each of the Catholic\nenterprises distributed throughout the world has a protector at Rome, a\ncardinal who is designated by the Pope to represent it and, if need be,\nto defend it.\n\n\"Those good Fathers!\" Sanguinetti continued in a gentle voice, \"you have\ncaused them great grief, and really our hands are tied, we cannot add to\ntheir sorrow. If you only knew what a number of masses they send us! I\nknow more than one of our poor priests who would die of hunger if it were\nnot for them.\"\n\nPierre could only bow beneath the blow. Once more he found himself in\npresence of the pecuniary question, the necessity in which the Holy See\nis placed to secure the revenue it requires one year with another. And\nthus the Pope was ever in servitude, for if the loss of Rome had freed\nhim of the cares of state, his enforced gratitude for the alms he\nreceived still riveted him to earth. So great, indeed, were the\nrequirements, that money was the ruler, the sovereign power, before which\nall bowed at the Court of Rome.\n\nAnd now Sanguinetti rose to dismiss his visitor. \"You must not despair,\ndear son,\" he said effusively. \"I have only my own vote, you know, and I\npromise you that I will take into account the excellent explanations\nwhich you have just given me. And who can tell? If God be with you, He\nwill save you even in spite of all!\" This speech formed part of the\nCardinal's usual tactics; for one of his principles was never to drive\npeople to extremes by sending them away hopeless. What good, indeed,\nwould it do to tell this one that the condemnation of his book was a\nforegone conclusion, and that his only prudent course would be to disavow\nit? Only a savage like Boccanera breathed anger upon fiery souls and\nplunged them into rebellion. \"You must hope, hope!\" repeated Sanguinetti\nwith a smile, as if implying a multitude of fortunate things which he\ncould not plainly express.\n\nThereupon Pierre, who was deeply touched, felt born anew. He even forgot\nthe conversation he had surprised, the Cardinal's keen ambition and\ncovert rage with his redoubtable rival. Besides, might not intelligence\ntake the place of heart among the powerful? If this man should some day\nbecome pope, and had understood him, might he not prove the pope who was\nawaited, the pope who would accept the task of reorganising the Church of\nthe United States of Europe, and making it the spiritual sovereign of the\nworld? So he thanked him with emotion, bowed, and left him to his dream,\nstanding before that widely open window whence Rome appeared to him,\nglittering like a jewel, even indeed as the tiara of gold and gems, in\nthe splendour of the autumn sun.\n\nIt was nearly one o'clock when Pierre and Count Prada were at last able\nto sit down to /dejeuner/ in the little restaurant where they had agreed\nto meet. They had both been delayed by their affairs. However, the Count,\nhaving settled some worrying matters to his own advantage, was very\nlively, whilst the priest on his side was again hopeful, and yielded to\nthe delightful charm of that last fine day. And so the meal proved a very\npleasant one in the large, bright room, which, as usual at that season of\nthe year, was quite deserted. Pink and blue predominated in the\ndecoration, but Cupids fluttered on the ceiling, and landscapes, vaguely\nrecalling the Roman castles, adorned the walls. The things they ate were\nfresh, and they drank the wine of Frascati, to which the soil imparts a\nkind of burnt flavour as if the old volcanoes of the region had left some\nlittle of their fire behind.\n\nFor a long while the conversation ranged over those wild and graceful\nAlban hills, which, fortunately for the pleasure of the eye, overlook the\nflat Roman Campagna. Pierre, who had made the customary carriage\nexcursion from Frascati to Nemi, still felt its charm and spoke of it in\nglowing language. First came the lovely road from Frascati to Albano,\nascending and descending hillsides planted with reeds, vines, and\nolive-trees, amongst which one obtained frequent glimpses of the\nCampagna's wavy immensity. On the right-hand the village of Rocca di Papa\narose in amphitheatrical fashion, showing whitely on a knoll below Monte\nCavo, which was crowned by lofty and ancient trees. And from this point\nof the road, on looking back towards Frascati, one saw high up, on the\nverge of a pine wood the ruins of Tusculum, large ruddy ruins, baked by\ncenturies of sunshine, and whence the boundless panorama must have been\nsuperb. Next one passed through Marino, with its sloping streets, its\nlarge cathedral, and its black decaying palace belonging to the Colonnas.\nThen, beyond a wood of ilex-trees, the lake of Albano was skirted with\nscenery which has no parallel in the world. In front, beyond the clear\nmirror of motionless water, were the ruins of Alba Longa; on the left\nrose Monte Cavo with Rocca di Papa and Palazzuolo; whilst on the right\nCastel Gandolfo overlooked the lake as from the summit of a cliff. Down\nbelow in the extinct crater, as in the depths of a gigantic cup of\nverdure, the lake slept heavy and lifeless: a sheet of molten metal,\nwhich the sun on one side streaked with gold, whilst the other was black\nwith shade. And the road then ascended all the way to Castel Gandolfo,\nwhich was perched on its rock, like a white bird betwixt the lake and the\nsea. Ever refreshed by breezes, even in the most burning hours of summer,\nthe little place was once famous for its papal villa, where Pius IX loved\nto spend hours of indolence, and whither Leo XIII has never come. And\nnext the road dipped down, and the ilex-trees appeared again, ilex-trees\nfamous for their size, a double row of monsters with twisted limbs, two\nand three hundred years old. Then one at last reached Albano, a small\ntown less modernised and less cleansed than Frascati, a patch of the old\nland which has retained some of its ancient wildness; and afterwards\nthere was Ariccia with the Palazzo Chigi, and hills covered with forests\nand viaducts spanning ravines which overflowed with foliage; and there\nwas yet Genzano, and yet Nemi, growing still wilder and more remote, lost\nin the midst of rocks and trees.\n\nAh! how ineffaceable was the recollection which Pierre had retained of\nNemi, Nemi on the shore of its lake, Nemi so delicious and fascinating\nfrom afar, conjuring up all the ancient legends of fairy towns springing\nfrom amidst the greenery of mysterious waters, but so repulsively filthy\nwhen one at last reaches it, crumbling on all sides but yet dominated by\nthe Orsini tower, as by the evil genius of the middle ages, which there\nseems to perpetuate the ferocious habits, the violent passions, the knife\nthrusts of the past! Thence came that Santobono whose brother had killed,\nand who himself, with his eyes of crime glittering like live embers,\nseemed to be consumed by a murderous flame. And the lake, that lake round\nlike an extinguished moon fallen into the depths of a former crater, a\ndeeper and less open cup than that of the lake of Albano, a cup rimmed\nwith trees of wondrous vigour and density! Pines, elms, and willows\ndescend to the very margin, with a green mass of tangled branches which\nweigh each other down. This formidable fecundity springs from the vapour\nwhich constantly arises from the water under the parching action of the\nsun, whose rays accumulate in this hollow till it becomes like a furnace.\nThere is a warm, heavy dampness, the paths of the adjacent gardens grow\ngreen with moss, and in the morning dense mists often fill the large cup\nwith white vapour, as with the steaming milk of some sorceress of\nmalevolent craft. And Pierre well remembered how uncomfortable he had\nfelt before that lake where ancient atrocities, a mysterious religion\nwith abominable rites, seemed to slumber amidst the superb scenery. He\nhad seen it at the approach of evening, looking, in the shade of its\nforest girdle, like a plate of dull metal, black and silver, motionless\nby reason of its weight. And that water, clear and yet so deep, that\nwater deserted, without a bark upon its surface, that water august,\nlifeless, and sepulchral, had left him a feeling of inexpressible\nsadness, of mortal melancholy, the hopelessness of great solitary\npassion, earth and water alike swollen by the mute spasms of germs,\ntroublous in their fecundity. Ah! those black and plunging banks, and\nthat black mournful lake prone at the bottom!*\n\n  * Some literary interest attaches to M. Zola's account of Nemi,\n    whose praises have been sung by a hundred poets. It will be\n    observed that he makes no mention of Egeria. The religion\n    distinguished by abominable practices to which he alludes,\n    may perhaps be the worship of the Egyptian Diana, who had a\n    famous temple near Nemi, which was excavated by Lord Savile\n    some ten years ago, when all the smaller objects discovered\n    were presented to the town of Nottingham. At this temple,\n    according to some classical writers, the chief priest was\n    required to murder his predecessor, and there were other\n    abominable usages.--Trans.\n\nCount Prada began to laugh when Pierre told him of these impressions.\n\"Yes, yes,\" said he, \"it's true, Nemi isn't always gay. In dull weather I\nhave seen the lake looking like lead, and even the full sunshine scarcely\nanimates it. For my part, I know I should die of /ennui/ if I had to live\nface to face with that bare water. But it is admired by poets and\nromantic women, those who adore great tragedies of passion.\"\n\nThen, as he and Pierre rose from the table to go and take coffee on the\nterrace of the restaurant, the conversation changed: \"Do you mean to\nattend Prince Buongiovanni's reception this evening?\" the Count inquired.\n\"It will be a curious sight, especially for a foreigner, and I advise you\nnot to miss it.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have an invitation,\" Pierre replied. \"A friend of mine, Monsieur\nNarcisse Habert, an /attache/ at our embassy, procured it for me, and I\nam going with him.\"\n\nThat evening, indeed, there was to be a /fete/ at the Palazzo\nBuongiovanni on the Corso, one of the few galas that take place in Rome\neach winter. People said that this one would surpass all others in\nmagnificence, for it was to be given in honour of the betrothal of little\nPrincess Celia. The Prince, her father, after boxing her ears, it was\nrumoured, and narrowly escaping an attack of apoplexy as the result of a\nfrightful fit of anger, had, all at once, yielded to her quiet, gentle\nstubbornness, and consented to her marriage with Lieutenant Attilio, the\nson of Minister Sacco. And all the drawing-rooms of Rome, those of the\nwhite world quite as much as those of the black, were thoroughly upset by\nthe tidings.\n\nCount Prada made merry over the affair. \"Ah! you'll see a fine sight!\" he\nexclaimed. \"Personally, I'm delighted with it all for the sake of my good\ncousin Attilio, who is really a very nice and worthy fellow. And nothing\nin the world would keep me from going to see my dear uncle Sacco make his\nentry into the ancient /salons/ of the Buongiovanni. It will be something\nextraordinary and superb. He has at last become Minister of Agriculture,\nyou know. My father, who always takes things so seriously, told me this\nmorning that the affair so worried him he hadn't closed his eyes all\nnight.\"\n\nThe Count paused, but almost immediately added: \"I say, it is half-past\ntwo and you won't have a train before five o'clock. Do you know what you\nought to do? Why, drive back to Rome with me in my carriage.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" rejoined Pierre, \"I'm deeply obliged to you but I'm to dine\nwith my friend Narcisse this evening, and I mustn't be late.\"\n\n\"But you won't be late--on the contrary! We shall start at three and\nreach Rome before five o'clock. There can't be a more pleasant promenade\nwhen the light falls; and, come, I promise you a splendid sunset.\"\n\nHe was so pressing that the young priest had to accept, quite subjugated\nby so much amiability and good humour. They spent another half-hour very\npleasantly in chatting about Rome, Italy, and France. Then, for a moment,\nthey went up into Frascati where the Count wished to say a few words to a\ncontractor, and just as three o'clock was striking they started off,\nseated side by side on the soft cushions and gently rocked by the motion\nof the victoria as the two horses broke into a light trot. As Prada had\npredicted, that return to Rome across the bare Campagna under the vast\nlimpid heavens at the close of such a mild autumn day proved most\ndelightful. First of all, however, the victoria had to descend the slopes\nof Frascati between vineyards and olive-trees. The paved road snaked, and\nwas but little frequented; they merely saw a few peasants in old felt\nhats, a white mule, and a cart drawn by a donkey, for it is only upon\nSundays that the /osterie/ or wine-shops are filled and that artisans in\neasy circumstances come to eat a dish of kid at the surrounding\n/bastides/. However, at one turn of the road they passed a monumental\nfountain. Then a flock of sheep momentarily barred the way before\ndefiling past. And beyond the gentle undulations of the ruddy Campagna\nRome appeared amidst the violet vapours of evening, sinking by degrees as\nthe carriage itself descended to a lower and lower level. There came a\nmoment when the city was a mere thin grey streak, speckled whitely here\nand there by a few sunlit house-fronts. And then it seemed to plunge\nbelow the ground--to be submerged by the swell of the far-spreading\nfields.\n\nThe victoria was now rolling over the plain, leaving the Alban hills\nbehind, whilst before it and on either hand came the expanse of meadows\nand stubbles. And then it was that the Count, after leaning forward,\nexclaimed: \"Just look ahead, yonder, there's our man of this morning,\nSantobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast he\nwalks! My horses can scarcely overtake him.\"\n\nPierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St.\nMary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with a\nbill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigorous\nsplotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and he\nwas walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggested\nDestiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished,\nwas hanging from his right arm.\n\nWhen the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman to\nslacken speed, and then entered into conversation.\n\n\"Good-day, Abbe; you are well, I hope?\" he asked.\n\n\"Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you.\"\n\n\"And where are you going so bravely?\"\n\n\"Signor Conte, I am going to Rome.\"\n\n\"What! to Rome, at this late hour?\"\n\n\"Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn't\nfrighten me, and money's quickly earned by walking.\"\n\nScarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels,\nSantobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting,\nwhispered to Pierre: \"Wait a bit, he'll amuse us.\" Then he added aloud:\n\"Since you are going to Rome, Abbe, you had better get in here; there's\nroom for you.\"\n\nSantobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer.\n\"Willingly; a thousand thanks,\" he said. \"It's still better to save one's\nshoe leather.\"\n\nThen he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with\nabrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the\nCount. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was\ncarrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered\nwith leaves.\n\nThe horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and\non over the superb, flat plain. \"So you are going to Rome?\" the Count\nresumed in order to make Santobono talk.\n\n\"Yes,\" the other replied, \"I am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera\nthese few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I had\npromised him.\" He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding it\nbetween his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile.\n\n\"Ah! some of the famous figs of your garden,\" said Prada. \"It's quite\ntrue, they are like honey. But why don't you rid yourself of them. You\nsurely don't mean to keep them on your knees all the way to Rome. Give\nthem to me, I'll put them in the hood.\"\n\nHowever, Santobono became quite agitated, and vigorously declined the\noffer. \"No, no, a thousand thanks! They don't embarrass me in the least;\nthey are very well here; and in this way I shall be sure that no accident\nwill befall them.\"\n\nHis passion for the fruit he grew quite amused Prada, who nudged Pierre,\nand then inquired: \"Is the Cardinal fond of your figs?\"\n\n\"Oh! his Eminence condescends to adore them. In former years, when he\nspent the summer at the villa, he would never touch the figs from other\ntrees. And so, you see, knowing his tastes, it costs me very little to\ngratify him.\"\n\nWhilst making this reply Santobono had shot such a keen glance in the\ndirection of Pierre that the Count felt it necessary to introduce them to\none another. This he did saying: \"As it happens, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment\nis stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three months\nor so.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm aware of it,\" Santobono quietly replied; \"I found Monsieur\nl'Abbe with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo.\nThose were less ripe, but these are perfect.\" So speaking he gave the\nlittle basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet more\nclosely between his huge and hairy fingers.\n\nThen came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spread\nout as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;\nthere was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expanse\nwhose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginning\nto turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came into\nsight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat,\nboundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance.\nThen, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses were\nseen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen,\nstill yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer,\ncantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a final\nlook round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A\n/biroccino/, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a small\nseat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From time\nto time also the victoria passed a /carrotino/, one of the low carts in\nwhich peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine,\nvegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling of\nhorses' bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-known\nroad of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being sound\nasleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirts\ncaught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then the\nroad again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete,\nwithout a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilst\nyonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful in\nits monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault of\nheaven.\n\n\"And the Pope, Abbe, is he dead?\" Prada suddenly inquired.\n\nSantobono did not even start. \"I trust,\" he replied in all simplicity,\n\"that his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph of\nthe Church.\"\n\n\"So you had good news this morning when you called on your bishop,\nCardinal Sanguinetti?\"\n\nThis time the priest was unable to restrain a slight start. Had he been\nseen, then? In his haste he had failed to notice the two men following\nthe road behind him. However, he at once regained self-possession, and\nreplied: \"Oh! one can never tell exactly whether news is good or bad. It\nseems that his Holiness passed a somewhat painful night, but I devoutly\nhope that the next will be a better one.\" Then he seemed to meditate for\na moment, and added: \"Moreover, if God should have deemed it time to call\nhis Holiness to Himself, He would not leave His flock without a shepherd.\nHe would have already chosen and designated the Sovereign Pontiff of\nto-morrow.\"\n\nThis superb answer increased Prada's gaiety. \"You are really\nextraordinary, Abbe,\" he said. \"So you think that popes are solely\ncreated by the grace of the Divinity! The pope of to-morrow is chosen up\nin heaven, eh, and simply waits? Well, I fancied that men had something\nto do with the matter. But perhaps you already know which cardinal it is\nthat the divine favour has thus elected in advance?\"\n\nThen, like the unbeliever he was, he went on with his facile jests, which\nleft the priest unruffled. In fact, the latter also ended by laughing\nwhen the Count, after alluding to the gambling passion which at each\nfresh Conclave sets wellnigh the whole population of Rome betting for or\nagainst this or that candidate, told him that he might easily make his\nfortune if he were in the divine secret. Next the talk turned on the\nthree white cassocks of different sizes which are always kept in\nreadiness in a cupboard at the Vatican. Which of them would be required\non this occasion?--the short one, the long one, or the one of medium\nsize? Each time that the reigning pope falls somewhat seriously ill there\nis in this wise an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a keen awakening of\nall ambitions and intrigues, to such a point that not merely in the black\nworld, but throughout the city, people have no other subject of\ncuriosity, conversation, and occupation than that of discussing the\nrelative claims of the cardinals and predicting which of them will be\nelected.\n\n\"Come, come,\" Prada resumed, \"since you know the truth, I'm determined\nthat you shall tell me. Will it be Cardinal Moretta?\"\n\nSantobono, in spite of his evident desire to remain dignified and\ndisinterested, like a good, pious priest, was gradually growing\nimpassioned, yielding to the hidden fire which consumed him. And this\ninterrogatory finished him off; he could no longer restrain himself, but\nreplied: \"Moretta! What an idea! Why, he is sold to all Europe!\"\n\n\"Well, will it be Cardinal Bartolini?\"\n\n\"Oh! you can't think that. Bartolini has used himself up in striving for\neverything and getting nothing.\"\n\n\"Will it be Cardinal Dozio, then?\"\n\n\"Dozio, Dozio! Why, if Dozio were to win one might altogether despair of\nour Holy Church, for no man can have a baser mind than he!\"\n\nPrada raised his hands, as if he had exhausted the serious candidates. In\norder to increase the priest's exasperation he maliciously refrained from\nnaming Cardinal Sanguinetti, who was certainly Santobono's nominee. All\nat once, however, he pretended to make a good guess, and gaily exclaimed:\n\"Ah! I have it; I know your man--Cardinal Boccanera!\"\n\nThe blow struck Santobono full in the heart, wounding him both in his\nrancour and his patriotic faith. His terrible mouth was already opening,\nand he was about to shout \"No! no!\" with all his strength, but he managed\nto restrain the cry, compelled as he was to silence by the present on his\nknees--that little basket of figs which he pressed so convulsively with\nboth hands; and the effort which he was obliged to make left him\nquivering to such a point that he had to wait some time before he could\nreply in a calm voice: \"His most reverend Eminence Cardinal Boccanera is\na saintly man, well worthy of the throne, and my only fear is that, with\nhis hatred of new Italy, he might bring us warfare.\"\n\nPrada, however, desired to enlarge the wound. \"At all events,\" said he,\n\"you accept him and love him too much not to rejoice over his chances of\nsuccess. And I really think that we have arrived at the truth, for\neverybody is convinced that the Conclave's choice cannot fall elsewhere.\nCome, come; Boccanera is a very tall man, so it's the long white cassock\nwhich will be required.\"\n\n\"The long cassock, the long cassock,\" growled Santobono, despite himself;\n\"that's all very well, but--\"\n\nThen he stopped short, and, again overcoming his passion, left his\nsentence unfinished. Pierre, listening in silence, marvelled at the man's\nself-restraint, for he remembered the conversation which he had overheard\nat Cardinal Sanguinetti's. Those figs were evidently a mere pretext for\ngaining admission to the Boccanera mansion, where some friend--Abbe\nPaparelli, no doubt--could alone supply certain positive information\nwhich was needed. But how great was the command which the hot-blooded\npriest exercised over himself amidst the riotous impulses of his soul!\n\nOn either side of the road the Campagna still and ever spread its expanse\nof verdure, and Prada, who had become grave and dreamy, gazed before him\nwithout seeing anything. At last, however, he gave expression to his\nthoughts. \"You know, Abbe, what will be said if the Pope should die this\ntime. That sudden illness, those colics, those refusals to make any\ninformation public, mean nothing good--Yes, yes, poison, just as for the\nothers!\"\n\nPierre gave a start of stupefaction. The Pope poisoned! \"What! Poison?\nAgain?\" he exclaimed as he gazed at his companions with dilated eyes.\nPoison at the end of the nineteenth century, as in the days of the\nBorgias, as on the stage in a romanticist melodrama! To him the idea\nappeared both monstrous and ridiculous.\n\nSantobono, whose features had become motionless and impenetrable, made no\nreply. But Prada nodded, and the conversation was henceforth confined to\nhim and the young priest. \"Why, yes, poison,\" he replied. \"The fear of it\nhas remained very great in Rome. Whenever a death seems inexplicable,\neither by reason of its suddenness or the tragic circumstances which\nattend it, the unanimous thought is poison. And remark this: in no city,\nI believe, are sudden deaths so frequent. The causes I don't exactly\nknow, but some doctors put everything down to the fevers. Among the\npeople, however, the one thought is poison, poison with all its legends,\npoison which kills like lightning and leaves no trace, the famous recipe\nbequeathed from age to age, through the emperors and the popes, down to\nthese present times of middle-class democracy.\"\n\nAs he spoke he ended by smiling, for he was inclined to be somewhat\nsceptical on the point, despite the covert terror with which he was\ninspired by racial and educational causes. However, he quoted instances.\nThe Roman matrons had rid themselves of their husbands and lovers by\nemploying the venom of red toads. Locusta, in a more practical spirit,\nsought poison in plants, one of which, probably aconite, she was wont to\nboil. Then, long afterwards, came the age of the Borgias, and\nsubsequently, at Naples, La Toffana sold a famous water, doubtless some\npreparation of arsenic, in phials decorated with a representation of St.