ROME

FROM "THE THREE CITIES"

By Emile Zola

Translated By Ernest A. Vizetelly

PREFACE

IN submitting to the English-speaking public this second volume of M. Zola's trilogy "Lourdes, Rome, Paris, " I have no prefatory remarks tooffer on behalf of the author, whose views on Rome, its past, present, and future, will be found fully expounded in the following pages. That abook of this character will, like its forerunner "Lourdes, " provokeconsiderable controversy is certain, but comment or rejoinder may well bepostponed until that controversy has arisen. At present then I onlydesire to say, that in spite of the great labour which I have bestowed onthis translation, I am sensible of its shortcomings, and in a work ofsuch length, such intricacy, and such a wide range of subject, it willnot be surprising if some slips are discovered. Any errors which may bepointed out to me, however, shall be rectified in subsequent editions. Ihave given, I think, the whole essence of M. Zola's text; but he himselfhas admitted to me that he has now and again allowed his pen to run awaywith him, and thus whilst sacrificing nothing of his sense I have attimes abbreviated his phraseology so as slightly to condense the book. Imay add that there are no chapter headings in the original, and that thecircumstances under which the translation was made did not permit me tosupply any whilst it was passing through the press; however, as someindication of the contents of the book--which treats of many more thingsthan are usually found in novels--may be a convenience to the reader, Ihave prepared a table briefly epitomising the chief features of eachsuccessive chapter. 

 E. A. V. 

 MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND, April, 1896. 

 CONTENTS TO PART I. I "NEW ROME"--Abbe Froment in the Eternal City--His First Impressions--His Book and the Rejuvenation of Christianity

 II "BLACK MOUTH, RED SOUL"--The Boccaneras, their Mansion, Ancestors, History, and Friends

 III ROMANS OF THE CHURCH--Cardinals Boccanera and Sanguinetti--Abbes Paparelli and Santobono--Don Vigilio--Monsignor Nani

 CONTENTS TO PART II. IV ROMANS OF NEW ITALY--The Pradas and the Saccos--The Corso and the Pincio

 V THE BLOOD OF AUGUSTUS--The Palaces of the Caesars--The Capitol--The Forum--The Appian Way--The Campagna--The Catacombs--St. Peter's. 

 VI VENUS AND HERCULES--The Vatican--The Sixtine Chapel--Michael Angelo and Raffaelle--Botticelli and Bernini--Gods and Goddesses--The Gardens--Leo XIII--The Revolt of Passion

 CONTENTS TO PART III. VII PRINCE AND PONTIFF--The International Pilgrimage--The Papal Revenue--A Function at St. Peter's--The Pope-King--The Temporal Power

 VIII THE POOR AND THE POPE--The Building Mania--The Financial Crash--The Horrors of the Castle Fields--The Roman Workman--May Christ's Vicar Gamble?--Hopes and Fears of the Papacy

 IX TITO's WARNING--Aspects of Rome--The Via Giulia--The Tiber by Day--The Gardens--The Villa Medici---The Squares--The Fountains--Poussin and the Campagna--The Campo Verano--The Trastevere--The "Palaces"--Aristocracy, Middle Class, Democracy--The Tiber by Night

 CONTENTS TO PART IV. X FROM PILLAR TO POST--The Propaganda--The Index--Dominicans, Jesuits, Franciscans--The Secular Clergy--Roman Worship--Freemasonry--Cardinal Vicar and Cardinal Secretary--The Inquisition. 

 XI POISON!--Frascati--A Cardinal and his Creature--Albano, Castel Gandolfo, Nemi--Across the Campagna--An Osteria--Destiny on the March

 XII THE AGONY OF PASSION--A Roman Gala--The Buongiovannis--The Grey World--The Triumph of Benedetta--King Humbert and Queen Margherita--The Fig-tree of Judas

 XIII DESTINY!--A Happy Morning--The Mid-day Meal--Dario and the Figs--Extreme Unction--Benedetta's Curse--The Lovers' Death

 CONTENTS TO PART V. XIV SUBMISSION--The Vatican by Night--The Papal Anterooms--Some Great Popes--His Holiness's Bed-room--Pierre's Reception--Papal Wrath--Pierre's Appeal--The Pope's Policy--Dogma and Lourdes--Pierre Reprobates his Book

 XV A HOUSE OF MOURNING--Lying in State--Mother and Son--Princess and Work-girl--Nani the Jesuit--Rival Cardinals--The Pontiff of Destruction

 XVI JUDGMENT--Pierre and Orlando--Italian Rome--Wanted, a Democracy--Italy and France--The Rome of the Anarchists--The Agony of Guilt--A Botticelli--The Papacy Condemned--The Coming Schism--The March of Science--The Destruction of Rome--The Victory of Reason--Justice not Charity--Departure--The March of Civilisation--One Fatherland for All Mankind

ROME

PART I. 

I. 

THE train had been greatly delayed during the night between Pisa andCivita Vecchia, and it was close upon nine o'clock in the morning when, after a fatiguing journey of twenty-five hours' duration, Abbe PierreFroment at last reached Rome. He had brought only a valise with him, and, springing hastily out of the railway carriage amidst the scramble of thearrival, he brushed the eager porters aside, intent on carrying histrifling luggage himself, so anxious was he to reach his destination, tobe alone, and look around him. And almost immediately, on the Piazza deiCinquecento, in front of the railway station, he climbed into one of thesmall open cabs ranged alongside the footwalk, and placed the valise nearhim after giving the driver this address:

"Via Giulia, Palazzo Boccanera. "*

 * Boccanera mansion, Julia Street. 

It was a Monday, the 3rd of September, a beautifully bright and mildmorning, with a clear sky overhead. The cabby, a plump little man withsparkling eyes and white teeth, smiled on realising by Pierre's accentthat he had to deal with a French priest. Then he whipped up his leanhorse, and the vehicle started off at the rapid pace customary to theclean and cheerful cabs of Rome. However, on reaching the Piazza delleTerme, after skirting the greenery of a little public garden, the manturned round, still smiling, and pointing to some ruins with his whip, "The baths of Diocletian, " said he in broken French, like an obligingdriver who is anxious to court favour with foreigners in order to securetheir custom. 

Then, at a fast trot, the vehicle descended the rapid slope of the ViaNazionale, which dips down from the summit of the Viminalis, * where therailway station is situated. And from that moment the driver scarcelyceased turning round and pointing at the monuments with his whip. In thisbroad new thoroughfare there were only buildings of recent erection. Still, the wave of the cabman's whip became more pronounced and his voicerose to a higher key, with a somewhat ironical inflection, when he gavethe name of a huge and still chalky pile on his left, a gigantic erectionof stone, overladen with sculptured work-pediments and statues. 

 * One of the seven hills on which Rome is built. The other six are the Capitoline, Aventine, Quirinal, Esquiline, Coelian, and Palatine. These names will perforce frequently occur in the present narrative. 

"The National Bank!" he said. 

Pierre, however, during the week which had followed his resolve to makethe journey, had spent wellnigh every day in studying Roman topography inmaps and books. Thus he could have directed his steps to any given spotwithout inquiring his way, and he anticipated most of the driver'sexplanations. At the same time he was disconcerted by the sudden slopes, the perpetually recurring hills, on which certain districts rose, houseabove house, in terrace fashion. On his right-hand clumps of greenerywere now climbing a height, and above them stretched a long bare yellowbuilding of barrack or convent-like aspect. 

"The Quirinal, the King's palace, " said the driver. 

Lower down, as the cab turned across a triangular square, Pierre, onraising his eyes, was delighted to perceive a sort of aerial garden highabove him--a garden which was upheld by a lofty smooth wall, and whencethe elegant and vigorous silhouette of a parasol pine, many centuriesold, rose aloft into the limpid heavens. At this sight he realised allthe pride and grace of Rome. 

"The Villa Aldobrandini, " the cabman called. 

Then, yet lower down, there came a fleeting vision which decisivelyimpassioned Pierre. The street again made a sudden bend, and in onecorner, beyond a short dim alley, there was a blazing gap of light. On alower level appeared a white square, a well of sunshine, filled with ablinding golden dust; and amidst all that morning glory there arose agigantic marble column, gilt from base to summit on the side which thesun in rising had laved with its beams for wellnigh eighteen hundredyears. And Pierre was surprised when the cabman told him the name of thecolumn, for in his mind he had never pictured it soaring aloft in such adazzling cavity with shadows all around. It was the column of Trajan. 

The Via Nazionale turned for the last time at the foot of the slope. Andthen other names fell hastily from the driver's lips as his horse went onat a fast trot. There was the Palazzo Colonna, with its garden edged bymeagre cypresses; the Palazzo Torlonia, almost ripped open by recent"improvements"; the Palazzo di Venezia, bare and fearsome, with itscrenelated walls, its stern and tragic appearance, that of some fortressof the middle ages, forgotten there amidst the commonplace life ofnowadays. Pierre's surprise increased at the unexpected aspect whichcertain buildings and streets presented; and the keenest blow of all wasdealt him when the cabman with his whip triumphantly called his attentionto the Corso, a long narrow thoroughfare, about as broad as FleetStreet, * white with sunshine on the left, and black with shadows on theright, whilst at the far end the Piazza del Popolo (the Square of thePeople) showed like a bright star. Was this, then, the heart of the city, the vaunted promenade, the street brimful of life, whither flowed all theblood of Rome?

 * M. Zola likens the Corso to the Rue St. Honore in Paris, but I have thought that an English comparison would be preferable in the present version. --Trans. 

However, the cab was already entering the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, whichfollows the Via Nazionale, these being the two piercings effected rightacross the olden city from the railway station to the bridge of St. Angelo. On the left-hand the rounded apsis of the Gesu church lookedquite golden in the morning brightness. Then, between the church and theheavy Altieri palace which the "improvers" had not dared to demolish, thestreet became narrower, and one entered into cold, damp shade. But amoment afterwards, before the facade of the Gesu, when the square wasreached, the sun again appeared, dazzling, throwing golden sheets oflight around; whilst afar off at the end of the Via di Ara Coeli, steepedin shadow, a glimpse could be caught of some sunlit palm-trees. 

"That's the Capitol yonder, " said the cabman. 

The priest hastily leant to the left, but only espied the patch ofgreenery at the end of the dim corridor-like street. The suddenalternations of warm light and cold shade made him shiver. In front ofthe Palazzo di Venezia, and in front of the Gesu, it had seemed to him asif all the night of ancient times were falling icily upon his shoulders;but at each fresh square, each broadening of the new thoroughfares, therecame a return to light, to the pleasant warmth and gaiety of life. Theyellow sunflashes, in falling from the house fronts, sharply outlined theviolescent shadows. Strips of sky, very blue and very benign, could beperceived between the roofs. And it seemed to Pierre that the air hebreathed had a particular savour, which he could not yet quite define, but it was like that of fruit, and increased the feverishness which hadpossessed him ever since his arrival. 

The Corso Vittorio Emanuele is, in spite of its irregularity, a very finemodern thoroughfare; and for a time Pierre might have fancied himself inany great city full of huge houses let out in flats. But when he passedbefore the Cancelleria, * Bramante's masterpiece, the typical monument ofthe Roman Renascence, his astonishment came back to him and his mindreturned to the mansions which he had previously espied, those bare, huge, heavy edifices, those vast cubes of stone-work resembling hospitalsor prisons. Never would he have imagined that the famous Roman "palaces"were like that, destitute of all grace and fancy and externalmagnificence. However, they were considered very fine and must be so; hewould doubtless end by understanding things, but for that he wouldrequire reflection. **

 * Formerly the residence of the Papal Vice-Chancellors. 

 ** It is as well to point out at once that a palazzo is not a palace as we understand the term, but rather a mansion. --Trans. 

All at once the cab turned out of the populous Corso Vittorio Emanueleinto a succession of winding alleys, through which it had difficulty inmaking its way. Quietude and solitude now came back again; the oldencity, cold and somniferous, followed the new city with its brightsunshine and its crowds. Pierre remembered the maps which he hadconsulted, and realised that he was drawing near to the Via Giulia, andthereupon his curiosity, which had been steadily increasing, augmented tosuch a point that he suffered from it, full of despair at not seeing moreand learning more at once. In the feverish state in which he had foundhimself ever since leaving the station, his astonishment at not findingthings such as he had expected, the many shocks that his imagination hadreceived, aggravated his passion beyond endurance, and brought him anacute desire to satisfy himself immediately. Nine o'clock had struck buta few minutes previously, he had the whole morning before him to repairto the Boccanera palace, so why should he not at once drive to theclassic spot, the summit whence one perceives the whole of Rome spreadout upon her seven hills? And when once this thought had entered into hismind it tortured him until he was at last compelled to yield to it. 

The driver no longer turned his head, so that Pierre rose up to give himthis new address: "To San Pietro in Montorio!"

On hearing him the man at first looked astonished, unable to understand. He indicated with his whip that San Pietro was yonder, far away. However, as the priest insisted, he again smiled complacently, with a friendly nodof his head. All right! For his own part he was quite willing. 

The horse then went on at a more rapid pace through the maze of narrowstreets. One of these was pent between high walls, and the daylightdescended into it as into a deep trench. But at the end came a suddenreturn to light, and the Tiber was crossed by the antique bridge ofSixtus IV, right and left of which stretched the new quays, amidst theravages and fresh plaster-work of recent erections. On the other side ofthe river the Trastevere district also was ripped open, and the vehicleascended the slope of the Janiculum by a broad thoroughfare where largeslabs bore the name of Garibaldi. For the last time the driver made agesture of good-natured pride as he named this triumphal route. 

"Via Garibaldi!"

The horse had been obliged to slacken its pace, and Pierre, mastered bychildish impatience, turned round to look at the city as by degrees itspread out and revealed itself behind him. The ascent was a long one;fresh districts were ever rising up, even to the most distant hills. Then, in the increasing emotion which made his heart beat, the youngpriest felt that he was spoiling the contentment of his desire by thusgradually satisfying it, slowly and but partially effecting his conquestof the horizon. He wished to receive the shock full in the face, tobehold all Rome at one glance, to gather the holy city together, andembrace the whole of it at one grasp. And thereupon he musteredsufficient strength of mind to refrain from turning round any more, inspite of the impulses of his whole being. 

There is a spacious terrace on the summit of the incline. The church ofSan Pietro in Montorio stands there, on the spot where, as some say, St. Peter was crucified. The square is bare and brown, baked by the hotsummer suns; but a little further away in the rear, the clear and noisywaters of the Acqua Paola fall bubbling from the three basins of amonumental fountain amidst sempiternal freshness. And alongside theterrace parapet, on the very crown of the Trastevere, there are alwaysrows of tourists, slim Englishmen and square-built Germans, agape withtraditional admiration, or consulting their guide-books in order toidentify the monuments. 

Pierre sprang lightly from the cab, leaving his valise on the seat, andmaking a sign to the driver, who went to join the row of waiting cabs, and remained philosophically seated on his box in the full sunlight, hishead drooping like that of his horse, both resigning themselves to thecustomary long stoppage. 

Meantime Pierre, erect against the parapet, in his tight black cassock, and with his bare feverish hands nervously clenched, was gazing beforehim with all his eyes, with all his soul. Rome! Rome! the city of theCaesars, the city of the Popes, the Eternal City which has twiceconquered the world, the predestined city of the glowing dream in whichhe had indulged for months! At last it was before him, at last his eyesbeheld it! During the previous days some rainstorms had abated theintense August heat, and on that lovely September morning the air hadfreshened under the pale blue of the spotless far-spreading heavens. Andthe Rome that Pierre beheld was a Rome steeped in mildness, a visionaryRome which seemed to evaporate in the clear sunshine. A fine bluey haze, scarcely perceptible, as delicate as gauze, hovered over the roofs of thelow-lying districts; whilst the vast Campagna, the distant hills, diedaway in a pale pink flush. At first Pierre distinguished nothing, soughtno particular edifice or spot, but gave sight and soul alike to the wholeof Rome, to the living colossus spread out below him, on a soilcompounded of the dust of generations. Each century had renewed thecity's glory as with the sap of immortal youth. And that which struckPierre, that which made his heart leap within him, was that he found Romesuch as he had desired to find her, fresh and youthful, with a volatile, almost incorporeal, gaiety of aspect, smiling as at the hope of a newlife in the pure dawn of a lovely day. 

And standing motionless before the sublime vista, with his hands stillclenched and burning, Pierre in a few minutes again lived the last threeyears of his life. Ah! what a terrible year had the first been, spent inhis little house at Neuilly, with doors and windows ever closed, burrowing there like some wounded animal suffering unto death. He hadcome back from Lourdes with his soul desolate, his heart bleeding, withnought but ashes within him. Silence and darkness fell upon the ruins ofhis love and his faith. Days and days went by, without a pulsation of hisveins, without the faintest gleam arising to brighten the gloom of hisabandonment. His life was a mechanical one; he awaited the necessarycourage to resume the tenor of existence in the name of sovereign reason, which had imposed upon him the sacrifice of everything. Why was he notstronger, more resistant, why did he not quietly adapt his life to hisnew opinions? As he was unwilling to cast off his cassock, throughfidelity to the love of one and disgust of backsliding, why did he notseek occupation in some science suited to a priest, such as astronomy orarchaeology? The truth was that something, doubtless his mother's spirit, wept within him, an infinite, distracted love which nothing had yetsatisfied and which ever despaired of attaining contentment. Therein laythe perpetual suffering of his solitude: beneath the lofty dignity ofreason regained, the wound still lingered, raw and bleeding. 

One autumn evening, however, under a dismal rainy sky, chance brought himinto relations with an old priest, Abbe Rose, who was curate at thechurch of Ste. Marguerite, in the Faubourg St. Antoine. He went to seeAbbe Rose in the Rue de Charonne, where in the depths of a damp groundfloor he had transformed three rooms into an asylum for abandonedchildren, whom he picked up in the neighbouring streets. And from thatmoment Pierre's life changed, a fresh and all-powerful source of interesthad entered into it, and by degrees he became the old priest's passionatehelper. It was a long way from Neuilly to the Rue de Charonne, and atfirst he only made the journey twice a week. But afterwards he bestirredhimself every day, leaving home in the morning and not returning untilnight. As the three rooms no longer sufficed for the asylum, he rentedthe first floor of the house, reserving for himself a chamber in whichultimately he often slept. And all his modest income was expended there, in the prompt succouring of poor children; and the old priest, delighted, touched to tears by the young devoted help which had come to him fromheaven, would often embrace Pierre, weeping, and call him a child of God. 

It was then that Pierre knew want and wretchedness--wicked, abominablewretchedness; then that he lived amidst it for two long years. Theacquaintance began with the poor little beings whom he picked up on thepavements, or whom kind-hearted neighbours brought to him now that theasylum was known in the district--little boys, little girls, tiny mitesstranded on the streets whilst their fathers and mothers were toiling, drinking, or dying. The father had often disappeared, the mother had gonewrong, drunkenness and debauchery had followed slack times into the home;and then the brood was swept into the gutter, and the younger ones halfperished of cold and hunger on the footways, whilst their elders betookthemselves to courses of vice and crime. One evening Pierre rescued fromthe wheels of a stone-dray two little nippers, brothers, who could noteven give him an address, tell him whence they had come. On anotherevening he returned to the asylum with a little girl in his arms, afair-haired little angel, barely three years old, whom he had found on abench, and who sobbed, saying that her mother had left her there. And bya logical chain of circumstances, after dealing with the fleshless, pitiful fledglings ousted from their nests, he came to deal with theparents, to enter their hovels, penetrating each day further and furtherinto a hellish sphere, and ultimately acquiring knowledge of all itsfrightful horror, his heart meantime bleeding, rent by terrified anguishand impotent charity. 

Oh! the grievous City of Misery, the bottomless abyss of human sufferingand degradation--how frightful were his journeys through it during thosetwo years which distracted his whole being! In that Ste. Margueritedistrict of Paris, in the very heart of that Faubourg St. Antoine, soactive and so brave for work, however hard, he discovered no end ofsordid dwellings, whole lanes and alleys of hovels without light or air, cellar-like in their dampness, and where a multitude of wretches wallowedand suffered as from poison. All the way up the shaky staircases one'sfeet slipped upon filth. On every story there was the same destitution, dirt, and promiscuity. Many windows were paneless, and in swept the windhowling, and the rain pouring torrentially. Many of the inmates slept onthe bare tiled floors, never unclothing themselves. There was neitherfurniture nor linen, the life led there was essentially an animal life, acommingling of either sex and of every age--humanity lapsing intoanimality through lack of even indispensable things, through indigence ofso complete a character that men, women, and children fought even withtooth and nail for the very crumbs swept from the tables of the rich. Andthe worst of it all was the degradation of the human being; this was nocase of the free naked savage, hunting and devouring his prey in theprimeval forests; here civilised man was found, sunk into brutishness, with all the stigmas of his fall, debased, disfigured, and enfeebled, amidst the luxury and refinement of that city of Paris which is one ofthe queens of the world. 

In every household Pierre heard the same story. There had been youth andgaiety at the outset, brave acceptance of the law that one must work. Then weariness had come; what was the use of always toiling if one werenever to get rich? And so, by way of snatching a share of happiness, thehusband turned to drink; the wife neglected her home, also drinking attimes, and letting the children grow up as they might. Sordidsurroundings, ignorance, and overcrowding did the rest. In the greatmajority of cases, prolonged lack of work was mostly to blame; for thisnot only empties the drawers of the savings hidden away in them, butexhausts human courage, and tends to confirmed habits of idleness. Duringlong weeks the workshops empty, and the arms of the toilers losestrength. In all Paris, so feverishly inclined to action, it isimpossible to find the slightest thing to do. And then the husband comeshome in the evening with tearful eyes, having vainly offered his armseverywhere, having failed even to get a job at street-sweeping, for thatemployment is much sought after, and to secure it one needs influence andprotectors. Is it not monstrous to see a man seeking work that he mayeat, and finding no work and therefore no food in this great cityresplendent and resonant with wealth? The wife does not eat, the childrendo not eat. And then comes black famine, brutishness, and finally revoltand the snapping of all social ties under the frightful injustice metedout to poor beings who by their weakness are condemned to death. And theold workman, he whose limbs have been worn out by half a century of hardtoil, without possibility of saving a copper, on what pallet of agony, inwhat dark hole must he not sink to die? Should he then be finished offwith a mallet, like a crippled beast of burden, on the day when ceasingto work he also ceases to eat? Almost all pass away in the hospitals, others disappear, unknown, swept off by the muddy flow of the streets. One morning, on some rotten straw in a loathsome hovel, Pierre found apoor devil who had died of hunger and had been forgotten there for aweek. The rats had devoured his face. 

But it was particularly on an evening of the last winter that Pierre'sheart had overflowed with pity. Awful in winter time are the sufferingsof the poor in their fireless hovels, where the snow penetrates by everychink. The Seine rolls blocks of ice, the soil is frost-bound, in allsorts of callings there is an enforced cessation of work. Bands ofurchins, barefooted, scarcely clad, hungry and racked by coughing, wanderabout the ragpickers' "rents" and are carried off by sudden hurricanes ofconsumption. Pierre found families, women with five and six children, whohad not eaten for three days, and who huddled together in heaps to try tokeep themselves warm. And on that terrible evening, before anybody else, he went down a dark passage and entered a room of terror, where he foundthat a mother had just committed suicide with her five littleones--driven to it by despair and hunger--a tragedy of misery which for afew hours would make all Paris shudder! There was not an article offurniture or linen left in the place; it had been necessary to selleverything bit by bit to a neighbouring dealer. There was nothing but thestove where the charcoal was still smoking and a half-emptied palliasseon which the mother had fallen, suckling her last-born, a babe but threemonths old. And a drop of blood had trickled from the nipple of herbreast, towards which the dead infant still protruded its eager lips. Twolittle girls, three and five years old, two pretty little blondes, werealso lying there, sleeping the eternal sleep side by side; whilst of thetwo boys, who were older, one had succumbed crouching against the wallwith his head between his hands, and the other had passed through thelast throes on the floor, struggling as though he had sought to crawl onhis knees to the window in order to open it. Some neighbours, hurryingin, told Pierre the fearful commonplace story; slow ruin, the fatherunable to find work, perchance taking to drink, the landlord weary ofwaiting, threatening the family with expulsion, and the mother losing herhead, thirsting for death, and prevailing on her little ones to die withher, while her husband, who had been out since the morning, was vainlyscouring the streets. Just as the Commissary of Police arrived to verifywhat had happened, the poor devil returned, and when he had seen andunderstood things, he fell to the ground like a stunned ox, and raised aprolonged, plaintive howl, such a poignant cry of death that the wholeterrified street wept at it. 

Both in his ears and in his heart Pierre carried away with him thathorrible cry, the plaint of a condemned race expiring amidst abandonmentand hunger; and that night he could neither eat nor sleep. Was itpossible that such abomination, such absolute destitution, such blackmisery leading straight to death should exist in the heart of that greatcity of Paris, brimful of wealth, intoxicated with enjoyment, flingingmillions out of the windows for mere pleasure? What! there should on oneside be such colossal fortunes, so many foolish fancies gratified, withlives endowed with every happiness, whilst on the other was foundinveterate poverty, lack even of bread, absence of every hope, andmothers killing themselves with their babes, to whom they had nought tooffer but the blood of their milkless breast! And a feeling of revoltstirred Pierre; he was for a moment conscious of the derisive futility ofcharity. What indeed was the use of doing that which he did--picking upthe little ones, succouring the parents, prolonging the sufferings of theaged? The very foundations of the social edifice were rotten; all wouldsoon collapse amid mire and blood. A great act of justice alone couldsweep the old world away in order that the new world might be built. Andat that moment he realised so keenly how irreparable was the breach, howirremediable the evil, how deathly the cancer of misery, that heunderstood the actions of the violent, and was himself ready to acceptthe devastating and purifying whirlwind, the regeneration of the world byflame and steel, even as when in the dim ages Jehovah in His wrath sentfire from heaven to cleanse the accursed cities of the plains. 

However, on hearing him sob that evening, Abbe Rose came up toremonstrate in fatherly fashion. The old priest was a saint, endowed withinfinite gentleness and infinite hope. Why despair indeed when one hadthe Gospel? Did not the divine commandment, "Love one another, " sufficefor the salvation of the world? He, Abbe Rose, held violence in horrorand was wont to say that, however great the evil, it would soon beovercome if humanity would but turn backward to the age of humility, simplicity, and purity, when Christians lived together in innocentbrotherhood. What a delightful picture he drew of evangelical society, ofwhose second coming he spoke with quiet gaiety as though it were to takeplace on the very morrow! And Pierre, anxious to escape from hisfrightful recollections, ended by smiling, by taking pleasure in AbbeRose's bright consoling tale. They chatted until a late hour, and on thefollowing days reverted to the same subject of conversation, one whichthe old priest was very fond of, ever supplying new particulars, andspeaking of the approaching reign of love and justice with the touchingconfidence of a good if simple man, who is convinced that he will not dietill he shall have seen the Deity descend upon earth. 

And now a fresh evolution took place in Pierre's mind. The practice ofbenevolence in that poor district had developed infinite compassion inhis breast, his heart failed him, distracted, rent by contemplation ofthe misery which he despaired of healing. And in this awakening of hisfeelings he often thought that his reason was giving way, he seemed to beretracing his steps towards childhood, to that need of universal lovewhich his mother had implanted in him, and dreamt of chimericalsolutions, awaiting help from the unknown powers. Then his fears, hishatred of the brutality of facts at last brought him an increasing desireto work salvation by love. No time should be lost in seeking to avert thefrightful catastrophe which seemed inevitable, the fratricidal war ofclasses which would sweep the old world away beneath the accumulation ofits crimes. Convinced that injustice had attained its apogee, that butlittle time remained before the vengeful hour when the poor would compelthe rich to part with their possessions, he took pleasure in dreaming ofa peaceful solution, a kiss of peace exchanged by all men, a return tothe pure morals of the Gospel as it had been preached by Jesus. 

Doubts tortured him at the outset. Could olden Catholicism berejuvenated, brought back to the youth and candour of primitiveChristianity? He set himself to study things, reading and questioning, and taking a more and more passionate interest in that great problem ofCatholic socialism which had made no little noise for some years past. And quivering with pity for the wretched, ready as he was for the miracleof fraternisation, he gradually lost such scruples as intelligence mighthave prompted, and persuaded himself that once again Christ would workthe redemption of suffering humanity. At last a precise idea tookpossession of him, a conviction that Catholicism purified, brought backto its original state, would prove the one pact, the supreme law thatmight save society by averting the sanguinary crisis which threatened it. 

When he had quitted Lourdes two years previously, revolted by all itsgross idolatry, his faith for ever dead, but his mind worried by theeverlasting need of the divine which tortures human creatures, a cry hadarisen within him from the deepest recesses of his being: "A newreligion! a new religion!" And it was this new religion, or rather thisrevived religion which he now fancied he had discovered in his desire towork social salvation--ensuring human happiness by means of the onlymoral authority that was erect, the distant outcome of the most admirableimplement ever devised for the government of nations. 

During the period of slow development through which Pierre passed, twomen, apart from Abbe Rose, exercised great influence on him. A benevolentaction brought him into intercourse with Monseigneur Bergerot, a bishopwhom the Pope had recently created a cardinal, in reward for a whole lifeof charity, and this in spite of the covert opposition of the papal_curia_ which suspected the French prelate to be a man of open mind, governing his diocese in paternal fashion. Pierre became more impassionedby his intercourse with this apostle, this shepherd of souls, in whom hedetected one of the good simple leaders that he desired for the futurecommunity. However, his apostolate was influenced even more decisively bymeeting Viscount Philibert de la Choue at the gatherings of certainworkingmen's Catholic associations. A handsome man, with militarymanners, and a long noble-looking face, spoilt by a small and broken nosewhich seemed to presage the ultimate defeat of a badly balanced mind, theViscount was one of the most active agitators of Catholic socialism inFrance. He was the possessor of vast estates, a vast fortune, though itwas said that some unsuccessful agricultural enterprises had alreadyreduced his wealth by nearly one-half. In the department where hisproperty was situated he had been at great pains to establish modelfarms, at which he had put his ideas on Christian socialism intopractice, but success did not seem to follow him. However, it had allhelped to secure his election as a deputy, and he spoke in the Chamber, unfolding the programme of his party in long and stirring speeches. 

Unwearying in his ardour, he also led pilgrimages to Rome, presided overmeetings, and delivered lectures, devoting himself particularly to thepeople, the conquest of whom, so he privately remarked, could aloneensure the triumph of the Church. And thus he exercised considerableinfluence over Pierre, who in him admired qualities which himself did notpossess--an organising spirit and a militant if somewhat blundering will, entirely applied to the revival of Christian society in France. However, though the young priest learnt a good deal by associating with him, henevertheless remained a sentimental dreamer, whose imagination, disdainful of political requirements, straightway winged its flight tothe future abode of universal happiness; whereas the Viscount aspired tocomplete the downfall of the liberal ideas of 1789 by utilising thedisillusion and anger of the democracy to work a return towards the past. 

Pierre spent some delightful months. Never before had neophyte lived soentirely for the happiness of others. He was all love, consumed by thepassion of his apostolate. The sight of the poor wretches whom hevisited, the men without work, the women, the children without bread, filled him with a keener and keener conviction that a new religion mustarise to put an end to all the injustice which otherwise would bring therebellious world to a violent death. And he was resolved to employ allhis strength in effecting and hastening the intervention of the divine, the resuscitation of primitive Christianity. His Catholic faith remaineddead; he still had no belief in dogmas, mysteries, and miracles; but ahope sufficed him, the hope that the Church might still work good, byconnecting itself with the irresistible modern democratic movement, so asto save the nations from the social catastrophe which impended. His soulhad grown calm since he had taken on himself the mission of replantingthe Gospel in the hearts of the hungry and growling people of theFaubourgs. He was now leading an active life, and suffered less from thefrightful void which he had brought back from Lourdes; and as he nolonger questioned himself, the anguish of uncertainty no longer torturedhim. It was with the serenity which attends the simple accomplishment ofduty that he continued to say his mass. He even finished by thinking thatthe mystery which he thus celebrated--indeed, that all the mysteries andall the dogmas were but symbols--rites requisite for humanity in itschildhood, which would be got rid of later on, when enlarged, purified, and instructed humanity should be able to support the brightness of nakedtruth. 

And in his zealous desire to be useful, his passion to proclaim hisbelief aloud, Pierre one morning found himself at his table writing abook. This had come about quite naturally; the book proceeded from himlike a heart-cry, without any literary idea having crossed his mind. Onenight, whilst he lay awake, its title suddenly flashed before his eyes inthe darkness: "NEW ROME. " That expressed everything, for must not the newredemption of the nations originate in eternal and holy Rome? The onlyexisting authority was found there; rejuvenescence could only spring fromthe sacred soil where the old Catholic oak had grown. He wrote his bookin a couple of months, having unconsciously prepared himself for the workby his studies in contemporary socialism during a year past. There was abubbling flow in his brain as in a poet's; it seemed to him sometimes asif he dreamt those pages, as if an internal distant voice dictated themto him. 

When he read passages written on the previous day to Viscount Philibertde la Choue, the latter often expressed keen approval of them from apractical point of view, saying that one must touch the people in orderto lead them, and that it would also be a good plan to compose pious andyet amusing songs for singing in the workshops. As for MonseigneurBergerot, without examining the book from the dogmatic standpoint, he wasdeeply touched by the glowing breath of charity which every page exhaled, and was even guilty of the imprudence of writing an approving letter tothe author, which letter he authorised him to insert in his work by wayof preface. And yet now the Congregation of the Index Expurgatorius wasabout to place this book, issued in the previous June, under interdict;and it was to defend it that the young priest had hastened to Rome, inflamed by the desire to make his ideas prevail, and resolved to pleadhis cause in person before the Holy Father, having, he was convinced ofit, simply given expression to the pontiff's views. 

Pierre had not stirred whilst thus living his three last years afresh: hestill stood erect before the parapet, before Rome, which he had so oftendreamt of and had so keenly desired to see. There was a constantsuccession of arriving and departing vehicles behind him; the slimEnglishmen and the heavy Germans passed away after bestowing on theclassic view the five minutes prescribed by their guidebooks; whilst thedriver and the horse of Pierre's cab remained waiting complacently, eachwith his head drooping under the bright sun, which was heating the valiseon the seat of the vehicle. And Pierre, in his black cassock, seemed tohave grown slimmer and elongated, very slight of build, as he stood theremotionless, absorbed in the sublime spectacle. He had lost flesh afterhis journey to Lourdes, his features too had become less pronounced. Since his mother's part in his nature had regained ascendency, the broad, straight forehead, the intellectual air which he owed to his fatherseemed to have grown less conspicuous, while his kind and somewhat largemouth, and his delicate chin, bespeaking infinite affection, dominated, revealing his soul, which also glowed in the kindly sparkle of his eyes. 

Ah! how tender and glowing were the eyes with which he gazed upon theRome of his book, the new Rome that he had dreamt of! If, first of all, the _ensemble_ had claimed his attention in the soft and somewhat veiledlight of that lovely morning, at present he could distinguish details, and let his glance rest upon particular edifices. And it was withchildish delight that he identified them, having long studied them inmaps and collections of photographs. Beneath his feet, at the bottom ofthe Janiculum, stretched the Trastevere district with its chaos of oldruddy houses, whose sunburnt tiles hid the course of the Tiber. He wassomewhat surprised by the flattish aspect of everything as seen from theterraced summit. It was as though a bird's-eye view levelled the city, the famous hills merely showing like bosses, swellings scarcelyperceptible amidst the spreading sea of house-fronts. Yonder, on theright, distinct against the distant blue of the Alban mountains, wascertainly the Aventine with its three churches half-hidden by foliage;there, too, was the discrowned Palatine, edged as with black fringe by aline of cypresses. In the rear, the Coelian hill faded away, showing onlythe trees of the Villa Mattei paling in the golden sunshine. The slenderspire and two little domes of Sta. Maria Maggiore alone indicated thesummit of the Esquiline, right in front and far away at the other end ofthe city; whilst on the heights of the neighbouring Viminal, Pierre onlyperceived a confused mass of whitish blocks, steeped in light andstreaked with fine brown lines--recent erections, no doubt, which at thatdistance suggested an abandoned stone quarry. He long sought the Capitolwithout being able to discover it; he had to take his bearings, and endedby convincing himself that the square tower, modestly lost amongsurrounding house-roofs, which he saw in front of Sta. Maria Maggiore wasits campanile. Next, on the left, came the Quirinal, recognisable by thelong facade of the royal palace, a barrack or hospital-like facade, flat, crudely yellow in hue, and pierced by an infinite number of regularlydisposed windows. However, as Pierre was completing the circuit, a suddenvision made him stop short. Without the city, above the trees of theBotanical Garden, the dome of St. Peter's appeared to him. It seemed tobe poised upon the greenery, and rose up into the pure blue sky, sky-blueitself and so ethereal that it mingled with the azure of the infinite. The stone lantern which surmounts it, white and dazzling, looked asthough it were suspended on high. 

Pierre did not weary, and his glances incessantly travelled from one endof the horizon to the other. They lingered on the noble outlines, theproud gracefulness of the town-sprinkled Sabine and Alban mountains, whose girdle limited the expanse. The Roman Campagna spread out in farstretches, bare and majestic, like a desert of death, with the glaucousgreen of a stagnant sea; and he ended by distinguishing "the stern roundtower" of the tomb of Cecilia Metella, behind which a thin pale lineindicated the ancient Appian Way. Remnants of aqueducts strewed the shortherbage amidst the dust of the fallen worlds. And, bringing his glancenearer in, the city again appeared with its jumble of edifices, on whichhis eyes lighted at random. Close at hand, by its loggia turned towardsthe river, he recognised the huge tawny cube of the Palazzo Farnese. Thelow cupola, farther away and scarcely visible, was probably that of thePantheon. Then by sudden leaps came the freshly whitened walls of SanPaolo-fuori-le-Mura, * similar to those of some huge barn, and the statuescrowning San Giovanni in Laterano, delicate, scarcely as big as insects. Next the swarming of domes, that of the Gesu, that of San Carlo, that ofSt'. Andrea della Valle, that of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini; then anumber of other sites and edifices, all quivering with memories, thecastle of St'. Angelo with its glittering statue of the Destroying Angel, the Villa Medici dominating the entire city, the terrace of the Pinciowith its marbles showing whitely among its scanty verdure; and thethick-foliaged trees of the Villa Borghese, whose green crests boundedthe horizon. Vainly however did Pierre seek the Colosseum. 

 * St. Paul-beyond-the-walls. 

The north wind, which was blowing very mildly, had now begun to dissipatethe morning haze. Whole districts vigorously disentangled themselves, andshowed against the vaporous distance like promontories in a sunlit sea. Here and there, in the indistinct swarming of houses, a strip of whitewall glittered, a row of window panes flared, or a garden supplied ablack splotch, of wondrous intensity of hue. And all the rest, the medleyof streets and squares, the endless blocks of buildings, scattered abouton either hand, mingled and grew indistinct in the living glory of thesun, whilst long coils of white smoke, which had ascended from the roofs, slowly traversed the pure sky. 

Guided by a secret influence, however, Pierre soon ceased to takeinterest in all but three points of the mighty panorama. That line ofslender cypresses which set a black fringe on the height of the Palatineyonder filled him with emotion: beyond it he saw only a void: the palacesof the Caesars had disappeared, had fallen, had been razed by time; andhe evoked their memory, he fancied he could see them rise like vague, trembling phantoms of gold amidst the purple of that splendid morning. Then his glances reverted to St. Peter's, and there the dome yet soaredaloft, screening the Vatican which he knew was beside the colossus, clinging to its flanks. And that dome, of the same colour as the heavens, appeared so triumphant, so full of strength, so vast, that it seemed tohim like a giant king, dominating the whole city and seen from every spotthroughout eternity. Then he fixed his eyes on the height in front ofhim, on the Quirinal, and there the King's palace no longer appearedaught but a flat low barracks bedaubed with yellow paint. 

And for him all the secular history of Rome, with its constantconvulsions and successive resurrections, found embodiment in thatsymbolical triangle, in those three summits gazing at one another acrossthe Tiber. Ancient Rome blossoming forth in a piling up of palaces andtemples, the monstrous florescence of imperial power and splendour; PapalRome, victorious in the middle ages, mistress of the world, bringing thatcolossal church, symbolical of beauty regained, to weigh upon allChristendom; and the Rome of to-day, which he knew nothing of, which hehad neglected, and whose royal palace, so bare and so cold, brought himdisparaging ideas--the idea of some out-of-place, bureaucratic effort, some sacrilegious attempt at modernity in an exceptional city whichshould have been left entirely to the dreams of the future. However, heshook off the almost painful feelings which the importunate presentbrought to him, and would not let his eyes rest on a pale new district, quite a little town, in course of erection, no doubt, which he coulddistinctly see near St. Peter's on the margin of the river. He had dreamtof his own new Rome, and still dreamt of it, even in front of thePalatine whose edifices had crumbled in the dust of centuries, of thedome of St. Peter's whose huge shadow lulled the Vatican to sleep, of thePalace of the Quirinal repaired and repainted, reigning in homely fashionover the new districts which swarmed on every side, while with its ruddyroofs the olden city, ripped up by improvements, coruscated beneath thebright morning sun. 

Again did the title of his book, "NEW ROME, " flare before Pierre's eyes, and another reverie carried him off; he lived his book afresh even as hehad just lived his life. He had written it amid a flow of enthusiasm, utilising the _data_ which he had accumulated at random; and its divisioninto three parts, past, present, and future, had at once forced itselfupon him. 

The PAST was the extraordinary story of primitive Christianity, of theslow evolution which had turned this Christianity into present-dayCatholicism. He showed that an economical question is invariably hiddenbeneath each religious evolution, and that, upon the whole, theeverlasting evil, the everlasting struggle, has never been aught but onebetween the rich and the poor. Among the Jews, when their nomadic lifewas over, and they had conquered the land of Canaan, and ownership andproperty came into being, a class warfare at once broke out. There wererich, and there were poor; thence arose the social question. Thetransition had been sudden, and the new state of things so rapidly wentfrom bad to worse that the poor suffered keenly, and protested with thegreater violence as they still remembered the golden age of the nomadiclife. Until the time of Jesus the prophets are but rebels who surge fromout the misery of the people, proclaim its sufferings, and vent theirwrath upon the rich, to whom they prophesy every evil in punishment fortheir injustice and their harshness. Jesus Himself appears as theclaimant of the rights of the poor. The prophets, whether socialists oranarchists, had preached social equality, and called for the destructionof the world if it were unjust. Jesus likewise brings to the wretchedhatred of the rich. All His teaching threatens wealth and property; andif by the Kingdom of Heaven which He promised one were to understandpeace and fraternity upon this earth, there would only be a question ofreturning to a life of pastoral simplicity, to the dream of the Christiancommunity, such as after Him it would seem to have been realised by Hisdisciples. During the first three centuries each Church was an experimentin communism, a real association whose members possessed all incommon--wives excepted. This is shown to us by the apologists and earlyfathers of the Church. Christianity was then but the religion of thehumble and the poor, a form of democracy, of socialism struggling againstRoman society. And when the latter toppled over, rotted by money, itsuccumbed far more beneath the results of frantic speculation, swindlingbanks, and financial disasters, than beneath the onslaught of barbarianhordes and the stealthy, termite-like working of the Christians. 

The money question will always be found at the bottom of everything. Anda new proof of this was supplied when Christianity, at last triumphing byvirtue of historical, social, and human causes, was proclaimed a Statereligion. To ensure itself complete victory it was forced to range itselfon the side of the rich and the powerful; and one should see by means ofwhat artfulness and sophistry the fathers of the Church succeeded indiscovering a defence of property and wealth in the Gospel of Jesus. Allthis, however, was a vital political necessity for Christianity; it wasonly at this price that it became Catholicism, the universal religion. From that time forth the powerful machine, the weapon of conquest andrule, was reared aloft: up above were the powerful and the wealthy, thosewhose duty it was to share with the poor, but who did not do so; whiledown below were the poor, the toilers, who were taught resignation andobedience, and promised the kingdom of futurity, the divine and eternalreward--an admirable monument which has lasted for ages, and which isentirely based on the promise of life beyond life, on theinextinguishable thirst for immortality and justice that consumesmankind. 

Pierre had completed this first part of his book, this history of thepast, by a broad sketch of Catholicism until the present time. Firstappeared St. Peter, ignorant and anxious, coming to Rome by aninspiration of genius, there to fulfil the ancient oracles which hadpredicted the eternity of the Capitol. Then came the first popes, mereheads of burial associations, the slow rise of the all-powerful papacyever struggling to conquer the world, unremittingly seeking to realiseits dream of universal domination. At the time of the great popes of themiddle ages it thought for a moment that it had attained its goal, thatit was the sovereign master of the nations. Would not absolute truth andright consist in the pope being both pontiff and ruler of the world, reigning over both the souls and the bodies of all men, even like theDeity whose vicar he is? This, the highest and mightiest of allambitions, one, too, that is perfectly logical, was attained by Augustus, emperor and pontiff, master of all the known world; and it is theglorious figure of Augustus, ever rising anew from among the ruins ofancient Rome, which has always haunted the popes; it is his blood whichhas pulsated in their veins. 

But power had become divided into two parts amidst the crumbling of theRoman empire; it was necessary to content oneself with a share, and leavetemporal government to the emperor, retaining over him, however, theright of coronation by divine grant. The people belonged to God, and inGod's name the pope gave the people to the emperor, and could take itfrom him; an unlimited power whose most terrible weapon wasexcommunication, a superior sovereignty, which carried the papacy towardsreal and final possession of the empire. Looking at things broadly, theeverlasting quarrel between the pope and the emperor was a quarrel forthe people, the inert mass of humble and suffering ones, the great silentmultitude whose irremediable wretchedness was only revealed by occasionalcovert growls. It was disposed of, for its good, as one might dispose ofa child. Yet the Church really contributed to civilisation, renderedconstant services to humanity, diffused abundant alms. In the convents, at any rate, the old dream of the Christian community was ever comingback: one-third of the wealth accumulated for the purposes of worship, the adornment and glorification of the shrine, one-third for the priests, and one-third for the poor. Was not this a simplification of life, ameans of rendering existence possible to the faithful who had no earthlydesires, pending the marvellous contentment of heavenly life? Give us, then, the whole earth, and we will divide terrestrial wealth into threesuch parts, and you shall see what a golden age will reign amidst theresignation and the obedience of all!