\nNicholas of Bari. There were also extraordinary stories of pins, a prick\nfrom which killed one like lightning, of cups of wine poisoned by the\ninfusion of rose petals, of woodcocks cut in half with prepared knives,\nwhich poisoned but one-half of the bird, so that he who partook of that\nhalf was killed. \"I myself, in my younger days,\" continued Prada, \"had a\nfriend whose bride fell dead in church during the marriage service\nthrough simply inhaling a bouquet of flowers. And so isn't it possible\nthat the famous recipe may really have been handed down, and have\nremained known to a few adepts?\"\n\n\"But chemistry has made too much progress,\" Pierre replied. \"If\nmysterious poisons were believed in by the ancients and remained\nundetected in their time it was because there were no means of analysis.\nBut the drug of the Borgias would now lead the simpleton who might employ\nit straight to the Assizes. Such stories are mere nonsense, and at the\npresent day people scarcely tolerate them in newspaper serials and\nshockers.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" resumed the Count with his uneasy smile. \"You are right, no\ndoubt--only go and tell that to your host, for instance, Cardinal\nBoccanera, who last summer held in his arms an old and deeply-loved\nfriend, Monsignor Gallo, who died after a seizure of a couple of hours.\"\n\n\"But apoplexy may kill one in two hours, and aneurism only takes two\nminutes.\"\n\n\"True, but ask the Cardinal what he thought of his friend's prolonged\nshudders, the leaden hue which overcame his face, the sinking of his\neyes, and the expression of terror which made him quite unrecognisable.\nThe Cardinal is convinced that Monsignor Gallo was poisoned, because he\nwas his dearest confidant, the counsellor to whom he always listened, and\nwhose wise advice was a guarantee of success.\"\n\nPierre's bewilderment was increasing, and, irritated by the impassibility\nof Santobono, he addressed him direct. \"It's idiotic, it's awful! Does\nyour reverence also believe in these frightful stories?\"\n\nBut the priest of Frascati gave no sign. His thick, passionate lips\nremained closed while his black glowing eyes never ceased to gaze at\nPrada. The latter, moreover, was quoting other instances. There was the\ncase of Monsignor Nazzarelli, who had been found in bed, shrunken and\ncalcined like carbon. And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck down\nin his sacerdotal vestments at St. Peter's itself, in the very sacristy,\nduring vespers!\n\n\"Ah! /Mon Dieu/!\" sighed Pierre, \"you will tell me so much that I myself\nshall end by trembling, and sha'n't dare to eat anything but boiled eggs\nas long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours.\"\n\nFor a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre.\nBut it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under a\nterrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the city\nof poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, ever\nsince the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, the\nfrantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men's hands,\nensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and the\nground. Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings and\nassassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominations\nstrew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun.\n\n\"All the same,\" said the Count, \"those who take precautions are perhaps\nnot ill advised. It is said that more than one cardinal shudders and\nmistrusts people. One whom I know will never eat anything that has not\nbeen bought and prepared by his own cook. And as for the Pope, if he is\nanxious--\"\n\nPierre again raised a cry of stupefaction. \"What, the Pope himself! The\nPope afraid of being poisoned!\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Abbe, people commonly assert it. There are certainly days\nwhen he considers himself more menaced than anybody else. And are you not\naware of the old Roman view that a pope ought never to live till too\ngreat an age, and that when he is so obstinate as not to die at the right\ntime he ought to be assisted? As soon as a pope begins to fall into\nsecond childhood, and by reason of his senility becomes a source of\nembarrassment, and possibly even danger, to the Church, his right place\nis heaven. Moreover, matters are managed in a discreet manner; a slight\ncold becomes a decent pretext to prevent him from tarrying any longer on\nthe throne of St. Peter.\"\n\nPrada then gave some curious details. One prelate, it was said, wishing\nto dispel his Holiness's fears, had devised an elaborate precautionary\nsystem which, among other things, was to comprise a little padlocked\nvehicle, in which the food destined for the frugal pontifical table was\nto be securely placed before leaving the kitchen, so that it might not be\ntampered with on its way to the Pope's apartments. However, this project\nhad not yet been carried into effect.\n\n\"After all,\" the Count concluded with a laugh, \"every pope has to die\nsome day, especially when his death is needful for the welfare of the\nChurch. Isn't that so, Abbe?\"\n\nSantobono, whom he addressed, had a moment previously lowered his eyes as\nif to contemplate the little basket of figs which he held on his lap with\nas much care as if it had been the Blessed Sacrament. On being questioned\nin such a direct, sharp fashion he could not do otherwise than look up.\nHowever, he did not depart from his prolonged silence, but limited his\nanswer to a slow nod.\n\n\"And it is God alone, and not poison, who causes one to die. Is that not\nso, Abbe?\" repeated Prada. \"It is said that those were the last words of\npoor Monsignor Gallo before he expired in the arms of his friend Cardinal\nBoccanera.\"\n\nFor the second time Santobono nodded without speaking. And then silence\nfell, all three sinking into a dreamy mood.\n\nMeantime, without a pause, the carriage rolled on across the immensity of\nthe Campagna. The road, straight as an arrow, seemed to extend into the\ninfinite. As the sun descended towards the horizon the play of light and\nshade became more marked on the broad undulations of the ground which\nstretched away, alternately of a pinky green and a violet grey, till they\nreached the distant fringe of the sky. At the roadside on either hand\nthere were still and ever tall withered thistles and giant fennel with\nyellow umbels. Then, after a time, came a team of four oxen, that had\nbeen kept ploughing until late, and stood forth black and huge in the\npale atmosphere and mournful solitude. Farther on some flocks of sheep,\nwhence the breeze wafted a tallowy odour, set patches of brown amidst the\nherbage, which once more was becoming verdant; whilst at intervals a dog\nwas heard to bark, his voice the only distinct sound amidst the low\nquivering of that silent desert where the sovereign peacefulness of death\nseemed to reign. But all at once a light melody arose and some larks flew\nup, one of them soaring into the limpid golden heavens. And ahead, at the\nfar extremity of the pure sky, Rome, with her towers and domes, grew\nlarger and larger, like a city of white marble springing from a mirage\namidst the greenery of some enchanted garden.\n\n\"Matteo!\" Prada called to his coachman, \"pull up at the Osteria Romana.\"\nAnd to his companions he added: \"Pray excuse me, but I want to see if I\ncan get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them.\"\n\nA few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of the\nroad stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous name\nof \"Antica Osteria Romana.\" It had now become a mere house of call for\ncarters and chance sportsmen, who ventured to drink a flagon of white\nwine whilst eating an omelet and a slice of ham. Occasionally, on\nSundays, some of the humble classes would walk over from Rome and make\nmerry there; but the week days often went by without a soul entering the\nplace, such was its isolation amidst the bare Campagna.\n\nThe Count was already springing from the carriage. \"I shall only be a\nminute,\" said he as he turned away.\n\nThe /osteria/ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upper\nstorey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of large\nblocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entire\nplace, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On the\nground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable with\nadjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the only\ntrees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour of\nreeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as a\nbackground to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment\nof an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space,\nalone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.\n\nAll at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing\nSantobono, exclaimed: \"I say, Abbe, you'll surely accept a glass of white\nwine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little\nwhite wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with.\"\n\nSantobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. \"Oh! I know\nit,\" said he; \"it's a wine from Marino; it's grown in a lighter soil than\nours at Frascati.\"\n\nThen, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now\ncarried it along with him, the Count lost patience. \"Come, you don't want\nthat basket,\" said he; \"leave it in the carriage.\"\n\nThe priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up\nhis mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban\n/osteria/ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman,\ntall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had\nat once presented herself. On the last occasion when the Count had called\nshe had managed to find half a dozen eggs. This time she said she would\ngo to see, but could promise nothing, for the hens laid here and there\nall over the place, and she could never tell what eggs there might be.\n\n\"All right!\" Prada answered, \"go and look; and meantime we will have a\n/caraffa/ of white wine.\"\n\nThe three men entered the common room, which was already quite dark.\nAlthough the hot weather was now over, one heard the buzzing of\ninnumerable flies immediately one reached the threshold, and a pungent\nodour of acidulous wine and rancid oil caught one at the throat. As soon\nas their eyes became accustomed to the dimness they were able to\ndistinguish the spacious, blackened, malodorous chamber, whose only\nfurniture consisted of some roughly made tables and benches. It seemed to\nbe quite empty, so complete was the silence, apart from the buzz of the\nflies. However, two men were seated there, two wayfarers who remained\nmute and motionless before their untouched, brimming glasses. Moreover,\non a low chair near the door, in the little light which penetrated from\nwithout, a thin, sallow girl, the daughter of the house, sat idle,\ntrembling with fever, her hands close pressed between her knees.\n\nRealising that Pierre felt uncomfortable there, the Count proposed that\nthey should drink their wine outside. \"We shall be better out of doors,\"\nsaid he, \"it's so very in mild this evening.\"\n\nAccordingly, whilst the mother looked for the eggs, and the father mended\na wheel in an adjacent shed, the daughter was obliged to get up shivering\nto carry the flagon of wine and the three glasses to the arbour, where\nshe placed them on one of the tables. And, having pocketed the price of\nthe wine--threepence--in silence, she went back to her seat with a sullen\nlook, as if annoyed at having been compelled to make such a long journey.\nMeanwhile the three men had sat down, and Prada gaily filled each of the\nglasses, although Pierre declared that he was quite unable to drink wine\nbetween his meals. \"Pooh, pooh,\" said the Count, \"you can always clink\nglasses with us. And now, Abbe, isn't this little wine droll? Come,\nhere's to the Pope's better health, since he's unwell!\"\n\nSantobono at one gulp emptied his glass and clacked his tongue. With\ngentle, paternal care he had deposited his basket on the ground beside\nhim: and, taking off his hat, he drew a long breath. The evening was\nreally delightful. A superb sky of a soft golden hue stretched over that\nendless sea of the Campagna which was soon to fall asleep with sovereign\nquiescence. And the light breeze which went by amidst the deep silence\nbrought with it an exquisite odour of wild herbs and flowers.\n\n\"How pleasant it is!\" muttered Pierre, affected by the surrounding charm.\n\"And what a desert for eternal rest, forgetfulness of all the world!\"\n\nPrada, who had emptied the flagon by filling Santobono's glass a second\ntime, made no reply; he was silently amusing himself with an occurrence\nwhich at first he was the only one to observe. However, with a merry\nexpression of complicity, he gave the young priest a wink, and then they\nboth watched the dramatic incidents of the affair. Some scraggy fowls\nwere wandering round them searching the yellow turf for grasshoppers; and\none of these birds, a little shiny black hen with an impudent manner, had\ncaught sight of the basket of figs and was boldly approaching it. When\nshe got near, however, she took fright, and retreated somewhat, with neck\nstiffened and head turned, so as to cast suspicious glances at the basket\nwith her round sparkling eye. But at last covetousness gained the\nvictory, for she could see one of the figs between the leaves, and so she\nslowly advanced, lifting her feet very high at each step; and, all at\nonce, stretching out her neck, she gave the fig a formidable peck, which\nripped it open and made the juice exude.\n\nPrada, who felt as happy as a child, was then able to give vent to the\nlaughter which he had scarcely been able to restrain: \"Look out, Abbe,\"\nhe called, \"mind your figs!\"\n\nAt that very moment Santobono was finishing his second glass of wine with\nhis head thrown back and his eyes blissfully raised to heaven. He gave a\nstart, looked round, and on seeing the hen at once understood the\nposition. And then came a terrible outburst of anger, with sweeping\ngestures and terrible invectives. But the hen, who was again pecking,\nwould not be denied; she dug her beak into the fig and carried it off,\nflapping her wings, so quick and so comical that Prada, and Pierre as\nwell, laughed till tears came into their eyes, their merriment increasing\nat sight of the impotent fury of Santobono, who, for a moment, pursued\nthe thief, threatening her with his fist.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the Count, \"that's what comes of not leaving the basket in the\ncarriage. If I hadn't warned you the hen would have eaten all the figs.\"\n\nThe priest did not reply, but, growling out vague imprecations, placed\nthe basket on the table, where he raised the leaves and artistically\nrearranged the fruit so as to fill up the void. Then, the harm having\nbeen repaired as far as was possible, he at last calmed down.\n\nIt was now time for them to resume their journey, for the sun was sinking\ntowards the horizon, and night would soon fall. Thus the Count ended by\ngetting impatient. \"Well, and those eggs?\" he called.\n\nThen, as the woman did not return, he went to seek her. He entered the\nstable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here nor\nthere. Next he went towards the rear of the /osteria/ in order to look in\nthe sheds. But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short.\nThe little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as by\nlightning. She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a little\nstreamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak. Prada was at\nfirst merely astonished. He stooped and touched the hen. She was still\nwarm and soft like a rag. Doubtless some apoplectic stroke had killed\nher. But immediately afterwards he became fearfully pale; the truth\nappeared to him, and turned him as cold as ice. In a moment he conjured\nup everything: Leo XIII attacked by illness, Santobono hurrying to\nCardinal Sanguinetti for tidings, and then starting for Rome to present a\nbasket of figs to Cardinal Boccanera. And Prada also remembered the\nconversation in the carriage: the possibility of the Pope's demise, the\ncandidates for the tiara, the legendary stories of poison which still\nfostered terror in and around the Vatican; and he once more saw the\npriest, with his little basket on his knees, lavishing paternal attention\non it, and he saw the little black hen pecking at the fruit and fleeing\nwith a fig on her beak. And now that little black hen lay there, suddenly\nstruck down, dead!\n\nHis conviction was immediate and absolute. But he did not have time to\ndecide what course he should take, for a voice behind him exclaimed:\n\"Why, it's the little hen; what's the matter with her?\"\n\nThe voice was that of Pierre, who, letting Santobono climb into the\ncarriage alone, had in his turn come round to the rear of the house in\norder to obtain a better view of the ruined aqueduct among the parasol\npines.\n\nPrada, who shuddered as if he himself were the culprit, answered him with\na lie, a lie which he did not premeditate, but to which he was impelled\nby a sort of instinct. \"But she's dead,\" he said. . . . \"Just fancy,\nthere was a fight. At the moment when I got here that other hen, which\nyou see yonder, sprang upon this one to get the fig, which she was still\nholding, and with a thrust of the beak split her head open. . . . The\nblood's flowing, as you can see yourself.\"\n\nWhy did he say these things? He himself was astonished at them whilst he\nwent on inventing them. Was it then that he wished to remain master of\nthe situation, keep the abominable secret entirely to himself, in order\nthat he might afterwards act in accordance with his own desires?\nCertainly his feelings partook of shame and embarrassment in presence of\nthat foreigner, whilst his personal inclination for violence set some\nadmiration amidst the revolt of his conscience, and a covert desire arose\nwithin him to examine the matter from the standpoint of his interests\nbefore he came to a decision. But, on the other hand, he claimed to be a\nman of integrity, and would assuredly not allow people to be poisoned.\n\nPierre, who was compassionately inclined towards all creation, looked at\nthe hen with the emotion which he always felt at the sudden severance of\nlife. However, he at once accepted Prada's story. \"Ah! those fowls!\" said\nhe. \"They treat one another with an idiotic ferocity which even men can\nscarcely equal. I kept fowls at home at one time, and one of the hens no\nsooner hurt her leg than all the others, on seeing the blood oozing,\nwould flock round and peck at the limb till they stripped it to the\nbone.\"\n\nPrada, however, did not listen, but at once went off; and it so happened\nthat the woman was, on her side, looking for him in order to hand him\nfour eggs which, after a deal of searching, she had discovered in odd\ncorners about the house. The Count made haste to pay for them, and called\nto Pierre, who was lingering behind: \"We must look sharp! We sha'n't\nreach Rome now until it is quite dark.\"\n\nThey found Santobono quietly waiting in the carriage, where he had again\ninstalled himself on the bracket with his spine resting against the\nbox-seat and his long legs drawn back under him, and he again had the\nlittle basket of figs on his knees, and clasped it with his big knotty\nhands as though it were something fragile and rare which the slightest\njolting might damage. His cassock showed like a huge blot, and in his\ncoarse ashen face, that of a peasant yet near to the wild soil and but\nslightly polished by a few years of theological studies, his eyes alone\nseemed to live, glowing with the dark flame of a devouring passion. On\nseeing him seated there in such composure Prada could not restrain a\nslight shudder. Then, as soon as the victoria was again rolling along the\nroad, he exclaimed: \"Well, Abbe, that glass of wine will guarantee us\nagainst the malaria. The Pope would soon be cured if he could imitate our\nexample.\"\n\nSantobono's only reply was a growl. He was in no mood for conversation,\nbut wrapped himself in perfect silence, as in the night which was slowly\nfalling. And Prada in his turn ceased to speak, and, with his eyes still\nfixed upon the other, reflected on the course that he should follow.\n\nThe road turned, and then the carriage rolled on and on over another\ninterminable straight highway with white paving, whose brilliancy made\nthe road look like a ribbon of snow stretching across the Campagna, where\ndelicate shadows were slowly falling. Gloom gathered in the hollows of\nthe broad undulations whence a tide of violet hue seemed to spread over\nthe short herbage until all mingled and the expanse became an indistinct\nswell of neutral hue from one to the other horizon. And the solitude was\nnow yet more complete; a last indolent cart had gone by and a last\ntinkling of horses' bells had subsided in the distance. There was no\nlonger a passer-by, no longer a beast of the fields to be seen, colour\nand sound died away, all forms of life sank into slumber, into the serene\nstillness of nihility. Some fragments of an aqueduct were still to be\nseen at intervals on the right hand, where they looked like portions of\ngigantic millepeds severed by the scythe of time; next, on the left, came\nanother tower, whose dark and ruined pile barred the sky as with a huge\nblack stake; and then the remains of another aqueduct spanned the road,\nassuming yet greater dimensions against the sunset glow. Ah! that unique\nhour, the hour of twilight in the Campagna, when all is blotted out and\nsimplified, the hour of bare immensity, of the infinite in its simplest\nexpression! There is nothing, nothing all around you, but the flat line\nof the horizon with the one splotch of an isolated tower, and yet that\nnothing is instinct with sovereign majesty.\n\nHowever, on the left, towards the sea, the sun was setting, descending in\nthe limpid sky like a globe of fire of blinding redness. It slowly\nplunged beneath the horizon, and the only sign of cloud was some fiery\nvapour, as if indeed the distant sea had seethed at contact with that\nroyal and flaming visit. And directly the sun had disappeared the heavens\nabove it purpled and became a lake of blood, whilst the Campagna turned\nto grey. At the far end of the fading plain there remained only that\npurple lake whose brasier slowly died out behind the black arches of the\naqueduct, while in the opposite direction the scattered arches remained\nbright and rosy against a pewter-like sky. Then the fiery vapour was\ndissipated, and the sunset ended by fading away. One by one the stars\ncame out in the pacified vault, now of an ashen blue, while the lights of\nRome, still far away on the verge of the horizon, scintillated like the\nlamps of light-houses.\n\nAnd Prada, amidst the dreamy silence of his companions and the infinite\nmelancholy of the evening and the inexpressible distress which even he\nexperienced, continued to ask himself what course he should adopt. Again\nand again he mentally repeated that he could not allow people to be\npoisoned. The figs were certainly intended for Cardinal Boccanera, and on\nthe whole it mattered little to him whether there were a cardinal the\nmore or the fewer in the world. Moreover, it had always seemed to him\nbest to let Destiny follow its course; and, infidel that he was, he saw\nno harm in one priest devouring another. Again, it might be dangerous for\nhim to intervene in that abominable affair, to mix himself up in the\nbase, fathomless intrigues of the black world. But on the other hand the\nCardinal was not the only person who lived in the Boccanera mansion, and\nmight not the figs go to others, might they not be eaten by people to\nwhom no harm was intended? This idea of a treacherous chance haunted him,\nand in spite of every effort the figures of Benedetta and Dario rose up\nbefore him, returned and imposed themselves on him though he again and\nagain sought to banish them from his mind. What if Benedetta, what if\nDario should partake of that fruit? For Benedetta he felt no fear, for he\nknew that she and her aunt ate their meals by themselves, and that their\ncuisine and the Cardinal's had nothing in common. But Dario sat at his\nuncle's table every day, and for a moment Prada, pictured the young\nPrince suddenly seized with a spasm, then falling, like poor Monsignor\nGallo, into the Cardinal's arms with livid face and receding eyes, and\ndying within two hours.\n\nBut no, no! That would be frightful, he could not suffer such an\nabomination. And thereupon he made up his mind. He would wait till the\nnight had completely gathered round and would then simply take the basket\nfrom Santobono's lap and fling it into some dark hollow without saying a\nword. The priest would understand him. The other one, the young\nFrenchman, would perhaps not even notice the incident. Besides, that\nmattered little, for he would not even attempt to explain his action. And\nhe felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw the\nbasket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a couple\nof miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in the\ndarkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen.\n\n\"We stopped too long at that /osteria/,\" he suddenly exclaimed aloud,\nturning towards Pierre. \"We sha'n't reach Rome much before six o'clock.\nStill you will have time to dress and join your friend.\" And then without\nawaiting the young man's reply he said to Santobono: \"Your figs will\narrive very late, Abbe.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" answered the priest, \"his Eminence receives until eight o'clock.\nAnd, besides, the figs are not for this evening. People don't eat figs in\nthe evening. They will be for to-morrow morning.\" And thereupon he again\nrelapsed into silence.\n\n\"For to-morrow morning--yes, yes, no doubt,\" repeated Prada. \"And the\nCardinal will be able to thoroughly regale himself if nobody helps him to\neat the fruit.\"\n\nThereupon Pierre, without pausing to reflect, exclaimed: \"He will no\ndoubt eat it by himself, for his nephew, Prince Dario, must have started\nto-day for Naples on a little convalescence trip to rid himself of the\neffects of the accident which laid him up during the last month.\" Then,\nhaving got so far, the young priest remembered to whom he was speaking,\nand abruptly stopped short.\n\nThe Count noticed his embarrassment. \"Oh! speak on, my dear Monsieur\nFroment,\" said he, \"you don't offend me. It's an old affair now. So that\nyoung man has left, you say?\"\n\n\"Yes, unless he has postponed his departure. However, I don't expect to\nfind him at the palazzo when I get there.\"\n\nFor a moment the only sound was that of the continuous rumble of the\nwheels. Prada again felt worried, a prey to the discomfort of\nuncertainty. Why should he mix himself up in the affair if Dario were\nreally absent? All the ideas which came to him tired his brain, and he\nended by thinking aloud: \"If he has gone away it must be for propriety's\nsake, so as to avoid attending the Buongiovanni reception, for the\nCongregation of the Council met this morning to give its decision in the\nsuit which the Countess has brought against me. Yes, I shall know by and\nby whether our marriage is to be dissolved.