However, Pierre went on to show how the papacy was assailed by thegreatest dangers on emerging from its all-powerfulness of the middleages. It was almost swept away amidst the luxury and excesses of theRenascence, the bubbling of living sap which then gushed from eternalnature, downtrodden and regarded as dead for ages past. More threateningstill were the stealthy awakenings of the people, of the great silentmultitude whose tongue seemed to be loosening. The Reformation burstforth like the protest of reason and justice, like a recall to thedisregarded truths of the Gospel; and to escape total annihilation Romeneeded the stern defence of the Inquisition, the slow stubborn labour ofthe Council of Trent, which strengthened the dogmas and ensured thetemporal power. And then the papacy entered into two centuries of peaceand effacement, for the strong absolute monarchies which had dividedEurope among themselves could do without it, and had ceased to tremble atthe harmless thunderbolts of excommunication or to look on the pope asaught but a master of ceremonies, controlling certain rites. Thepossession of the people was no longer subject to the same rules. Allowing that the kings still held the people from God, it was the pope'sduty to register the donation once for all, without ever intervening, whatever the circumstances, in the government of states. Never was Romefarther away from the realisation of its ancient dream of universaldominion. And when the French Revolution burst forth, it may well havebeen imagined that the proclamation of the rights of man would kill thatpapacy to which the exercise of divine right over the nations had beencommitted. And so how great at first was the anxiety, the anger, thedesperate resistance with which the Vatican opposed the idea of freedom, the new _credo_ of liberated reason, of humanity regainingself-possession and control. It was the apparent _denouement_ of the longstruggle between the pope and the emperor for possession of the people:the emperor vanished, and the people, henceforward free to dispose ofitself, claimed to escape from the pope--an unforeseen solution, in whichit seemed as though all the ancient scaffolding of the Catholic worldmust fall to the very ground. 

At this point Pierre concluded the first part of his book by contrastingprimitive Christianity with present-day Catholicism, which is the triumphof the rich and the powerful. That Roman society which Jesus had come todestroy in the name of the poor and humble, had not Catholic Romesteadily continued rebuilding it through all the centuries, by its policyof cupidity and pride? And what bitter irony it was to find, aftereighteen hundred years of the Gospel, that the world was again collapsingthrough frantic speculation, rotten banks, financial disasters, and thefrightful injustice of a few men gorged with wealth whilst thousands oftheir brothers were dying of hunger! The whole redemption of the wretchedhad to be worked afresh. However, Pierre gave expression to all theseterrible things in words so softened by charity, so steeped in hope, thatthey lost their revolutionary danger. Moreover, he nowhere attacked thedogmas. His book, in its sentimental, somewhat poetic form, was but thecry of an apostle glowing with love for his fellow-men. 

Then came the second part of the work, the PRESENT, a study of Catholicsociety as it now exists. Here Pierre had painted a frightful picture ofthe misery of the poor, the misery of a great city, which he knew so welland bled for, through having laid his hands upon its poisonous wounds. The present-day injustice could no longer be tolerated, charity wasbecoming powerless, and so frightful was the suffering that all hope wasdying away from the hearts of the people. And was it not the monstrousspectacle presented by Christendom, whose abominations corrupted thepeople, and maddened it with hatred and vengeance, that had largelydestroyed its faith? However, after this picture of rotting and crumblingsociety, Pierre returned to history, to the period of the FrenchRevolution, to the mighty hope with which the idea of freedom had filledthe world. The middle classes, the great Liberal party, on attainingpower had undertaken to bring happiness to one and all. But after acentury's experience it really seemed that liberty had failed to bringany happiness whatever to the outcasts. In the political sphere illusionswere departing. At all events, if the reigning third estate declaresitself satisfied, the fourth estate, that of the toilers, * still suffersand continues to demand its share of fortune. The working classes havebeen proclaimed free; political equality has been granted them, but thegift has been valueless, for economically they are still bound toservitude, and only enjoy, as they did formerly, the liberty of dying ofhunger. All the socialist revendications have come from that; betweenlabour and capital rests the terrifying problem, the solution of whichthreatens to sweep away society. When slavery disappeared from the oldenworld to be succeeded by salaried employment the revolution was immense, and certainly the Christian principle was one of the great factors in thedestruction of slavery. Nowadays, therefore, when the question is toreplace salaried employment by something else, possibly by theparticipation of the workman in the profits of his work, why should notChristianity again seek a new principle of action? The fatal andproximate accession of the democracy means the beginning of another phasein human history, the creation of the society of to-morrow. And Romecannot keep away from the arena; the papacy must take part in the quarrelif it does not desire to disappear from the world like a piece ofmechanism that has become altogether useless. 

 * In England we call the press the fourth estate, but in France and elsewhere the term is applied to the working classes, and in that sense must be taken here. --Trans. 

Hence it followed that Catholic socialism was legitimate. On every sidethe socialist sects were battling with their various solutions for theprivilege of ensuring the happiness of the people, and the Church alsomust offer her solution of the problem. Here it was that New Romeappeared, that the evolution spread into a renewal of boundless hope. Most certainly there was nothing contrary to democracy in the principlesof the Roman Catholic Church. Indeed she had only to return to theevangelical traditions, to become once more the Church of the humble andthe poor, to re-establish the universal Christian community. She isundoubtedly of democratic essence, and if she sided with the rich andthe powerful when Christianity became Catholicism, she only did soperforce, that she might live by sacrificing some portion of heroriginal purity; so that if to-day she should abandon the condemnedgoverning classes in order to make common cause with the multitude ofthe wretched, she would simply be drawing nearer to Christ, therebysecuring a new lease of youth and purifying herself of all the politicalcompromises which she formerly was compelled to accept. Withoutrenouncing aught of her absolutism the Church has at all times known howto bow to circumstances; but she reserves her perfect sovereignty, simply tolerating that which she cannot prevent, and patiently waiting, even through long centuries, for the time when she shall again becomethe mistress of the world. 

Might not that time come in the crisis which was now at hand? Once more, all the powers are battling for possession of the people. Since thepeople, thanks to liberty and education, has become strong, since it hasdeveloped consciousness and will, and claimed its share of fortune, allrulers have been seeking to attach it to themselves, to reign by it, andeven with it, should that be necessary. Socialism, therein lies thefuture, the new instrument of government; and the kings tottering ontheir thrones, the middle-class presidents of anxious republics, theambitious plotters who dream of power, all dabble in socialism! They allagree that the capitalist organisation of the State is a return to pagantimes, to the olden slave-market; and they all talk of breaking for everthe iron law by which the labour of human beings has become so muchmerchandise, subject to supply and demand, with wages calculated on anestimate of what is strictly necessary to keep a workman from dying ofhunger. And, down in the sphere below, the evil increases, the workmenagonise with hunger and exasperation, while above them discussion stillgoes on, systems are bandied about, and well-meaning persons exhaustthemselves in attempting to apply ridiculously inadequate remedies. There is much stir without any progress, all the wild bewilderment whichprecedes great catastrophes. And among the many, Catholic socialism, quite as ardent as Revolutionary socialism, enters the lists and strivesto conquer. 

After these explanations Pierre gave an account of the long efforts madeby Catholic socialism throughout the Christian world. That whichparticularly struck one in this connection was that the warfare becamekeener and more victorious whenever it was waged in some land ofpropaganda, as yet not completely conquered by Roman Catholicism. Forinstance, in the countries where Protestantism confronted the latter, thepriests fought with wondrous passion, as for dear life itself, contendingwith the schismatical clergy for possession of the people by dint ofdaring, by unfolding the most audacious democratic theories. In Germany, the classic land of socialism, Mgr. Ketteler was one of the first tospeak of adequately taxing the rich; and later he fomented a wide-spreadagitation which the clergy now directs by means of numerous associationsand newspapers. In Switzerland Mgr. Mermillod pleaded the cause of thepoor so loudly that the bishops there now almost make common cause withthe democratic socialists, whom they doubtless hope to convert when theday for sharing arrives. In England, where socialism penetrates so veryslowly, Cardinal Manning achieved considerable success, stood by theworking classes on the occasion of a famous strike, and helped on apopular movement, which was signalised by numerous conversions. But itwas particularly in the United States of America that Catholic socialismproved triumphant, in a sphere of democracy where the bishops, like Mgr. Ireland, were forced to set themselves at the head of the working-classagitation. And there across the Atlantic a new Church seems to begerminating, still in confusion but overflowing with sap, and upheld byintense hope, as at the aurora of the rejuvenated Christianity ofto-morrow. 

Passing thence to Austria and Belgium, both Catholic countries, one foundCatholic socialism mingling in the first instance with anti-semitism, while in the second it had no precise sense. And all movement ceased anddisappeared when one came to Spain and Italy, those old lands of faith. The former with its intractable bishops who contented themselves withhurling excommunication at unbelievers as in the days of the Inquisition, seemed to be abandoned to the violent theories of revolutionaries, whilstItaly, immobilised in the traditional courses, remained withoutpossibility of initiative, reduced to silence and respect by the presenceof the Holy See. In France, however, the struggle remained keen, but itwas more particularly a struggle of ideas. On the whole, the war wasthere being waged against the revolution, and to some it seemed as thoughit would suffice to re-establish the old organisation of monarchicaltimes in order to revert to the golden age. It was thus that the questionof working-class corporations had become the one problem, the panacea forall the ills of the toilers. But people were far from agreeing; some, those Catholics who rejected State interference and favoured purely moralaction, desired that the corporations should be free; whilst others, theyoung and impatient ones, bent on action, demanded that they should beobligatory, each with capital of its own, and recognised and protected bythe State. 

Viscount Philibert de la Choue had by pen and speech carried on avigorous campaign in favour of the obligatory corporations; and his greatgrief was that he had so far failed to prevail on the Pope to say whetherin his opinion these corporations should be closed or open. According tothe Viscount, herein lay the fate of society, a peaceful solution of thesocial question or the frightful catastrophe which must sweep everythingaway. In reality, though he refused to own it, the Viscount had ended byadopting State socialism. And, despite the lack of agreement, theagitation remained very great; attempts, scarcely happy in their results, were made; co-operative associations, companies for erecting workmen'sdwellings, popular savings' banks were started; many more or lessdisguised efforts to revert to the old Christian community organisationwere tried; while day by day, amidst the prevailing confusion, in themental perturbation and political difficulties through which the countrypassed, the militant Catholic party felt its hopes increasing, even tothe blind conviction of soon resuming sway over the whole world. 

The second part of Pierre's book concluded by a picture of the moral andintellectual uneasiness amidst which the end of the century isstruggling. While the toiling multitude suffers from its hard lot anddemands that in any fresh division of wealth it shall be ensured at leastits daily bread, the _elite_ is no better satisfied, but complains of thevoid induced by the freeing of its reason and the enlargement of itsintelligence. It is the famous bankruptcy of rationalism, of positivism, of science itself which is in question. Minds consumed by need of theabsolute grow weary of groping, weary of the delays of science whichrecognises only proven truths; doubt tortures them, they need a completeand immediate synthesis in order to sleep in peace; and they fall ontheir knees, overcome by the roadside, distracted by the thought thatscience will never tell them all, and preferring the Deity, the mysteryrevealed and affirmed by faith. Even to-day, it must be admitted, sciencecalms neither our thirst for justice, our desire for safety, nor oureverlasting idea of happiness after life in an eternity of enjoyment. Toone and all it only brings the austere duty to live, to be a merecontributor in the universal toil; and how well one can understand thathearts should revolt and sigh for the Christian heaven, peopled withlovely angels, full of light and music and perfumes! Ah! to embrace one'sdead, to tell oneself that one will meet them again, that one will livewith them once more in glorious immortality! And to possess the certaintyof sovereign equity to enable one to support the abominations ofterrestrial life! And in this wise to trample on the frightful thought ofannihilation, to escape the horror of the disappearance of the _ego_, andto tranquillise oneself with that unshakable faith which postpones untilthe portal of death be crossed the solution of all the problems ofdestiny! This dream will be dreamt by the nations for ages yet. And thisit is which explains why, in these last days of the century, excessivemental labour and the deep unrest of humanity, pregnant with a new world, have awakened religious feeling, anxious, tormented by thoughts of theideal and the infinite, demanding a moral law and an assurance ofsuperior justice. Religions may disappear, but religious feelings willalways create new ones, even with the help of science. A new religion! anew religion! Was it not the ancient Catholicism, which in the soil ofthe present day, where all seemed conducive to a miracle, was about tospring up afresh, throw out green branches and blossom in a young yetmighty florescence?

At last, in the third part of his book and in the glowing language of anapostle, Pierre depicted the FUTURE: Catholicism rejuvenated, andbringing health and peace, the forgotten golden age of primitiveChristianity, back to expiring society. He began with an emotional andsparkling portrait of Leo XIII, the ideal Pope, the Man of Destinyentrusted with the salvation of the nations. He had conjured up apresentment of him and beheld him thus in his feverish longing for theadvent of a pastor who should put an end to human misery. It was perhapsnot a close likeness, but it was a portrait of the needed saviour, withopen heart and mind, and inexhaustible benevolence, such as he haddreamed. At the same time he had certainly searched documents, studiedencyclical letters, based his sketch upon facts: first Leo's religiouseducation at Rome, then his brief nunciature at Brussels, and afterwardshis long episcopate at Perugia. And as soon as Leo became pope in thedifficult situation bequeathed by Pius IX, the duality of his natureappeared: on one hand was the firm guardian of dogmas, on the other thesupple politician resolved to carry conciliation to its utmost limits. Wesee him flatly severing all connection with modern philosophy, steppingbackward beyond the Renascence to the middle ages and reviving Christianphilosophy, as expounded by "the angelic doctor, " St. Thomas Aquinas, inCatholic schools. Then the dogmas being in this wise sheltered, headroitly maintains himself in equilibrium by giving securities to everypower, striving to utilise every opportunity. He displays extraordinaryactivity, reconciles the Holy See with Germany, draws nearer to Russia, contents Switzerland, asks the friendship of Great Britain, and writes tothe Emperor of China begging him to protect the missionaries andChristians in his dominions. Later on, too, he intervenes in France andacknowledges the legitimacy of the Republic. 

From the very outset an idea becomes apparent in all his actions, an ideawhich will place him among the great papal politicians. It is moreoverthe ancient idea of the papacy--the conquest of every soul, Rome capitaland mistress of the world. Thus Leo XIII has but one desire, one object, that of unifying the Church, of drawing all the dissident communities toit in order that it may be invincible in the coming social struggle. Heseeks to obtain recognition of the moral authority of the Vatican inRussia; he dreams of disarming the Anglican Church and of drawing it intoa sort of fraternal truce; and he particularly seeks to come to anunderstanding with the Schismatical Churches of the East, which heregards as sisters, simply living apart, whose return his paternal heartentreats. Would not Rome indeed dispose of victorious strength if sheexercised uncontested sway over all the Christians of the earth?

And here the social ideas of Leo XIII come in. Whilst yet Bishop ofPerugia he wrote a pastoral letter in which a vague humanitariansocialism appeared. As soon, however, as he had assumed the triple crownhis opinions changed and he anathematised the revolutionaries whoseaudacity was terrifying Italy. But almost at once he corrected himself, warned by events and realising the great danger of leaving socialism inthe hands of the enemies of the Church. Then he listened to the bishopsof the lands of propaganda, ceased to intervene in the Irish quarrel, withdrew the excommunications which he had launched against the American"knights of labour, " and would not allow the bold works of Catholicsocialist writers to be placed in the Index. This evolution towardsdemocracy may be traced through his most famous encyclical letters:_Immortale Dei_, on the constitution of States; _Libertas_, on humanliberty; _Sapientoe_, on the duties of Christian citizens; _Rerumnovarum_, on the condition of the working classes; and it is particularlythis last which would seem to have rejuvenated the Church. The Popeherein chronicles the undeserved misery of the toilers, the undue lengthof the hours of labour, the insufficiency of salaries. All men have theright to live, and all contracts extorted by threats of starvation areunjust. Elsewhere he declares that the workman must not be leftdefenceless in presence of a system which converts the misery of themajority into the wealth of a few. Compelled to deal vaguely withquestions of organisation, he contents himself with encouraging thecorporative movement, placing it under State patronage; and after thuscontributing to restore the secular power, he reinstates the Deity on thethrone of sovereignty, and discerns the path to salvation moreparticularly in moral measures, in the ancient respect due to family tiesand ownership. Nevertheless, was not the helpful hand which the augustVicar of Christ thus publicly tendered to the poor and the humble, thecertain token of a new alliance, the announcement of a new reign of Jesusupon earth? Thenceforward the people knew that it was not abandoned. Andfrom that moment too how glorious became Leo XIII, whose sacerdotaljubilee and episcopal jubilee were celebrated by all Christendom amidstthe coming of a vast multitude, of endless offerings, and of flatteringletters from every sovereign!

Pierre next dealt with the question of the temporal power, and this hethought he might treat freely. Naturally, he was not ignorant of the factthat the Pope in his quarrel with Italy upheld the rights of the Churchover Rome as stubbornly as his predecessor; but he imagined that this wasmerely a necessary conventional attitude, imposed by politicalconsiderations, and destined to be abandoned when the times were ripe. For his own part he was convinced that if the Pope had never appearedgreater than he did now, it was to the loss of the temporal power that heowed it; for thence had come the great increase of his authority, thepure splendour of moral omnipotence which he diffused. 

What a long history of blunders and conflicts had been that of thepossession of the little kingdom of Rome during fifteen centuries!Constantine quits Rome in the fourth century, only a few forgottenfunctionaries remaining on the deserted Palatine, and the Pope naturallyrises to power, and the life of the city passes to the Lateran. However, it is only four centuries later that Charlemagne recognises accomplishedfacts and formally bestows the States of the Church upon the papacy. Fromthat time warfare between the spiritual power and the temporal powers hasnever ceased; though often latent it has at times become acute, breakingforth with blood and fire. And to-day, in the midst of Europe in arms, isit not unreasonable to dream of the papacy ruling a strip of territorywhere it would be exposed to every vexation, and where it could onlymaintain itself by the help of a foreign army? What would become of it inthe general massacre which is apprehended? Is it not far more sheltered, far more dignified, far more lofty when disentangled from all terrestrialcares, reigning over the world of souls?

In the early times of the Church the papacy from being merely local, merely Roman, gradually became catholicised, universalised, slowlyacquiring dominion over all Christendom. In the same way the SacredCollege, at first a continuation of the Roman Senate, acquired aninternational character, and in our time has ended by becoming the mostcosmopolitan of assemblies, in which representatives of all the nationshave seats. And is it not evident that the Pope, thus leaning on thecardinals, has become the one great international power which exercisesthe greater authority since it is free from all monarchical interests, and can speak not merely in the name of country but in that of humanityitself? The solution so often sought amidst such long wars surely lies inthis: Either give the Pope the temporal sovereignty of the world, orleave him only the spiritual sovereignty. Vicar of the Deity, absoluteand infallible sovereign by divine delegation, he can but remain in thesanctuary if, ruler already of the human soul, he is not recognised byevery nation as the one master of the body also--the king of kings. 

But what a strange affair was this new incursion of the papacy into thefield sown by the French Revolution, an incursion conducting it perhapstowards the domination, which it has striven for with a will that hasupheld it for centuries! For now it stands alone before the people. Thekings are down. And as the people is henceforth free to give itself towhomsoever it pleases, why should it not give itself to the Church? Thedepreciation which the idea of liberty has certainly undergone rendersevery hope permissible. The liberal party appears to be vanquished in thesphere of economics. The toilers, dissatisfied with 1789 complain of theaggravation of their misery, bestir themselves, seek happinessdespairingly. On the other hand the new _regimes_ have increased theinternational power of the Church; Catholic members are numerous in theparliaments of the republics and the constitutional monarchies. Allcircumstances seem therefore to favour this extraordinary return offortune, Catholicism reverting to the vigour of youth in its old age. Even science, remember, is accused of bankruptcy, a charge which savesthe _Syllabus_ from ridicule, troubles the minds of men, and throws thelimitless sphere of mystery and impossibility open once more. And then aprophecy is recalled, a prediction that the papacy shall be mistress ofthe world on the day when she marches at the head of the democracy afterreuniting the Schismatical Churches of the East to the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church. And, in Pierre's opinion, assuredly thetimes had come since Pope Leo XIII, dismissing the great and the wealthyof the world, left the kings driven from their thrones in exile to placehimself like Jesus on the side of the foodless toilers and the beggars ofthe high roads. Yet a few more years, perhaps, of frightful misery, alarming confusion, fearful social danger, and the people, the greatsilent multitude which others have so far disposed of, will return to thecradle, to the unified Church of Rome, in order to escape the destructionwhich threatens human society. 

Pierre concluded his book with a passionate evocation of New Rome, thespiritual Rome which would soon reign over the nations, reconciled andfraternising as in another golden age. Herein he even saw the end ofsuperstitions. Without making a direct attack on dogma, he allowedhimself to dream of an enlargement of religious feeling, freed fromrites, and absorbed in the one satisfaction of human charity. And stillsmarting from his journey to Lourdes, he felt the need of contenting hisheart. Was not that gross superstition of Lourdes the hateful symptom ofthe excessive suffering of the times? On the day when the Gospel shouldbe universally diffused and practised, suffering ones would cease seekingan illusory relief so far away, assured as they would be of findingassistance, consolation, and cure in their homes amidst their brothers. At Lourdes there was an iniquitous displacement of wealth, a spectacle sofrightful as to make one doubt of God, a perpetual conflict which woulddisappear in the truly Christian society of to-morrow. Ah! that society, that Christian community, all Pierre's work ended in an ardent longingfor its speedy advent: Christianity becoming once more the religion oftruth and justice which it had been before it allowed itself to beconquered by the rich and the powerful! The little ones and the poor onesreigning, sharing the wealth of earth, and owing obedience to nought butthe levelling law of work! The Pope alone erect at the head of thefederation of nations, prince of peace, with the simple mission ofsupplying the moral rule, the link of charity and love which was to uniteall men! And would not this be the speedy realisation of the promises ofChrist? The times were near accomplishment, secular and religious societywould mingle so closely that they would form but one; and it would be theage of triumph and happiness predicted by all the prophets, no morestruggles possible, no more antagonism between the mind and the body, buta marvellous equilibrium which would kill evil and set the kingdom ofheaven upon earth. New Rome, the centre of the world, bestowing on theworld the new religion!

Pierre felt that tears were coming to his eyes, and with an unconsciousmovement, never noticing how much he astonished the slim Englishmen andthick-set Germans passing along the terrace, he opened his arms andextended them towards the _real_ Rome, steeped in such lovely sunshineand stretched out at his feet. Would she prove responsive to his dream?Would he, as he had written, find within her the remedy for ourimpatience and our alarms? Could Catholicism be renewed, could it returnto the spirit of primitive Christianity, become the religion of thedemocracy, the faith which the modern world, overturned and in danger ofperishing, awaits in order to be pacified and to live?

Pierre was full of generous passion, full of faith. He again beheld goodAbbe Rose weeping with emotion as he read his book. He heard ViscountPhilibert de la Choue telling him that such a book was worth an army. Andhe particularly felt strong in the approval of Cardinal Bergerot, thatapostle of inexhaustible charity. Why should the Congregation of theIndex threaten his work with interdiction? Since he had been officiouslyadvised to go to Rome if he desired to defend himself, he had beenturning this question over in his mind without being able to discoverwhich of his pages were attacked. To him indeed they all seemed to glowwith the purest Christianity. However, he had arrived quivering withenthusiasm and courage: he was all eagerness to kneel before the Pope, and place himself under his august protection, assuring him that he hadnot written a line without taking inspiration from his ideas, withoutdesiring the triumph of his policy. Was it possible that condemnationshould be passed on a book in which he imagined in all sincerity that hehad exalted Leo XIII by striving to help him in his work of Christianreunion and universal peace?

For a moment longer Pierre remained standing before the parapet. He hadbeen there for nearly an hour, unable to drink in enough of the grandeurof Rome, which, given all the unknown things she hid from him, he wouldhave liked to possess at once. Oh! to seize hold of her, know her, ascertain at once the true word which he had come to seek from her! Thisagain, like Lourdes, was an experiment, but a graver one, a decisive one, whence he would emerge either strengthened or overcome for evermore. Heno longer sought the simple, perfect faith of the little child, but thesuperior faith of the intellectual man, raising himself above rites andsymbols, working for the greatest happiness of humanity as based on itsneed of certainty. His temples throbbed responsive to his heart. Whatwould be the answer of Rome?

The sunlight had increased and the higher districts now stood out morevigorously against the fiery background. Far away the hills became gildedand empurpled, whilst the nearer house-fronts grew very distinct andbright with their thousands of windows sharply outlined. However, somemorning haze still hovered around; light veils seemed to rise from thelower streets, blurring the summits for a moment, and then evaporating inthe ardent heavens where all was blue. For a moment Pierre fancied thatthe Palatine had vanished, for he could scarcely see the dark fringe ofcypresses; it was as though the dust of its ruins concealed the hill. Butthe Quirinal was even more obscured; the royal palace seemed to havefaded away in a fog, so paltry did it look with its low flat front, sovague in the distance that he no longer distinguished it; whereas abovethe trees on his left the dome of St. Peter's had grown yet larger in thelimpid gold of the sunshine, and appeared to occupy the whole sky anddominate the whole city!

Ah! the Rome of that first meeting, the Rome of early morning, whose newdistricts he had not even noticed in the burning fever of hisarrival--with what boundless hopes did she not inspirit him, this Romewhich he believed he should find alive, such indeed as he had dreamed!And whilst he stood there in his thin black cassock, thus gazing on herthat lovely day, what a shout of coming redemption seemed to arise fromher house-roofs, what a promise of universal peace seemed to issue fromthat sacred soil, twice already Queen of the world! It was the thirdRome, it was New Rome whose maternal love was travelling across thefrontiers to all the nations to console them and reunite them in a commonembrace. In the passionate candour of his dream he beheld her, he heardher, rejuvenated, full of the gentleness of childhood, soaring, as itwere, amidst the morning freshness into the vast pure heavens. 

But at last Pierre tore himself away from the sublime spectacle. Thedriver and the horse, their heads drooping under the broad sunlight, hadnot stirred. On the seat the valise was almost burning, hot with rays ofthe sun which was already heavy. And once more Pierre got into thevehicle and gave this address:

"Via Giulia, Palazzo Boccanera. "

II. 

THE Via Giulia, which runs in a straight line over a distance of fivehundred yards from the Farnese palace to the church of St. John of theFlorentines, was at that hour steeped in bright sunlight, the glowstreaming from end to end and whitening the small square paving stones. The street had no footways, and the cab rolled along it almost to thefarther extremity, passing the old grey sleepy and deserted residenceswhose large windows were barred with iron, while their deep porchesrevealed sombre courts resembling wells. Laid out by Pope Julius II, whohad dreamt of lining it with magnificent palaces, the street, then themost regular and handsome in Rome, had served as Corso* in the sixteenthcentury. One could tell that one was in a former luxurious district, which had lapsed into silence, solitude, and abandonment, instinct with akind of religious gentleness and discretion. The old house-frontsfollowed one after another, their shutters closed and their gratingsoccasionally decked with climbing plants. At some doors cats were seated, and dim shops, appropriated to humble trades, were installed in certaindependencies. But little traffic was apparent. Pierre only noticed somebare-headed women dragging children behind them, a hay cart drawn by amule, a superb monk draped in drugget, and a bicyclist speeding alongnoiselessly, his machine sparkling in the sun. 

 * The Corso was so called on account of the horse races held in it at carnival time. --Trans. 

At last the driver turned and pointed to a large square building at thecorner of a lane running towards the Tiber. 

"Palazzo Boccanera. "

Pierre raised his head and was pained by the severe aspect of thestructure, so bare and massive and blackened by age. Like its neighboursthe Farnese and Sacchetti palaces, it had been built by Antonio daSangallo in the early part of the sixteenth century, and, as with theformer of those residences, the tradition ran that in raising the pilethe architect had made use of stones pilfered from the Colosseum and theTheatre of Marcellus. The vast, square-looking facade had three upperstories, each with seven windows, and the first one very lofty and noble. Down below, the only sign of decoration was that the high ground-floorwindows, barred with huge projecting gratings as though from fear ofsiege, rested upon large consoles, and were crowned by attics whichsmaller consoles supported. Above the monumental entrance, with foldingdoors of bronze, there was a balcony in front of the central first-floorwindow. And at the summit of the facade against the sky appeared asumptuous entablature, whose frieze displayed admirable grace and purityof ornamentation. The frieze, the consoles, the attics, and the door-casewere of white marble, but marble whose surface had so crumbled and sodarkened that it now had the rough yellowish grain of stone. Right andleft of the entrance were two antique seats upheld by griffons also ofmarble; and incrusted in the wall at one corner, a lovely Renascencefountain, its source dried up, still lingered; and on it a cupid riding adolphin could with difficulty be distinguished, to such a degree had thewear and tear of time eaten into the sculpture. 

Pierre's eyes, however, had been more particularly attracted by anescutcheon carved above one of the ground-floor windows, the escutcheonof the Boccaneras, a winged dragon venting flames, and underneath it hecould plainly read the motto which had remained intact: "_Bocca nera, Alma rossa_" (black mouth, red soul). Above another window, as a pendantto the escutcheon, there was one of those little shrines which are stillcommon in Rome, a satin-robed statuette of the Blessed Virgin, beforewhich a lantern burnt in the full daylight. 

The cabman was about to drive through the dim and gaping porch, accordingto custom, when the young priest, overcome by timidity, stopped him. "No, no, " he said; "don't go in, it's useless. "

Then he alighted from the vehicle, paid the man, and, valise in hand, found himself first under the vaulted roof, and then in the central courtwithout having met a living soul. 

It was a square and fairly spacious court, surrounded by a porticus likea cloister. Some remnants of statuary, marbles discovered in excavating, an armless Apollo, and the trunk of a Venus, were ranged against thewalls under the dismal arcades; and some fine grass had sprouted betweenthe pebbles which paved the soil as with a black and white mosaic. Itseemed as if the sun-rays could never reach that paving, mouldy withdamp. A dimness and a silence instinct with departed grandeur andinfinite mournfulness reigned there. 

Surprised by the emptiness of this silent mansion, Pierre continuedseeking somebody, a porter, a servant; and, fancying that he saw a shadowflit by, he decided to pass through another arch which led to a littlegarden fringing the Tiber. On this side the facade of the building wasquite plain, displaying nothing beyond its three rows of symmetricallydisposed windows. However, the abandonment reigning in the garden broughtPierre yet a keener pang. In the centre some large box-plants weregrowing in the basin of a fountain which had been filled up; while amongthe mass of weeds, some orange-trees with golden, ripening fruit aloneindicated the tracery of the paths which they had once bordered. Betweentwo huge laurel-bushes, against the right-hand wall, there was asarcophagus of the second century--with fauns offering violence tonymphs, one of those wild _baccanali_, those scenes of eager passionwhich Rome in its decline was wont to depict on the tombs of its dead;and this marble sarcophagus, crumbling with age and green with moisture, served as a tank into which a streamlet of water fell from a large tragicmask incrusted in the wall. Facing the Tiber there had formerly been asort of colonnaded loggia, a terrace whence a double flight of stepsdescended to the river. For the construction of the new quays, however, the river bank was being raised, and the terrace was already lower thanthe new ground level, and stood there crumbling and useless amidst pilesof rubbish and blocks of stone, all the wretched chalky confusion of theimprovements which were ripping up and overturning the district. 

Pierre, however, was suddenly convinced that he could see somebodycrossing the court. So he returned thither and found a woman somewhatshort of stature, who must have been nearly fifty, though as yet she hadnot a white hair, but looked very bright and active. At sight of thepriest, however, an expression of distrust passed over her round face andclear eyes. 

Employing the few words of broken Italian which he knew, Pierre at oncesought to explain matters: "I am Abbe Pierre Froment, madame--" he began. 

However, she did not let him continue, but exclaimed in fluent French, with the somewhat thick and lingering accent of the province of theIle-de-France: "Ah! yes, Monsieur l'Abbe, I know, I know--I was expectingyou, I received orders about you. " And then, as he gazed at her inamazement, she added: "Oh! I'm a Frenchwoman! I've been here for five andtwenty years, but I haven't yet been able to get used to their horriblelingo!"

Pierre thereupon remembered that Viscount Philibert de la Choue hadspoken to him of this servant, one Victorine Bosquet, a native of Auneauin La Beauce, who, when two and twenty, had gone to Rome with aconsumptive mistress. The latter's sudden death had left her in as muchterror and bewilderment as if she had been alone in some land of savages;and so she had gratefully devoted herself to the Countess ErnestaBrandini, a Boccanera by birth, who had, so to say, picked her up in thestreets. The Countess had at first employed her as a nurse to herdaughter Benedetta, hoping in this way to teach the child some French;and Victorine--remaining for some five and twenty years with the samefamily--had by degrees raised herself to the position of housekeeper, whilst still remaining virtually illiterate, so destitute indeed of anylinguistic gift that she could only jabber a little broken Italian, justsufficient for her needs in her intercourse with the other servants. 

"And is Monsieur le Vicomte quite well?" she resumed with frankfamiliarity. "He is so very pleasant, and we are always so pleased to seehim. He stays here, you know, each time he comes to Rome. I know that thePrincess and the Contessina received a letter from him yesterdayannouncing you. "

It was indeed Viscount Philibert de la Choue who had made all thearrangements for Pierre's sojourn in Rome. Of the ancient and oncevigorous race of the Boccaneras, there now only remained Cardinal PioBoccanera, the Princess his sister, an old maid who from respect wascalled "Donna" Serafina, their niece Benedetta--whose mother Ernesta hadfollowed her husband, Count Brandini, to the tomb--and finally theirnephew, Prince Dario Boccanera, whose father, Prince Onofrio, waslikewise dead, and whose mother, a Montefiori, had married again. It sochanced that the Viscount de la Choue was connected with the family, hisyounger brother having married a Brandini, sister to Benedetta's father;and thus, with the courtesy rank of uncle, he had, in Count Brandini'stime, frequently sojourned at the mansion in the Via Giulia. He had alsobecome attached to Benedetta, especially since the advent of a privatefamily drama, consequent upon an unhappy marriage which the young womanhad contracted, and which she had petitioned the Holy Father to annul. Since Benedetta had left her husband to live with her aunt Serafina andher uncle the Cardinal, M. De la Choue had often written to her and senther parcels of French books. Among others he had forwarded her a copy ofPierre's book, and the whole affair had originated in that wise. Severalletters on the subject had been exchanged when at last Benedetta sentword that the work had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index, and that it was advisable the author should at once repair to Rome, whereshe graciously offered him the hospitality of the Boccanera mansion. 

The Viscount was quite as much astonished as the young priest at thesetidings, and failed to understand why the book should be threatened atall; however, he prevailed on Pierre to make the journey as a matter ofgood policy, becoming himself impassioned for the achievement of avictory which he counted in anticipation as his own. And so it was easyto understand the bewildered condition of Pierre, on tumbling into thisunknown mansion, launched into an heroic adventure, the reasons andcircumstances of which were beyond him. 

Victorine, however, suddenly resumed: "But I am leaving you here, Monsieur l'Abbe. Let me conduct you to your rooms. Where is yourluggage?"

Then, when he had shown her his valise which he had placed on the groundbeside him, and explained that having no more than a fortnight's stay inview he had contented himself with bringing a second cassock and somelinen, she seemed very much surprised. 

"A fortnight! You only expect to remain here a fortnight? Well, well, you'll see. "

And then summoning a big devil of a lackey who had ended by making hisappearance, she said: "Take that up into the red room, Giacomo. Will youkindly follow me, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

Pierre felt quite comforted and inspirited by thus unexpectedly meetingsuch a lively, good-natured compatriot in this gloomy Roman "palace. "Whilst crossing the court he listened to her as she related that thePrincess had gone out, and that the Contessina--as Benedetta from motivesof affection was still called in the house, despite her marriage--had notyet shown herself that morning, being rather poorly. However, addedVictorine, she had her orders. 

The staircase was in one corner of the court, under the porticus. It wasa monumental staircase with broad, low steps, the incline being so gentlethat a horse might easily have climbed it. The stone walls, however, werequite bare, the landings empty and solemn, and a death-like mournfulnessfell from the lofty vault above. 

As they reached the first floor, noticing Pierre's emotion, Victorinesmiled. The mansion seemed to be uninhabited; not a sound came from itsclosed chambers. Simply pointing to a large oaken door on the right-hand, the housekeeper remarked: "The wing overlooking the court and the riveris occupied by his Eminence. But he doesn't use a quarter of the rooms. All the reception-rooms on the side of the street have been shut. Howcould one keep up such a big place, and what, too, would be the use ofit? We should need somebody to lodge. "

With her lithe step she continued ascending the stairs. She had remainedessentially a foreigner, a Frenchwoman, too different from those amongwhom she lived to be influenced by her environment. On reaching thesecond floor she resumed: "There, on the left, are Donna Serafina'srooms; those of the Contessina are on the right. This is the only part ofthe house where there's a little warmth and life. Besides, it's Mondayto-day, the Princess will be receiving visitors this evening. You'llsee. "

Then, opening a door, beyond which was a second and very narrowstaircase, she went on: "We others have our rooms on the third floor. Imust ask Monsieur l'Abbe to let me go up before him. "

The grand staircase ceased at the second floor, and Victorine explainedthat the third story was reached exclusively by this servants' staircase, which led from the lane running down to the Tiber on one side of themansion. There was a small private entrance in this lane, which was veryconvenient. 

At last, reaching the third story, she hurried along a passage, againcalling Pierre's attention to various doors. "These are the apartments ofDon Vigilio, his Eminence's secretary. These are mine. And these will beyours. Monsieur le Vicomte will never have any other rooms when he comesto spend a few days in Rome. He says that he enjoys more liberty up here, as he can come in and go out as he pleases. I gave him a key to the doorin the lane, and I'll give you one too. And, besides, you'll see what anice view there is from here!"

Whilst speaking she had gone in. The apartments comprised two rooms: asomewhat spacious _salon_, with wall-paper of a large scroll pattern on ared ground, and a bed-chamber, where the paper was of a flax grey, studded with faded blue flowers. The sitting-room was in one corner ofthe mansion overlooking the lane and the Tiber, and Victorine at oncewent to the windows, one of which afforded a view over the distant lowerpart of the river, while the other faced the Trastevere and the Janiculumacross the water. 

"Ah! yes, it's very pleasant!" said Pierre, who had followed and stoodbeside her. 

Giaccomo, who did not hurry, came in behind them with the valise. It wasnow past eleven o'clock; and seeing that the young priest looked tired, and realising that he must be hungry after such a journey, Victorineoffered to have some breakfast served at once in the sitting-room. Hewould then have the afternoon to rest or go out, and would only meet theladies in the evening at dinner. At the mere suggestion of resting, however, Pierre began to protest, declaring that he should certainly goout, not wishing to lose an entire afternoon. The breakfast he readilyaccepted, for he was indeed dying of hunger. 

However, he had to wait another full half hour. Giaccomo, who served himunder Victorine's orders, did everything in a most leisurely way. AndVictorine, lacking confidence in the man, remained with the young priestto make sure that everything he might require was provided. 

"Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe, " said she, "what people! What a country! You can'thave an idea of it. I should never get accustomed to it even if I were tolive here for a hundred years. Ah! if it were not for the Contessina, butshe's so good and beautiful. "

Then, whilst placing a dish of figs on the table, she astonished Pierreby adding that a city where nearly everybody was a priest could notpossibly be a good city. Thereupon the presence of this gay, active, unbelieving servant in the queer old palace again scared him. 

"What! you are not religious?" he exclaimed. 

"No, no, Monsieur l'Abbe, the priests don't suit me, " said Victorine; "Iknew one in France when I was very little, and since I've been here I'veseen too many of them. It's all over. Oh! I don't say that on account ofhis Eminence, who is a holy man worthy of all possible respect. Andbesides, everybody in the house knows that I've nothing to reproachmyself with. So why not leave me alone, since I'm fond of my employersand attend properly to my duties?"

She burst into a frank laugh. "Ah!" she resumed, "when I was told thatanother priest was coming, just as if we hadn't enough already, Icouldn't help growling to myself. But you look like a good young man, Monsieur l'Abbe, and I feel sure we shall get on well together.... Ireally don't know why I'm telling you all this--probably it's becauseyou've come from yonder, and because the Contessina takes an interest inyou. At all events, you'll excuse me, won't you, Monsieur l'Abbe? Andtake my advice, stay here and rest to-day; don't be so foolish as to gorunning about their tiring city. There's nothing very amusing to be seenin it, whatever they may say to the contrary. "

When Pierre found himself alone, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by all thefatigue of his journey coupled with the fever of enthusiasm that hadconsumed him during the morning. And as though dazed, intoxicated by thehasty meal which he had just made--a couple of eggs and a cutlet--heflung himself upon the bed with the idea of taking half an hour's rest. He did not fall asleep immediately, but for a time thought of thoseBoccaneras, with whose history he was partly acquainted, and of whoselife in that deserted and silent palace, instinct with such dilapidatedand melancholy grandeur, he began to dream. But at last his ideas grewconfused, and by degrees he sunk into sleep amidst a crowd of shadowyforms, some tragic and some sweet, with vague faces which gazed at himwith enigmatical eyes as they whirled before him in the depths ofdreamland. 

The Boccaneras had supplied two popes to Rome, one in the thirteenth, theother in the fifteenth century, and from those two favoured ones, thoseall-powerful masters, the family had formerly derived its vastfortune--large estates in the vicinity of Viterbo, several palaces inRome, enough works of art to fill numerous spacious galleries, and a pileof gold sufficient to cram a cellar. The family passed as being the mostpious of the Roman _patriziato_, a family of burning faith whose swordhad always been at the service of the Church; but if it were the mostbelieving family it was also the most violent, the most disputatious, constantly at war, and so fiercely savage that the anger of theBoccaneras had become proverbial. And thence came their arms, the wingeddragon spitting flames, and the fierce, glowing motto, with its play onthe name "_Bocca sera, Alma rossa_" (black mouth, red soul), the mouthdarkened by a roar, the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love. 

Legends of endless passion, of terrible deeds of justice and vengeancestill circulated. There was the duel fought by Onfredo, the Boccanera bywhom the present palazzo had been built in the sixteenth century on thesite of the demolished antique residence of the family. Onfredo, learningthat his wife had allowed herself to be kissed on the lips by young CountCostamagna, had caused the Count to be kidnapped one evening and broughtto the palazzo bound with cords. And there in one of the large halls, before freeing him, he compelled him to confess himself to a monk. Thenhe severed the cords with a stiletto, threw the lamps over andextinguished them, calling to the Count to keep the stiletto and defendhimself. During more than an hour, in complete obscurity, in this hallfull of furniture, the two men sought one another, fled from one another, seized hold of one another, and pierced one another with their blades. And when the doors were broken down and the servants rushed in they foundamong the pools of blood, among the overturned tables and broken seats, Costamagna with his nose sliced off and his hips pierced with two andthirty wounds, whilst Onfredo had lost two fingers of his right hand, andhad both shoulders riddled with holes! The wonder was that neither diedof the encounter. 

A century later, on that same bank of the Tiber, a daughter of theBoccaneras, a girl barely sixteen years of age, the lovely and passionateCassia, filled all Rome with terror and admiration. She loved FlavioCorradini, the scion of a rival and hated house, whose alliance herfather, Prince Boccanera, roughly rejected, and whom her elder brother, Ercole, swore to slay should he ever surprise him with her. Neverthelessthe young man came to visit her in a boat, and she joined him by thelittle staircase descending to the river. But one evening Ercole, who wason the watch, sprang into the boat and planted his dagger full inFlavio's heart. Later on the subsequent incidents were unravelled; it wasunderstood that Cassia, wrathful and frantic with despair, unwilling tosurvive her love and bent on wreaking justice, had thrown herself uponher brother, had seized both murderer and victim with the same graspwhilst overturning the boat; for when the three bodies were recoveredCassia still retained her hold upon the two men, pressing their faces oneagainst the other with her bare arms, which had remained as white assnow. 

But those were vanished times. Nowadays, if faith remained, bloodviolence seemed to be departing from the Boccaneras. Their huge fortunealso had been lost in the slow decline which for a century past has beenruining the Roman _patriziato_. It had been necessary to sell theestates; the palace had emptied, gradually sinking to the mediocrity andbourgeois life of the new times. For their part the Boccanerasobstinately declined to contract any alien alliances, proud as they wereof the purity of their Roman blood. And poverty was as nothing to them;they found contentment in their immense pride, and without a plaintsequestered themselves amidst the silence and gloom in which their racewas dwindling away. 

Prince Ascanio, dead since 1848, had left four children by his wife, aCorvisieri; first Pio, the Cardinal; then Serafina, who, in order toremain with her brother, had not married; and finally Ernesta andOnofrio, both of whom were deceased. As Ernesta had merely left adaughter, Benedetta, behind her, it followed that the only male heir, theonly possible continuator of the family name was Onofrio's son, youngPrince Dario, now some thirty years of age. Should he die withoutposterity, the Boccaneras, once so full of life and whose deeds hadfilled Roman history in papal times, must fatally disappear. 