\"\n\nIt was in a somewhat hoarse voice that he spoke these words, and one\ncould realise that the old wound was again bleeding within him. Although\nLisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in his\nwife's petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each time\nthat he thought of it. And all at once he shuddered violently, as if an\nicy blast had darted through his frame. Then, turning the conversation,\nhe added: \"It's not at all warm this evening. This is the dangerous hour\nof the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it's easy to catch a\nterrible fever if one isn't prudent. Here, pull the rug over your legs,\nwrap it round you as carefully as you can.\"\n\nThen, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, more\nprofound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over the\nCampagna, now steeped in night. And at last, in the bright starlight,\nappeared the gate, an arch of the Acqua Felice, under which the road\npassed. From a distance, this fragment seemed to bar the way with its\nmass of ancient half-fallen walls. But afterwards the gigantic arch where\nall was black opened like a gaping porch. And the carriage passed under\nit in darkness whilst the wheels rumbled with increased sonority.\n\nWhen the victoria emerged on the other side, Santobono still had the\nlittle basket of figs upon his knees and Prada looked at it, quite\novercome, asking himself what sudden paralysis of the hands had prevented\nhim from seizing it and throwing it into the darkness. Such had still\nbeen his intention but a few seconds before they passed under the arch.\nHe had even given the basket a final glance in order that he might the\nbetter realise what movements he should make. What had taken place within\nhim then? At present he was yielding to increasing irresolution,\nhenceforth incapable of decisive action, feeling a need of delay in order\nthat he might, before everything else, fully satisfy himself as to what\nwas likely to happen. And as Dario had doubtless gone away and the figs\nwould certainly not be eaten until the following morning, what reason was\nthere for him to hurry? He would know that evening if the Congregation of\nthe Council had annulled his marriage, he would know how far the\nso-called \"Justice of God\" was venal and mendacious! Certainly he would\nsuffer nobody to be poisoned, not even Cardinal Boccanera, though the\nlatter's life was of little account to him personally. But had not that\nlittle basket, ever since leaving Frascati, been like Destiny on the\nmarch? And was it not enjoyment, the enjoyment of omnipotence, to be able\nto say to himself that he was the master who could stay that basket's\ncourse, or allow it to go onward and accomplish its deadly purpose?\nMoreover, he yielded to the dimmest of mental struggles, ceasing to\nreason, unable to raise his hand, and yet convinced that he would drop a\nwarning note into the letter-box at the palazzo before he went to bed,\nthough at the same time he felt happy in the thought that if his interest\ndirected otherwise he would not do so.\n\nAnd the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silent weariness,\namidst the shiver of evening which seemed to have chilled all three men.\nIn vain did the Count endeavour to escape from the battle of his\nthoughts, by reverting to the Buongiovanni reception, and giving\nparticulars of the splendours which would be witnessed at it: his words\nfell sparsely in an embarrassed and absent-minded way. Then he sought to\ninspirit Pierre by speaking to him of Cardinal Sanguinetti's amiable\nmanner and fair words, but although the young priest was returning home\nwell pleased with his journey, in the idea that with a little help he\nmight yet triumph, he scarcely answered the Count, so wrapt he was in his\nreverie. And Santobono, on his side, neither spoke nor moved. Black like\nthe night itself, he seemed to have vanished. However, the lights of Rome\nwere increasing in number, and houses again appeared on either hand, at\nfirst at long intervals, and then in close succession. They were suburban\nhouses, and there were yet more fields of reeds, quickset hedges,\nolive-trees overtopping long walls, and big gateways with vase-surmounted\npillars; but at last came the city with its rows of small grey houses,\nits petty shops and its dingy taverns, whence at times came shouts and\nrumours of battle.\n\nPrada insisted on setting his companions down in the Via Giulia, at fifty\npaces from the palazzo. \"It doesn't inconvenience me at all,\" said he to\nPierre. \"Besides, with the little time you have before you, it would\nnever do for you to go on foot.\"\n\nThe Via Giulia was already steeped in slumber, and wore a melancholy\naspect of abandonment in the dreary light of the gas lamps standing on\neither hand. And as soon as Santobono had alighted from the carriage, he\ntook himself off without waiting for Pierre, who, moreover, always went\nin by the little door in the side lane.\n\n\"Good-bye, Abbe,\" exclaimed Prada.\n\n\"Good-bye, Count, a thousand thanks,\" was Santobono's response.\n\nThen the two others stood watching him as he went towards the Boccanera\nmansion, whose old, monumental entrance, full of gloom, was still wide\nopen. For a moment they saw his tall, rugged figure erect against that\ngloom. Then in he plunged, he and his little basket, bearing Destiny.\n\n\n\nXII\n\nIT was ten o'clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe di\nRoma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down the\nCorso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficulty\nto reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, and\nthe inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway,\nin spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact that\neven the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on the\nfirst floor of the long monumental facade shone with an intense white\nradiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street like\nsunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whose\nbillows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinary\ntumult.\n\nAnd in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms\ngo by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre\nsoon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the\narrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball\ngiven by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his\ndaughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his\nMajesty's ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage,\nthe happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: to\nbegin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of a\nlightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over all\nobstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip to\nlip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart.\n\nIt was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, who\nalready knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince had\nended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear of\nseeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threaten\nto do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contempt\nfor everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to be\ncapable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Only\nindifference was manifested by the Prince's wife, a phlegmatic and still\nbeautiful Englishwoman, who considered that she had done quite enough for\nthe household by bringing her husband a dowry of five millions, and\nbearing him five children. The Prince, anxious and weak despite his\nviolence, in which one found a trace of the old Roman blood, already\nspoilt by mixture with that of a foreign race, was nowadays ever\ninfluenced in his actions by the fear that his house and fortune--which\nhitherto had remained intact amidst the accumulated ruins of the\n/patriziato/--might suddenly collapse. And in finally yielding to Celia,\nhe must have been guided by the idea of rallying to the new /regime/\nthrough his daughter, so as to have one foot firmly set at the Quirinal,\nwithout withdrawing the other from the Vatican. It was galling, no doubt;\nhis pride must have bled at the idea of allying his name with that of\nsuch low folks as the Saccos. But then Sacco was a minister, and had sped\nso quickly from success to success that it seemed likely he would rise\nyet higher, and, after the portfolio of Agriculture, secure that of\nFinances, which he had long coveted. And an alliance with Sacco meant the\ncertain favour of the King, an assured retreat in that direction should\nthe papacy some day collapse. Then, too, the Prince had made inquiries\nrespecting the son, and was somewhat disarmed by the good looks, bravery,\nand rectitude of young Attilio, who represented the future, and possibly\nthe glorious Italy of to-morrow. He was a soldier, and could be helped\nforward to the highest rank. And people spitefully added that the last\nreason which had influenced the Prince, who was very avaricious, and\ngreatly worried by the thought that his fortune must be divided among his\nfive children,* was that an opportunity presented itself for him to\nbestow a ridiculously small dowry on Celia. However, having consented to\nthe marriage, he resolved to give a splendid /fete/, such as was now\nseldom witnessed in Rome, throwing his doors open to all the rival\nsections of society, inviting the sovereigns, and setting the palazzo\nablaze as in the grand days of old. In doing this he would necessarily\nhave to expend some of the money to which he clung, but a boastful spirit\nincited him to show the world that he at any rate had not been vanquished\nby the financial crisis, and that the Buongiovannis had nothing to hide\nand nothing to blush for. To tell the truth, some people asserted that\nthis bravado had not originated with himself, but had been instilled into\nhim without his knowledge by the quiet and innocent Celia, who wished to\nexhibit her happiness to all applauding Rome.\n\n  * The Italian succession law is similar to the French. Children\n    cannot be disinherited. All property is divided among them,\n    and thus the piling up of large hereditary fortunes is\n    prevented.--Trans.\n\n\"Dear me!\" said Narcisse, whom the throng prevented from advancing. \"We\nshall never get in. Why, they seem to have invited the whole city.\" And\nthen, as Pierre seemed surprised to see a prelate drive up in his\ncarriage, the /attache/ added: \"Oh! you will elbow more than one of them\nupstairs. The cardinals won't like to come on account of the presence of\nthe King and Queen, but the prelates are sure to be here. This, you know,\nis a neutral drawing-room where the black and the white worlds can\nfraternise. And then too, there are so few /fetes/ that people rush on\nthem.\"\n\nHe went on to explain that there were two grand balls at Court every\nwinter, but that it was only under exceptional circumstances that the\n/patriziato/ gave similar /galas/. Two or three of the black /salons/\nwere opened once in a way towards the close of the Carnival, but little\ndances among intimates replaced the pompous entertainments of former\ntimes. Some princesses moreover merely had their day. And as for the few\nwhite /salons/ that existed, these likewise retained the same character\nof intimacy, more or less mixed, for no lady had yet become the\nundisputed queen of the new society.\n\n\"Well, here we are at last,\" resumed Narcisse as they eventually climbed\nthe stairs.\n\n\"Let us keep together,\" Pierre somewhat anxiously replied. \"My only\nacquaintance is with the /fiancee/, and I want you to introduce me.\"\n\nHowever, a considerable effort was needed even to climb the monumental\nstaircase, so great was the crush of arriving guests. Never, in the old\ndays of wax candles and oil lamps, had this staircase offered such a\nblaze of light. Electric lamps, burning in clusters in superb bronze\ncandelabra on the landings, steeped everything in a white radiance. The\ncold stucco of the walls was hidden by a series of lofty tapestries\ndepicting the story of Cupid and Psyche, marvels which had remained in\nthe family since the days of the Renascence. And a thick carpet covered\nthe worn marble steps, whilst clumps of evergreens and tall spreading\npalms decorated every corner. An affluence of new blood warmed the\nantique mansion that evening; there was a resurrection of life, so to\nsay, as the women surged up the staircase, smiling and perfumed,\nbare-shouldered, and sparkling with diamonds.\n\nAt the entrance of the first reception-room Pierre at once perceived\nPrince and Princess Buongiovanni, standing side by side and receiving\ntheir guests. The Prince, a tall, slim man with fair complexion and hair\nturning grey, had the pale northern eyes of his American mother in an\nenergetic face such as became a former captain of the popes. The\nPrincess, with small, delicate, and rounded features, looked barely\nthirty, though she had really passed her fortieth year. And still pretty,\ndisplaying a smiling serenity which nothing could disconcert, she purely\nand simply basked in self-adoration. Her gown was of pink satin, and a\nmarvellous parure of large rubies set flamelets about her dainty neck and\nin her fine, fair hair. Of her five children, her son, the eldest, was\ntravelling, and three of the girls, mere children, were still at school,\nso that only Celia was present, Celia in a modest gown of white muslin,\nfair like her mother, quite bewitching with her large innocent eyes and\nher candid lips, and retaining to the very end of her love story the\nsemblance of a closed lily of impenetrable, virginal mysteriousness. The\nSaccos had but just arrived, and Attilio, in his simple lieutenant's\nuniform, had remained near his betrothed, so naively and openly delighted\nwith his great happiness that his handsome face, with its caressing mouth\nand brave eyes, was quite resplendent with youth and strength. Standing\nthere, near one another, in the triumph of their passion they appeared\nlike life's very joy and health, like the personification of hope in the\nmorrow's promises; and the entering guests who saw them could not refrain\nfrom smiling and feeling moved, momentarily forgetting their loquacious\nand malicious curiosity to give their hearts to those chosen ones of love\nwho looked so handsome and so enraptured.\n\nNarcisse stepped forward in order to present Pierre, but Celia\nanticipated him. Going to meet the young priest she led him to her father\nand mother, saying: \"Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre Froment, a friend of my dear\nBenedetta.\" Ceremonious salutations followed. Then the young girl, whose\ngraciousness greatly touched Pierre, said to him: \"Benedetta is coming\nwith her aunt and Dario. She must be very happy this evening! And you\nwill also see how beautiful she will be.\"\n\nPierre and Narcisse next began to congratulate her, but they could not\nremain there, the throng was ever jostling them; and the Prince and\nPrincess, quite lost in the crush, had barely time to answer the many\nsalutations with amiable, continuous nods. And Celia, after conducting\nthe two friends to Attilio, was obliged to return to her parents so as to\ntake her place beside them as the little queen of the /fete/.\n\nNarcisse was already slightly acquainted with Attilio, and so fresh\ncongratulations ensued. Then the two friends manoeuvred to find a spot\nwhere they might momentarily tarry and contemplate the spectacle which\nthis first /salon/ presented. It was a vast hall, hung with green velvet\nbroidered with golden flowers, and contained a very remarkable collection\nof weapons and armour, breast-plates, battle-axes, and swords, almost all\nof which had belonged to the Buongiovannis of the fifteenth and sixteenth\ncenturies. And amidst those stern implements of war there was a lovely\nsedan-chair of the last century, gilded and decorated with delicate\npaintings. It was in this chair that the Prince's great-grandmother, the\ncelebrated Bettina, whose beauty was historical, had usually been carried\nto mass. On the walls, moreover, there were numerous historical\npaintings: battles, peace congresses, and royal receptions in which the\nBuongiovannis had taken part, without counting the many family portraits,\ntall and proud figures of sea-captains, commanders in the field, great\ndignitaries of the Church, prelates and cardinals, amongst whom, in the\nplace of honour, appeared the family pope, the white-robed Buongiovanni\nwhose accession to the pontifical throne had enriched a long line of\ndescendants. And it was among those armours, near that coquettish sedan,\nand below those antique portraits, that the Saccos, husband and wife, had\nin their turn just halted, at a few steps from the master and mistress of\nthe house, in order to secure their share of congratulations and bows.\n\n\"Look over there!\" Narcisse whispered to Pierre, \"those are the Saccos in\nfront of us, that dark little fellow and the lady in mauve silk.\"\n\nPierre promptly recognised the bright face and pleasant smile of Stefana,\nwhom he had already met at old Orlando's. But he was more interested in\nher husband, a dark dry man, with big eyes, sallow complexion, prominent\nchin, and vulturine nose. Like some gay Neapolitan \"Pulcinello,\" he was\ndancing, shouting, and displaying such infectious good humour that it\nspread to all around him. He possessed a wonderful gift of speech, with a\nvoice that was unrivalled as an instrument of fascination and conquest;\nand on seeing how easily he ingratiated himself with the people in that\ndrawing-room, one could understand his lightning-like successes in the\npolitical world. He had manoeuvered with rare skill in the matter of his\nson's marriage, affecting such exaggerated delicacy of feeling as to set\nhimself against the lovers, and declare that he would never consent to\ntheir union, as he had no desire to be accused of stealing a dowry and a\ntitle. As a matter of fact, he had only yielded after the Buongiovannis\nhad given their consent, and even then he had desired to take the opinion\nof old Orlando, whose lofty integrity was proverbial. However, he knew\nright well that he would secure the old hero's approval in this\nparticular affair, for Orlando made no secret of his opinion that the\nBuongiovannis ought to be glad to admit his grand-nephew into their\nfamily, as that handsome young fellow, with brave and healthy heart,\nwould help to regenerate their impoverished blood. And throughout the\nwhole affair, Sacco had shrewdly availed himself of Orlando's famous\nname, for ever talking of the relationship between them, and displaying\nfilial veneration for this glorious founder of the country, as if indeed\nhe had no suspicion that the latter despised and execrated him and\nmourned his accession to power in the conviction that he would lead Italy\nto shame and ruin.\n\n\"Ah!\" resumed Narcisse addressing Pierre, \"he's one of those supple,\npractical men who care nothing for a smack in the face. It seems that\nunscrupulous individuals like himself become necessary when states get\ninto trouble and have to pass through political, financial, and moral\ncrises. It is said that Sacco with his imperturbable assurance and\ningenious and resourceful mind has quite won the King's favour. Just look\nat him! Why, with that crowd of courtiers round him, one might think him\nthe master of this palace!\"\n\nAnd indeed the guests, after passing the Prince and Princess with a bow,\nat once congregated around Sacco, for he represented power, emoluments,\npensions, and crosses; and if folks still smiled at seeing his dark,\nturbulent, and scraggy figure amidst that framework of family portraits\nwhich proclaimed the mighty ancestry of the Buongiovannis, they none the\nless worshipped him as the personification of the new power, the\ndemocratic force which was confusedly rising even from the old Roman soil\nwhere the /patriziato/ lay in ruins.\n\n\"What a crowd!\" muttered Pierre. \"Who are all these people?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" replied Narcisse, \"it is a regular mixture. These people belong\nneither to the black nor the white world; they form a grey world as it\nwere. The evolution was certain; a man like Cardinal Boccanera may retain\nan uncompromising attitude, but a whole city, a nation can't. The Pope\nalone will always say no and remain immutable. But everything around him\nprogresses and undergoes transformation, so that in spite of all\nresistance, Rome will become Italian in a few years' time. Even now,\nwhenever a prince has two sons only one of them remains on the side of\nthe Vatican, the other goes over to the Quirinal. People must live, you\nsee; and the great families threatened with annihilation have not\nsufficient heroism to carry obstinacy to the point of suicide. And I have\nalready told you that we are here on neutral ground, for Prince\nBuongiovanni was one of the first to realise the necessity of\nconciliation. He feels that his fortune is perishing, he does not care to\nrisk it either in industry or in speculation, and already sees it\nportioned out among his five children, by whose descendants it will be\nyet further divided; and this is why he prudently makes advances to the\nKing without, however, breaking with the Pope. In this /salon/,\ntherefore, you see a perfect picture of the /debacle/, the confusion\nwhich reigns in the Prince's ideas and opinions.\" Narcisse paused, and\nthen began to name some of the persons who were coming in. \"There's a\ngeneral,\" said he, \"who has become very popular since his last campaign\nin Africa. There will be a great many military men here this evening, for\nall Attilio's superiors have been invited, so as to give the young man an\n/entourage/ of glory. Ah! and there's the German ambassador. I fancy that\nnearly all the Corps Diplomatique will come on account of their\nMajesties' presence. But, by way of contrast, just look at that stout\nfellow yonder. He's a very influential deputy, a /parvenu/ of the new\nmiddle class. Thirty years ago he was merely one of Prince Albertini's\nfarmers, one of those /mercanti di campagna/ who go about the environs of\nRome in stout boots and a soft felt hat. And now look at that prelate\ncoming in--\"\n\n\"Oh! I know him,\" Pierre interrupted. \"He's Monsignor Fornaro.\"\n\n\"Exactly, Monsignor Fornaro, a personage of some importance. You told me,\nI remember, that he is the reporter of the Congregation in that affair of\nyour book. A most delightful man! Did you see how he bowed to the\nPrincess? And what a noble and graceful bearing he has in his little\nmantle of violet silk!\"\n\nThen Narcisse went on enumerating the princes and princesses, the dukes\nand duchesses, the politicians and functionaries, the diplomatists and\nministers, and the officers and well-to-do middle-class people, who of\nthemselves made up a most wonderful medley of guests, to say nothing of\nthe representatives of the various foreign colonies, English people,\nAmericans, Germans, Spaniards, and Russians, in a word, all ancient\nEurope, and both Americas. And afterwards the young man reverted to the\nSaccos, to the little Signora Sacco in particular, in order to tell\nPierre of the heroic efforts which she had made to open a /salon/ for the\npurpose of assisting her husband's ambition. Gentle and modest as she\nseemed, she was also very shrewd, endowed with genuine qualities,\nPiedmontese patience and strength of resistance, orderly habits and\nthriftiness. And thus it was she who re-established the equilibrium in\nhousehold affairs which her husband by his exuberance so often disturbed.\nHe was indeed greatly indebted to her, though nobody suspected it. At the\nsame time, however, she had so far failed in her attempts to establish a\nwhite /salon/ which should take the lead in influencing opinion. Only the\npeople of her own set visited her, not a single prince ever came, and her\nMonday dances were the same as in a score of other middle-class homes,\nhaving no brilliancy and no importance. In fact, the real white /salon/,\nwhich should guide men and things and sway all Rome was still in\ndreamland.\n\n\"Just notice her keen smile as she examines everything here,\" resumed\nNarcisse. \"She's teaching herself and forming plans, I'm sure of it. Now\nthat she is about to be connected with a princely family she probably\nhopes to receive some of the best society.\"\n\nLarge as was the room, the crowd in it had by this time grown so dense\nthat the two friends were pressed back to a wall, and felt almost\nstifled. The /attache/ therefore decided to lead the priest elsewhere,\nand as they walked along he gave him some particulars concerning the\npalace, which was one of the most sumptuous in Rome, and renowned for the\nmagnificence of its reception-rooms. Dancing took place in the picture\ngallery, a superb apartment more than sixty feet long, with eight windows\noverlooking the Corso; while the buffet was installed in the Hall of the\nAntiques, a marble hall, which among other precious things contained a\nstatue of Venus, rivalling the one at the Capitol. Then there was a suite\nof marvellous /salons/, still resplendent with ancient luxury, hung with\nthe rarest stuffs, and retaining some unique specimens of old-time\nfurniture, on which covetous antiquaries kept their eyes fixed, whilst\nwaiting and hoping for the inevitable future ruin. And one of these\napartments, the little Saloon of the Mirrors, was particularly famous. Of\ncircular shape and Louis XV style, it was surrounded by mirrors in\n/rococo/ frames, extremely rich, and most exquisitely carved.\n\n\"You will see all that by and by,\" continued Narcisse. \"At present we had\nbetter go in here if we want to breathe a little. It is here that the\narm-chairs from the adjacent gallery have been brought for the\naccommodation of the ladies who desire to sit down and be seen and\nadmired.\"\n\nThe apartment they entered was a spacious one, draped with the most\nsuperb Genoese velvet, that antique /jardiniere/ velvet with pale satin\nground, and flowers once of dazzling brightness, whose greens and blues\nand reds had now become exquisitely soft, with the subdued, faded tones\nof old floral love-tokens. On the pier tables and in the cabinets all\naround were some of the most precious curios in the palace, ivory\ncaskets, gilt and painted wood carvings, pieces of antique\nplate--briefly, a collection of marvels. And several ladies, fleeing the\ncrush, had already taken refuge on the numerous seats, clustering in\nlittle groups, and laughing and chatting with the few gentlemen who had\ndiscovered this retreat of grace and /galanterie/. In the bright glow of\nthe lamps nothing could be more delightful than the sight of all those\nbare, sheeny shoulders, and those supple necks, above whose napes were\ncoiled tresses of fair or raven hair. Bare arms emerged like living\nflowers of flesh from amidst the mingling lace and silk of soft-hued\nbodices. The fans played slowly, as if to heighten the fires of the\nprecious stones, and at each beat wafted around an /odore di femina/\nblended with a predominating perfume of violets.\n\n\"Hallo!\" exclaimed Narcisse, \"there's our good friend Monsignor Nani\nbowing to the Austrian ambassadress.\"\n\nAs soon as Nani perceived the young priest and his companion he came\ntowards them, and the trio then withdrew into the embrasure of a window\nin order that they might chat for a moment at their ease. The prelate was\nsmiling like one enchanted with the beauty of the /fete/, but at the same\ntime he retained all the serenity of innocence, as if he had not even\nnoticed the exhibition of bare shoulders by which he was surrounded. \"Ah,\nmy dear son!\" he said to Pierre, \"I am very pleased to see you! Well, and\nwhat do you think of our Rome when she makes up her mind to give\n/fetes/?\"\n\n\"Why, it is superb, Monseigneur.\"\n\nThen, in an emotional manner, Nani spoke of Celia's lofty piety; and, in\norder to give the Vatican the credit of this sumptuous /gala/, affected\nto regard the Prince and Princess as staunch adherents of the Church, as\nif he were altogether unaware that the King and Queen were presently\ncoming. And afterwards he abruptly exclaimed: \"I have been thinking of\nyou all day, my dear son. Yes, I heard that you had gone to see his\nEminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. Well, and how did he receive you?\"\n\n\"Oh! in a most paternal manner,\" Pierre replied. \"At first he made me\nunderstand the embarrassment in which he was placed by his position as\nprotector of Lourdes; but just as I was going off he showed himself\ncharming, and promised me his help with a delicacy which deeply touched\nme.\"\n\n\"Did he indeed, my dear son? But it doesn't surprise me, his Eminence is\nso good-hearted!\"\n\n\"And I must add, Monseigneur, that I came back with a light and hopeful\nheart. It now seems to me as if my suit were half gained.\"\n\n\"Naturally, I understand it,\" replied Nani, who was still smiling with\nthat keen, intelligent smile of his, sharpened by a touch of almost\nimperceptible irony. And after a short pause he added in a very simple\nway: \"The misfortune is that on the day before yesterday your book was\ncondemned by the Congregation of the Index, which was convoked by its\nSecretary expressly for that purpose. And the judgment will be laid\nbefore his Holiness, for him to sign it, on the day after to-morrow.\"\n\nPierre looked at the prelate in bewilderment. Had the old mansion fallen\non his head he would not have felt more overcome. What! was it all over?\nHis journey to Rome, the experiment he had come to attempt there, had\nresulted in that defeat, of which he was thus suddenly apprised amidst\nthat betrothal /fete/. And he had not even been able to defend himself,\nhe had sacrificed his time without finding any one to whom he might\nspeak, before whom he might plead his cause! Anger was rising within him,\nand he could not prevent himself from muttering bitterly: \"Ah! how I have\nbeen duped! And that Cardinal who said to me only this morning: 'If God\nbe with you he will save you in spite of everything.' Yes, yes, I now\nunderstand him; he was juggling with words, he only desired a disaster in\norder that submission might lead me to Heaven! Submit, indeed, ah! I\ncannot, I cannot yet! My heart is too full of indignation and grief.\"\n\nNani examined and studied him with curiosity. \"But my dear son,\" he said,\n\"nothing is final so long as the Holy Father has not signed the judgment.\nYou have all to-morrow and even the morning of the day after before you.\nA miracle is always possible.\" Then, lowering his voice and drawing\nPierre on one side whilst Narcisse in an aesthetical spirit examined the\nladies, he added: \"Listen, I have a communication to make to you in great\nsecrecy. Come and join me in the little Saloon of the Mirrors by and by,\nduring the Cotillon. We shall be able to talk there at our ease.\"\n\nPierre nodded, and thereupon the prelate discreetly withdrew and\ndisappeared in the crowd. However, the young man's ears were buzzing; he\ncould no longer hope; what indeed could he accomplish in one day since he\nhad lost three months without even being able to secure an audience with\nthe Pope? And his bewilderment increased as he suddenly heard Narcisse\nspeaking to him of art. \"It's astonishing how the feminine figure has\ndeteriorated in these dreadful democratic days. It's all fat and horribly\ncommon. Not one of those women yonder shows the Florentine contour, with\nsmall bosom and slender, elegant neck. Ah! that one yonder isn't so bad\nperhaps, the fair one with her hair coiled up, whom Monsignor Fornaro has\njust approached.\"\n\nFor a few minutes indeed Monsignor Fornaro had been fluttering from\nbeauty to beauty, with an amiable air of conquest. He looked superb that\nevening with his lofty decorative figure, blooming cheeks, and victorious\naffability. No unpleasant scandal was associated with his name; he was\nsimply regarded as a prelate of gallant ways who took pleasure in the\nsociety of ladies. And he paused and chatted, and leant over their bare\nshoulders with laughing eyes and humid lips as if experiencing a sort of\ndevout rapture. However, on perceiving Narcisse whom he occasionally met,\nhe at once came forward and the /attache/ had to bow to him. \"You have\nbeen in good health I hope, Monseigneur, since I had the honour of seeing\nyou at the embassy.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, I am very well, very well indeed. What a delightful /fete/, is\nit not?\"\n\nPierre also had bowed. This was the man whose report had brought about\nthe condemnation of his book; and it was with resentment that he recalled\nhis caressing air and charming greeting, instinct with such lying\npromise. However, the prelate, who was very shrewd, must have guessed\nthat the young priest was already acquainted with the decision of the\nCongregation, and have thought it more dignified to abstain from open\nrecognition; for on his side he merely nodded and smiled at him. \"What a\nnumber of people!\" he went on, \"and how many charming persons there are!\nIt will soon be impossible for one to move in this room.\"\n\nAll the seats in fact were now occupied by ladies, and what with the\nstrong perfume of violets and the exhalations of warm necks and shoulders\nthe atmosphere was becoming most oppressive. The fans flapped more\nbriskly, and clear laughter rang out amidst a growing hubbub of\nconversation in which the same words constantly recurred. Some news,\ndoubtless, had just arrived, some rumour was being whispered from group\nto group, throwing them all into feverish excitement. As it happened,\nMonsignor Fornaro, who was always well informed, desired to be the\nproclaimer of this news, which nobody as yet had ventured to announce\naloud.\n\n\"Do you know what is exciting them all?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Is it the Holy Father's illness?\" asked Pierre in his anxiety. \"Is he\nworse this evening?\"\n\nThe prelate looked at him in astonishment, and then somewhat impatiently\nreplied: \"Oh, no, no. His Holiness is much better, thank Heaven. A person\nbelonging to the Vatican was telling me just now that he was able to get\nup this afternoon and receive his intimates as usual.\"\n\n\"All the same, people have been alarmed,\" interrupted Narcisse. \"I must\nconfess that we did not feel easy at the embassy, for a Conclave at the\npresent time would be a great worry for France. She would exercise no\ninfluence at it. It is a great mistake on the part of our Republican\nGovernment to treat the Holy See as of no importance! However, can one\never tell whether the Pope is ill or not? I know for a certainty that he\nwas nearly carried off last winter when nobody breathed a word about any\nillness, whereas on the last occasion when the newspapers killed him and\ntalked about a dreadful attack of bronchitis, I myself saw him quite\nstrong and in the best of spirits! His reported illnesses are mere\nmatters of policy, I fancy.\"*\n\n  * There is much truth in this; but the reader must not imagine\n    that the Pope is never ill. At his great age, indispositions\n    are only natural.--Trans.\n\nWith a hasty gesture, however, Monsignor Fornaro brushed this importunate\nsubject aside. \"No, no,\" said he, \"people are tranquillised and no longer\ntalk of it. What excites all those ladies is that the Congregation of the\nCouncil to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a great\nmajority.\"\n\nAgain did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see any\nmembers of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he feared\nthat the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave his\nword of honour that things were as he stated. \"The news is certain,\" he\ndeclared. \"I had it from a member of the Congregation.\" And then, all at\nonce, he apologised and hurried off: \"Excuse me but I see a lady whom I\nhad not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her.\"\n\nHe at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sit\ndown, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallant\ncourtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with a\npearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin.\n\n\"You know that person, don't you?\" Narcisse inquired of Pierre. \"No!\nReally? Why, that is Count Prada's /inamorata/, the charming Lisbeth\nKauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It's her first appearance in\nsociety since that event. She's a German, you know, and lost her husband\nhere. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal is\nforgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one is\nparticularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which she\nreceives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As you\nmay imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuse\nher!\"\n\nShe looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, with\nsatiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, which\nwas renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silk\nspangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, so\nsecurely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and was\nloved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarks\nexchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to her\npersonal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talked\nof the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood the\nChurch solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there came\nstifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolent\nserenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of Monsignor\nFornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily,\nwhich she had lately sent to a fine-art show.\n\nAh! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Rome\nwith scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of its\ntermination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds had\nlong chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander,\nendless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;\nthe Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage null\nand void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome would\nlaugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed as\nsoon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. The\nincidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada's feelings\nrevolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, the\nBoccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the money\nwhich they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinals\nin order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they had\nindirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma.\nPeople said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs had\nbeen expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known French\ncountess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount to\nsecure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father's need\nwas so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; it\nmerely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued waving\nin the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as the\nwhispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders.\n\n\"Oh! how pleased the Contessina must be!\" Pierre resumed. \"I did not\nunderstand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying when\nwe came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It is\ndoubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloistering\nherself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning.\"\n\nHowever, Lisbeth's eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as she\nsmiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her,\nfor, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her through\nhaving visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a fresh\noutburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowers\nadorning the ladies' hair. People turned to see what was the matter, and\nagain did the hubbub increase. \"Ah! it's Count Prada in person!\" murmured\nNarcisse, with an admiring glance. \"He has a fine bearing, whatever folks\nmay say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid,\nunscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!\"\n\nPrada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant.\nAnd above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, he\nreally had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, stern\neyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Never\nhad a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth of\nhis voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, dived\ninto their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, and\nfair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up to\nher, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent,\ninquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornaro\nhad made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a low\ntone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for as\nhe again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and made\nan involuntary gesture.\n\nHowever, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasure\nof the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he said\nto the young priest with all his wonted /bravura/: \"You recollect what I\ntold you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it's done, it seems,\nthey've annulled my marriage. It's such an impudent, such an imbecile\ndecision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!\"\n\n\"Oh! the news is certain,\" Pierre made bold to reply. \"It has just been\nconfirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of the\nCongregation. And it is said that the majority was very large.\"\n\nPrada again shook with laughter. \"No, no,\" said he, \"such a farce is\nbeyond belief! It's the finest smack given to justice and common-sense\nthat I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civil\ncourts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shall\namuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I'd marry her at Santa Maria\nMaggiore with all possible pomp. And there's a dear little being in the\nworld who would take part in the /fete/ in his nurse's arms!\"\n\nHe laughed too loud as he spoke, alluded in too brutal a fashion to his\nchild, that living proof of his manhood. Was it suffering that made his\nlips curve upwards and reveal his white teeth? It could be divined that\nhe was quivering, fighting against an awakening of covert, tumultuous\npassion, which he would not acknowledge even to himself.\n\n\"And you, my dear Abbe?\" he hastily resumed. \"Do you know the other\nreport? Do you know that the Countess is coming here?\" It was thus, by\nforce of habit, that he designated Benedetta, forgetting that she was no\nlonger his wife.\n\n\"Yes, I have just been told so,\" Pierre replied; and then he hesitated\nfor a moment before adding, with a desire to prevent any disagreeable\nsurprise: \"And we shall no doubt see Prince Dario also, for he has not\nstarted for Naples as I told you. Something prevented his departure at\nthe last moment, I believe. At least so I gathered from a servant.\"\n\nPrada no longer laughed. His face suddenly became grave, and he contented\nhimself with murmuring: \"Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well,\nwe shall see them, we shall see them both!\"\n\nThen, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if\nserious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making a\ngesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he\nstood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on\nwhich, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly\nenlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: \"A legend avers that the fig\ntree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him\nwho may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give them\neither to your servants or your fowls.\" Then he folded the paper,\nfastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: \"To his\nmost Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera.\" And\nwhen he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breath\nand once more called back his laugh.\n\nA kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozen\nhim. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had felt\nthe need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, any\npossible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas had\ninduced him to write those four lines without a moment's delay, on the\nvery spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a great\ncatastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that on\nleaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note into\nthe letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was once\nmore easy in mind.\n\n\"Why, what is the matter with you, my dear Abbe?\" he inquired on again\njoining in the conversation of the two friends. \"You are quite gloomy.\"\nAnd on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, the\ncondemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him for\naction if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, he\nbegan to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in order\nto continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. \"Never mind, never mind,\ndon't worry yourself,\" said he, \"one loses all one's strength by\nworrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day.\nAn hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat into\nvictory!\" He grew feverish as he spoke, and all at once added, \"Come,\nlet's go to the ball-room. It seems that the scene there is something\nprodigious.\"\n\nThen he exchanged a last loving glance with Lisbeth whilst Pierre and\nNarcisse followed him, the three of them extricating themselves from\ntheir corner with the greatest difficulty, and then wending their way\ntowards the adjoining gallery through a sea of serried skirts, a billowy\nexpanse of necks and shoulders whence ascended the passion which makes\nlife, the odour alike of love and of death.\n\nWith its eight windows overlooking the Corso, their panes uncurtained and\nthrowing a blaze of light upon the houses across the road, the picture\ngallery, sixty-five feet in length and more than thirty in breadth,\nspread out with incomparable splendour. The illumination was dazzling.\nClusters of electric lamps had changed seven pairs of huge marble\ncandelabra into gigantic /torcheres/, akin to constellations; and all\nalong the cornice up above, other lamps set in bright-hued floral glasses\nformed a marvellous garland of flaming flowers: tulips, paeonies, and\nroses. The antique red velvet worked with gold, which draped the walls,\nglowed like a furnace fire. About the doors and windows there were\nhangings of old lace broidered with flowers in coloured silk whose hues\nhad the very intensity of life. But the sight of sights beneath the\nsumptuous panelled ceiling adorned with golden roses, the unique\nspectacle of a richness not to be equalled, was the collection of\nmasterpieces such as no museum could excel. There were works of Raffaelle\nand Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, Velasquez and Ribera, famous works\nwhich in this unexpected illumination suddenly showed forth, triumphant\nwith youth regained, as if awakened to the immortal life of genius. And,\nas their Majesties would not arrive before midnight, the ball had just\nbeen opened, and flights of soft-hued gowns were whirling in a waltz past\nall the pompous throng, the glittering jewels and decorations, the\ngold-broidered uniforms and the pearl-broidered robes, whilst silk and\nsatin and velvet spread and overflowed upon every side.\n\n\"It is prodigious, really!\" declared Prada with his excited air; \"let us\ngo this way and place ourselves in a window recess again. There is no\nbetter spot for getting a good view without being too much jostled.\"\n\nThey lost Narcisse somehow or other, and on reaching the desired recess\nfound themselves but two, Pierre and the Count. The orchestra, installed\non a little platform at the far end of the gallery, had just finished the\nwaltz, and the dancers, with an air of giddy rapture, were slowly walking\nthrough the crowd when a fresh arrival caused every head to turn. Donna\nSerafina, arrayed in a robe of purple silk as if she had worn the colours\nof her brother the Cardinal, was making a royal entry on the arm of\nConsistorial-Advocate Morano. And never before had she laced herself so\ntightly, never had her waist looked so slim and girlish; and never had\nher stern, wrinkled face, which her white hair scarcely softened,\nexpressed such stubborn and victorious domination. A discreet murmur of\napproval ran round, a murmur of public relief as it were, for all Roman\nsociety had condemned the unworthy conduct of Morano in severing a\nconnection of thirty years to which the drawing-rooms had grown as\naccustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted for\ntwo months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long and\nfaithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched every\nheart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victory\nwhich the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta's\nmarriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm,\nnothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorum\nwas preserved and good order re-established.\n\nBut there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seen\nto enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference for\nthe ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage with\nPrada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebrated\nbefore one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of the\nbravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst a\nmurmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio,\nall hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondrous\nhappiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale after\nhis long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with the\nfine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god,\nbore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood of\nthe Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under her\ncasque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile,\nthat smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistibly\nfascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to her\nsomewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomless\neyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth and\nhappiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown,\na plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that she\nhad remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of her\nchoice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom or\nshoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, the\nsovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled with\nwhite. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. There\nwas simply a necklace falling about her /corsage/, but a necklace fit for\nroyalty, the famous pearl necklace of the Boccaneras, which she had\ninherited from her mother, and which was known to all Rome--pearls of\nfabulous size cast negligently about her neck, and sufficing, simply as\nshe was gowned, to make her queen of all.\n\n\"Oh!\" murmured Pierre in ecstasy, \"how happy and how beautiful she is!\"\n\nBut he at once regretted that he had expressed his thoughts aloud, for\nbeside him he heard a low plaint, an involuntary growl which reminded him\nof the Count's presence. However, Prada promptly stifled this cry of\nreturning anguish, and found strength enough to affect a brutish gaiety:\n\"The devil!\" said he, \"they have plenty of impudence. I hope we shall see\nthem married and bedded at once!\" Then regretting this coarse jest which\nhad been prompted by the revolt of passion, he sought to appear\nindifferent: \"She looks very nice this evening,\" he said; \"she has the\nfinest shoulders in the world, you know, and its a real success for her\nto hide them and yet appear more beautiful than ever.\"\n\nHe went on speaking, contriving to assume an easy tone, and giving\nvarious little particulars about the Countess as he still obstinately\ncalled the young woman. However, he had drawn rather further into the\nrecess, for fear, no doubt, that people might remark his pallor, and the\npainful twitch which contracted his mouth. He was in no state to fight,\nto show himself gay and insolent in presence of the joy which the lovers\nso openly and naively expressed. And he was glad of the respite which the\narrival of the King and Queen at this moment offered him. \"Ah! here are\ntheir Majesties!\" he exclaimed, turning towards the window. \"Look at the\nscramble in the street!\"\n\nAlthough the windows were closed, a tumult could be heard rising from the\nfootways. And Pierre on looking down saw, by the light of the electric\nlamps, a sea of human heads pour over the road and encompass the\ncarriages. He had several times already seen the King during the latter's\ndaily drives to the grounds of the Villa Borghese, whither he came like\nany private gentleman--unguarded, unescorted, with merely an aide-de-camp\naccompanying him in his victoria. At other times he drove a light phaeton\nwith only a footman in black livery to attend him. And on one occasion\nPierre had seen him with the Queen, the pair of them seated side by side\nlike worthy middle-class folks driving abroad for pleasure. And, as the\nroyal couple went by, the busy people in the streets and the promenaders\nin the public gardens contented themselves with wafting them an\naffectionate wave of the hand, the most expansive simply approaching to\nsmile at them, and no one importuning them with acclamations. Pierre, who\nharboured the traditional idea of kings closely guarded and passing\nprocessionally with all the accompaniment of military pomp, was therefore\ngreatly surprised and touched by the amiable /bonhomie/ of this royal\npair, who went wherever they listed in full security amidst the smiling\naffection of their people. Everybody, moreover, had told him of the\nKing's kindliness and simplicity, his desire for peace, and his passion\nfor sport, solitude, and the open air, which, amidst the worries of\npower, must often have made him dream of a life of freedom far from the\nimperious duties of royalty for which he seemed unfitted.