Dario and his cousin Benedetta had been drawn together by a deep, smiling, natural passion ever since childhood. They seemed born one forthe other; they could not imagine that they had been brought into theworld for any other purpose than that of becoming husband and wife assoon as they should be old enough to marry. When Prince Onofrio--anamiable man of forty, very popular in Rome, where he spent his modestfortune as his heart listed--espoused La Montefiori's daughter, thelittle Marchesa Flavia, whose superb beauty, suggestive of a youthfulJuno, had maddened him, he went to reside at the Villa Montefiori, theonly property, indeed the only belonging, that remained to the twoladies. It was in the direction of St'. Agnese-fuori-le-Mura, * and therewere vast grounds, a perfect park in fact, planted with centenariantrees, among which the villa, a somewhat sorry building of theseventeenth century, was falling into ruins. 

 * St. Agnes-without-the-walls, N. E. Of Rome. 

Unfavourable reports were circulated about the ladies, the mother havingalmost lost caste since she had become a widow, and the girl having toobold a beauty, too conquering an air. Thus the marriage had not met withthe approval of Serafina, who was very rigid, or of Onofrio's elderbrother Pio, at that time merely a _Cameriere segreto_ of the Holy Fatherand a Canon of the Vatican basilica. Only Ernesta kept up a regularintercourse with Onofrio, fond of him as she was by reason of his gaietyof disposition; and thus, later on, her favourite diversion was to goeach week to the Villa Montefiori with her daughter Benedetta, there tospend the day. And what a delightful day it always proved to Benedettaand Dario, she ten years old and he fifteen, what a fraternal loving dayin that vast and almost abandoned garden with its parasol pines, itsgiant box-plants, and its clumps of evergreen oaks, amidst which one lostoneself as in a virgin forest. 

The poor stifled soul of Ernesta was a soul of pain and passion. Bornwith a mighty longing for life, she thirsted for the sun--for a free, happy, active existence in the full daylight. She was noted for her largelimpid eyes and the charming oval of her gentle face. Extremely ignorant, like all the daughters of the Roman nobility, having learnt the littleshe knew in a convent of French nuns, she had grown up cloistered in theblack Boccanera palace, having no knowledge of the world than by thosedaily drives to the Corso and the Pincio on which she accompanied hermother. Eventually, when she was five and twenty, and was already wearyand desolate, she contracted the customary marriage of her caste, espousing Count Brandini, the last-born of a very noble, very numerousand poor family, who had to come and live in the Via Giulia mansion, where an entire wing of the second floor was got ready for the youngcouple. And nothing changed, Ernesta continued to live in the same coldgloom, in the midst of the same dead past, the weight of which, like thatof a tombstone, she felt pressing more and more heavily upon her. 

The marriage was, on either side, a very honourable one. Count Brandinisoon passed as being the most foolish and haughty man in Rome. A strict, intolerant formalist in religious matters, he became quite triumphantwhen, after innumerable intrigues, secret plottings which lasted ten longyears, he at last secured the appointment of grand equerry to the HolyFather. With this appointment it seemed as if all the dismal majesty ofthe Vatican entered his household. However, Ernesta found life stillbearable in the time of Pius IX--that is until the latter part of1870--for she might still venture to open the windows overlooking thestreet, receive a few lady friends otherwise than in secrecy, and acceptinvitations to festivities. But when the Italians had conquered Rome andthe Pope declared himself a prisoner, the mansion in the Via Giuliabecame a sepulchre. The great doors were closed and bolted, even nailedtogether in token of mourning; and during ten years the inmates only wentout and came in by the little staircase communicating with the lane. Itwas also forbidden to open the window shutters of the facade. This wasthe sulking, the protest of the black world, the mansion sinking intodeath-like immobility, complete seclusion; no more receptions, barely afew shadows, the intimates of Donna Serafina who on Monday eveningsslipped in by the little door in the lane which was scarcely set ajar. And during those ten lugubrious years, overcome by secret despair, theyoung woman wept every night, suffered untold agony at thus being buriedalive. 

Ernesta had given birth to her daughter Benedetta rather late in life, when three and thirty years of age. At first the little one helped todivert her mind. But afterwards her wonted existence, like a grindingmillstone, again seized hold of her, and she had to place the child inthe charge of the French nuns, by whom she herself had been educated, atthe convent of the Sacred Heart of La Trinita de' Monti. When Benedettaleft the convent, grown up, nineteen years of age, she was able to speakand write French, knew a little arithmetic and her catechism, andpossessed a few hazy notions of history. Then the life of the two womenwas resumed, the life of a _gynoeceum_, suggestive of the Orient; neveran excursion with husband or father, but day after day spent in closed, secluded rooms, with nought to cheer one but the sole, everlasting, obligatory promenade, the daily drive to the Corso and the Pincio. 

At home, absolute obedience was the rule; the tie of relationshippossessed an authority, a strength, which made both women bow to the willof the Count, without possible thought of rebellion; and to the Count'swill was added that of Donna Serafina and that of Cardinal Pio, both ofwhom were stern defenders of the old-time customs. Since the Pope hadceased to show himself in Rome, the post of grand equerry had left theCount considerable leisure, for the number of equipages in the pontificalstables had been very largely reduced; nevertheless, he was constant inhis attendance at the Vatican, where his duties were now a mere matter ofparade, and ever increased his devout zeal as a mark of protest againstthe usurping monarchy installed at the Quirinal. However, Benedetta hadjust attained her twentieth year, when one evening her father returnedcoughing and shivering from some ceremony at St. Peter's. A week later hedied, carried off by inflammation of the lungs. And despite theirmourning, the loss was secretly considered a deliverance by both women, who now felt that they were free. 

Thenceforward Ernesta had but one thought, that of saving her daughterfrom that awful life of immurement and entombment. She herself hadsorrowed too deeply: it was no longer possible for her to remount thecurrent of existence; but she was unwilling that Benedetta should in herturn lead a life contrary to nature, in a voluntary grave. Moreover, similar lassitude and rebellion were showing themselves among otherpatrician families, which, after the sulking of the first years, werebeginning to draw nearer to the Quirinal. Why indeed should the children, eager for action, liberty, and sunlight, perpetually keep up the quarrelof the fathers? And so, though no reconciliation could take place betweenthe black world and the white world, * intermediate tints were alreadyappearing, and some unexpected matrimonial alliances were contracted. 

 * The "blacks" are the supporters of the papacy, the "whites" those of the King of Italy. --Trans. 

Ernesta for her part was indifferent to the political question; she knewnext to nothing about it; but that which she passionately desired wasthat her race might at last emerge from that hateful sepulchre, thatblack, silent Boccanera mansion, where her woman's joys had been frozenby so long a death. She had suffered very grievously in her heart, asgirl, as lover, and as wife, and yielded to anger at the thought that herlife should have been so spoiled, so lost through idiotic resignation. Then, too, her mind was greatly influenced by the choice of a newconfessor at this period; for she had remained very religious, practisingall the rites of the Church, and ever docile to the advice of herspiritual director. To free herself the more, however, she now quittedthe Jesuit father whom her husband had chosen for her, and in his steadtook Abbe Pisoni, the rector of the little church of Sta. Brigida, on thePiazza Farnese, close by. He was a man of fifty, very gentle, and verygood-hearted, of a benevolence seldom found in the Roman world; andarchaeology, a passion for the old stones of the past, had made him anardent patriot. Humble though his position was, folks whispered that hehad on several occasions served as an intermediary in delicate mattersbetween the Vatican and the Quirinal. And, becoming confessor not only ofErnesta but of Benedetta also, he was fond of discoursing to them aboutthe grandeur of Italian unity, the triumphant sway that Italy wouldexercise when the Pope and the King should agree together. 

Meantime Benedetta and Dario loved as on the first day, patiently, withthe strong tranquil love of those who know that they belong to oneanother. But it happened that Ernesta threw herself between them andstubbornly opposed their marriage. No, no! her daughter must not espousethat Dario, that cousin, the last of the name, who in his turn wouldimmure his wife in the black sepulchre of the Boccanera palace! Theirunion would be a prolongation of entombment, an aggravation of ruin, arepetition of the haughty wretchedness of the past, of the everlastingpeevish sulking which depressed and benumbed one! She was well acquaintedwith the young man's character; she knew that he was egotistical andweak, incapable of thinking and acting, predestined to bury his race witha smile on his lips, to let the last remnant of the house crumble abouthis head without attempting the slightest effort to found a new family. And that which she desired was fortune in another guise, a new birth forher daughter with wealth and the florescence of life amid the victors andpowerful ones of to-morrow. 

From that moment the mother did not cease her stubborn efforts to ensureher daughter's happiness despite herself. She told her of her tears, entreated her not to renew her own deplorable career. Yet she would havefailed, such was the calm determination of the girl who had for evergiven her heart, if certain circumstances had not brought her intoconnection with such a son-in-law as she dreamt of. At that very VillaMontefiori where Benedetta and Dario had plighted their troth, she metCount Prada, son of Orlando, one of the heroes of the reunion of Italy. Arriving in Rome from Milan, with his father, when eighteen years of age, at the time of the occupation of the city by the Italian Government, Prada had first entered the Ministry of Finances as a mere clerk, whilstthe old warrior, his sire, created a senator, lived scantily on a pettyincome, the last remnant of a fortune spent in his country's service. Thefine war-like madness of the former comrade of Garibaldi had, however, inthe son turned into a fierce appetite for booty, so that the young manbecame one of the real conquerors of Rome, one of those birds of preythat dismembered and devoured the city. Engaged in vast speculations onland, already wealthy according to popular report, he had--at the time ofmeeting Ernesta--just become intimate with Prince Onofrio, whose head hehad turned by suggesting to him the idea of selling the far-spreadinggrounds of the Villa Montefiori for the erection of a new suburbandistrict on the site. Others averred that he was the lover of theprincess, the beautiful Flavia, who, although nine years his senior, wasstill superb. And, truth to tell, he was certainly a man of violentdesires, with an eagerness to rush on the spoils of conquest whichrendered him utterly unscrupulous with regard either to the wealth or tothe wives of others. 

From the first day that he beheld Benedetta he desired her. But she, atany rate, could only become his by marriage. And he did not for a momenthesitate, but broke off all connection with Flavia, eager as he was forthe pure virgin beauty, the patrician youth of the other. When herealised that Ernesta, the mother, favoured him, he asked her daughter'shand, feeling certain of success. And the surprise was great, for he wassome fifteen years older than the girl. However, he was a count, he borea name which was already historical, he was piling up millions, he wasregarded with favour at the Quirinal, and none could tell to what heightshe might not attain. All Rome became impassioned. 

Never afterwards was Benedetta able to explain to herself how it happenedthat she had eventually consented. Six months sooner, six months later, such a marriage would certainly have been impossible, given the fearfulscandal which it raised in the black world. A Boccanera, the last maidenof that antique papal race, given to a Prada, to one of the despoilers ofthe Church! Was it credible? In order that the wild project might provesuccessful it had been necessary that it should be formed at a particularbrief moment--a moment when a supreme effort was being made to conciliatethe Vatican and the Quirinal. A report circulated that an agreement wason the point of being arrived at, that the King consented to recognisethe Pope's absolute sovereignty over the Leonine City, * and a narrow bandof territory extending to the sea. And if such were the case would notthe marriage of Benedetta and Prada become, so to say, a symbol of union, of national reconciliation? That lovely girl, the pure lily of the blackworld, was she not the acquiescent sacrifice, the pledge granted to thewhites?

 * The Vatican suburb of Rome, called the _Civitas Leonina_, because Leo IV, to protect it from the Saracens and Arabs, enclosed it with walls in the ninth century. --Trans. 

For a fortnight nothing else was talked of; people discussed thequestion, allowed their emotion rein, indulged in all sorts of hopes. Thegirl, for her part, did not enter into the political reasons, but simplylistened to her heart, which she could not bestow since it was hers nomore. From morn till night, however, she had to encounter her mother'sprayers entreating her not to refuse the fortune, the life which offered. And she was particularly exercised by the counsels of her confessor, goodAbbe Pisoni, whose patriotic zeal now burst forth. He weighed upon herwith all his faith in the Christian destinies of Italy, and returnedheartfelt thanks to Providence for having chosen one of his penitents asthe instrument for hastening the reconciliation which would work God'striumph throughout the world. And her confessor's influence was certainlyone of the decisive factors in shaping Benedetta's decision, for she wasvery pious, very devout, especially with regard to a certain Madonnawhose image she went to adore every Sunday at the little church on thePiazza Farnese. One circumstance in particular struck her: Abbe Pisonirelated that the flame of the lamp before the image in question whitenedeach time that he himself knelt there to beg the Virgin to incline hispenitent to the all-redeeming marriage. And thus superior forcesintervened; and she yielded in obedience to her mother, whom the Cardinaland Donna Serafina had at first opposed, but whom they left free to actwhen the religious question arose. 

Benedetta had grown up in such absolute purity and ignorance, knowingnothing of herself, so shut off from existence, that marriage withanother than Dario was to her simply the rupture of a long-kept promiseof life in common. It was not the violent wrenching of heart and fleshthat it would have been in the case of a woman who knew the facts oflife. She wept a good deal, and then in a day of self-surrender shemarried Prada, lacking the strength to continue resisting everybody, andyielding to a union which all Rome had conspired to bring about. 

But the clap of thunder came on the very night of the nuptials. Was itthat Prada, the Piedmontese, the Italian of the North, the man ofconquest, displayed towards his bride the same brutality that he hadshown towards the city he had sacked? Or was it that the revelation ofmarried life filled Benedetta with repulsion since nothing in her ownheart responded to the passion of this man? On that point she neverclearly explained herself; but with violence she shut the door of herroom, locked it and bolted it, and refused to admit her husband. For amonth Prada was maddened by her scorn. He felt outraged; both his prideand his passion bled; and he swore to master her, even as one masters acolt, with the whip. But all his virile fury was impotent against theindomitable determination which had sprung up one evening behindBenedetta's small and lovely brow. The spirit of the Boccaneras had awokewithin her; nothing in the world, not even the fear of death, would haveinduced her to become her husband's wife. * And then, love being at lastrevealed to her, there came a return of her heart to Dario, a convictionthat she must reserve herself for him alone, since it was to him that shehad promised herself. 

 * Many readers will doubtless remember that the situation as here described is somewhat akin to that of the earlier part of M. George Ohnet's _Ironmaster_, which, in its form as a novel, I translated into English many years ago. However, all resemblance between _Rome_ and the _Ironmaster_ is confined to this one point. --Trans. 

Ever since that marriage, which he had borne like a bereavement, theyoung man had been travelling in France. She did not hide the truth fromhim, but wrote to him, again vowing that she would never be another's. And meantime her piety increased, her resolve to reserve herself for thelover she had chosen mingled in her mind with constancy of religiousfaith. The ardent heart of a great _amorosa_ had ignited within her, shewas ready for martyrdom for faith's sake. And when her despairing motherwith clasped hands entreated her to resign herself to her conjugalduties, she replied that she owed no duties, since she had known nothingwhen she married. Moreover, the times were changing; the attempts toreconcile the Quirinal and the Vatican had failed, so completely, indeed, that the newspapers of the rival parties had, with renewed violence, resumed their campaign of mutual insult and outrage; and thus thattriumphal marriage, to which every one had contributed as to a pledge ofpeace, crumbled amid the general smash-up, became but a ruin the moreadded to so many others. 

Ernesta died of it. She had made a mistake. Her spoilt life--the life ofa joyless wife--had culminated in this supreme maternal error. And theworst was that she alone had to bear all the responsibility of thedisaster, for both her brother, the Cardinal, and her sister, DonnaSerafina, overwhelmed her with reproaches. For consolation she had butthe despair of Abbe Pisoni, whose patriotic hopes had been destroyed, andwho was consumed with grief at having contributed to such a catastrophe. And one morning Ernesta was found, icy white and cold, in her bed. Folkstalked of the rupture of a blood-vessel, but grief had been sufficient, for she had suffered frightfully, secretly, without a plaint, as indeedshe had suffered all her life long. 

At this time Benedetta had been married about a twelvemonth: still strongin her resistance to her husband, but remaining under the conjugal roofin order to spare her mother the terrible blow of a public scandal. However, her aunt Serafina had brought influence to bear on her, byopening to her the hope of a possible nullification of her marriage, should she throw herself at the feet of the Holy Father and entreat hisintervention. And Serafina ended by persuading her of this, when, deferring to certain advice, she removed her from the spiritual controlof Abbe Pisoni, and gave her the same confessor as herself. This was aJesuit father named Lorenza, a man scarce five and thirty, with brighteyes, grave and amiable manners, and great persuasive powers. However, itwas only on the morrow of her mother's death that Benedetta made up hermind, and returned to the Palazzo Boccanera, to occupy the apartmentswhere she had been born, and where her mother had just passed away. 

Immediately afterwards proceedings for annulling the marriage wereinstituted, in the first instance, for inquiry, before the Cardinal Vicarcharged with the diocese of Rome. It was related that the Contessina hadonly taken this step after a secret audience with his Holiness, who hadshown her the most encouraging sympathy. Count Prada at first spoke ofapplying to the law courts to compel his wife to return to the conjugaldomicile; but, yielding to the entreaties of his old father Orlando, whomthe affair greatly grieved, he eventually consented to accept theecclesiastical jurisdiction. He was infuriated, however, to find that thenullification of the marriage was solicited on the ground of itsnon-consummation through _impotentia mariti_; this being one of the mostvalid and decisive pleas on which the Church of Rome consents to partthose whom she has joined. And far more unhappy marriages than might beimagined are severed on these grounds, though the world only givesattention to those cases in which people of title or renown areconcerned, as it did, for instance, with the famous Martinez Campos suit. 

In Benedetta's case, her counsel, Consistorial-Advocate Morano, one ofthe leading authorities of the Roman bar, simply neglected to mention, inhis memoir, that if she was still merely a wife in name, this wasentirely due to herself. In addition to the evidence of friends andservants, showing on what terms the husband and wife had lived sincetheir marriage, the advocate produced a certificate of a medicalcharacter, showing that the non-consummation of the union was certain. And the Cardinal Vicar, acting as Bishop of Rome, had thereupon remittedthe case to the Congregation of the Council. This was a first success forBenedetta, and matters remained in this position. She was waiting for theCongregation to deliver its final pronouncement, hoping that theecclesiastical dissolution of the marriage would prove an irresistibleargument in favour of the divorce which she meant to solicit of the civilcourts. And meantime, in the icy rooms where her mother Ernesta, submissive and desolate, had lately died, the Contessina resumed hergirlish life, showing herself calm, yet very firm in her passion, havingvowed that she would belong to none but Dario, and that she would notbelong to him until the day when a priest should have joined themtogether in God's holy name. 

As it happened, some six months previously, Dario also had taken up hisabode at the Boccanera palace in consequence of the death of his fatherand the catastrophe which had ruined him. Prince Onofrio, after adoptingPrada's advice and selling the Villa Montefiori to a financial companyfor ten million _lire_, * had, instead of prudently keeping his money inhis pockets, succumbed to the fever of speculation which was consumingRome. He began to gamble, buying back his own land, and ending by losingeverything in the formidable _krach_ which was swallowing up the wealthof the entire city. Totally ruined, somewhat deeply in debt even, thePrince nevertheless continued to promenade the Corso, like the handsome, smiling, popular man he was, when he accidentally met his death throughfalling from his horse; and four months later his widow, the everbeautiful Flavia--who had managed to save a modern villa and a personalincome of forty thousand _lire_* from the disaster--was remarried to aman of magnificent presence, her junior by some ten years. This was aSwiss named Jules Laporte, originally a sergeant in the Papal SwissGuard, then a traveller for a shady business in "relics, " and finallyMarchese Montefiore, having secured that title in securing his wife, thanks to a special brief of the Holy Father. Thus the Princess Boccanerahad again become the Marchioness Montefiori. 

 * 400, 000 pounds. ** 1, 800 pounds. 

It was then that Cardinal Boccanera, feeling greatly hurt, insisted onhis nephew Dario coming to live with him, in a small apartment on thefirst floor of the palazzo. In the heart of that holy man, who seemeddead to the world, there still lingered pride of name and lineage, with afeeling of affection for his young, slightly built nephew, the last ofthe race, the only one by whom the old stock might blossom anew. Moreover, he was not opposed to Dario's marriage with Benedetta, whom healso loved with a paternal affection; and so proud was he of the familyhonour, and so convinced of the young people's pious rectitude that, intaking them to live with him, he absolutely scorned the abominablerumours which Count Prada's friends in the white world had begun tocirculate ever since the two cousins had resided under the same roof. Donna Serafina guarded Benedetta, as he, the Cardinal, guarded Dario, andin the silence and the gloom of the vast deserted mansion, ensanguined ofolden time by so many tragic deeds of violence, there now only remainedthese four with their restrained, stilled passions, last survivors of acrumbling world upon the threshold of a new one. 

When Abbe Pierre Froment all at once awoke from sleep, his head heavywith painful dreams, he was worried to find that the daylight was alreadywaning. His watch, which he hastened to consult, pointed to six o'clock. Intending to rest for an hour at the utmost, he had slept on for nearlyseven hours, overcome beyond power of resistance. And even on awaking heremained on the bed, helpless, as though he were conquered before he hadfought. Why, he wondered, did he experience this prostration, thisunreasonable discouragement, this quiver of doubt which had come he knewnot whence during his sleep, and which was annihilating his youthfulenthusiasm of the morning? Had the Boccaneras any connection with thissudden weakening of his powers? He had espied dim disquieting figures inthe black night of his dreams; and the anguish which they had brought himcontinued, and he again evoked them, scared as he was at thus awaking ina strange room, full of uneasiness in presence of the unknown. Things nolonger seemed natural to him. He could not understand why Benedettashould have written to Viscount Philibert de la Choue to tell him thathis, Pierre's, book had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. What interest too could she have had in his coming to Rome to defendhimself; and with what object had she carried her amiability so far as todesire that he should take up his quarters in the mansion? Pierre'sstupefaction indeed arose from his being there, on that bed in thatstrange room, in that palace whose deep, death-like silence encompassedhim. As he lay there, his limbs still overpowered and his brain seeminglyempty, a flash of light suddenly came to him, and he realised that theremust be certain circumstances that he knew nothing of that, simple thoughthings appeared, they must really hide some complicated intrigue. However, it was only a fugitive gleam of enlightenment; his suspicionsfaded; and he rose up shaking himself and accusing the gloomy twilight ofbeing the sole cause of the shivering and the despondency of which hefelt ashamed. 