* But the Queen\nwas yet more tenderly loved. So naturally and serenely virtuous that she\nalone remained ignorant of the scandals of Rome, she was also a woman of\ngreat culture and great refinement, conversant with every field of\nliterature, and very happy in being so intelligent, so superior to those\naround her--a pre-eminence which she realised and which she was fond of\nshowing, but in the most natural and most graceful of ways.\n\n  * King Humbert inherited these tastes from his father Victor\n    Emanuel, who was likewise a great sportsman and had a perfect\n    horror of court life, pageantry, and the exigencies of\n    politics.--Trans.\n\nLike Pierre, Prada had remained with his face to the window, and suddenly\npointing to the crowd he said: \"Now that they have seen the Queen they\nwill go to bed well pleased. And there isn't a single police agent there,\nI'm sure. Ah! to be loved, to be loved!\" Plainly enough his distress of\nspirit was coming back, and so, turning towards the gallery again, he\ntried to play the jester. \"Attention, my dear Abbe, we mustn't miss their\nMajesties' entry. That will be the finest part of the /fete/!\"\n\nA few minutes went by, and then, in the very midst of a polka, the\norchestra suddenly ceased playing. But a moment afterwards, with all the\nblare of its brass instruments, it struck up the Royal March. The dancers\nfled in confusion, the centre of the gallery was cleared, and the King\nand Queen entered, escorted by the Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, who\nhad received them at the foot of the staircase. The King was in ordinary\nevening dress, while the Queen wore a robe of straw-coloured satin,\ncovered with superb white lace; and under the diadem of brilliants which\nencircled her beautiful fair hair, she looked still young, with a fresh\nand rounded face, whose expression was all amiability, gentleness, and\nwit. The music was still sounding with the enthusiastic violence of\nwelcome. Behind her father and mother, Celia appeared amidst the press of\npeople who were following to see the sight; and then came Attilio, the\nSaccos, and various relatives and official personages. And, pending the\ntermination of the Royal March, only salutations, glances, and smiles\nwere exchanged amidst the sonorous music and dazzling light; whilst all\nthe guests crowded around on tip-toe, with outstretched necks and\nglittering eyes--a rising tide of heads and shoulders, flashing with the\nfires of precious stones.\n\nAt last the march ended and the presentations began. Their Majesties were\nalready acquainted with Celia, and congratulated her with quite\naffectionate kindliness. However, Sacco, both as minister and father, was\nparticularly desirous of presenting his son Attilio. He bent his supple\nspine, and summoned to his lips the fine words which were appropriate, in\nsuch wise that he contrived to make the young man bow to the King in the\ncapacity of a lieutenant in his Majesty's army, whilst his homage as a\nhandsome young man, so passionately loved by his betrothed was reserved\nfor Queen Margherita. Again did their Majesties show themselves very\ngracious, even towards the Signora Sacco who, ever modest and prudent,\nhad remained in the background. And then occurred an incident that was\ndestined to give rise to endless gossip. Catching sight of Benedetta,\nwhom Count Prada had presented to her after his marriage, the Queen, who\ngreatly admired her beauty and charm of manner, addressed her a smile in\nsuch wise that the young woman was compelled to approach. A conversation\nof some minutes' duration ensued, and the Contessina was favoured with\nsome extremely amiable expressions which were perfectly audible to all\naround. Most certainly the Queen was ignorant of the event of the day,\nthe dissolution of Benedetta's marriage with Prada, and her coming union\nwith Dario so publicly announced at this /gala/, which now seemed to have\nbeen given to celebrate a double betrothal. Nevertheless that\nconversation caused a deep impression; the guests talked of nothing but\nthe compliments which Benedetta had received from the most virtuous and\nintelligent of queens, and her triumph was increased by it all, she\nbecame yet more beautiful and more victorious amidst the happiness she\nfelt at being at last able to bestow herself on the spouse of her choice,\nthat happiness which made her look so radiant.\n\nBut, on the other hand, the torture which Prada experienced now became\nintense. Whilst the sovereigns continued conversing, the Queen with the\nladies who came to pay her their respects, the King with the officers,\ndiplomatists, and other important personages who approached him, Prada\nsaw none but Benedetta--Benedetta congratulated, caressed, exalted by\naffection and glory. Dario was near her, flushing with pleasure, radiant\nlike herself. It was for them that this ball had been given, for them\nthat the lamps shone out, for them that the music played, for them that\nthe most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned them\nwith precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered to\nthe strains of the Royal March, for them that the /fete/ was becoming\nlike an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling,\nappearing at that betrothal /gala/ like the good fairy of the nursery\ntales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, this\nwondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained their\napogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that woman\nwho had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who now\nwas about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insulting\nvictory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely did\nhis pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of the\nSaccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the rough\nconquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightful\nclimate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such a\nsensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati in\nconnection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised that\nhis millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things were\ngoing badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening,\namidst that /fete/ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the day\nlike one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pounced\nupon under the flaming sun.\n\nAnd the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King,\nallying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Roman\naristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the national\nfunds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome and\nItaly--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey,\nfor the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he were\nbeing pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled and\nescaped him, Sacco stole his millions, and Benedetta tortured his flesh,\nstirring up that awful wound of unsatisfied passion which never would be\nhealed.\n\nAgain did Pierre hear that dull plaint, that involuntary despairing\ngrowl, which had upset him once before. And he looked at the Count, and\nasked him: \"Are you suffering?\" But on seeing how livid was the face of\nPrada, who only retained his calmness by a superhuman effort, he\nregretted his indiscreet question, which, moreover, remained unanswered.\nAnd then to put the other more at ease, the young priest went on\nspeaking, venting the thoughts which the sight before him inspired: \"Your\nfather was right,\" said he, \"we Frenchmen whose education is so full of\nthe Catholic spirit, even in these days of universal doubt, we never\nthink of Rome otherwise than as the old Rome of the popes. We scarcely\nknow, we can scarcely understand the great changes which, year by year,\nhave brought about the Italian Rome of the present day. Why, when I\narrived here, the King and his government and the young nation working to\nmake a great capital for itself, seemed to me of no account whatever!\nYes, I dismissed all that, thought nothing of it, in my dream of\nresuscitating a Christian and evangelical Rome, which should assure the\nhappiness of the world.\"\n\nHe laughed as he spoke, pitying his own artlessness, and then pointed\ntowards the gallery where Prince Buongiovanni was bowing to the King\nwhilst the Princess listened to the gallant remarks of Sacco: a scene\nfull of symbolism, the old papal aristocracy struck down, the /parvenus/\naccepted, the black and white worlds so mixed together that one and all\nwere little else than subjects, on the eve of forming but one united\nnation. That conciliation between the Quirinal and the Vatican which in\nprinciple was regarded as impossible, was it not in practice fatal, in\nface of the evolution which went on day by day? People must go on living,\nloving, and creating life throughout the ages. And the marriage of\nAttilio and Celia would be the symbol of the needful union: youth and\nlove triumphing over ancient hatred, all quarrels forgotten as a handsome\nlad goes by, wins a lovely girl, and carries her off in his arms in order\nthat the world may last.\n\n\"Look at them!\" resumed Pierre, \"how handsome and young and gay both the\n/fiances/ are, all confidence in the future. Ah! I well understand that\nyour King should have come here to please his minister and win one of the\nold Roman families over to his throne; it is good, brave, and fatherly\npolicy. But I like to think that he has also realised the touching\nsignificance of that marriage--old Rome, in the person of that candid,\nloving child giving herself to young Italy, that upright, enthusiastic\nyoung man who wears his uniform so jauntily. And may their nuptials be\ndefinitive and fruitful; from them and from all the others may there\narise the great nation which, now that I begin to know you, I trust you\nwill soon become!\"\n\nAmidst the tottering of his former dream of an evangelical and universal\nRome, Pierre expressed these good wishes for the Eternal City's future\nfortune with such keen and deep emotion that Prada could not help\nreplying: \"I thank you; that wish of yours is in the heart of every good\nItalian.\"\n\nBut his voice quavered, for even whilst he was looking at Celia and\nAttilio, who stood smiling and talking together, he saw Benedetta and\nDario approach them, wearing the same joyful expression of perfect\nhappiness. And when the two couples were united, so radiant and so\ntriumphant, so full of superb and happy life, he no longer had strength\nto stay there, see them, and suffer.\n\n\"I am frightfully thirsty,\" he hoarsely exclaimed. \"Let's go to the\nbuffet to drink something.\" And, thereupon, in order to avoid notice, he\nso manoeuvred as to glide behind the throng, skirting the windows in the\ndirection of the entrance to the Hall of the Antiques, which was beyond\nthe gallery.\n\nWhilst Pierre was following him they were parted by an eddy of the crowd,\nand the young priest found himself carried towards the two loving couples\nwho still stood chatting together. And Celia, on recognising him,\nbeckoned to him in a friendly way. With her passionate cult for beauty,\nshe was enraptured with the appearance of Benedetta, before whom she\njoined her little lily hands as before the image of the Madonna. \"Oh!\nMonsieur l'Abbe,\" said she, \"to please me now, do tell her how beautiful\nshe is, more beautiful than anything on earth, more beautiful than even\nthe sun, and the moon and stars. If you only knew, my dear, it makes me\nquiver to see you so beautiful as that, as beautiful as happiness, as\nbeautiful as love itself!\"\n\nBenedetta began to laugh, while the two young men made merry. \"But you\nare as beautiful as I am, darling,\" said the Contessina. \"And if we are\nbeautiful it is because we are happy.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, happy,\" Celia gently responded. \"Do you remember the evening\nwhen you told me that one didn't succeed in marrying the Pope and the\nKing? But Attilio and I are marrying them, and yet we are very happy.\"\n\n\"But we don't marry them, Dario and I! On the contrary!\" said Benedetta\ngaily. \"No matter; as you answered me that same evening, it is sufficient\nthat we should love one another, love saves the world.\"\n\nWhen Pierre at last succeeded in reaching the door of the Hall of the\nAntiques, where the buffet was installed, he found Prada there,\nmotionless, gazing despite himself on the galling spectacle which he\ndesired to flee. A power stronger than his will had kept him there,\nforcing him to turn round and look, and look again. And thus, with a\nbleeding heart, he still lingered and witnessed the resumption of the\ndancing, the first figure of a quadrille which the orchestra began to\nplay with a lively flourish of its brass instruments. Benedetta and\nDario, Celia and Attilio were /vis-\u00e0-vis/. And so charming and\ndelightful was the sight which the two couples presented dancing in the\nwhite blaze, all youth and joy, that the King and Queen drew near to them\nand became interested. And soon bravos of admiration rang out, while from\nevery heart spread a feeling of infinite tenderness.\n\n\"I'm dying of thirst, let's go!\" repeated Prada, at last managing to\nwrench himself away from the torturing sight.\n\nHe called for some iced lemonade and drank the glassful at one draught,\ngulping it down with the greedy eagerness of a man stricken with fever,\nwho will never more be able to quench the burning fire within him.\n\nThe Hall of the Antiques was a spacious room with mosaic pavement, and\ndecorations of stucco; and a famous collection of vases, bas-reliefs, and\nstatues, was disposed along its walls. The marbles predominated, but\nthere were a few bronzes, and among them a dying gladiator of extreme\nbeauty. The marvel however was the famous statue of Venus, a companion to\nthat of the Capitol, but with a more elegant and supple figure and with\nthe left arm falling loosely in a gesture of voluptuous surrender. That\nevening a powerful electric reflector threw a dazzling light upon the\nstatue, which, in its divine and pure nudity, seemed to be endowed with\nsuperhuman, immortal life. Against the end-wall was the buffet, a long\ntable covered with an embroidered cloth and laden with fruit, pastry, and\ncold meats. Sheaves of flowers rose up amidst bottles of champagne, hot\npunch, and iced /sorbetto/, and here and there were marshalled armies of\nglasses, tea-cups, and broth-bowls, a perfect wealth of sparkling\ncrystal, porcelain, and silver. And a happy innovation had been to fill\nhalf of the hall with rows of little tables, at which the guests, in lieu\nof being obliged to refresh themselves standing, were able to sit down\nand order what they desired as in a cafe.\n\nAt one of these little tables, Pierre perceived Narcisse seated near a\nyoung woman, whom Prada, on approaching, recognised to be Lisbeth. \"You\nfind me, you see, in delightful company,\" gallantly exclaimed the\n/attache/. \"As we lost one another, I could think of nothing better than\nof offering madame my arm to bring her here.\"\n\n\"It was, in fact, a good idea,\" said Lisbeth with her pretty laugh, \"for\nI was feeling very thirsty.\"\n\nThey had ordered some iced coffee, which they were slowly sipping out of\nlittle silver-gilt spoons.\n\n\"I have a terrible thirst, too,\" declared the Count, \"and I can't quench\nit. You will allow us to join you, will you not, my dear sir? Some of\nthat coffee will perhaps calm me.\" And then to Lisbeth he added, \"Ah! my\ndear, allow me to introduce to you Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, a young\nFrench priest of great distinction.\"\n\nThen for a long time they all four remained seated at that table,\nchatting and making merry over certain of the guests who went by. Prada,\nhowever, in spite of his usual gallantry towards Lisbeth, frequently\nbecame absent-minded; at times he quite forgot her, being again mastered\nby his anguish, and, in spite of all his efforts, his eyes ever turned\ntowards the neighbouring gallery whence the sound of music and dancing\nreached him.\n\n\"Why, what are you thinking of, /caro mio/?\" Lisbeth asked in her pretty\nway, on seeing him at one moment so pale and lost. \"Are you indisposed?\"\n\nHe did not reply, however, but suddenly exclaimed, \"Ah! look there,\nthat's the real pair, there's real love and happiness for you!\"\n\nWith a jerk of the hand he designated Dario's mother, the Marchioness\nMontefiori and her second husband, Jules Laporte--that ex-sergeant of the\npapal Swiss Guard, her junior by fifteen years, whom she had one day\nhooked at the Corso with her eyes of fire, which yet had remained superb,\nand whom she had afterwards triumphantly transformed into a Marquis\nMontefiori in order to have him entirely to herself. Such was her passion\nthat she never relaxed her hold on him whether at ball or reception, but,\ndespite all usages, kept him beside her, and even made him escort her to\nthe buffet, so much did she delight in being able to exhibit him and say\nthat this handsome man was her own exclusive property. And standing there\nside by side, the pair of them began to drink champagne and eat\nsandwiches, she yet a marvel of massive beauty although she was over\nfifty, and he with long wavy moustaches, and proud bearing, like a\nfortunate adventurer whose jovial impudence pleased the ladies.\n\n\"You know that she had to extricate him from a nasty affair,\" resumed the\nCount in a lower tone. \"Yes, he travelled in relics; he picked up a\nliving by supplying relics on commission to convents in France and\nSwitzerland; and he had launched quite a business in false relics with\nthe help of some Jews here who concocted little ancient reliquaries out\nof mutton bones, with everything sealed and signed by the most genuine\nauthorities. The affair was hushed up, as three prelates were also\ncompromised in it! Ah! the happy man! Do you see how she devours him with\nher eyes? And he, doesn't he look quite a /grand seigneur/ by the mere\nway in which he holds that plate for her whilst she eats the breast of a\nfowl out of it!\"\n\nThen, in a rough way and with biting irony, he went on to speak of the\n/amours/ of Rome. The Roman women, said he, were ignorant, obstinate, and\njealous. When a woman had managed to win a man, she kept him for ever, he\nbecame her property, and she disposed of him as she pleased. By way of\nproof, he cited many interminable /liaisons/, such as that of Donna\nSerafina and Morano which, in time became virtual marriages; and he\nsneered at such a lack of fancy, such an excess of fidelity whose only\nending, when it did end, was some very disagreeable unpleasantness.\n\nAt this, Lisbeth interrupted him. \"But what is the matter with you this\nevening, my dear?\" she asked with a laugh. \"What you speak of is on the\ncontrary very nice and pretty! When a man and a woman love one another\nthey ought to do so for ever!\"\n\nShe looked delightful as she spoke, with her fine wavy blonde hair and\ndelicate fair complexion; and Narcisse with a languorous expression in\nhis half-closed eyes compared her to a Botticelli which he had seen at\nFlorence. However, the night was now far advanced, and Pierre had once\nmore sunk into gloomy thoughtfulness when he heard a passing lady remark\nthat they had already begun to dance the Cotillon in the gallery; and\nthereupon he suddenly remembered that Monsignor Nani had given him an\nappointment in the little Saloon of the Mirrors.\n\n\"Are you leaving?\" hastily inquired Prada on seeing him rise and bow to\nLisbeth.\n\n\"No, no, not yet,\" Pierre answered.\n\n\"Oh! all right. Don't go away without me. I want to walk a little, and\nI'll see you home. It's agreed, eh? You will find me here.\"\n\nThe young priest had to cross two rooms, one hung with yellow and the\nother with blue, before he at last reached the mirrored /salon/. This was\nreally an exquisite example of the /rococo/ style, a rotunda as it were\nof pale mirrors framed with superb gilded carvings. Even the ceiling was\ncovered with mirrors disposed slantwise so that on every side things\nmultiplied, mingled, and appeared under all possible aspects. Discreetly\nenough no electric lights had been placed in the room, the only\nillumination being that of some pink tapers burning in a pair of\ncandelabra. The hangings and upholstery were of soft blue silk, and the\nimpression on entering was very sweet and charming, as if one had found\noneself in the abode of some fairy queen of the rills, a palace of limpid\nwater, illumined to its farthest depths by clusters of stars.\n\nPierre at once perceived Monsignor Nani, who was sitting on a low couch,\nand, as the prelate had hoped, he was quite alone, for the Cotillon had\nattracted almost everybody to the picture gallery. And the silence in the\nlittle /salon/ was nearly perfect, for at that distance the blare of the\norchestra subsided into a faint, flute-like murmur. The young priest at\nonce apologised to the prelate for having kept him waiting.\n\n\"No, no, my dear son,\" said Nani, with his inexhaustible amiability. \"I\nwas very comfortable in this retreat--when the press of the crowd became\nover-threatening I took refuge here.\" He did not speak of the King and\nQueen, but he allowed it to be understood that he had politely avoided\ntheir company. If he had come to the /fete/ it was on account of his\nsincere affection for Celia and also with a very delicate diplomatic\nobject, for the Church wished to avoid any appearance of having entirely\nbroken with the Buongiovanni family, that ancient house which was so\nfamous in the annals of the papacy. Doubtless the Vatican was unable to\nsubscribe to this marriage which seemed to unite old Rome with the young\nKingdom of Italy, but on the other hand it did not desire people to think\nthat it abandoned old and faithful supporters and took no interest in\nwhat befell them.\n\n\"But come, my dear son,\" the prelate resumed, \"it is you who are now in\nquestion. I told you that although the Congregation of the Index had\npronounced itself for the condemnation of your book, the sentence would\nonly be submitted to the Holy Father and signed by him on the day after\nto-morrow. So you still have a whole day before you.\"\n\nAt this Pierre could not refrain from a dolorous and vivacious\ninterruption.\n\n\"Alas! Monseigneur, what can I do?\" said he; \"I have thought it all over,\nand I see no means, no opportunity of defending myself. How could I even\nsee his Holiness now that he is so ill?\"\n\n\"Oh! ill, ill!\" muttered Nani with his shrewd expression. \"His Holiness\nis ever so much better, for this very day, like every other Wednesday, I\nhad the honour to be received by him. When his Holiness is a little tired\nand people say that he is very ill, he often lets them do so, for it\ngives him a rest and enables him to judge certain ambitions and\nmanifestations of impatience around him.\"\n\nPierre, however, was too upset to listen attentively. \"No, it's all\nover,\" he continued, \"I'm in despair. You spoke to me of the possibility\nof a miracle, but I am no great believer in miracles. Since I am defeated\nhere at Rome, I shall go away, I shall return to Paris, and continue the\nstruggle there. Oh! I cannot resign myself, my hope in salvation by the\npractice of love cannot die, and I shall answer my denouncers in a new\nbook, in which I shall tell in what new soil the new religion will grow\nup!\"\n\nSilence fell. Nani looked at him with his clear eyes in which\nintelligence shone distinct and sharp like steel. And amidst the deep\ncalm, the warm heavy atmosphere of the little /salon/, whose mirrors were\nstarred with countless reflections of candles, a more sonorous burst of\nmusic was suddenly wafted from the gallery, a rhythmical waltz melody,\nwhich slowly expanded, then died away.\n\n\"My dear son,\" said Nani, \"anger is always harmful. You remember that on\nyour arrival here I promised that if your own efforts to obtain an\ninterview with the Holy Father should prove unavailing, I would myself\nendeavour to secure an audience for you.\" Then, seeing how agitated the\nyoung priest was getting, he went on: \"Listen to me and don't excite\nyourself. His Holiness, unfortunately, is not always prudently advised.\nAround him are persons whose devotion, however great, is at times\ndeficient in intelligence. I told you that, and warned you against\ninconsiderate applications. And this is why, already three weeks ago, I\nmyself handed your book to his Holiness in the hope that he would deign\nto glance at it. I rightly suspected that it had not been allowed to\nreach him. And this is what I am instructed to tell you: his Holiness,\nwho has had the great kindness to read your book, expressly desires to\nsee you.\"\n\nA cry of joy and gratitude died away in Pierre's throat: \"Ah!\nMonseigneur. Ah! Monseigneur!\"\n\nBut Nani quickly silenced him and glanced around with an expression of\nkeen anxiety as if he feared that some one might hear them. \"Hush! Hush!\"\nsaid he, \"it is a secret. His Holiness wishes to see you privately,\nwithout taking anybody else into his confidence. Listen attentively. It\nis now two o'clock in the morning. Well, this very day, at nine in the\nevening precisely, you must present yourself at the Vatican and at every\ndoor ask for Signor Squadra. You will invariably be allowed to pass.\nSignor Squadra will be waiting for you upstairs, and will introduce you.\nAnd not a word, mind; not a soul must have the faintest suspicion of\nthese things.\"\n\nPierre's happiness and gratitude at last flowed forth. He had caught hold\nof the prelate's soft, plump hands, and stammered, \"Ah! Monseigneur, how\ncan I express my gratitude to you? If you only knew how full my soul was\nof night and rebellion since I realised that I had been a mere plaything\nin the hands of those powerful cardinals. But you have saved me, and\nagain I feel sure that I shall win the victory, for I shall at last be\nable to fling myself at the feet of his Holiness the father of all truth\nand all justice. He can but absolve me, I who love him, I who admire him,\nI who have never battled for aught but his own policy and most cherished\nideas. No, no, it is impossible; he will not sign that judgment; he will\nnot condemn my book!\"\n\nReleasing his hands, Nani sought to calm him with a fatherly gesture,\nwhilst retaining a faint smile of contempt for such a useless expenditure\nof enthusiasm. At last he succeeded, and begged him to retire. The\norchestra was again playing more loudly in the distance. And when the\nyoung priest at last withdrew, thanking him once more, he said very\nsimply, \"Remember, my dear son, that only obedience is great.