In order to bestir himself, Pierre began to examine the two rooms. Theywere furnished simply, almost meagrely, in mahogany, there being scarcelyany two articles alike, though all dated from the beginning of thecentury. Neither the bed nor the windows nor the doors had any hangings. On the floor of bare tiles, coloured red and polished, there were merelysome little foot-mats in front of the various seats. And at sight of thismiddle-class bareness and coldness Pierre ended by remembering a roomwhere he had slept in childhood--a room at Versailles, at the abode ofhis grandmother, who had kept a little grocer's shop there in the days ofLouis Philippe. However, he became interested in an old painting whichhung in the bed-room, on the wall facing the bed, amidst some childishand valueless engravings. But partially discernible in the waning light, this painting represented a woman seated on some projecting stone-work, on the threshold of a great stern building, whence she seemed to havebeen driven forth. The folding doors of bronze had for ever closed behindher, yet she remained there in a mere drapery of white linen; whilstscattered articles of clothing, thrown forth chance-wise with a violenthand, lay upon the massive granite steps. Her feet were bare, her armswere bare, and her hands, distorted by bitter agony, were pressed to herface--a face which one saw not, veiled as it was by the tawny gold of herrippling, streaming hair. What nameless grief, what fearful shame, whathateful abandonment was thus being hidden by that rejected one, thatlingering victim of love, of whose unknown story one might for ever dreamwith tortured heart? It could be divined that she was adorably young andbeautiful in her wretchedness, in the shred of linen draped about hershoulders; but a mystery enveloped everything else--her passion, possiblyher misfortune, perhaps even her transgression--unless, indeed, she werethere merely as a symbol of all that shivers and that weeps visagelessbefore the ever closed portals of the unknown. For a long time Pierrelooked at her, and so intently that he at last imagined he coulddistinguish her profile, divine in its purity and expression ofsuffering. But this was only an illusion; the painting had greatlysuffered, blackened by time and neglect; and he asked himself whose workit might be that it should move him so intensely. On the adjoining wall apicture of a Madonna, a bad copy of an eighteenth-century painting, irritated him by the banality of its smile. 

Night was falling faster and faster, and, opening the sitting-roomwindow, Pierre leant out. On the other bank of the Tiber facing him arosethe Janiculum, the height whence he had gazed upon Rome that morning. Butat this dim hour Rome was no longer the city of youth and dreamlandsoaring into the early sunshine. The night was raining down, grey andashen; the horizon was becoming blurred, vague, and mournful. Yonder, tothe left, beyond the sea of roofs, Pierre could still divine the presenceof the Palatine; and yonder, to the right, there still arose the Dome ofSt. Peter's, now grey like slate against the leaden sky; whilst behindhim the Quirinal, which he could not see, must also be fading away intothe misty night. A few minutes went by, and everything became yet moreblurred; he realised that Rome was fading, departing in its immensity ofwhich he knew nothing. Then his causeless doubt and disquietude againcame on him so painfully that he could no longer remain at the window. Heclosed it and sat down, letting the darkness submerge him with its floodof infinite sadness. And his despairing reverie only ceased when the doorgently opened and the glow of a lamp enlivened the room. 

It was Victorine who came in quietly, bringing the light. "Ah! so you areup, Monsieur l'Abbe, " said she; "I came in at about four o'clock but Ilet you sleep on. You have done quite right to take all the rest yourequired. "

Then, as he complained of pains and shivering, she became anxious. "Don'tgo catching their nasty fevers, " she said. "It isn't at all healthy neartheir river, you know. Don Vigilio, his Eminence's secretary, is alwayshaving the fever, and I assure you that it isn't pleasant. "

She accordingly advised him to remain upstairs and lie down again. Shewould excuse his absence to the Princess and the Contessina. And he endedby letting her do as she desired, for he was in no state to have any willof his own. By her advice he dined, partaking of some soup, a wing of achicken, and some preserves, which Giaccomo, the big lackey, brought upto him. And the food did him a great deal of good; he felt so restoredthat he refused to go to bed, desiring, said he, to thank the ladies thatvery evening for their kindly hospitality. As Donna Serafina received onMondays he would present himself before her. 

"Very good, " said Victorine approvingly. "As you are all right again itcan do you no harm, it will even enliven you. The best thing will be forDon Vigilio to come for you at nine o'clock and accompany you. Wait forhim here. "

Pierre had just washed and put on the new cassock he had brought withhim, when, at nine o'clock precisely, he heard a discreet knock at hisdoor. A little priest came in, a man scarcely thirty years of age, butthin and debile of build, with a long, seared, saffron-coloured face. Fortwo years past attacks of fever, coming on every day at the same hour, had been consuming him. Nevertheless, whenever he forgot to control theblack eyes which lighted his yellow face, they shone out ardently withthe glow of his fiery soul. He bowed, and then in fluent Frenchintroduced himself in this simple fashion: "Don Vigilio, Monsieur l'Abbe, who is entirely at your service. If you are willing, we will go down. "

Pierre immediately followed him, expressing his thanks, and Don Vigilio, relapsing into silence, answered his remarks with a smile. Havingdescended the small staircase, they found themselves on the second floor, on the spacious landing of the grand staircase. And Pierre was surprisedand saddened by the scanty illumination, which, as in some dingylodging-house, was limited to a few gas-jets, placed far apart, theiryellow splotches but faintly relieving the deep gloom of the lofty, endless corridors. All was gigantic and funereal. Even on the landing, where was the entrance to Donna Serafina's apartments, facing thoseoccupied by her niece, nothing indicated that a reception was being heldthat evening. The door remained closed, not a sound came from the rooms, a death-like silence arose from the whole palace. And Don Vigilio did noteven ring, but, after a fresh bow, discreetly turned the door-handle. 

A single petroleum lamp, placed on a table, lighted the ante-room, alarge apartment with bare fresco-painted walls, simulating hangings ofred and gold, draped regularly all around in the antique fashion. A fewmen's overcoats and two ladies' mantles lay on the chairs, whilst a piertable was littered with hats, and a servant sat there dozing, with hisback to the wall. 

However, as Don Vigilio stepped aside to allow Pierre to enter a firstreception-room, hung with red _brocatelle_, a room but dimly lighted andwhich he imagined to be empty, the young priest found himself face toface with an apparition in black, a woman whose features he could not atfirst distinguish. Fortunately he heard his companion say, with a lowbow, "Contessina, I have the honour to present to you Monsieur l'AbbePierre Froment, who arrived from France this morning. "

Then, for a moment, Pierre remained alone with Benedetta in that deserted_salon_, in the sleepy glimmer of two lace-veiled lamps. At present, however, a sound of voices came from a room beyond, a larger apartmentwhose doorway, with folding doors thrown wide open, described aparallelogram of brighter light. 

The young woman at once showed herself very affable, with perfectsimplicity of manner: "Ah! I am happy to see you, Monsieur l'Abbe. I wasafraid that your indisposition might be serious. You are quite recoverednow, are you not?"

Pierre listened to her, fascinated by her slow and rather thick voice, inwhich restrained passion seemed to mingle with much prudent good sense. And at last he saw her, with her hair so heavy and so dark, her skin sowhite, the whiteness of ivory. She had a round face, with somewhat fulllips, a small refined nose, features as delicate as a child's. But it wasespecially her eyes that lived, immense eyes, whose infinite depths nonecould fathom. Was she slumbering? Was she dreaming? Did her motionlessface conceal the ardent tension of a great saint and a great _amorosa_?So white, so young, and so calm, her every movement was harmonious, herappearance at once very staid, very noble, and very rhythmical. In herears she wore two large pearls of matchless purity, pearls which had comefrom a famous necklace of her mother's, known throughout Rome. 

Pierre apologised and thanked her. "You see me in confusion, madame, "said he; "I should have liked to express to you this morning my gratitudefor your great kindness. "

He had hesitated to call her madame, remembering the plea brought forwardin the suit for the dissolution of her marriage. But plainly enougheverybody must call her madame. Moreover, her face had retained its calmand kindly expression. 

"Consider yourself at home here, Monsieur l'Abbe, " she responded, wishingto put him at his ease. "It is sufficient that our relative, Monsieur dela Choue, should be fond of you, and take interest in your work. I have, you know, much affection for him. " Then her voice faltered slightly, forshe realised that she ought to speak of the book, the one reason ofPierre's journey and her proffered hospitality. "Yes, " she added, "theViscount sent me your book. I read it and found it very beautiful. Itdisturbed me. But I am only an ignoramus, and certainly failed tounderstand everything in it. We must talk it over together; you willexplain your ideas to me, won't you, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

In her large clear eyes, which did not know how to lie, Pierre then readthe surprise and emotion of a child's soul when confronted by disquietingand undreamt-of problems. So it was not she who had become impassionedand had desired to have him near her that she might sustain him andassist his victory. Once again, and this time very keenly, he suspected asecret influence, a hidden hand which was directing everything towardssome unknown goal. However, he was charmed by so much simplicity andfrankness in so beautiful, young, and noble a creature; and he gavehimself to her after the exchange of those few words, and was about totell her that she might absolutely dispose of him, when he wasinterrupted by the advent of another woman, whose tall, slight figure, also clad in black, stood out strongly against the luminous background ofthe further reception-room as seen through the open doorway. 

"Well, Benedetta, have you sent Giaccomo up to see?" asked the newcomer. "Don Vigilio has just come down and he is quite alone. It is improper. "

"No, no, aunt. Monsieur l'Abbe is here, " was the reply of Benedetta, hastening to introduce the young priest. "Monsieur l'Abbe PierreFroment--The Princess Boccanera. "

Ceremonious salutations were exchanged. The Princess must have beennearly sixty, but she laced herself so tightly that from behind one mighthave taken her for a young woman. This tight lacing, however, was herlast coquetry. Her hair, though still plentiful, was quite white, hereyebrows alone remaining black in her long, wrinkled face, from whichprojected the large obstinate nose of the family. She had never beenbeautiful, and had remained a spinster, wounded to the heart by theselection of Count Brandini, who had preferred her younger sister, Ernesta. From that moment she had resolved to seek consolation andsatisfaction in family pride alone, the hereditary pride of the greatname which she bore. The Boccaneras had already supplied two Popes to theChurch, and she hoped that before she died her brother would become thethird. She had transformed herself into his housekeeper, as it were, remaining with him, watching over him, and advising him, managing all thehousehold affairs herself, and accomplishing miracles in order to concealthe slow ruin which was bringing the ceilings about their heads. If everyMonday for thirty years past she had continued receiving a few intimates, all of them folks of the Vatican, it was from high politicalconsiderations, so that her drawing-room might remain a meeting-place ofthe black world, a power and a threat. 

And Pierre divined by her greeting that she deemed him of little account, petty foreign priest that he was, not even a prelate. This too againsurprised him, again brought the puzzling question to the fore: Why hadhe been invited, what was expected of him in this society from which thehumble were usually excluded? Knowing the Princess to be austerelydevout, he at last fancied that she received him solely out of regard forher kinsman, the Viscount, for in her turn she only found these words ofwelcome: "We are so pleased to receive good news of Monsieur de la Choue!He brought us such a beautiful pilgrimage two years ago. "

Passing the first through the doorway, she at last ushered the youngpriest into the adjoining reception-room. It was a spacious squareapartment, hung with old yellow _brocatelle_ of a flowery Louis XIVpattern. The lofty ceiling was adorned with a very fine panelling, carvedand coloured, with gilded roses in each compartment. The furniture, however, was of all sorts. There were some high mirrors, a couple ofsuperb gilded pier tables, and a few handsome seventeenth-centuryarm-chairs; but all the rest was wretched. A heavy round table offirst-empire style, which had come nobody knew whence, caught the eyewith a medley of anomalous articles picked up at some bazaar, and aquantity of cheap photographs littered the costly marble tops of the piertables. No interesting article of _virtu_ was to be seen. The oldpaintings on the walls were with two exceptions feebly executed. Therewas a delightful example of an unknown primitive master, afourteenth-century Visitation, in which the Virgin had the stature andpure delicacy of a child of ten, whilst the Archangel, huge and superb, inundated her with a stream of dazzling, superhuman love; and in front ofthis hung an antique family portrait, depicting a very beautiful younggirl in a turban, who was thought to be Cassia Boccanera, the _amorosa_and avengeress who had flung herself into the Tiber with her brotherErcole and the corpse of her lover, Flavio Corradini. Four lamps threw abroad, peaceful glow over the faded room, and, like a melancholy sunset, tinged it with yellow. It looked grave and bare, with not even a flowerin a vase to brighten it. 

In a few words Donna Serafina at once introduced Pierre to the company;and in the silence, the pause which ensued in the conversation, he feltthat every eye was fixed upon him as upon a promised and expectedcuriosity. There were altogether some ten persons present, among thembeing Dario, who stood talking with little Princess Celia Buongiovanni, whilst the elderly relative who had brought the latter sat whispering toa prelate, Monsignor Nani, in a dim corner. Pierre, however, had beenparticularly struck by the name of Consistorial-Advocate Morano, of whoseposition in the house Viscount de la Choue had thought proper to informhim in order to avert any unpleasant blunder. For thirty years pastMorano had been Donna Serafina's _amico_. Their connection, formerly aguilty one, for the advocate had wife and children of his own, had incourse of time, since he had been left a widower, become one of those_liaisons_ which tolerant people excuse and except. Both parties wereextremely devout and had certainly assured themselves of all needful"indulgences. " And thus Morano was there in the seat which he had alwaystaken for a quarter of a century past, a seat beside the chimney-piece, though as yet the winter fire had not been lighted, and when DonnaSerafina had discharged her duties as mistress of the house, she returnedto her own place in front of him, on the other side of the chimney. 

When Pierre in his turn had seated himself near Don Vigilio, who, silentand discreet, had already taken a chair, Dario resumed in a louder voicethe story which he had been relating to Celia. Dario was a handsome man, of average height, slim and elegant. He wore a full beard, dark andcarefully tended, and had the long face and pronounced nose of theBoccaneras, but the impoverishment of the family blood over a course ofcenturies had attenuated, softened as it were, any sharpness or undueprominence of feature. 

"Oh! a beauty, an astounding beauty!" he repeated emphatically. 

"Whose beauty?" asked Benedetta, approaching him. 

Celia, who resembled the little Virgin of the primitive master hangingabove her head, began to laugh. "Oh! Dario's speaking of a poor girl, awork-girl whom he met to-day, " she explained. 

Thereupon Dario had to begin his narrative again. It appeared that whilepassing along a narrow street near the Piazza Navona, he had perceived atall, shapely girl of twenty, who was weeping and sobbing violently, prone upon a flight of steps. Touched particularly by her beauty, he hadapproached her and learnt that she had been working in the house outsidewhich she was, a manufactory of wax beads, but that, slack times havingcome, the workshops had closed and she did not dare to return home, sofearful was the misery there. Amidst the downpour of her tears she raisedsuch beautiful eyes to his that he ended by drawing some money from hispocket. But at this, crimson with confusion, she sprang to her feet, hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, and refusing to takeanything. She added, however, that he might follow her if it so pleasedhim, and give the money to her mother. And then she hurried off towardsthe Ponte St'. Angelo. *

 * Bridge of St. Angelo. 

"Yes, she was a beauty, a perfect beauty, " repeated Dario with an air ofecstasy. "Taller than I, and slim though sturdy, with the bosom of agoddess. In fact, a real antique, a Venus of twenty, her chin ratherbold, her mouth and nose of perfect form, and her eyes wonderfully pureand large! And she was bare-headed too, with nothing but a crown of heavyblack hair, and a dazzling face, gilded, so to say, by the sun. "

They had all begun to listen to him, enraptured, full of that passionateadmiration for beauty which, in spite of every change, Rome still retainsin her heart. 

"Those beautiful girls of the people are becoming very rare, " remarkedMorano. "You might scour the Trastevere without finding any. However, this proves that there is at least one of them left. "

"And what was your goddess's name?" asked Benedetta, smiling, amused andenraptured like the others. 

"Pierina, " replied Dario, also with a laugh. 

"And what did you do with her?"

At this question the young man's excited face assumed an expression ofdiscomfort and fear, like the face of a child on suddenly encounteringsome ugly creature amidst its play. 

"Oh! don't talk of it, " said he. "I felt very sorry afterwards. I sawsuch misery--enough to make one ill. "

Yielding to his curiosity, it seemed, he had followed the girl across thePonte St'. Angelo into the new district which was being built over theformer castle meadows*; and there, on the first floor of an abandonedhouse which was already falling into ruins, though the plaster wasscarcely dry, he had come upon a frightful spectacle which still stirredhis heart: a whole family, father and mother, children, and an infirm olduncle, dying of hunger and rotting in filth! He selected the mostdignified words he could think of to describe the scene, waving his handthe while with a gesture of fright, as if to ward off some horriblevision. 

 * The meadows around the Castle of St. Angelo. The district, now covered with buildings, is quite flat and was formerly greatly subject to floods. It is known as the Quartiere dei Prati. --Trans. 

"At last, " he concluded, "I ran away, and you may be sure that I shan'tgo back again. "

A general wagging of heads ensued in the cold, irksome silence which fellupon the room. Then Morano summed up the matter in a few bitter words, inwhich he accused the despoilers, the men of the Quirinal, of being thesole cause of all the frightful misery of Rome. Were not people eventalking of the approaching nomination of Deputy Sacco as Minister ofFinances--Sacco, that intriguer who had engaged in all sorts of underhandpractices? His appointment would be the climax of impudence; bankruptcywould speedily and infallibly ensue. 

Meantime Benedetta, who had fixed her eyes on Pierre, with his book inher mind, alone murmured: "Poor people, how very sad! But why not go backto see them?"

Pierre, out of his element and absent-minded during the earlier moments, had been deeply stirred by the latter part of Dario's narrative. Histhoughts reverted to his apostolate amidst the misery of Paris, and hisheart was touched with compassion at being confronted by the story ofsuch fearful sufferings on the very day of his arrival in Rome. Unwittingly, impulsively, he raised his voice, and said aloud: "Oh! wewill go to see them together, madame; you will take me. These questionsimpassion me so much. "

The attention of everybody was then again turned upon the young priest. The others questioned him, and he realised that they were all anxiousabout his first impressions, his opinion of their city and of themselves. He must not judge Rome by mere outward appearances, they said. Whateffect had the city produced on him? How had he found it, and what did hethink of it? Thereupon he politely apologised for his inability to answerthem. He had not yet gone out, said he, and had seen nothing. But thisanswer was of no avail; they pressed him all the more keenly, and hefully understood that their object was to gain him over to admiration andlove. They advised him, adjured him not to yield to any fataldisillusion, but to persist and wait until Rome should have revealed tohim her soul. 

"How long do you expect to remain among us, Monsieur l'Abbe?" suddenlyinquired a courteous voice, with a clear but gentle ring. 

It was Monsignor Nani, who, seated in the gloom, thus raised his voicefor the first time. On several occasions it had seemed to Pierre that theprelate's keen blue eyes were steadily fixed upon him, though all thewhile he pretended to be attentively listening to the drawling chatter ofCelia's aunt. And before replying Pierre glanced at him. In hiscrimson-edged cassock, with a violet silk sash drawn tightly around hiswaist, Nani still looked young, although he was over fifty. His hair hadremained blond, he had a straight refined nose, a mouth very firm yetvery delicate of contour, and beautifully white teeth. 

"Why, a fortnight or perhaps three weeks, Monsignor, " replied Pierre. 

The whole _salon_ protested. What, three weeks! It was his pretension toknow Rome in three weeks! Why, six weeks, twelve months, ten years wererequired! The first impression was always a disastrous one, and a longsojourn was needed for a visitor to recover from it. 

"Three weeks!" repeated Donna Serafina with her disdainful air. "Is itpossible for people to study one another and get fond of one another inthree weeks? Those who come back to us are those who have learned to knowus. "

Instead of launching into exclamations like the others, Nani had at firstcontented himself with smiling, and gently waving his shapely hand, whichbespoke his aristocratic origin. Then, as Pierre modestly explainedhimself, saying that he had come to Rome to attend to certain matters andwould leave again as soon as those matters should have been concluded, the prelate, still smiling, summed up the argument with the remark: "Oh!Monsieur l'Abbe will stay with us for more than three weeks; we shallhave the happiness of his presence here for a long time, I hope. "

These words, though spoken with quiet cordiality, strangely disturbed theyoung priest. What was known, what was meant? He leant towards DonVigilio, who had remained near him, still and ever silent, and in awhisper inquired: "Who is Monsignor Nani?"

The secretary, however, did not at once reply. His feverish face becameyet more livid. Then his ardent eyes glanced round to make sure thatnobody was watching him, and in a breath he responded: "He is theAssessor of the Holy Office. "*

 * Otherwise the Inquisition. 

This information sufficed, for Pierre was not ignorant of the fact thatthe assessor, who was present in silence at the meetings of the HolyOffice, waited upon his Holiness every Wednesday evening after thesitting, to render him an account of the matters dealt with in theafternoon. This weekly audience, this hour spent with the Pope in aprivacy which allowed of every subject being broached, gave the assessoran exceptional position, one of considerable power. Moreover the officeled to the cardinalate; the only "rise" that could be given to theassessor was his promotion to the Sacred College. 

Monsignor Nani, who seemed so perfectly frank and amiable, continued tolook at the young priest with such an encouraging air that the latterfelt obliged to go and occupy the seat beside him, which Celia's old auntat last vacated. After all, was there not an omen of victory in meeting, on the very day of his arrival, a powerful prelate whose influence wouldperhaps open every door to him? He therefore felt very touched whenMonsignor Nani, immediately after the first words, inquired in a tone ofdeep interest, "And so, my dear child, you have published a book?"

After this, gradually mastered by his enthusiasm and forgetting where hewas, Pierre unbosomed himself, and recounted the birth and progress ofhis burning love amidst the sick and the humble, gave voice to his dreamof a return to the olden Christian community, and triumphed with therejuvenescence of Catholicism, developing into the one religion of theuniversal democracy. Little by little he again raised his voice, andsilence fell around him in the stern, antique reception-room, every onelending ear to his words with increasing surprise, with a growingcoldness of which he remained unconscious. 

At last Nani gently interrupted him, still wearing his perpetual smile, the faint irony of which, however, had departed. "No doubt, no doubt, mydear child, " he said, "it is very beautiful, oh! very beautiful, wellworthy of the pure and noble imagination of a Christian. But what do youcount on doing now?"

"I shall go straight to the Holy Father to defend myself, " answeredPierre. 

A light, restrained laugh went round, and Donna Serafina expressed thegeneral opinion by exclaiming: "The Holy Father isn't seen as easily asthat. "

Pierre, however, was quite impassioned. "Well, for my part, " he rejoined, "I hope I shall see him. Have I not expressed his views? Have I notdefended his policy? Can he let my book be condemned when I believe thatI have taken inspiration from all that is best in him?"

"No doubt, no doubt, " Nani again hastily replied, as if he feared thatthe others might be too brusque with the young enthusiast. "The HolyFather has such a lofty mind. And of course it would be necessary to seehim. Only, my dear child, you must not excite yourself so much; reflect alittle; take your time. " And, turning to Benedetta, he added, "Of coursehis Eminence has not seen Abbe Froment yet. It would be well, however, that he should receive him to-morrow morning to guide him with his wisecounsel. "

Cardinal Boccanera never attended his sister's Monday-evening receptions. Still, he was always there in the spirit, like some absent sovereignmaster. 

"To tell the truth, " replied the Contessina, hesitating, "I fear that myuncle does not share Monsieur l'Abbe's views. "

Nani again smiled. "Exactly; he will tell him things which it is good heshould hear. "

Thereupon it was at once settled with Don Vigilio that the latter wouldput down the young priest's name for an audience on the following morningat ten o'clock. 

However, at that moment a cardinal came in, clad in town costume--hissash and his stockings red, but his simar black, with a red edging andred buttons. It was Cardinal Sarno, a very old intimate of theBoccaneras; and whilst he apologised for arriving so late, through pressof work, the company became silent and deferentially clustered round him. This was the first cardinal Pierre had seen, and he felt greatlydisappointed, for the newcomer had none of the majesty, none of the fineport and presence to which he had looked forward. On the contrary, he wasshort and somewhat deformed, with the left shoulder higher than theright, and a worn, ashen face with lifeless eyes. To Pierre he lookedlike some old clerk of seventy, half stupefied by fifty years of officework, dulled and bent by incessantly leaning over his writing desk eversince his youth. And indeed that was Sarno's story. The puny child of apetty middle-class family, he had been educated at the Seminario Romano. Then later he had for ten years professed Canon Law at that sameseminary, afterwards becoming one of the secretaries of the Congregationfor the Propagation of the Faith. Finally, five and twenty years ago, hehad been created a cardinal, and the jubilee of his cardinalate hadrecently been celebrated. Born in Rome, he had always lived there; he wasthe perfect type of the prelate who, through growing up in the shade ofthe Vatican, has become one of the masters of the world. Although he hadnever occupied any diplomatic post, he had rendered such importantservices to the Propaganda, by his methodical habits of work, that he hadbecome president of one of the two commissions which furthered theinterests of the Church in those vast countries of the west which are notyet Catholic. And thus, in the depths of his dim eyes, behind his low, dull-looking brow, the huge map of Christendom was stored away. 

Nani himself had risen, full of covert respect for the unobtrusive butterrible man whose hand was everywhere, even in the most distant cornersof the earth, although he had never left his office. As Nani knew, despite his apparent nullity, Sarno, with his slow, methodical, ablyorganised work of conquest, possessed sufficient power to set empires inconfusion. 

"Has your Eminence recovered from that cold which distressed us so much?"asked Nani. 

"No, no, I still cough. There is a most malignant passage at the offices. I feel as cold as ice as soon as I leave my room. "

From that moment Pierre felt quite little, virtually lost. He was noteven introduced to the Cardinal. And yet he had to remain in the room fornearly another hour, looking around and observing. That antiquated worldthen seemed to him puerile, as though it had lapsed into a mournfulsecond childhood. Under all the apparent haughtiness and proud reserve hecould divine real timidity, unacknowledged distrust, born of greatignorance. If the conversation did not become general, it was becausenobody dared to speak out frankly; and what he heard in the corners wassimply so much childish chatter, the petty gossip of the week, thetrivial echoes of sacristies and drawing-rooms. People saw but little ofone another, and the slightest incidents assumed huge proportions. Atlast Pierre ended by feeling as though he were transported into some_salon_ of the time of Charles X, in one of the episcopal cities of theFrench provinces. No refreshments were served. Celia's old aunt securedpossession of Cardinal Sarno; but, instead of replying to her, he simplywagged his head from time to time. Don Vigilio had not opened his mouththe whole evening. However, a conversation in a very low tone was startedby Nani and Morano, to whom Donna Serafina listened, leaning forward andexpressing her approval by slowly nodding her head. They were doubtlessspeaking of the dissolution of Benedetta's marriage, for they glanced atthe young woman gravely from time to time. And in the centre of thespacious room, in the sleepy glow of the lamps, there was only the youngpeople, Benedetta, Dario, and Celia who seemed to be at all alive, chattering in undertones and occasionally repressing a burst of laughter. 

All at once Pierre was struck by the great resemblance between Benedettaand the portrait of Cassia hanging on the wall. Each displayed the samedelicate youth, the same passionate mouth, the same large, unfathomableeyes, set in the same round, sensible, healthy-looking face. In eachthere was certainly the same upright soul, the same heart of flame. Thena recollection came to Pierre, that of a painting by Guido Reni, theadorable, candid head of Beatrice Cenci, which, at that moment and to histhinking, the portrait of Cassia closely resembled. This resemblancestirred him and he glanced at Benedetta with anxious sympathy, as if allthe fierce fatality of race and country were about to fall on her. Butno, it could not be; she looked so calm, so resolute, and so patient!Besides, ever since he had entered that room he had noticed none otherthan signs of gay fraternal tenderness between her and Dario, especiallyon her side, for her face ever retained the bright serenity of a lovewhich may be openly confessed. At one moment, it is true, Dario in ajoking way had caught hold of her hands and pressed them; but while hebegan to laugh rather nervously, with a brighter gleam darting from hiseyes, she on her side, all composure, slowly freed her hands, as thoughtheirs was but the play of old and affectionate friends. She loved him, though, it was visible, with her whole being and for her whole life. 

At last when Dario, after stifling a slight yawn and glancing at hiswatch, had slipped off to join some friends who were playing cards at alady's house, Benedetta and Celia sat down together on a sofa nearPierre; and the latter, without wishing to listen, overheard a few wordsof their confidential chat. The little Princess was the eldest daughterof Prince Matteo Buongiovanni, who was already the father of fivechildren by an English wife, a Mortimer, to whom he was indebted for adowry of two hundred thousand pounds. Indeed, the Buongiovannis wereknown as one of the few patrician families of Rome that were still rich, still erect among the ruins of the past, now crumbling on every side. They also numbered two popes among their forerunners, yet this had notprevented Prince Matteo from lending support to the Quirinal withoutquarrelling with the Vatican. Son of an American woman, no longer havingthe pure Roman blood in his veins, he was a more supple politician thanother aristocrats, and was also, folks said, extremely grasping, struggling to be one of the last to retain the wealth and power of oldentimes, which he realised were condemned to death. Yet it was in hisfamily, renowned for its superb pride and its continued magnificence, that a love romance had lately taken birth, a romance which was thesubject of endless gossip: Celia had suddenly fallen in love with a younglieutenant to whom she had never spoken; her love was reciprocated, andthe passionate attachment of the officer and the girl only found vent inthe glances they exchanged on meeting each day during the usual drivethrough the Corso. Nevertheless Celia displayed a tenacious will, andafter declaring to her father that she would never take any otherhusband, she was waiting, firm and resolute, in the certainty that shewould ultimately secure the man of her choice. The worst of the affairwas that the lieutenant, Attilio Sacco, happened to be the son of DeputySacco, a parvenu whom the black world looked down upon, as upon one soldto the Quirinal and ready to undertake the very dirtiest job. 

"It was for me that Morano spoke just now, " Celia murmured in Benedetta'sear. "Yes, yes, when he spoke so harshly of Attilio's father and thatministerial appointment which people are talking about. He wanted to giveme a lesson. "

The two girls had sworn eternal affection in their school-days, andBenedetta, the elder by five years, showed herself maternal. "And so, "she said, "you've not become a whit more reasonable. You still think ofthat young man?"

"What! are you going to grieve me too, dear?" replied Celia. "I loveAttilio and mean to have him. Yes, him and not another! I want him andI'll have him, because I love him and he loves me. It's simple enough. "

Pierre glanced at her, thunderstruck. With her gentle virgin face she waslike a candid, budding lily. A brow and a nose of blossom-like purity; amouth all innocence with its lips closing over pearly teeth, and eyeslike spring water, clear and fathomless. And not a quiver passed over hercheeks of satiny freshness, no sign, however faint, of anxiety orinquisitiveness appeared in her candid glance. Did she think? Did sheknow? Who could have answered? She was virginity personified with all itsredoubtable mystery. 

"Ah! my dear, " resumed Benedetta, "don't begin my sad story over again. One doesn't succeed in marrying the Pope and the King. "

All tranquillity, Celia responded: "But you didn't love Prada, whereas Ilove Attilio. Life lies in that: one must love. "

These words, spoken so naturally by that ignorant child, disturbed Pierreto such a point that he felt tears rising to his eyes. Love! yes, thereinlay the solution of every quarrel, the alliance between the nations, thereign of peace and joy throughout the world! However, Donna Serafina hadnow risen, shrewdly suspecting the nature of the conversation which wasimpassioning the two girls. And she gave Don Vigilio a glance, which thelatter understood, for he came to tell Pierre in an undertone that it wastime to retire. Eleven o'clock was striking, and Celia went off with heraunt. Advocate Morano, however, doubtless desired to retain CardinalSarno and Nani for a few moments in order that they might privatelydiscuss some difficulty which had arisen in the divorce proceedings. Onreaching the outer reception-room, Benedetta, after kissing Celia on bothcheeks, took leave of Pierre with much good grace. 

"In answering the Viscount to-morrow morning, " said she, "I shall tellhim how happy we are to have you with us, and for longer than you think. Don't forget to come down at ten o'clock to see my uncle, the Cardinal. "

Having climbed to the third floor again, Pierre and Don Vigilio, eachcarrying a candlestick which the servant had handed to them, were aboutto part for the night, when the former could not refrain from asking thesecretary a question which had been worrying him for hours: "Is MonsignorNani a very influential personage?"

Don Vigilio again became quite scared, and simply replied by a gesture, opening his arms as if to embrace the world. Then his eyes flashed, andin his turn he seemed to yield to inquisitiveness. "You already knew him, didn't you?" he inquired. 

"I? not at all!"

"Really! Well, he knows you very well. Last Monday I heard him speak ofyou in such precise terms that he seemed to be acquainted with theslightest particulars of your career and your character. "

"Why, I never even heard his name before. "

"Then he must have procured information. "

Thereupon Don Vigilio bowed and entered his room; whilst Pierre, surprised to find his door open, saw Victorine come out with her calmactive air. 

"Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe, I wanted to make sure that you had everything youwere likely to want. There are candles, water, sugar, and matches. Andwhat do you take in the morning, please? Coffee? No, a cup of milk with aroll. Very good; at eight o'clock, eh? And now rest and sleep well. I wasawfully afraid of ghosts during the first nights I spent in this oldpalace! But I never saw a trace of one. The fact is, when people aredead, they are too well pleased, and don't want to break their rest!"

Then off she went, and Pierre at last found himself alone, glad to beable to shake off the strain imposed on him, to free himself from thediscomfort which he had felt in that reception-room, among those peoplewho in his mind still mingled and vanished like shadows in the sleepyglow of the lamps. Ghosts, thought he, are the old dead ones of long agowhose distressed spirits return to love and suffer in the breasts of theliving of to-day. And, despite his long afternoon rest, he had never feltso weary, so desirous of slumber, confused and foggy as was his mind, full of the fear that he had hitherto not understood things aright. Whenhe began to undress, his astonishment at being in that room returned tohim with such intensity that he almost fancied himself another person. What did all those people think of his book? Why had he been brought tothis cold dwelling whose hostility he could divine? Was it for thepurpose of helping him or conquering him? And again in the yellowglimmer, the dismal sunset of the drawing-room, he perceived DonnaSerafina and Advocate Morano on either side of the chimney-piece, whilstbehind the calm yet passionate visage of Benedetta appeared the smilingface of Monsignor Nani, with cunning eyes and lips bespeaking indomitableenergy. 

He went to bed, but soon got up again, stifling, feeling such a need offresh, free air that he opened the window wide in order to lean out. Butthe night was black as ink, the darkness had submerged the horizon. Amist must have hidden the stars in the firmament; the vault above seemedopaque and heavy like lead; and yonder in front the houses of theTrastevere had long since been asleep. Not one of all their windowsglittered; there was but a single gaslight shining, all alone and faraway, like a lost spark. In vain did Pierre seek the Janiculum. In thedepths of that ocean of nihility all sunk and vanished, Rome's four andtwenty centuries, the ancient Palatine and the modern Quirinal, even thegiant dome of St. Peter's, blotted out from the sky by the flood ofgloom. And below him he could not see, he could not even hear the Tiber, the dead river flowing past the dead city. 

III. 

AT a quarter to ten o'clock on the following morning Pierre came down tothe first floor of the mansion for his audience with Cardinal Boccanera. He had awoke free of all fatigue and again full of courage and candidenthusiasm; nothing remaining of his strange despondency of the previousnight, the doubts and suspicions which had then come over him. Themorning was so fine, the sky so pure and so bright, that his heart oncemore palpitated with hope. 

On the landing he found the folding doors of the first ante-room wideopen. While closing the gala saloons which overlooked the street, andwhich were rotting with old age and neglect, the Cardinal still used thereception-rooms of one of his grand-uncles, who in the eighteenth centuryhad risen to the same ecclesiastical dignity as himself. There was asuite of four immense rooms, each sixteen feet high, with windows facingthe lane which sloped down towards the Tiber; and the sun never enteredthem, shut off as it was by the black houses across the lane. Thus theinstallation, in point of space, was in keeping with the display and pompof the old-time princely dignitaries of the Church. But no repairs wereever made, no care was taken of anything, the hangings were frayed andragged, and dust preyed on the furniture, amidst an unconcern whichseemed to betoken some proud resolve to stay the course of time. 

Pierre experienced a slight shock as he entered the first room, theservants' ante-chamber. Formerly two pontifical _gente d'armi_ in fulluniform had always stood there amidst a stream of lackeys; and the singleservant now on duty seemed by his phantom-like appearance to increase themelancholiness of the vast and gloomy hall. One was particularly struckby an altar facing the windows, an altar with red drapery surmounted by a_baldacchino_ with red hangings, on which appeared the escutcheon of theBoccaneras, the winged dragon spitting flames with the device, _Boccanera, Alma rossa_. And the grand-uncle's red hat, the old huge ceremonialhat, was also there, with the two cushions of red silk, and the twoantique parasols which were taken in the coach each time his Eminencewent out. And in the deep silence it seemed as if one could almost hearthe faint noise of the moths preying for a century past upon all thisdead splendour, which would have fallen into dust at the slightest touchof a feather broom. 

The second ante-room, that was formerly occupied by the secretary, wasalso empty, and it was only in the third one, the _anticamera nobile_, that Pierre found Don Vigilio. With his retinue reduced to what wasstrictly necessary, the Cardinal had preferred to have his secretary nearhim--at the door, so to say, of the old throne-room, where he gaveaudience. And Don Vigilio, so thin and yellow, and quivering with fever, sat there like one lost, at a small, common, black table covered withpapers. Raising his head from among a batch of documents, he recognisedPierre, and in a low voice, a faint murmur amidst the silence, he said, "His Eminence is engaged. Please wait. "

Then he again turned to his reading, doubtless to escape all attempts atconversation. 

Not daring to sit down, Pierre examined the apartment. It looked perhapsyet more dilapidated than the others, with its hangings of green damaskworn by age and resembling the faded moss on ancient trees. The ceiling, however, had remained superb. Within a frieze of gilded and colouredornaments was a fresco representing the Triumph of Amphitrite, the workof one of Raffaelle's pupils. And, according to antique usage, it washere that the _berretta_, the red cap, was placed, on a credence, below alarge crucifix of ivory and ebony. 

As Pierre grew used to the half-light, however, his attention was moreparticularly attracted by a recently painted full-length portrait of theCardinal in ceremonial costume--cassock of red moire, rochet of lace, and_cappa_ thrown like a royal mantle over his shoulders. In these vestmentsof the Church the tall old man of seventy retained the proud bearing of aprince, clean shaven, but still boasting an abundance of white hair whichstreamed in curls over his shoulders. He had the commanding visage of theBoccaneras, a large nose and a large thin-lipped mouth in a long faceintersected by broad lines; and the eyes which lighted his palecountenance were indeed the eyes of his race, very dark, yet sparklingwith ardent life under bushy brows which had remained quite black. Withlaurels about his head he would have resembled a Roman emperor, veryhandsome and master of the world, as though indeed the blood of Augustuspulsated in his veins. 

Pierre knew his story which this portrait recalled. Educated at theCollege of the Nobles, Pio Boccanera had but once absented himself fromRome, and that when very young, hardly a deacon, but neverthelessappointed oblegate to convey a _berretta_ to Paris. On his return hisecclesiastical career had continued in sovereign fashion. Honours hadfallen on him naturally, as by right of birth. Ordained by Pius IXhimself, afterwards becoming a Canon of the Vatican Basilica, and_Cameriere segreto_, he had risen to the post of Majordomo about the timeof the Italian occupation, and in 1874 had been created a Cardinal. Forthe last four years, moreover, he had been Papal Chamberlain(_Camerlingo_), and folks whispered that Leo XIII had appointed him tothat post, even as he himself had been appointed to it by Pius IX, inorder to lessen his chance of succeeding to the pontifical throne; foralthough the conclave in choosing Leo had set aside the old traditionthat the Camerlingo was ineligible for the papacy, it was not probablethat it would again dare to infringe that rule. Moreover, people assertedthat, even as had been the case in the reign of Pius, there was a secretwarfare between the Pope and his Camerlingo, the latter remaining on oneside, condemning the policy of the Holy See, holding radically differentopinions on all things, and silently waiting for the death of Leo, whichwould place power in his hands with the duty of summoning the conclave, and provisionally watching over the affairs and interests of the Churchuntil a new Pope should be elected. Behind Cardinal Pio's broad, sternbrow, however, in the glow of his dark eyes, might there not also be theambition of actually rising to the papacy, of repeating the career ofGioachino Pecci, Camerlingo and then Pope, all tradition notwithstanding?With the pride of a Roman prince Pio knew but Rome; he almost gloried inbeing totally ignorant of the modern world; and verily he showed himselfvery pious, austerely religious, with a full firm faith into which thefaintest doubt could never enter. 

But a whisper drew Pierre from his reflections. Don Vigilio, in hisprudent way, invited him to sit down: "You may have to wait some time:take a stool. "

Then he began to cover a large sheet of yellowish paper with finewriting, while Pierre seated himself on one of the stools rangedalongside the wall in front of the portrait. And again the young man fellinto a reverie, picturing in his mind a renewal of all the princely pompof the old-time cardinals in that antique room. To begin with, as soon asnominated, a cardinal gave public festivities, which were sometimes verysplendid. During three days the reception-rooms remained wide open, allcould enter, and from room to room ushers repeated the names of those whocame--patricians, people of the middle class, poor folks, all Romeindeed, whom the new cardinal received with sovereign kindliness, as aking might receive his subjects. Then there was quite a princely retinue;some cardinals carried five hundred people about with them, had no fewerthan sixteen distinct offices in their households, lived, in fact, amidsta perfect court. Even when life subsequently became simplified, acardinal, if he were a prince, still had a right to a gala train of fourcoaches drawn by black horses. Four servants preceded him in liveries, emblazoned with his arms, and carried his hat, cushion, and parasols. Hewas also attended by a secretary in a mantle of violet silk, atrain-bearer in a gown of violet woollen stuff, and a gentleman inwaiting, wearing an Elizabethan style of costume, and bearing the_berretta_ with gloved hands. Although the household had then becomesmaller, it still comprised an _auditore_ specially charged with thecongregational work, a secretary employed exclusively for correspondence, a chief usher who introduced visitors, a gentleman in attendance for thecarrying of the _berretta_, a train-bearer, a chaplain, a majordomo and a_valet-de-chambre_, to say nothing of a flock of underlings, lackeys, cooks, coachmen, grooms, quite a population, which filled the vastmansions with bustle. And with these attendants Pierre mentally sought tofill the three spacious ante-rooms now so deserted; the stream of lackeysin blue liveries broidered with emblazonry, the world of abbes andprelates in silk mantles appeared before him, again setting magnificentand passionate life under the lofty ceilings, illumining all thesemi-gloom with resuscitated splendour. 

But nowadays--particularly since the Italian occupation of Rome--nearlyall the great fortunes of the Roman princes have been exhausted, and thepomp of the great dignitaries of the Church has disappeared. The ruinedpatricians have kept aloof from badly remunerated ecclesiastical officesto which little renown attaches, and have left them to the ambition ofthe petty _bourgeoisie_. Cardinal Boccanera, the last prince of ancientnobility invested with the purple, received scarcely more than 30, 000_lire_* a year to enable him to sustain his rank, that is 22, 000_lire_, ** the salary of his post as Camerlingo, and various small sumsderived from other functions. And he would never have made both ends meethad not Donna Serafina helped him with the remnants of the former familyfortune which he had long previously surrendered to his sisters and hisbrother. Donna Serafina and Benedetta lived apart, in their own rooms, having their own table, servants, and personal expenses. The Cardinalonly had his nephew Dario with him, and he never gave a dinner or held apublic reception. His greatest source of expense was his carriage, theheavy pair-horse coach, which ceremonial usage compelled him to retain, for a cardinal cannot go on foot through the streets of Rome. However, his coachman, an old family servant, spared him the necessity of keepinga groom by insisting on taking entire charge of the carriage and the twoblack horses, which, like himself, had grown old in the service of theBoccaneras. There were two footmen, father and son, the latter born inthe house. And the cook's wife assisted in the kitchen. However, yetgreater reductions had been made in the ante-rooms, where the staff, onceso brilliant and numerous, was now simply composed of two petty priests, Don Vigilio, who was at once secretary, auditore, and majordomo, and AbbePaparelli, who acted as train-bearer, chaplain, and chief usher. There, where a crowd of salaried people of all ranks had once moved to and fro, filling the vast halls with bustle and colour, one now only beheld twolittle black cassocks gliding noiselessly along, two unobtrusive shadowsflitting about amidst the deep gloom of the lifeless rooms. 

 * 1, 200 pounds. 

 ** 880 pounds. 

And Pierre now fully understood the haughty unconcern of the Cardinal, who suffered time to complete its work of destruction in that ancestralmansion, to which he was powerless to restore the glorious life of formertimes! Built for that shining life, for the sovereign display of asixteenth-century prince, it was now deserted and empty, crumbling aboutthe head of its last master, who had no servants left him to fill it, andwould not have known how to pay for the materials which repairs wouldhave necessitated. And so, since the modern world was hostile, sincereligion was no longer sovereign, since men had changed, and one wasdrifting into the unknown, amidst the hatred and indifference of newgenerations, why not allow the old world to collapse in the stubborn, motionless pride born of its ancient glory? Heroes alone died standing, without relinquishing aught of their past, preserving the same faithuntil their final gasp, beholding, with pain-fraught bravery and infinitesadness, the slow last agony of their divinity. And the Cardinal's tallfigure, his pale, proud face, so full of sovereign despair and courage, expressed that stubborn determination to perish beneath the ruins of theold social edifice rather than change a single one of its stones. 

Pierre was roused by a rustling of furtive steps, a little mouse-liketrot, which made him raise his head. A door in the wall had just opened, and to his surprise there stood before him an abbe of some forty years, fat and short, looking like an old maid in a black skirt, a very old maidin fact, so numerous were the wrinkles on his flabby face. It was AbbePaparelli, the train-bearer and usher, and on seeing Pierre he was aboutto question him, when Don Vigilio explained matters. 

"Ah! very good, very good, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment. His Eminence willcondescend to receive you, but you must wait, you must wait. "

Then, with his silent rolling walk, he returned to the second ante-room, where he usually stationed himself. 

Pierre did not like his face--the face of an old female devotee, whitenedby celibacy, and ravaged by stern observance of the rites; and so, as DonVigilio--his head weary and his hands burning with fever--had not resumedhis work, the young man ventured to question him. Oh! Abbe Paparelli, hewas a man of the liveliest faith, who from simple humility remained in amodest post in his Eminence's service. On the other hand, his Eminencewas pleased to reward him for his devotion by occasionally condescendingto listen to his advice. 