\"\n\nPierre, whose one desire now was to take himself off, found Prada almost\nimmediately afterwards in the first reception-room. Their Majesties had\njust left the ball in grand ceremony, escorted to the threshold by the\nBuongiovannis and the Saccos. And before departing the Queen had\nmaternally kissed Celia, whilst the King shook hands with\nAttilio--honours instinct with a charming good nature which made the\nmembers of both families quite radiant. However, a good many of the\nguests were following the example of the sovereigns and disappearing in\nsmall batches. And the Count, who seemed strangely nervous, and showed\nmore sternness and bitterness than ever, was, on his side, also eager to\nbe gone. \"Ah! it's you at last. I was waiting for you,\" he said to\nPierre. \"Well, let's get off at once, eh? Your compatriot Monsieur\nNarcisse Habert asked me to tell you not to look for him. The fact is, he\nhas gone to see my friend Lisbeth to her carriage. I myself want a breath\nof fresh air, a stroll, and so I'll go with you as far as the Via\nGiulia.\"\n\nThen, as they took their things from the cloak-room, he could not help\nsneering and saying in his brutal way: \"I saw your good friends go off,\nall four together. It's lucky that you prefer to go home on foot, for\nthere was no room for you in the carriage. What superb impudence it was\non the part of that Donna Serafina to drag herself here, at her age, with\nthat Morano of hers, so as to triumph over the return of the fickle one!\nAnd the two others, the two young ones--ah! I confess that I can hardly\nspeak calmly of /them/, for in parading here together as they did this\nevening, they have shown an impudence and a cruelty such as is rarely\nseen!\" Prada's hands trembled, and he murmured: \"A good journey, a good\njourney to the young man, since he is going to Naples. Yes, I heard Celia\nsay that he was starting for Naples this evening at six o'clock. Well, my\nwishes go with him; a good journey!\"\n\nThe two men found the change delightful when they at last emerged from\nthe stifling heat of the reception-rooms into the lovely, cool, and\nlimpid night. It was a night illumined by a superb full moon, one of\nthose matchless Roman nights when the city slumbers in Elysian radiance,\nsteeped in a dream of the Infinite, under the vast vault of heaven. And\nthey took the most agreeable route, going down the Corso proper and then\nturning into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.\n\nPrada had grown somewhat calmer, but remained full of irony. To divert\nhis mind, no doubt, he talked on in the most voluble manner, reverting to\nthe women of Rome and to that /fete/ which he had at first found\nsplendid, but at which he now began to rail.\n\n\"Oh! of course they have very fine gowns,\" said he, speaking of the\nwomen; \"but gowns which don't fit them, gowns which are sent them from\nParis, and which, of course, they can't try on. It's just the same with\ntheir jewels; they still have diamonds and pearls, in particular, which\nare very fine, but they are so wretchedly, so heavily mounted that they\nlook frightful. And if you only knew how ignorant and frivolous these\nwomen are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface with\nthem, even religion: there's nothing beneath. I looked at them eating at\nthe buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening some\ndecorum was observed, there wasn't too much gorging. But at one of the\nCourt balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, and\neverything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!\"\n\nTo all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He was\nwrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with the\nPope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrange\nand picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantime\nthe footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear,\nbroad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlined\nby the moonlight.\n\nAll at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious /bravura/ was\nexhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessed\nand paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coat\npocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:\n\"A legend avers that the fig-tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and\nthat its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become pope. Eat not\nthe poisoned figs, nor give them either to your servants or your fowls.\"\nThe note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompany\nPierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at the\nPalazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that within\nanother ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power in\nthe world could prevent it, since such was his express determination.\nNever would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned.\n\nBut he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and that\nDario had raised such a tempest of jealous hatred within him! For them he\nforgot Lisbeth whom he loved, and even that flesh of his flesh, the child\nof whom he was so proud. All sex as he was, eager to conquer and subdue,\nhe had never cared for facile loves. His passion was to overcome. And now\nthere was a woman in the world who defied him, a woman forsooth whom he\nhad bought, whom he had married, who had been handed over to him, but who\nwould never, never be his. Ah! in the old days, to subdue her, he would\nif needful have fired Rome like a Nero; but now he asked himself what he\ncould possibly do to prevent her from belonging to another. That galling\nthought made the blood gush from his gaping wound. How that woman and her\nlover must deride him! And to think that they had sought to turn him to\nridicule by a baseless charge, an arrant lie which still and ever made\nhim smart, all proof of its falsity to the contrary. He, on his side, had\naccused them in the past without much belief in what he said, but now the\ncharges he had imputed to them must come true, for they were free, freed\nat all events of the religious bond, and that no doubt was their only\ncare. And then visions of their happiness passed before his eyes,\ninfuriating him. Ah! no, ah! no, it was impossible, he would rather\ndestroy the world!\n\nThen, as he and Pierre turned out of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele to\nthread the old narrow tortuous streets leading to the Via Giulia, he\npictured himself dropping the note into the letter-box at the palazzo.\nAnd next he conjured up what would follow. The note would lie in the\nletter-box till morning. At an early hour Don Vigilio, the secretary, who\nby the Cardinal's express orders kept the key of the box, would come\ndown, find the note, and hand it to his Eminence, who never allowed\nanother to open any communication addressed to him. And then the figs\nwould be thrown away, there would be no further possibility of crime, the\nblack world would in all prudence keep silent. But if the note should not\nbe in the letter-box, what would happen then? And admitting that\nsupposition he pictured the figs placed on the table at the one o'clock\nmeal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there as\nusual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples till\nthe evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, or\nwould only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would that\nbe? At this point Prada's clearness of vision failed him; again he\nconjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on the\nroad from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart all\nobstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figs\nwent ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand in\nthe world had power enough to prevent.\n\nAnd at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretched\naway in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as if\nfrom a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under the\nsilver sky. Three o'clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felt\nhimself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorous\nmoan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which the\nCount, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the third\ntime allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into a\nsneering laugh, and pressing the priest's hands, exclaimed: \"No, no, I am\nnot going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would think\nthat I had fallen in love with my wife again.\"\n\nAnd thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clear\nnight, without once looking round.\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nWHEN Pierre awoke he was much surprised to hear eleven o'clock striking.\nFatigued as he was by that ball where he had lingered so long, he had\nslept like a child in delightful peacefulness, and as soon as he opened\nhis eyes the radiant sunshine filled him with hope. His first thought was\nthat he would see the Pope that evening at nine o'clock. Ten more hours\nto wait! What would he be able to do with himself during that lovely day,\nwhose radiant sky seemed to him of such happy augury? He rose and opened\nthe windows to admit the warm air which, as he had noticed on the day of\nhis arrival, had a savour of fruit and flowers, a blending, as it were,\nof the perfume of rose and orange. Could this possibly be December? What\na delightful land, that the spring should seem to flower on the very\nthreshold of winter! Then, having dressed, he was leaning out of the\nwindow to glance across the golden Tiber at the evergreen slopes of the\nJaniculum, when he espied Benedetta seated in the abandoned garden of the\nmansion. And thereupon, unable to keep still, full of a desire for life,\ngaiety, and beauty, he went down to join her.\n\nWith radiant visage and outstretched hands, she at once vented the cry he\nhad expected: \"Ah! my dear Abbe, how happy I am!\"\n\nThey had often spent their mornings in that quiet, forsaken nook; but\nwhat sad mornings those had been, hopeless as they both were! To-day,\nhowever, the weed-grown paths, the box-plants growing in the old basin,\nthe orange-trees which alone marked the outline of the beds--all seemed\nfull of charm, instinct with a sweet and dreamy cosiness in which it was\nvery pleasant to lull one's joy. And it was so warm, too, beside the big\nlaurel-bush, in the corner where the streamlet of water ever fell with\nflute-like music from the gaping, tragic mask.\n\n\"Ah!\" repeated Benedetta, \"how happy I am! I was stifling upstairs, and\nmy heart felt such a need of space, and air, and sunlight, that I came\ndown here!\"\n\nShe was seated on the fallen column beside the old marble sarcophagus,\nand desired the priest to place himself beside her. Never had he seen her\nlooking so beautiful, with her black hair encompassing her pure face,\nwhich in the sunshine appeared pinky and delicate as a flower. Her large,\nfathomless eyes showed in the light like braziers rolling gold, and her\nchildish mouth, all candour and good sense, laughed the laugh of one who\nwas at last free to love as her heart listed, without offending either\nGod or man. And, dreaming aloud, she built up plans for the future. \"It's\nall simple enough,\" said she; \"I have already obtained a separation, and\nshall easily get that changed into civil divorce now that the Church has\nannulled my marriage. And I shall marry Dario next spring, perhaps\nsooner, if the formalities can be hastened. He is going to Naples this\nevening about the sale of some property which we still possess there, but\nwhich must now be sold, for all this business has cost us a lot of money.\nStill, that doesn't matter since we now belong to one another. And when\nhe comes back in a few days, what a happy time we shall have! I could not\nsleep when I got back from that splendid ball last night, for my head was\nso full of plans--oh! splendid plans, as you shall see, for I mean to\nkeep you in Rome until our marriage.\"\n\nLike herself, Pierre began to laugh, so gained upon by this explosion of\nyouth and happiness that he had to make a great effort to refrain from\nspeaking of his own delight, his hopefulness at the thought of his coming\ninterview with the Pope. Of that, however, he had sworn to speak to\nnobody.\n\nEvery now and again, amidst the quivering silence of the sunlit garden,\nthe cry of a bird persistently rang out; and Benedetta, raising her head\nand looking at a cage hanging beside one of the first-floor windows,\njestingly exclaimed: \"Yes, yes, Tata, make a good noise, show that you\nare pleased, my dear. Everybody in the house must be pleased now.\" Then,\nturning towards Pierre, she added gaily: \"You know Tata, don't you? What!\nNo? Why, Tata is my uncle's parrot. I gave her to him last spring; he's\nvery fond of her, and lets her help herself out of his plate. And he\nhimself attends to her, puts her out and takes her in, and keeps her in\nhis dining-room, for fear lest she should take cold, as that is the only\nroom of his which is at all warm.\"\n\nPierre in his turn looked up and saw the bird, one of those pretty little\nparrots with soft, silky, dull-green plumage. It was hanging by the beak\nfrom a bar of its cage, swinging itself and flapping its wings, all mirth\nin the bright sunshine.\n\n\"Does the bird talk?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, she only screams,\" replied Benedetta, laughing. \"Still my uncle\npretends that he understands her.\" And then the young woman abruptly\ndarted to another subject, as if this mention of her uncle the Cardinal\nhad made her think of the uncle by marriage whom she had in Paris. \"I\nsuppose you have heard from Viscount de la Choue,\" said she. \"I had a\nletter from him yesterday, in which he said how grieved he was that you\nwere unable to see the Holy Father, as he had counted on you for the\ntriumph of his ideas.\"\n\nPierre indeed frequently heard from the Viscount, who was greatly\ndistressed by the importance which his adversary, Baron de Fouras, had\nacquired since his success with the International Pilgrimage of the\nPeter's Pence. The old, uncompromising Catholic party would awaken, said\nthe Viscount, and all the conquests of Neo-Catholicism would be\nthreatened, if one could not obtain the Holy Father's formal adhesion to\nthe proposed system of free guilds, in order to overcome the demand for\nclosed guilds which was brought forward by the Conservatives. And the\nViscount overwhelmed Pierre with injunctions, and sent him all sorts of\ncomplicated plans in his eagerness to see him received at the Vatican.\n\"Yes, yes,\" muttered the young priest in reply to Benedetta. \"I had a\nletter on Sunday, and found another waiting for me on my return from\nFrascati yesterday. Ah! it would make me very happy to be able to send\nthe Viscount some good news.\" Then again Pierre's joy overflowed at the\nthought that he would that evening see the Pope, and, on opening his\nloving heart to the Pontiff, receive the supreme encouragement which\nwould strengthen him in his mission to work social salvation in the name\nof the lowly and the poor. And he could not restrain himself any longer,\nbut let his secret escape him: \"It's settled, you know,\" said he. \"My\naudience is for this evening.\"\n\nBenedetta did not understand at first. \"What audience?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh! Monsignor Nani was good enough to tell me at the ball this morning,\nthat the Holy Father has read my book and desires to see me. I shall be\nreceived this evening at nine o'clock.\"\n\nAt this the Contessina flushed with pleasure, participating in the\ndelight of the young priest to whom she had grown much attached. And this\nsuccess of his, coming in the midst of her own felicity, acquired\nextraordinary importance in her eyes as if it were an augury of complete\nsuccess for one and all. Superstitious as she was, she raised a cry of\nrapture and excitement: \"Ah! /Dio/, that will bring us good luck. How\nhappy I am, my friend, to see happiness coming to you at the same time as\nto me! You cannot think how pleased I am! And all will go well now, it's\ncertain, for a house where there is any one whom the Pope welcomes is\nblessed, the thunder of Heaven falls on it no more!\"\n\nShe laughed yet more loudly as she spoke, and clapped her hands with such\nexuberant gaiety that Pierre became anxious. \"Hush! hush!\" said he, \"it's\na secret. Pray don't mention it to any one, either your aunt or even his\nEminence. Monsignor Nani would be much annoyed.\"\n\nShe thereupon promised to say nothing, and in a kindly voice spoke of\nNani as a benefactor, for was she not indebted to him for the dissolution\nof her marriage? Then, with a fresh explosion of gaiety, she went on:\n\"But come, my friend, is not happiness the only good thing? You don't ask\nme to weep over the suffering poor to-day! Ah! the happiness of life,\nthat's everything. People don't suffer or feel cold or hungry when they\nare happy.\"\n\nHe looked at her in stupefaction at the idea of that strange solution of\nthe terrible question of human misery. And suddenly he realised that,\nwith that daughter of the sun who had inherited so many centuries of\nsovereign aristocracy, all his endeavours at conversion were vain. He had\nwished to bring her to a Christian love for the lowly and the wretched,\nwin her over to the new, enlightened, and compassionate Italy that he had\ndreamt of; but if she had been moved by the sufferings of the multitude\nat the time when she herself had suffered, when grievous wounds had made\nher own heart bleed, she was no sooner healed than she proclaimed the\ndoctrine of universal felicity like a true daughter of a clime of burning\nsummers, and winters as mild as spring. \"But everybody is not happy!\"\nsaid he.\n\n\"Yes, yes, they are!\" she exclaimed. \"You don't know the poor! Give a\ngirl of the Trastevere the lad she loves, and she becomes as radiant as a\nqueen, and finds her dry bread quite sweet. The mothers who save a child\nfrom sickness, the men who conquer in a battle, or who win at the\nlottery, one and all in fact are like that, people only ask for good\nfortune and pleasure. And despite all your striving to be just and to\narrive at a more even distribution of fortune, the only satisfied ones\nwill be those whose hearts sing--often without their knowing the\ncause--on a fine sunny day like this.\"\n\nPierre made a gesture of surrender, not wishing to sadden her by again\npleading the cause of all the poor ones who at that very moment were\nsomewhere agonising with physical or mental pain. But, all at once,\nthrough the luminous mild atmosphere a shadow seemed to fall, tingeing\njoy with sadness, the sunshine with despair. And the sight of the old\nsarcophagus, with its bacchanal of satyrs and nymphs, brought back the\nmemory that death lurks even amidst the bliss of passion, the unsatiated\nkisses of love. For a moment the clear song of the water sounded in\nPierre's ears like a long-drawn sob, and all seemed to crumble in the\nterrible shadow which had fallen from the invisible.\n\nBenedetta, however, caught hold of his hands and roused him once more to\nthe delight of being there beside her. \"Your pupil is rebellious, is she\nnot, my friend?\" said she. \"But what would you have? There are ideas\nwhich can't enter into our heads. No, you will never get those things\ninto the head of a Roman girl. So be content with loving us as we are,\nbeautiful with all our strength, as beautiful as we can be.\"\n\nShe herself, in her resplendent happiness, looked at that moment so\nbeautiful that he trembled as in presence of a divinity whose\nall-powerfulness swayed the world. \"Yes, yes,\" he stammered, \"beauty,\nbeauty, still and ever sovereign. Ah! why can it not suffice to satisfy\nthe eternal longings of poor suffering men?\"\n\n\"Never mind!\" she gaily responded. \"Do not distress yourself; it is\npleasant to live. And now let us go upstairs, my aunt must be waiting.\"\n\nThe midday meal was served at one o'clock, and on the few occasions when\nPierre did not eat at one or another restaurant a cover was laid for him\nat the ladies' table in the little dining-room of the second floor,\noverlooking the courtyard. At the same hour, in the sunlit dining-room of\nthe first floor, whose windows faced the Tiber, the Cardinal likewise sat\ndown to table, happy in the society of his nephew Dario, for his\nsecretary, Don Vigilio, who also was usually present, never opened his\nmouth unless to reply to some question. And the two services were quite\ndistinct, each having its own kitchen and servants, the only thing at all\ncommon to them both being a large room downstairs which served as a\npantry and store-place.\n\nAlthough the second-floor dining-room was so gloomy, saddened by the\ngreeny half-light of the courtyard, the meal shared that day by the two\nladies and the young priest proved a very gay one. Even Donna Serafina,\nusually so rigid, seemed to relax under the influence of great internal\nfelicity. She was no doubt still enjoying her triumph of the previous\nevening, and it was she who first spoke of the ball and sung its praises,\nthough the presence of the King and Queen had much embarrassed her, said\nshe. According to her account, she had only avoided presentation by\nskilful strategy; however she hoped that her well-known affection for\nCelia, whose god-mother she was, would explain her presence in that\nneutral mansion where Vatican and Quirinal had met. At the same time she\nmust have retained certain scruples, for she declared that directly after\ndinner she was going to the Vatican to see the Cardinal Secretary, to\nwhom she desired to speak about an enterprise of which she was\nlady-patroness. This visit would compensate for her attendance at the\nBuongiovanni entertainment. And on the other hand never had Donna\nSerafina seemed so zealous and hopeful of her brother's speedy accession\nto the throne of St. Peter: therein lay a supreme triumph, an elevation\nof her race, which her pride deemed both needful and inevitable; and\nindeed during Leo XIII's last indisposition she had actually concerned\nherself about the trousseau which would be needed and which would require\nto be marked with the new Pontiff's arms.\n\nOn her side, Benedetta was all gaiety during the repast, laughing at\neverything, and speaking of Celia and Attilio with the passionate\naffection of a woman whose own happiness delights in that of her friends.\nThen, just as the dessert had been served, she turned to the servant with\nan air of surprise: \"Well, and the figs, Giacomo?\" she asked.\n\nGiacomo, slow and sleepy of notion, looked at her without understanding.\nHowever, Victorine was crossing the room, and Benedetta's next question\nwas for her: \"Why are the figs not served, Victorine?\" she inquired.\n\n\"What figs, Contessina?\"\n\n\"Why the figs I saw in the pantry as I passed through it this morning on\nmy way to the garden. They were in a little basket and looked superb. I\nwas even astonished to see that there were still some fresh figs left at\nthis season. I'm very fond of them, and felt quite pleased at the thought\nthat I should eat some at dinner.\"\n\nVictorine began to laugh: \"Ah! yes, Contessina, I understand,\" she\nreplied. \"They were some figs which that priest of Frascati, whom you\nknow very well, brought yesterday evening as a present for his Eminence.\nI was there, and I heard him repeat three or four times that they were a\npresent, and were to be put on his Eminence's table without a leaf being\ntouched. And so one did as he said.\"\n\n\"Well, that's nice,\" retorted Benedetta with comical indignation. \"What\n/gourmands/ my uncle and Dario are to regale themselves without us! They\nmight have given us a share!\"\n\nDonna Serafina thereupon intervened, and asked Victorine: \"You are\nspeaking, are you not, of that priest who used to come to the villa at\nFrascati?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Abbe Santobono his name is, he officiates at the little church\nof St. Mary in the Fields. He always asks for Abbe Paparelli when he\ncalls; I think they were at the seminary together. And it was Abbe\nPaparelli who brought him to the pantry with his basket last night. To\ntell the truth, the basket was forgotten there in spite of all the\ninjunctions, so that nobody would have eaten the figs to-day if Abbe\nPaparelli hadn't run down just now and carried them upstairs as piously\nas if they were the Blessed Sacrament. It's true though that his Eminence\nis so fond of them.\"\n\n\"My brother won't do them much honour to-day,\" remarked the Princess. \"He\nis slightly indisposed. He passed a bad night.\" The repeated mention of\nAbbe Paparelli had made the old lady somewhat thoughtful. She had\nregarded the train-bearer with displeasure ever since she had noticed the\nextraordinary influence he was gaining over the Cardinal, despite all his\napparent humility and self-effacement. He was but a servant and\napparently a very insignificant one, yet he governed, and she could feel\nthat he combated her own influence, often undoing things which she had\ndone to further her brother's interests. Twice already, moreover, she had\nsuspected him of having urged the Cardinal to courses which she looked\nupon as absolute blunders. But perhaps she was wrong; she did the\ntrain-bearer the justice to admit that he had great merits and displayed\nexemplary piety.\n\nHowever, Benedetta went on laughing and jesting, and as Victorine had now\nwithdrawn, she called the man-servant: \"Listen, Giacomo, I have a\ncommission for you.\" Then she broke off to say to her aunt and Pierre:\n\"Pray let us assert our rights. I can see them at table almost underneath\nus. Uncle is taking the leaves off the basket and serving himself with a\nsmile; then he passes the basket to Dario, who passes it on to Don\nVigilio. And all three of them eat and enjoy the figs. You can see them,\ncan't you?\" She herself could see them well. And it was her desire to be\nnear Dario, the constant flight of her thoughts to him that now made her\npicture him at table with the others. Her heart was down below, and there\nwas nothing there that she could not see, and hear, and smell, with such\nkeenness of the senses did her love endow her. \"Giacomo,\" she resumed,\n\"you are to go down and tell his Eminence that we are longing to taste\nhis figs, and that it will be very kind of him if he will send us such as\nhe can spare.\"\n\nAgain, however, did Donna Serafina intervene, recalling her wonted\nseverity of voice: \"Giacomo, you will please stay here.\" And to her niece\nshe added: \"That's enough childishness! I dislike such silly freaks.\"\n\n\"Oh! aunt,\" Benedetta murmured. \"But I'm so happy, it's so long since I\nlaughed so good-heartedly.\"\n\nPierre had hitherto remained listening, enlivened by the sight of her\ngaiety. But now, as a little chill fell, he raised his voice to say that\non the previous day he himself had been astonished to see the famous\nfig-tree of Frascati still bearing fruit so late in the year. This was\ndoubtless due, however, to the tree's position and the protection of a\nhigh wall.\n\n\"Ah! so you saw the tree?\" said Benedetta.\n\n\"Yes, and I even travelled with those figs which you would so much like\nto taste.\"\n\n\"Why, how was that?\"\n\nThe young man already regretted the reply which had escaped him. However,\nhaving gone so far, he preferred to say everything. \"I met somebody at\nFrascati who had come there in a carriage and who insisted on driving me\nback to Rome,\" said he. \"On the way we picked up Abbe Santobono, who was\nbravely making the journey on foot with his basket in his hand. And\nafterwards we stopped at an /osteria/--\" Then he went on to describe the\ndrive and relate his impressions whilst crossing the Campagna amidst the\nfalling twilight. But Benedetta gazed at him fixedly, aware as she was of\nPrada's frequent visits to the land and houses which he owned at\nFrascati; and suddenly she murmured: \"Somebody, somebody, it was the\nCount, was it not?\"\n\n\"Yes, madame, the Count,\" Pierre answered. \"I saw him again last night;\nhe was overcome, and really deserves to be pitied.\"\n\nThe two women took no offence at this charitable remark which fell from\nthe young priest with such deep and natural emotion, full as he was of\noverflowing love and compassion for one and all. Donna Serafina remained\nmotionless as if she had not even heard him, and Benedetta made a gesture\nwhich seemed to imply that she had neither pity nor hatred to express for\na man who had become a perfect stranger to her. However, she no longer\nlaughed, but, thinking of the little basket which had travelled in\nPrada's carriage, she said: \"Ah! I don't care for those figs at all now,\nI am even glad that I haven't eaten any of them.\"\n\nImmediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she was\nat once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves,\nlingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. The\npriest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audience\nwhich he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o'clock, and he\nhad seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endless\nafternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. \"I'll\ntell you what,\" said she, \"as we are all in such good spirits we mustn't\nleave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must have\nfinished lunch by now, and I'll ask him to take us for a long drive along\nthe Tiber.\"\n\nThis fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; but\njust then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. \"Isn't the\nPrincess here?\" he inquired.\n\n\"No, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?\"\n\n\"His Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising from\ntable. Oh! it's nothing--nothing serious, no doubt.\"\n\nBenedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: \"What, Dario!\nWell, we'll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe. He mustn't get\nill if he is to take us for a drive!\" Then, meeting Victorine on the\nstairs, she bade her follow. \"Dario isn't well,\" she said. \"You may be\nwanted.\"\n\nThey all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnished\nbed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a whole\nmonth. It was reached by way of a small /salon/, and from an adjoining\ndressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal's apartments, the\nrelatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devised\nby subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, the\npassage gave access to his Eminence's private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted,\nchairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar,\nand the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray.\n\nOn entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, still\nfully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera,\nwho, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and lofty\nbearing--the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. \"Why, what is the\nmatter, Dario /mio/?\" asked the young woman.\n\nHe smiled, eager to reassure her. One only noticed that he was very pale,\nwith a look as of intoxication on his face.\n\n\"Oh! it's nothing, mere giddiness,\" he replied. \"It's just as if I had\ndrunk too much. All at once things swam before my eyes, and I thought I\nwas going to fall. And then I only had time to come and fling myself on\nthe bed.\"\n\nThen he drew a long breath, as though talking exhausted him, and the\nCardinal in his turn gave some details. \"We had just finished our meal,\"\nsaid he, \"I was giving Don Vigilio some orders for this afternoon, and\nwas about to rise when I saw Dario get up and reel. He wouldn't sit down\nagain, but came in here, staggering like a somnambulist, and fumbling at\nthe doors to open them. We followed him without understanding. And I\nconfess that I don't yet comprehend it.\"\n\nSo saying, the Cardinal punctuated his surprise by waving his arm towards\nthe rooms, through which a gust of misfortune seemed to have suddenly\nswept. All the doors had remained wide open: the dressing-room could be\nseen, and then the passage, at the end of which appeared the dining-room,\nin a disorderly state, like an apartment suddenly vacated; the table\nstill laid, the napkins flung here and there, and the chairs pushed back.\nAs yet, however, there was no alarm.\n\nBenedetta made the remark which is usually made in such cases: \"I hope\nyou haven't eaten anything which has disagreed with you.\"\n\nThe Cardinal, smiling, again waved his hand as if to attest the frugality\nof his table. \"Oh!\" said he, \"there were only some eggs, some lamb\ncutlets, and a dish of sorrel--they couldn't have overloaded his stomach.\nI myself only drink water; he takes just a sip of white wine. No, no, the\nfood has nothing to do with it.\"\n\n\"Besides, in that case his Eminence and I would also have felt\nindisposed,\" Don Vigilio made bold to remark.\n\nDario, after momentarily closing his eyes, opened them again, and once\nmore drew a long breath, whilst endeavouring to laugh. \"Oh, it will be\nnothing;\" he said. \"I feel more at ease already. I must get up and stir\nmyself.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said Benedetta, \"this is what I had thought of. You will\ntake Monsieur l'Abbe Froment and me for a long drive in the Campagna.\"\n\n\"Willingly. It's a nice idea. Victorine, help me.\"\n\nWhilst speaking he had raised himself by means of one arm; but, before\nthe servant could approach, a slight convulsion seized him, and he fell\nback again as if overcome by a fainting fit. It was the Cardinal, still\nstanding by the bedside, who caught him in his arms, whilst the\nContessina this time lost her head: \"/Dio, Dio/! It has come on him\nagain. Quick, quick, a doctor!\"\n\n\"Shall I run for one?\" asked Pierre, whom the scene was also beginning to\nupset.\n\n\"No, no, not you; stay with me. Victorine will go at once. She knows the\naddress. Doctor Giordano, Victorine.\"\n\nThe servant hurried away, and a heavy silence fell on the room where the\nanxiety became more pronounced every moment. Benedetta, now quite pale,\nhad again approached the bed, whilst the Cardinal looked down at Dario,\nwhom he still held in his arms. And a terrible suspicion, vague,\nindeterminate as yet, had just awoke in the old man's mind: Dario's face\nseemed to him to be ashen, to wear that mask of terrified anguish which\nhe had already remarked on the countenance of his dearest friend,\nMonsignor Gallo, when he had held him in his arms, in like manner, two\nhours before his death. There was also the same swoon and the same\nsensation of clasping a cold form whose heart ceases to beat. And above\neverything else there was in Boccanera's mind the same growing thought of\npoison, poison coming one knew not whence or how, but mysteriously\nstriking down those around him with the suddenness of lightning. And for\na long time he remained with his head bent over the face of his nephew,\nthat last scion of his race, seeking, studying, and recognising the signs\nof the mysterious, implacable disorder which once already had rent his\nheart atwain.\n\nBut Benedetta addressed him in a low, entreating voice: \"You will tire\nyourself, uncle. Let me take him a little, I beg you. Have no fear, I'll\nhold him very gently, he will feel that it is I, and perhaps that will\nrouse him.\"\n\nAt last the Cardinal raised his head and looked at her, and allowed her\nto take his place after kissing her with distracted passion, his eyes the\nwhile full of tears--a sudden burst of emotion in which his great love\nfor the young woman melted the stern frigidity which he usually affected.\n\"Ah! my poor child, my poor child!\" he stammered, trembling from head to\nfoot like an oak-tree about to fall. Immediately afterwards, however, he\nmastered himself, and whilst Pierre and Don Vigilio, mute and motionless,\nregretted that they could be of no help, he walked slowly to and fro.\nSoon, moreover, that bed-chamber became too small for all the thoughts\nrevolving in his mind, and he strayed first into the dressing-room and\nthen down the passage as far as the dining-room. And again and again he\nwent to and fro, grave and impassible, his head low, ever lost in the\nsame gloomy reverie. What were the multitudinous thoughts stirring in the\nbrain of that believer, that haughty Prince who had given himself to God\nand could do naught to stay inevitable Destiny? From time to time he\nreturned to the bedside, observed the progress of the disorder, and then\nstarted off again at the same slow regular pace, disappearing and\nreappearing, carried along as it were by the monotonous alternations of\nforces which man cannot control. Possibly he was mistaken, possibly this\nwas some mere indisposition at which the doctor would smile. One must\nhope and wait. And again he went off and again he came back; and amidst\nthe heavy silence nothing more clearly bespoke the torture of anxious\nfear than the rhythmical footsteps of that tall old man who was thus\nawaiting Destiny.\n\nThe door opened, and Victorine came in breathless. \"I found the doctor,\nhere he is,\" she gasped.\n\nWith his little pink face and white curls, his discreet paternal bearing\nwhich gave him the air of an amiable prelate, Doctor Giordano came in\nsmiling; but on seeing that room and all the anxious people waiting in\nit, he turned very grave, at once assuming the expression of profound\nrespect for all ecclesiastical secrets which he had acquired by long\npractice among the clergy. And when he had glanced at the sufferer he let\nbut a low murmur escape him: \"What, again! Is it beginning again!\"\n\nHe was probably alluding to the knife thrust for which he had recently\ntended Dario. Who could be thus relentlessly pursuing that poor and\ninoffensive young prince? However no one heard the doctor unless it were\nBenedetta, and she was so full of feverish impatience, so eager to be\ntranquillised, that she did not listen but burst into fresh entreaties:\n\"Oh! doctor, pray look at him, examine him, tell us that it is nothing.\nIt can't be anything serious, since he was so well and gay but a little\nwhile ago. It's nothing serious, is it?\"\n\n\"You are right no doubt, Contessina, it can be nothing dangerous. We will\nsee.\"\n\nHowever, on turning round, Doctor Giordano perceived the Cardinal, who\nwith regular, thoughtful footsteps had come back from the dining-room to\nplace himself at the foot of the bed. And while bowing, the doctor\ndoubtless detected a gleam of mortal anxiety in the dark eyes fixed upon\nhis own, for he added nothing but began to examine Dario like a man who\nrealises that time is precious. And as his examination progressed the\naffable optimism which usually appeared upon his countenance gave place\nto ashen gravity, a covert terror which made his lips slightly tremble.\nIt was he who had attended Monsignor Gallo when the latter had been\ncarried off so mysteriously; it was he who for imperative reasons had\nthen delivered a certificate stating the cause of death to be infectious\nfever; and doubtless he now found the same terrible symptoms as in that\ncase, a leaden hue overspreading the sufferer's features, a stupor as of\nexcessive intoxication; and, old Roman practitioner that he was,\naccustomed to sudden deaths, he realised that the /malaria/ which kills\nwas passing, that /malaria/ which science does not yet fully understand,\nwhich may come from the putrescent exhalations of the Tiber unless it be\nbut a name for the ancient poison of the legends.\n\nAs the doctor raised his head his glance again encountered the black eyes\nof the Cardinal, which never left him. \"Signor Giordano,\" said his\nEminence, \"you are not over-anxious, I hope? It is only some case of\nindigestion, is it not?\"\n\nThe doctor again bowed. By the slight quiver of the Cardinal's voice he\nunderstood how acute was the anxiety of that powerful man, who once more\nwas stricken in his dearest affections.\n\n\"Your Eminence must be right,\" he said, \"there's a bad digestion\ncertainly. Such accidents sometimes become dangerous when fever\nsupervenes. I need not tell your Eminence how thoroughly you may rely on\nmy prudence and zeal.\" Then he broke off and added in a clear\nprofessional voice: \"We must lose no time; the Prince must be undressed.\nI should prefer to remain alone with him for a moment.\"\n\nWhilst speaking in this way, however, Doctor Giordano detained Victorine,\nwho would be able to help him, said he; should he need any further\nassistance he would take Giacomo. His evident desire was to get rid of\nthe members of the family in order that he might have more freedom of\naction. And the Cardinal, who understood him, gently led Benedetta into\nthe dining-room, whither Pierre and Don Vigilio followed.\n\nWhen the doors had been closed, the most mournful and oppressive silence\nreigned in that dining-room, which the bright sun of winter filled with\nsuch delightful warmth and radiance. The table was still laid, its cloth\nstrewn here and there with bread-crumbs; and a coffee cup had remained\nhalf full. In the centre stood the basket of figs, whose covering of\nleaves had been removed. However, only two or three of the figs were\nmissing. And in front of the window was Tata, the female parrot, who had\nflown out of her cage and perched herself on her stand, where she\nremained, dazzled and enraptured, amidst the dancing dust of a broad\nyellow sunray. In her astonishment however, at seeing so many people\nenter, she had ceased to scream and smooth her feathers, and had turned\nher head the better to examine the newcomers with her round and\nscrutinising eye.\n\nThe minutes went by slowly amidst all the feverish anxiety as to what\nmight be occurring in the neighbouring room. Don Vigilio had taken a\ncorner seat in silence, whilst Benedetta and Pierre, who had remained\nstanding, preserved similar muteness, and immobility. But the Cardinal\nhad reverted to that instinctive, lulling tramp by which he apparently\nhoped to quiet his impatience and arrive the sooner at the explanation\nfor which he was groping through a tumultuous maze of ideas. And whilst\nhis rhythmical footsteps resounded with mechanical regularity, dark fury\nwas taking possession of his mind, exasperation at being unable to\nunderstand the why and wherefore of that sickness. As he passed the table\nhe had twice glanced at the things lying on it in confusion, as if\nseeking some explanation from them. Perhaps the harm had been done by\nthat unfinished coffee, or by that bread whose crumbs lay here and there,\nor by those cutlets, a bone of which remained? Then as for the third time\nhe passed by, again glancing, his eyes fell upon the basket of figs, and\nat once he stopped, as if beneath the shock of a revelation. An idea\nseized upon him and mastered him, without any plan, however, occurring to\nhim by which he might change his sudden suspicion into certainty. For a\nmoment he remained puzzled with his eyes fixed upon the basket. Then he\ntook a fig and examined it, but, noticing nothing strange, was about to\nput it back when Tata, the parrot, who was very fond of figs, raised a\nstrident cry. And this was like a ray of light; the means of changing\nsuspicion into certainty was found.\n\nSlowly, with grave air and gloomy visage, the Cardinal carried the fig to\nthe parrot and gave it to her without hesitation or regret. She was a\nvery pretty bird, the only being of the lower order of creation to which\nhe had ever really been attached. Stretching out her supple, delicate\nform, whose silken feathers of dull green here and there assumed a pinky\ntinge in the sunlight, she took hold of the fig with her claws, then\nripped it open with her beak. But when she had raked it she ate but\nlittle, and let all the rest fall upon the floor. Still grave and\nimpassible, the Cardinal looked at her and waited. Quite three minutes\nwent by, and then feeling reassured, he began to scratch the bird's poll,\nwhilst she, taking pleasure in the caress, turned her neck and fixed her\nbright ruby eye upon her master. But all at once she sank back without\neven a flap of the wings, and fell like a bullet. She was dead, killed as\nby a thunderbolt.\n\nBoccanera made but a gesture, raising both hands to heaven as if in\nhorror at what he now knew. Great God! such a terrible crime, and such a\nfearful mistake, such an abominable trick of Destiny! No cry of grief\ncame from him, but the gloom upon his face grew black and fierce. Yet\nthere was a cry, a piercing cry from Benedetta, who like Pierre and Don\nVigilio had watched the Cardinal with an astonishment which had changed\ninto terror: \"Poison! poison! Ah! Dario, my heart, my soul!\"\n\nBut the Cardinal violently caught his niece by the wrist, whilst darting\na suspicious glance at the two petty priests, the secretary and the\nforeigner, who were present: \"Be quiet, be quiet!\" said he.\n\nShe shook herself free, rebelling, frantic with rage and hatred: \"Why\nshould I be quiet!\" she cried. \"It is Prada's work, I shall denounce him,\nhe shall die as well! I tell you it is Prada, I know it, for yesterday\nAbbe Froment came back with him from Frascati in his carriage with that\npriest Santobono and that basket of figs! Yes, yes, I have witnesses, it\nis Prada, Prada!\"\n\n\"No, no, you are mad, be quiet!\" said the Cardinal, who had again taken\nhold of the young woman's hands and sought to master her with all his\nsovereign authority. He, who knew the influence which Cardinal\nSanguinetti exercised over Santobono's excitable mind, had just\nunderstood the whole affair; no direct complicity but covert propulsion,\nthe animal excited and then let loose upon the troublesome rival at the\nmoment when the pontifical throne seemed likely to be vacant. The\nprobability, the certainty of all this flashed upon Boccanera who, though\nsome points remained obscure, did not seek to penetrate them. It was not\nnecessary indeed that he should know every particular: the thing was as\nhe said, since it was bound to be so. \"No, no, it was not Prada,\" he\nexclaimed, addressing Benedetta. \"That man can bear me no personal\ngrudge, and I alone was aimed at, it was to me that those figs were\ngiven. Come, think it out! Only an unforeseen indisposition prevented me\nfrom eating the greater part of the fruit, for it is known that I am very\nfond of figs, and while my poor Dario was tasting them, I jested and told\nhim to leave the finer ones for me to-morrow. Yes, the abominable blow\nwas meant for me, and it is on him that it has fallen by the most\natrocious of chances, the most monstrous of the follies of fate. Ah! Lord\nGod, Lord God, have you then forsaken us!\"\n\nTears came into the old man's eyes, whilst she still quivered and seemed\nunconvinced: \"But you have no enemies, uncle,\" she said. \"Why should that\nSantobono try to take your life?\"\n\nFor a moment he found no fitting reply. With supreme grandeur he had\nalready resolved to keep the truth secret. Then a recollection came to\nhim, and he resigned himself to the telling of a lie: \"Santobono's mind\nhas always been somewhat unhinged,\" said he, \"and I know that he has\nhated me ever since I refused to help him to get a brother of his, one of\nour former gardeners, out of prison. Deadly spite often has no more\nserious cause. He must have thought that he had reason to be revenged on\nme.\"\n\nThereupon Benedetta, exhausted, unable to argue any further, sank upon a\nchair with a despairing gesture: \"Ah! God, God! I no longer know--and\nwhat matters it now that my Dario is in such danger? There's only one\nthing to be done, he must be saved. How long they are over what they are\ndoing in that room--why does not Victorine come for us!\"\n\nThe silence again fell, full of terror. Without speaking the Cardinal\ntook the basket of figs from the table and carried it to a cupboard in\nwhich he locked it. Then he put the key in his pocket. No doubt, when\nnight had fallen, he himself would throw the proofs of the crime into the\nTiber. However, on coming back from the cupboard he noticed the two\npriests, who naturally had watched him; and with mingled grandeur and\nsimplicity he said to them: \"Gentlemen, I need not ask you to be\ndiscreet. There are scandals which we must spare the Church, which is\nnot, cannot be guilty. To deliver one of ourselves, even when he is a\ncriminal, to the civil tribunals, often means a blow for the whole\nChurch, for men of evil mind may lay hold of the affair and seek to\nimpute the responsibility of the crime even to the Church itself. We\ntherefore have but to commit the murderer to the hands of God, who will\nknow more surely how to punish him. Ah! for my part, whether I be struck\nin my own person or whether the blow be directed against my family, my\ndearest affections, I declare in the name of the Christ who died upon the\ncross, that I feel neither anger, nor desire for vengeance, that I efface\nthe murderer's name from my memory and bury his abominable act in the\neternal silence of the grave.\"\n\nTall as he was, he seemed of yet loftier stature whilst with hand\nupraised he took that oath to leave his enemies to the justice of God\nalone; for he did not refer merely to Santobono, but to Cardinal\nSanguinetti, whose evil influence he had divined. And amidst all the\nheroism of his pride, he was rent by tragic dolour at thought of the dark\nbattle which was waged around the tiara, all the evil hatred and\nvoracious appetite which stirred in the depths of the gloom. Then, as\nPierre and Don Vigilio bowed to him as a sign that they would preserve\nsilence, he almost choked with invincible emotion, a sob of loving grief\nwhich he strove to keep down rising to his throat, whilst he stammered:\n\"Ah! my poor child, my poor child, the only scion of our race, the only\nlove and hope of my heart! Ah! to die, to die like this!\"\n\nBut Benedetta, again all violence, sprang up: \"Die! Who, Dario? I won't\nhave it! We'll nurse him, we'll go back to him. We will take him in our\narms and save him. Come, uncle, come at once! I won't, I won't, I won't\nhave him die!\"\n\nShe was going towards the door, and nothing would have prevented her from\nre-entering the bed-room, when, as it happened, Victorine appeared with a\nwild look on her face, for, despite her wonted serenity, all her courage\nwas now exhausted. \"The doctor begs madame and his Eminence to come at\nonce, at once,\" said she.\n\nStupefied by all these things, Pierre did not follow the others, but\nlingered for a moment in the sunlit dining-room with Don Vigilio. What!\npoison? Poison as in the time of the Borgias, elegantly hidden away,\nserved up with luscious fruit by a crafty traitor, whom one dared not\neven denounce! And he recalled the conversation on his way back from\nFrascati, and his Parisian scepticism with respect to those legendary\ndrugs, which to his mind had no place save in the fifth acts of\nmelodramas. Yet those abominable stories were true, those tales of\npoisoned knives and flowers, of prelates and even dilatory popes being\nsuppressed by a drop or a grain of something administered to them in\ntheir morning chocolate. That passionate tragical Santobono was really a\npoisoner, Pierre could no longer doubt it, for a lurid light now\nillumined the whole of the previous day: there were the words of ambition\nand menace which had been spoken by Cardinal Sanguinetti, the eagerness\nto act in presence of the probable death of the reigning pope, the\nsuggestion of a crime for the sake of the Church's salvation, then that\npriest with his little basket of figs encountered on the road, then that\nbasket carried for hours so carefully, so devoutly, on the priest's\nknees, that basket which now haunted Pierre like a nightmare, and whose\ncolour, and odour, and shape he would ever recall with a shudder. Aye,\npoison, poison, there was truth in it; it existed and still circulated in\nthe depths of the black world, amidst all the ravenous, rival longings\nfor conquest and sovereignty.\n\nAnd all at once the figure of Prada likewise arose in Pierre's mind. A\nlittle while previously, when Benedetta had so violently accused the\nCount, he, Pierre, had stepped forward to defend him and cry aloud what\nhe knew, whence the poison had come, and what hand had offered it. But a\nsudden thought had made him shiver: though Prada had not devised the\ncrime, he had allowed it to be perpetrated. Another memory darted keen\nlike steel through the young priest's mind--that of the little black hen\nlying lifeless beside the shed, amidst the dismal surroundings of the\n/osteria/, with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.\nAnd here again, Tata, the parrot, lay still soft and warm at the foot of\nher stand, with her beak stained by oozing blood. Why had Prada told that\nlie about a battle between two fowls? All the dim intricacy of passion\nand contention bewildered Pierre, he could not thread his way through it;\nnor was he better able to follow the frightful combat which must have\nbeen waged in that man's mind during the night of the ball. At the same\ntime he could not again picture him by his side during their nocturnal\nwalk towards the Boccanera mansion without shuddering, dimly divining\nwhat a frightful decision had been taken before that mansion's door.\nMoreover, whatever the obscurities, whether Prada had expected that the\nCardinal alone would be killed, or had hoped that some chance stroke of\nfate might avenge him on others, the terrible fact remained--he had\nknown, he had been able to stay Destiny on the march, but had allowed it\nto go onward and blindly accomplish its work of death.\n\nTurning his head Pierre perceived Don Vigilio still seated on the corner\nchair whence he had not stirred, and looking so pale and haggard that\nperhaps he also had swallowed some of the poison. \"Do you feel unwell?\"\nthe young priest asked.\n\nAt first the secretary could not reply, for terror had gripped him at the\nthroat. Then in a low voice he said: \"No, no, I didn't eat any. Ah,\nHeaven, when I think that I so much wanted to taste them, and that merely\ndeference kept me back on seeing that his Eminence did not take any!\" Don\nVigilio's whole body shivered at the thought that his humility alone had\nsaved him; and on his face and his hands there remained the icy chill of\ndeath which had fallen so near and grazed him as it passed.\n\nThen twice he heaved a sigh, and with a gesture of affright sought to\nbrush the horrid thing away while murmuring: \"Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!\"\n\nPierre, deeply stirred, and knowing what he thought of the train-bearer,\ntried to extract some information from him: \"What do you mean?\" he asked.\n\"Do you accuse him too? Do you think they urged him on, and that it was\nthey at bottom?\"\n\nThe word Jesuits was not even spoken, but a big black shadow passed\nathwart the gay sunlight of the dining-room, and for a moment seemed to\nfill it with darkness. \"They! ah yes!\" exclaimed Don Vigilio, \"they are\neverywhere; it is always they! As soon as one weeps, as soon as one dies,\nthey are mixed up in it. And this is intended for me too; I am quite\nsurprised that I haven't been carried off.\" Then again he raised a dull\nmoan of fear, hatred, and anger: \"Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!\" And he\nrefused to reply any further, but darted scared glances at the walls as\nif from one or another of them he expected to see the train-bearer\nemerge, with his wrinkled flabby face like that of an old maid, his\nfurtive mouse-like trot, and his mysterious, invading hands which had\ngone expressly to bring the forgotten figs from the pantry and deposit\nthem on the table.\n\nAt last the two priests decided to return to the bedroom, where perhaps\nthey might be required; and Pierre on entering was overcome by the\nheart-rending scene which the chamber now presented. Doctor Giordano,\nsuspecting poison, had for half an hour been trying the usual remedies,\nan emetic and then magnesia. Just then, too, he had made Victorine whip\nsome whites of eggs in water. But the disorder was progressing with such\nlightning-like rapidity that all succour was becoming futile. Undressed\nand lying on his back, his bust propped up by pillows and his arms lying\noutstretched over the sheets, Dario looked quite frightful in the sort of\npainful intoxication which characterised that redoubtable and mysterious\ndisorder to which already Monsignor Gallo and others had succumbed. The\nyoung man seemed to be stricken with a sort of dizzy stupor, his eyes\nreceded farther and farther into the depth of their dark sockets, whilst\nhis whole face became withered, aged as it were, and covered with an\nearthy pallor. A moment previously he had closed his eyes, and the only\nsign that he still lived was the heaving of his chest induced by painful\nrespiration. And leaning over his poor dying face stood Benedetta,\nsharing his sufferings, and mastered by such impotent grief that she also\nwas unrecognisable, so white, so distracted by anguish, that it seemed as\nif death were gradually taking her at the same time as it was taking him.\n\nIn the recess by the window whither Cardinal Boccanera had led Doctor\nGiordano, a few words were exchanged in low tones. \"He is lost, is he\nnot?\"\n\nThe doctor made the despairing gesture of one who is vanquished: \"Alas!\nyes. I must warn your Eminence that in an hour all will be over.\"\n\nA short interval of silence followed. \"And the same malady as Gallo, is\nit not?\" asked the Cardinal; and as the doctor trembling and averting his\neyes did not answer he added: \"At all events of an infectious fever!\"\n\nGiordano well understood what the Cardinal thus asked of him: silence,\nthe crime for ever hidden away for the sake of the good renown of his\nmother, the Church. And there could be no loftier, no more tragical\ngrandeur than that of this old man of seventy, still so erect and\nsovereign, who would neither suffer a slur to be cast upon his spiritual\nfamily, nor consent to his human family being dragged into the inevitable\nmire of a sensational murder trial. No, no, there must be none of that,\nthere must be silence, the eternal silence in which all becomes\nforgotten.\n\nAt last the doctor bowed with his gentle air of discretion. \"Evidently,\nof an infectious fever as your Eminence so well says,\" he replied.\n\nTwo big tears then again appeared in Boccanera's eyes. Now that he had\nscreened the Deity from attack in the person of the Church, his heart as\na man again bled. He begged the doctor to make a supreme effort, to\nattempt the impossible; but, pointing to the dying man with trembling\nhands, Giordano shook his head. For his own father, his own mother he\ncould have done nothing. Death was there. So why weary, why torture a\ndying man, whose sufferings he would only have increased? And then, as\nthe Cardinal, finding the end so near at hand, thought of his sister\nSerafina, and lamented that she would not be able to kiss her nephew for\nthe last time if she lingered at the Vatican, the doctor offered to fetch\nher in his carriage which was waiting below. It would not take him more\nthan twenty minutes, said he, and he would be back in time for the end,\nshould he then be needed.\n\nLeft to himself in the window recess the Cardinal remained there\nmotionless for another moment. With eyes blurred by tears, he gazed\ntowards heaven. And his quivering arms were suddenly raised in a gesture\nof ardent entreaty. O God, since the science of man was so limited and\nvain, since that doctor had gone off happy to escape the embarrassment of\nhis impotence, O God, why not a miracle which should proclaim the\nsplendour of Thy Almighty Power! A miracle, a miracle! that was what the\nCardinal asked from the depths of his believing soul, with the\ninsistence, the imperious entreaty of a Prince of the Earth, who deemed\nthat he had rendered considerable services to Heaven by dedicating his\nwhole life to the Church. And he asked for that miracle in order that his\nrace might be perpetuated, in order that its last male scion might not\nthus miserably perish, but be able to marry that fondly loved cousin, who\nnow stood there all woe and tears. A miracle, a miracle for the sake of\nthose two dear children! A miracle which would endow the family with\nfresh life: a miracle which would eternise the glorious name of Boccanera\nby enabling an innumerable posterity of valiant ones and faithful ones to\nspring from that young couple!\n\nWhen the Cardinal returned to the centre of the room he seemed\ntransfigured. Faith had dried his eyes, his soul had become strong and\nsubmissive, exempt from all human weakness. He had placed himself in the\nhands of God, and had resolved that he himself would administer extreme\nunction to Dario. With a gesture he summoned Don Vigilio and led him into\nthe little room which served as a chapel, and the key of which he always\ncarried. A cupboard had been contrived behind the altar of painted wood,\nand the Cardinal went to it to take both stole and surplice. The coffer\ncontaining the Holy Oils was likewise there, a very ancient silver coffer\nbearing the Boccanera arms. And on Don Vigilio following the Cardinal\nback into the bed-room they in turn pronounced the Latin words:\n\n\"/Pax huic domui/.\"\n\n\"/Et omnibus habitantibus in ea/.\"*\n\n  * \"Peace unto this house and unto all who dwell in it.\"--Trans.\n\nDeath was coming so fast and threatening, that all the usual preparations\nwere perforce dispensed with. Neither the two lighted tapers, nor the\nlittle table covered with white cloth had been provided. And, in the same\nway, Don Vigilio the assistant, having failed to bring the Holy Water\nbasin and sprinkler, the Cardinal, as officiating priest, could merely\nmake the gesture of blessing the room and the dying man, whilst\npronouncing the words of the ritual: \"/Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et\nmundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.\"*\n\n  * \"Sprinkle me, Lord, with hyssop, and purify me; wash me, and\n    make me whiter than snow.\"--Trans.\n\nBenedetta on seeing the Cardinal appear carrying the Holy Oils, had with\na long quiver fallen on her knees at the foot of the bed, whilst,\nsomewhat farther away, Pierre and Victorine likewise knelt, overcome by\nthe dolorous grandeur of the scene. And the dilated eyes of the\nContessina, whose face was pale as snow, never quitted her Dario, whom\nshe no longer recognised, so earthy was his face, its skin tanned and\nwrinkled like that of an old man. And it was not for their marriage which\nhe so much desired that their uncle, the all-powerful Prince of the\nChurch, was bringing the Sacrament, but for the supreme rupture, the end\nof all pride, Death which finishes off the haughtiest races, and sweeps\nthem away, even as the wind sweeps the dust of the roads.\n\nIt was needful that there should be no delay, so the Cardinal promptly\nrepeated the Credo in an undertone, \"/Credo in unum Deum--/\"\n\n\"/Amen/,\" responded Don Vigilio, who, after the prayers of the ritual,\nstammered the Litanies in order that Heaven might take pity on the\nwretched man who was about to appear before God, if God by a prodigy did\nnot spare him.\n\nThen, without taking time to wash his fingers, the Cardinal opened the\ncase containing the Holy Oils, and limiting himself to one anointment, as\nis permissible in pressing cases, he deposited a single drop of the oil\non Dario's parched mouth which was already withered by death. And in\ndoing so he repeated the words of the formula, his heart all aglow with\nfaith as he asked that the divine mercy might efface each and every sin\nthat the young man had committed by either of his five senses, those five\nportals by which everlasting temptation assails the soul. And the\nCardinal's fervour was also instinct with the hope that if God had\nsmitten the poor sufferer for his offences, perhaps He would make His\nindulgence entire and even restore him to life as soon as He should have\nforgiven his sins. Life, O Lord, life in order that the ancient line of\nthe Boccaneras might yet multiply and continue to serve Thee in battle\nand at the altar until the end of time!\n\nFor a moment the Cardinal remained with quivering hands, gazing at the\nmute face, the closed eyes of the dying man, and waiting for the miracle.\nBut no sign appeared, not the faintest glimmer brightened that haggard\ncountenance, nor did a sigh of relief come from the withered lips as Don\nVigilio wiped them with a little cotton wool. And the last prayer was\nsaid, and whilst the frightful silence fell once more the Cardinal,\nfollowed by his assistant, returned to the chapel. There they both knelt,\nthe Cardinal plunging into ardent prayer upon the bare tiles. With his\neyes raised to the brass crucifix upon the altar he saw nothing, heard\nnothing, but gave himself wholly to his entreaties, supplicating God to\ntake him in place of his nephew, if a sacrifice were necessary, and yet\nclinging to the hope that so long as Dario retained a breath of life and\nhe himself thus remained on his knees addressing the Deity, he might\nsucceed in pacifying the wrath of Heaven. He was both so humble and so\ngreat. Would not accord surely be established between God and a\nBoccanera? The old palace might have fallen to the ground, he himself\nwould not even have felt the toppling of its beams.\n\nIn the bed-room, however, nothing had yet stirred beneath the weight of\ntragic majesty which the ceremony had left there. It was only now that\nDario raised his eyelids, and when on looking at his hands he saw them so\naged and wasted the depths of his eyes kindled with an expression of\nimmense regretfulness that life should be departing. Doubtless it was at\nthis moment of lucidity amidst the kind of intoxication with which the\npoison overwhelmed him, that he for the first time realised his perilous\ncondition. Ah! to die, amidst such pain, such physical degradation, what\na revolting horror for that frivolous and egotistical man, that lover of\nbeauty, joy, and light, who knew not how to suffer! In him ferocious fate\nchastised racial degeneracy with too heavy a hand. He became horrified\nwith himself, seized with childish despair and terror, which lent him\nstrength enough to sit up and gaze wildly about the room, in order to see\nif every one had not abandoned him. And when his eyes lighted on\nBenedetta still kneeling at the foot of the bed, a supreme impulse\ncarried him towards her, he stretched forth both arms as passionately as\nhis strength allowed and stammered her name: \"O Benedetta, Benedetta!\"\n\nShe, motionless in the stupor of her anxiety, had not taken her eyes from\nhis face. The horrible disorder which was carrying off her lover, seemed\nalso to possess and annihilate her more and more, even as he himself grew\nweaker and weaker. Her features were assuming an immaterial whiteness;\nand through the void of her clear eyeballs one began to espy her soul.\nHowever, when she perceived him thus resuscitating and calling her with\narms outstretched, she in her turn arose and standing beside the bed made\nanswer: \"I am coming, my Dario, here I am.\"\n\nAnd then Pierre and Victorine, still on their knees, beheld a sublime\ndeed of such extraordinary grandeur that they remained rooted to the\nfloor, spell-bound as in the presence of some supra-terrestrial spectacle\nin which human beings may not intervene. Benedetta herself spoke and\nacted like one freed from all social and conventional ties, already\nbeyond life, only seeing and addressing beings and things from a great\ndistance, from the depths of the unknown in which she was about to\ndisappear.\n\n\"Ah! my Dario, so an attempt has been made to part us! It was in order\nthat I might never belong to you--that we might never be happy, that your\ndeath was resolved upon, and it was known that with your life my own must\ncease! And it is that man who is killing you! Yes, he is your murderer,\neven if the actual blow has been dealt by another. He is the first\ncause--he who stole me from you when I was about to become yours, he who\nravaged our lives, and who breathed around us the hateful poison which is\nkilling us. Ah! how I hate him, how I hate him; how I should like to\ncrush him with my hate before I die with you!\"\n\nShe did not raise her voice, but spoke those terrible words in a deep\nmurmur, simply and passionately. Prada was not even named, and she\nscarcely turned towards Pierre--who knelt, paralysed, behind her--to add\nwith a commanding air: \"You will see his father, I charge you to tell him\nthat I cursed his son! That kind-hearted hero loved me well--I love him\neven now, and the words you will carry to him from me will rend his\nheart. But I desire that he should know--he must know, for the sake of\ntruth and justice.\"\n\nDistracted by terror, sobbing amidst a last convulsion, Dario again\nstretched forth his arms, feeling that she was no longer looking at him,\nthat her clear eyes were no longer fixed upon his own: \"Benedetta,\nBenedetta!\"\n\n\"I am coming, I am coming, my Dario--I am here!\" she responded, drawing\nyet nearer to the bedside and almost touching him. \"Ah!\" she went on,\n\"that vow which I made to the Madonna to belong to none, not even you,\nuntil God should allow it by the blessing of one of his priests! Ah! I\nset a noble, a divine pride in remaining immaculate for him who should be\nthe one master of my soul and body. And that chastity which I was so\nproud of, I defended it against the other as one defends oneself against\na wolf, and I defended it against you with tears for fear of sacrilege.\nAnd if you only knew what terrible struggles I was forced to wage with\nmyself, for I loved you and longed to be yours, like a woman who accepts\nthe whole of love, the love that makes wife and mother! Ah! my vow to the\nMadonna--with what difficulty did I keep it when the old blood of our\nrace arose in me like a tempest; and now what a disaster!\" She drew yet\nnearer, and her low voice became more ardent: \"You remember that evening\nwhen you came back with a knife-thrust in your shoulder. I thought you\ndead, and cried aloud with rage at the idea of losing you like that. I\ninsulted the Madonna and regretted that I had not damned myself with you\nthat we might die together, so tightly clasped that we must needs be\nburied together also. And to think that such a terrible warning was of no\navail! I was blind and foolish; and now you are again stricken, again\nbeing taken from my love. Ah! my wretched pride, my idiotic dream!\"\n\nThat which now rang out in her stifled voice was the anger of the\npractical woman that she had ever been, all superstition notwithstanding.\nCould the Madonna, who was so maternal, desire the woe of lovers? No,\nassuredly not. Nor did the angels make the mere absence of a priest a\ncause for weeping over the transports of true and mutual love. Was not\nsuch love holy in itself, and did not the angels rather smile upon it and\nburst into gladsome song! And ah! how one cheated oneself by not loving\nto heart's content under the sun, when the blood of life coursed through\none's veins!\n\n\"Benedetta! Benedetta!\" repeated the dying man, full of child-like terror\nat thus going off all alone into the depths of the black and everlasting\nnight.\n\n\"Here I am, my Dario, I am coming!\"\n\nThen, as she fancied that the servant, albeit motionless, had stirred, as\nif to rise and interfere, she added: \"Leave me, leave me, Victorine,\nnothing in the world can henceforth prevent it. A moment ago, when I was\non my knees, something roused me and urged me on. I know whither I am\ngoing. And besides, did I not swear on the night of the knife thrust? Did\nI not promise to belong to him alone, even in the earth if it were\nnecessary? I must embrace him, and he will carry me away! We shall be\ndead, and we shall be wedded in spite of all, and for ever and for ever!\"\n\nShe stepped back to the dying man, and touched him: \"Here I am, my Dario,\nhere I am!\"\n\nThen came the apogee. Amidst growing exaltation, buoyed up by a blaze of\nlove, careless of glances, candid like a lily, she divested herself of\nher garments and stood forth so white, that neither marble statue, nor\ndove, nor snow itself was ever whiter. \"Here I am, my Dario, here I am!\"\n\nRecoiling almost to the ground as at sight of an apparition, the glorious\nflash of a holy vision, Pierre and Victorine gazed at her with dazzled\neyes. The servant had not stirred to prevent this extraordinary action,\nseized as she was with that shrinking reverential terror which comes upon\none in presence of the wild, mad deeds of faith and passion. And the\npriest, whose limbs were paralysed, felt that something so sublime was\npassing that he could only quiver in distraction. And no thought of\nimpurity came to him on beholding that lily, snowy whiteness. All candour\nand all nobility as she was, that virgin shocked him no more than some\nsculptured masterpiece of genius.\n\n\"Here I am, my Dario, here I am.\"\n\nShe had lain herself down beside the spouse whom she had chosen, she had\nclasped the dying man whose arms only had enough strength left to fold\nthemselves around her. Death was stealing him from her, but she would go\nwith him; and again she murmured: \"My Dario, here I am.\"\n\nAnd at that moment, against the wall at the head of the bed, Pierre\nperceived the escutcheon of the Boccaneras, embroidered in gold and\ncoloured silks on a groundwork of violet velvet. There was the winged\ndragon belching flames, there was the fierce and glowing motto \"/Bocca\nnera, Alma rossa/\" (black mouth, red soul), the mouth darkened by a roar,\nthe soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love. And behold! all that\nold race of passion and violence with its tragic legends had reappeared,\nits blood bubbling up afresh to urge that last and adorable daughter of\nthe line to those terrifying and prodigious nuptials in death. And to\nPierre that escutcheon recalled another memory, that of the portrait of\nCassia Boccanera the /amorosa/ and avengeress who had flung herself into\nthe Tiber with her brother Ercole and the corpse of her lover Flavio. Was\nthere not here even with Benedetta the same despairing clasp seeking to\nvanquish death, the same savagery in hurling oneself into the abyss with\nthe corpse of the one's only love? Benedetta and Cassia were as sisters,\nCassia, who lived anew in the old painting in the /salon/ overhead,\nBenedetta who was here dying of her lover's death, as though she were but\nthe other's spirit. Both had the same delicate childish features, the\nsame mouth of passion, the same large dreamy eyes set in the same round,\npractical, and stubborn head.\n\n\"My Dario, here I am!\"\n\nFor a second, which seemed an eternity, they clasped one another, she\nneither repelled nor terrified by the disorder which made him so\nunrecognisable, but displaying a delirious passion, a holy frenzy as if\nto pass beyond life, to penetrate with him into the black Unknown. And\nbeneath the shock of the felicity at last offered to him he expired, with\nhis arms yet convulsively wound around her as though indeed to carry her\noff. Then, whether from grief or from bliss amidst that embrace of death,\nthere came such a rush of blood to her heart that the organ burst: she\ndied on her lover's neck, both tightly and for ever clasped in one\nanother's arms.\n\nThere was a faint sigh. Victorine understood and drew near, while Pierre,\nalso erect, remained quivering with the tearful admiration of one who has\nbeheld the sublime.\n\n\"Look, look!\" whispered the servant, \"she no longer moves, she no longer\nbreathes. Ah! my poor child, my poor child, she is dead!\"\n\nThen the priest murmured: \"Oh! God, how beautiful they are.\"\n\nIt was true, never had loftier and more resplendent beauty appeared on\nthe faces of the dead. Dario's countenance, so lately aged and earthen,\nhad assumed the pallor and nobility of marble, its features lengthened\nand simplified as by a transport of ineffable joy. Benedetta remained\nvery grave, her lips curved by ardent determination, whilst her whole\nface was expressive of dolorous yet infinite beatitude in a setting of\ninfinite whiteness. Their hair mingled, and their eyes, which had\nremained open, continued gazing as into one another's souls with eternal,\ncaressing sweetness. They were for ever linked, soaring into immortality\namidst the enchantment of their union, vanquishers of death, radiant with\nthe rapturous beauty of love, the conqueror, the immortal.\n\nBut Victorine's sobs at last burst forth, mingled with such lamentations\nthat great confusion followed. Pierre, now quite beside himself, in some\nmeasure failed to understand how it was that the room suddenly became\ninvaded by terrified people. The Cardinal and Don Vigilio, however, must\nhave hastened in from the chapel; and at the same moment, no doubt,\nDoctor Giordano must have returned with Donna Serafina, for both were now\nthere, she stupefied by the blows which had thus fallen on the house in\nher absence, whilst he, the doctor, displayed the perturbation and\nastonishment which comes upon the oldest practitioners when facts seem to\ngive the lie to their experience. However, he sought an explanation of\nBenedetta's death, and hesitatingly ascribed it to aneurism, or possibly\nembolism.\n\nThereupon Victorine, like a servant whose grief makes her the equal of\nher employers, boldly interrupted him: \"Ah! Sir,\" said she, \"they loved\neach other too fondly; did not that suffice for them to die together?\"\n\nMeantime Donna Serafina, after kissing the poor children on the brow,\ndesired to close their eyes; but she could not succeed in doing so, for\nthe lids lifted directly she removed her finger and once more the eyes\nbegan to smile at one another, to exchange in all fixity their loving and\neternal glance. And then as she spoke of parting the bodies, Victorine\nagain protested: \"Oh! madame, oh! madame,\" she said, \"you would have to\nbreak their arms. Cannot you see that their fingers are almost dug into\none another's shoulders? No, they can never be parted!\"\n\nThereupon Cardinal Boccanera intervened. God had not granted the miracle;\nand he, His minister, was livid, tearless, and full of icy despair. But\nhe waved his arm with a sovereign gesture of absolution and\nsanctification, as if, Prince of the Church that he was, disposing of the\nwill of Heaven, he consented that the lovers should appear in that\nembrace before the supreme tribunal. In presence of such wondrous love,\nindeed, profoundly stirred by the sufferings of their lives and the\nbeauty of their death, he showed a broad and lofty contempt for mundane\nproprieties. \"Leave them, leave me, my sister,\" said he, \"do not disturb\ntheir slumber. Let their eyes remain open since they desire to gaze on\none another till the end of time without ever wearying. And let them\nsleep in one another's arms since in their lives they did not sin, and\nonly locked themselves in that embrace in order that they might be laid\ntogether in the ground.\"\n\nAnd then, again becoming a Roman Prince whose proud blood was yet hot\nwith old-time deeds of battle and passion, he added: \"Two Boccaneras may\nwell sleep like that; all Rome will admire them and weep for them. Leave\nthem, leave them together, my sister. God knows them and awaits them!\"\n\nAll knelt, and the Cardinal himself repeated the prayers for the dead.\nNight was coming, increasing gloom stole into the chamber, where two\nburning tapers soon shone out like stars.\n\nAnd then, without knowing how, Pierre again found himself in the little\ndeserted garden on the bank of the Tiber. Suffocating with fatigue and\ngrief, he must have come thither for fresh air. Darkness shrouded the\ncharming nook where the streamlet of water falling from the tragic mask\ninto the ancient sarcophagus ever sang its shrill and flute-like song;\nand the laurel-bush which shaded it, and the bitter box-plants and the\norange-trees skirting the paths now formed but vague masses under the\nblue-black sky. Ah! how gay and sweet had that melancholy garden been in\nthe morning, and what a desolate echo it retained of Benedetta's winsome\nlaughter, all that fine delight in coming happiness which now lay prone\nupstairs, steeped in the nothingness of things and beings! So dolorous\nwas the pang which came to Pierre's heart that he burst into sobs, seated\non the same broken column where she had sat, and encompassed by the same\natmosphere that she had breathed, in which still lingered the perfume of\nher presence.\n\nBut all at once a distant clock struck six, and the young priest started\non remembering that he was to be received by the Pope that very evening\nat nine. Yet three more hours! He had not thought of that interview\nduring the terrifying catastrophe, and it seemed to him now as if months\nand months had gone by, as if the appointment were some very old one\nwhich a man is only able to keep after years of absence, when he has\ngrown aged and had his heart and brain modified by innumerable\nexperiences. However, he made an effort and rose to his feet. In three\nhours' time he would go to the Vatican and at last he would see the Pope.","title":"The Three Cities Trilogy: Rome, Volume 4","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":63070}