As Don Vigilio spoke, a faint gleam of irony, a kind of veiled angerappeared in his ardent eyes. However, he continued to examine Pierre, andgradually seemed reassured, appreciating the evident frankness of thisforeigner who could hardly belong to any clique. And so he ended bydeparting somewhat from his continual sickly distrust, and even engagedin a brief chat. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, "there is a deal of work sometimes, and rather hardwork too. His Eminence belongs to several Congregations, theConsistorial, the Holy Office, the Index, the Rites. And all thedocuments concerning the business which falls to him come into my hands. I have to study each affair, prepare a report on it, clear the way, so tosay. Besides which all the correspondence is carried on through me. Fortunately his Eminence is a holy man, and intrigues neither for himselfnor for others, and this enables us to taste a little peace. "

Pierre took a keen interest in these particulars of the life led by aprince of the Church. He learnt that the Cardinal rose at six o'clock, summer and winter alike. He said his mass in his chapel, a little roomwhich simply contained an altar of painted wood, and which nobody buthimself ever entered. His private apartments were limited to threerooms--a bed-room, dining-room, and study--all very modest and small, contrived indeed by partitioning off portions of one large hall. And heled a very retired life, exempt from all luxury, like one who is frugaland poor. At eight in the morning he drank a cup of cold milk for hisbreakfast. Then, when there were sittings of the Congregations to whichhe belonged, he attended them; otherwise he remained at home and gaveaudience. Dinner was served at one o'clock, and afterwards came thesiesta, lasting until five in summer and until four at other seasons--asacred moment when a servant would not have dared even to knock at thedoor. On awaking, if it were fine, his Eminence drove out towards theancient Appian Way, returning at sunset when the _Ave Maria_ began toring. And finally, after again giving audience between seven and nine, hesupped and retired into his room, where he worked all alone or went tobed. The cardinals wait upon the Pope on fixed days, two or three timeseach month, for purposes connected with their functions. For nearly ayear, however, the Camerlingo had not been received in private audienceby his Holiness, and this was a sign of disgrace, a proof of secretwarfare, of which the entire black world spoke in prudent whispers. 

"His Eminence is sometimes a little rough, " continued Don Vigilio in asoft voice. "But you should see him smile when his niece the Contessina, of whom he is very fond, comes down to kiss him. If you have a goodreception, you know, you will owe it to the Contessina. "

At this moment the secretary was interrupted. A sound of voices came fromthe second ante-room, and forthwith he rose to his feet, and bent verylow at sight of a stout man in a black cassock, red sash, and black hat, with twisted cord of red and gold, whom Abbe Paparelli was ushering inwith a great display of deferential genuflections. Pierre also had risenat a sign from Don Vigilio, who found time to whisper to him, "CardinalSanguinetti, Prefect of the Congregation of the Index. "

Meantime Abbe Paparelli was lavishing attentions on the prelate, repeating with an expression of blissful satisfaction: "Your mostreverend Eminence was expected. I have orders to admit your most reverendEminence at once. His Eminence the Grand Penitentiary is already here. "

Sanguinetti, loud of voice and sonorous of tread, spoke out with suddenfamiliarity, "Yes, yes, I know. A number of importunate people detainedme! One can never do as one desires. But I am here at last. "

He was a man of sixty, squat and fat, with a round and highly colouredface distinguished by a huge nose, thick lips, and bright eyes which werealways on the move. But he more particularly struck one by his active, almost turbulent, youthful vivacity, scarcely a white hair as yet showingamong his brown and carefully tended locks, which fell in curls about histemples. Born at Viterbo, he had studied at the seminary there beforecompleting his education at the Universita Gregoriana in Rome. Hisecclesiastical appointments showed how rapidly he had made his way, howsupple was his mind: first of all secretary to the nunciature at Lisbon;then created titular Bishop of Thebes, and entrusted with a delicatemission in Brazil; on his return appointed nuncio first at Brussels andnext at Vienna; and finally raised to the cardinalate, to say nothing ofthe fact that he had lately secured the suburban episcopal see ofFrascati. * Trained to business, having dealt with every nation in Europe, he had nothing against him but his ambition, of which he made too open adisplay, and his spirit of intrigue, which was ever restless. It was saidthat he was now one of the irreconcilables who demanded that Italy shouldsurrender Rome, though formerly he had made advances to the Quirinal. Inhis wild passion to become the next Pope he rushed from one opinion tothe other, giving himself no end of trouble to gain people from whom heafterwards parted. He had twice already fallen out with Leo XIII, but haddeemed it politic to make his submission. In point of fact, given that hewas an almost openly declared candidate to the papacy, he was wearinghimself out by his perpetual efforts, dabbling in too many things, andsetting too many people agog. 

 * Cardinals York and Howard were Bishops of Frascati. --Trans. 

Pierre, however, had only seen in him the Prefect of the Congregation ofthe Index; and the one idea which struck him was that this man woulddecide the fate of his book. And so, when the Cardinal had disappearedand Abbe Paparelli had returned to the second ante-room, he could notrefrain from asking Don Vigilio, "Are their Eminences CardinalSanguinetti and Cardinal Boccanera very intimate, then?"

An irrepressible smile contracted the secretary's lips, while his eyesgleamed with an irony which he could no longer subdue: "Veryintimate--oh! no, no--they see one another when they can't do otherwise. "

Then he explained that considerable deference was shown to CardinalBoccanera's high birth, and that his colleagues often met at hisresidence, when, as happened to be the case that morning, any graveaffair presented itself, requiring an interview apart from the usualofficial meetings. Cardinal Sanguinetti, he added, was the son of a pettymedical man of Viterbo. "No, no, " he concluded, "their Eminences are notat all intimate. It is difficult for men to agree when they have neitherthe same ideas nor the same character, especially too when they are ineach other's way. "

Don Vigilio spoke these last words in a lower tone, as if talking tohimself and still retaining his sharp smile. But Pierre scarcelylistened, absorbed as he was in his own worries. "Perhaps they have metto discuss some affair connected with the Index?" said he. 

Don Vigilio must have known the object of the meeting. However, he merelyreplied that, if the Index had been in question, the meeting would havetaken place at the residence of the Prefect of that Congregation. Thereupon Pierre, yielding to his impatience, was obliged to put astraight question. "You know of my affair--the affair of my book, " hesaid. "Well, as his Eminence is a member of the Congregation, and all thedocuments pass through your hands, you might be able to give me someuseful information. I know nothing as yet and am so anxious to know!"

At this Don Vigilio relapsed into scared disquietude. He stammered, saying that he had not seen any documents, which was true. "Nothing hasyet reached us, " he added; "I assure you I know nothing. "

Then, as the other persisted, he signed to him to keep quiet, and againturned to his writing, glancing furtively towards the second ante-room asif he believed that Abbe Paparelli was listening. He had certainly saidtoo much, he thought, and he made himself very small, crouching over thetable, and melting, fading away in his dim corner. 

Pierre again fell into a reverie, a prey to all the mystery whichenveloped him--the sleepy, antique sadness of his surroundings. Longminutes went by; it was nearly eleven when the sound of a door openingand a buzz of voices roused him. Then he bowed respectfully to CardinalSanguinetti, who went off accompanied by another cardinal, a very thinand tall man, with a grey, bony, ascetic face. Neither of them, however, seemed even to see the petty foreign priest who bent low as they went by. They were chatting aloud in familiar fashion. 

"Yes! the wind is falling; it is warmer than yesterday. "

"We shall certainly have the sirocco to-morrow. "

Then solemn silence again fell on the large, dim room. Don Vigilio wasstill writing, but his pen made no noise as it travelled over the stiffyellow paper. However, the faint tinkle of a cracked bell was suddenlyheard, and Abbe Paparelli, after hastening into the throne-room for amoment, returned to summon Pierre, whom he announced in a restrainedvoice: "Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre Froment. "

The spacious throne-room was like the other apartments, a virtual ruin. Under the fine ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work, the redwall-hangings of _brocatelle_, with a large palm pattern, were fallinginto tatters. A few holes had been patched, but long wear had streakedthe dark purple of the silk--once of dazzling magnificence--with palehues. The curiosity of the room was its old throne, an arm-chairupholstered in red silk, on which the Holy Father had sat when visitingCardinal Pio's grand-uncle. This chair was surmounted by a canopy, likewise of red silk, under which hung the portrait of the reigning Pope. And, according to custom, the chair was turned towards the wall, to showthat none might sit on it. The other furniture of the apartment was madeup of sofas, arm-chairs, and chairs, with a marvellous Louis Quatorzetable of gilded wood, having a top of mosaic-work representing the rapeof Europa. 

But at first Pierre only saw Cardinal Boccanera standing by the tablewhich he used for writing. In his simple black cassock, with red edgingand red buttons, the Cardinal seemed to him yet taller and prouder thanin the portrait which showed him in ceremonial costume. There was thesame curly white hair, the same long, strongly marked face, with largenose and thin lips, and the same ardent eyes, illumining the palecountenance from under bushy brows which had remained black. But theportrait did not express the lofty tranquil faith which shone in thishandsome face, a complete certainty of what truth was, and an absolutedetermination to abide by it for ever. 

Boccanera had not stirred, but with black, fixed glance remained watchinghis visitor's approach; and the young priest, acquainted with the usualceremonial, knelt and kissed the large ruby which the prelate wore on hishand. However, the Cardinal immediately raised him. 

"You are welcome here, my dear son. My niece spoke to me about you withso much sympathy that I am happy to receive you. " With these words Pioseated himself near the table, as yet not telling Pierre to take a chair, but still examining him whilst speaking slowly and with studiedpoliteness: "You arrived yesterday morning, did you not, and were verytired?"

"Your Eminence is too kind--yes, I was worn out, as much through emotionas fatigue. This journey is one of such gravity for me. "

The Cardinal seemed indisposed to speak of serious matters so soon. "Nodoubt; it is a long way from Paris to Rome, " he replied. "Nowadays thejourney may be accomplished with fair rapidity, but formerly howinterminable it was!" Then speaking yet more slowly: "I went to Parisonce--oh! a long time ago, nearly fifty years ago--and then for barely aweek. A large and handsome city; yes, yes, a great many people in thestreets, extremely well-bred people, a nation which has accomplishedgreat and admirable things. Even in these sad times one cannot forgetthat France was the eldest daughter of the Church. But since that onejourney I have not left Rome--"

Then he made a gesture of quiet disdain, expressive of all he leftunsaid. What was the use of journeying to a land of doubt and rebellion?Did not Rome suffice--Rome, which governed the world--the Eternal Citywhich, when the times should be accomplished, would become the capital ofthe world once more?

Silently glancing at the Cardinal's lofty stature, the stature of one ofthe violent war-like princes of long ago, now reduced to wearing thatsimple cassock, Pierre deemed him superb with his proud conviction thatRome sufficed unto herself. But that stubborn resolve to remain inignorance, that determination to take no account of other nationsexcepting to treat them as vassals, disquieted him when he reflected onthe motives that had brought him there. And as silence had again fallenhe thought it politic to approach the subject he had at heart by words ofhomage. 

"Before taking any other steps, " said he, "I desired to express myprofound respect for your Eminence; for in your Eminence I place my onlyhope; and I beg your Eminence to be good enough to advise and guide me. "

With a wave of the hand Boccanera thereupon invited Pierre to take achair in front of him. "I certainly do not refuse you my counsel, my dearson, " he replied. "I owe my counsel to every Christian who desires to dowell. But it would be wrong for you to rely on my influence. I have none. I live entirely apart from others; I cannot and will not ask foranything. However, this will not prevent us from chatting. " Then, approaching the question in all frankness, without the slightestartifice, like one of brave and absolute mind who fears no responsibilityhowever great, he continued: "You have written a book, have younot?--'New Rome, ' I believe--and you have come to defend this book whichhas been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. For my own part Ihave not yet read it. You will understand that I cannot read everything. I only see the works that are sent to me by the Congregation which I havebelonged to since last year; and, besides, I often content myself withthe reports which my secretary draws up for me. However, my nieceBenedetta has read your book, and has told me that it is not lacking ininterest. It first astonished her somewhat, and then greatly moved her. So I promise you that I will go through it and study the incriminatedpassages with the greatest care. "

Pierre profited by the opportunity to begin pleading his cause. And itoccurred to him that it would be best to give his references at once. "Your Eminence will realise how stupefied I was when I learnt thatproceedings were being taken against my book, " he said. "Monsieur leVicomte Philibert de la Choue, who is good enough to show me somefriendship, does not cease repeating that such a book is worth the bestof armies to the Holy See. "

"Oh! De la Choue, De la Choue!" repeated the Cardinal with a pout ofgood-natured disdain. "I know that De la Choue considers himself a goodCatholic. He is in a slight degree our relative, as you know. And when hecomes to Rome and stays here, I willingly see him, on condition howeverthat no mention is made of certain subjects on which it would beimpossible for us to agree. To tell the truth, the Catholicism preachedby De la Choue--worthy, clever man though he is--his Catholicism, I say, with his corporations, his working-class clubs, his cleansed democracyand his vague socialism, is after all merely so much literature!"

This pronouncement struck Pierre, for he realised all the disdainfulirony contained in it--an irony which touched himself. And so he hastenedto name his other reference, whose authority he imagined to be abovediscussion: "His Eminence Cardinal Bergerot has been kind enough tosignify his full approval of my book. "

At this Boccanera's face suddenly changed. It no longer wore anexpression of derisive blame, tinged with the pity that is prompted by achild's ill-considered action fated to certain failure. A flash of angernow lighted up the Cardinal's dark eyes, and a pugnacious impulsehardened his entire countenance. "In France, " he slowly resumed, "Cardinal Bergerot no doubt has a reputation for great piety. We knowlittle of him in Rome. Personally, I have only seen him once, when hecame to receive his hat. And I would not therefore allow myself to judgehim if his writings and actions had not recently saddened my believingsoul. Unhappily, I am not the only one; you will find nobody here, of theSacred College, who approves of his doings. " Boccanera paused, then in afirm voice concluded: "Cardinal Bergerot is a Revolutionary!"

This time Pierre's surprise for a moment forced him to silence. ARevolutionary--good heavens! a Revolutionary--that gentle pastor ofsouls, whose charity was inexhaustible, whose one dream was that Jesusmight return to earth to ensure at last the reign of peace and justice!So words did not have the same signification in all places; into whatreligion had he now tumbled that the faith of the poor and the humbleshould be looked upon as a mere insurrectional, condemnable passion? Asyet unable to understand things aright, Pierre nevertheless realised thatdiscussion would be both discourteous and futile, and his only remainingdesire was to give an account of his book, explain and vindicate it. Butat his first words the Cardinal interposed. 

"No, no, my dear son. It would take us too long and I wish to read thepassages. Besides, there is an absolute rule. All books which meddle withthe faith are condemnable and pernicious. Does your book show perfectrespect for dogma?"

"I believe so, and I assure your Eminence that I have had no intention ofwriting a work of negation. "

"Good: I may be on your side if that is true. Only, in the contrary case, I have but one course to advise you, which is to withdraw your work, condemn it, and destroy it without waiting until a decision of the Indexcompels you to do so. Whosoever has given birth to scandal must stifle itand expiate it, even if he have to cut into his own flesh. The onlyduties of a priest are humility and obedience, the complete annihilationof self before the sovereign will of the Church. And, besides, why writeat all? For there is already rebellion in expressing an opinion of one'sown. It is always the temptation of the devil which puts a pen in anauthor's hand. Why, then, incur the risk of being for ever damned byyielding to the pride of intelligence and domination? Your book again, mydear son--your book is literature, literature!"

This expression again repeated was instinct with so much contempt thatPierre realised all the wretchedness that would fall upon the poor pagesof his apostolate on meeting the eyes of this prince who had become asaintly man. With increasing fear and admiration he listened to him, andbeheld him growing greater and greater. 

"Ah! faith, my dear son, everything is in faith--perfect, disinterestedfaith--which believes for the sole happiness of believing! How restful itis to bow down before the mysteries without seeking to penetrate them, full of the tranquil conviction that, in accepting them, one possessesboth the certain and the final! Is not the highest intellectualsatisfaction that which is derived from the victory of the divine overthe mind, which it disciplines, and contents so completely that it knowsdesire no more? And apart from that perfect equilibrium, that explanationof the unknown by the divine, no durable peace is possible for man. Ifone desires that truth and justice should reign upon earth, it is in Godthat one must place them. He that does not believe is like a battlefield, the scene of every disaster. Faith alone can tranquillise and deliver. "

For an instant Pierre remained silent before the great figure rising upin front of him. At Lourdes he had only seen suffering humanity rushingthither for health of the body and consolation of the soul; but here wasthe intellectual believer, the mind that needs certainty, findingsatisfaction, tasting the supreme enjoyment of doubting no more. He hadnever previously heard such a cry of joy at living in obedience withoutanxiety as to the morrow of death. He knew that Boccanera's youth hadbeen somewhat stormy, traversed by acute attacks of sensuality, a flaringof the red blood of his ancestors; and he marvelled at the calm majestywhich faith had at last implanted in this descendant of so violent arace, who had no passion remaining in him but that of pride. 

"And yet, " Pierre at last ventured to say in a timid, gentle voice, "iffaith remains essential and immutable, forms change. From hour to hourevolution goes on in all things--the world changes. "

"That is not true!" exclaimed the Cardinal, "the world does not change. It continually tramps over the same ground, loses itself, strays into themost abominable courses, and it continually has to be brought back intothe right path. That is the truth. In order that the promises of Christmay be fulfilled, is it not necessary that the world should return to itsstarting point, its original innocence? Is not the end of time fixed forthe day when men shall be in possession of the full truth of the Gospel?Yes, truth is in the past, and it is always to the past that one mustcling if one would avoid the pitfalls which evil imaginations create. Allthose fine novelties, those mirages of that famous so-called progress, are simply traps and snares of the eternal tempter, causes of perditionand death. Why seek any further, why constantly incur the risk of error, when for eighteen hundred years the truth has been known? Truth! why itis in Apostolic and Roman Catholicism as created by a long succession ofgenerations! What madness to desire to change it when so many loftyminds, so many pious souls have made of it the most admirable ofmonuments, the one instrument of order in this world, and of salvation inthe next!"

Pierre, whose heart had contracted, refrained from further protest, forhe could no longer doubt that he had before him an implacable adversaryof his most cherished ideas. Chilled by a covert fear, as though he felta faint breath, as of a distant wind from a land of ruins, pass over hisface, bringing with it the mortal cold of a sepulchre, he bowedrespectfully whilst the Cardinal, rising to his full height, continued inhis obstinate voice, resonant with proud courage: "And if Catholicism, asits enemies pretend, be really stricken unto death, it must die standingand in all its glorious integrality. You hear me, Monsieur l'Abbe--notone concession, not one surrender, not a single act of cowardice!Catholicism is such as it is, and cannot be otherwise. No modification ofthe divine certainty, the entire truth, is possible. The removal of thesmallest stone from the edifice could only prove a cause of instability. Is this not evident? You cannot save old houses by attacking them withthe pickaxe under pretence of decorating them. You only enlarge thefissures. Even if it were true that Rome were on the eve of falling intodust, the only result of all the repairing and patching would be tohasten the catastrophe. And instead of a noble death, met unflinchingly, we should then behold the basest of agonies, the death throes of a cowardwho struggles and begs for mercy! For my part I wait. I am convinced thatall that people say is but so much horrible falsehood, that Catholicismhas never been firmer, that it imbibes eternity from the one and onlysource of life. But should the heavens indeed fall, on that day I shouldbe here, amidst these old and crumbling walls, under these old ceilingswhose beams are being devoured by the worms, and it is here, erect, amongthe ruins, that I should meet my end, repeating my _credo_ for the lasttime. "

His final words fell more slowly, full of haughty sadness, whilst with asweeping gesture he waved his arms towards the old, silent, desertedpalace around him, whence life was withdrawing day by day. Had aninvoluntary presentiment come to him, did the faint cold breath from theruins also fan his own cheeks? All the neglect into which the vast roomshad fallen was explained by his words; and a superb, despondent grandeurenveloped this prince and cardinal, this uncompromising Catholic who, withdrawing into the dim half-light of the past, braved with a soldier'sheart the inevitable downfall of the olden world. 

Deeply impressed, Pierre was about to take his leave when, to hissurprise, a little door opened in the hangings. "What is it? Can't I beleft in peace for a moment?" exclaimed Boccanera with sudden impatience. 

Nevertheless, Abbe Paparelli, fat and sleek, glided into the room withoutthe faintest sign of emotion. And he whispered a few words in the ear ofthe Cardinal, who, on seeing him, had become calm again. "What curate?"asked Boccanera. "Oh! yes, Santobono, the curate of Frascati. Iknow--tell him I cannot see him just now. "

Paparelli, however, again began whispering in his soft voice, though notin so low a key as previously, for some of his words could be overheard. The affair was urgent, the curate was compelled to return home, and hadonly a word or two to say. And then, without awaiting consent, thetrain-bearer ushered in the visitor, a _protege_ of his, whom he had leftjust outside the little door. And for his own part he withdrew with thetranquillity of a retainer who, whatever the modesty of his office, knowshimself to be all powerful. 

Pierre, who was momentarily forgotten, looked at the visitor--a bigfellow of a priest, the son of a peasant evidently, and still near to thesoil. He had an ungainly, bony figure, huge feet and knotted hands, witha seamy tanned face lighted by extremely keen black eyes. Five and fortyand still robust, his chin and cheeks bristling, and his cassock, overlarge, hanging loosely about his big projecting bones, he suggested abandit in disguise. Still there was nothing base about him; theexpression of his face was proud. And in one hand he carried a smallwicker basket carefully covered over with fig-leaves. 

Santobono at once bent his knees and kissed the Cardinal's ring, but withhasty unconcern, as though only some ordinary piece of civility were inquestion. Then, with that commingling of respect and familiarity whichthe little ones of the world often evince towards the great, he said, "Ibeg your most reverend Eminence's forgiveness for having insisted. Butthere were people waiting, and I should not have been received if my oldfriend Paparelli had not brought me by way of that door. Oh! I have avery great service to ask of your Eminence, a real service of the heart. But first of all may I be allowed to offer your Eminence a littlepresent?"

The Cardinal listened with a grave expression. He had been wellacquainted with Santobono in the years when he had spent the summer atFrascati, at a princely residence which the Boccaneras had possessedthere--a villa rebuilt in the seventeenth century, surrounded by awonderful park, whose famous terrace overlooked the Campagna, stretchingfar and bare like the sea. This villa, however, had since been sold, andon some vineyards, which had fallen to Benedetta's share, Count Prada, prior to the divorce proceedings, had begun to erect quite a district oflittle pleasure houses. In former times, when walking out, the Cardinalhad condescended to enter and rest in the dwelling of Santobono, whoofficiated at an antique chapel dedicated to St. Mary of the Fields, without the town. The priest had his home in a half-ruined buildingadjoining this chapel, and the charm of the place was a walled gardenwhich he cultivated himself with the passion of a true peasant. 

"As is my rule every year, " said he, placing his basket on the table, "Iwished that your Eminence might taste my figs. They are the first of theseason. I gathered them expressly this morning. You used to be so fond ofthem, your Eminence, when you condescended to gather them from the treeitself. You were good enough to tell me that there wasn't another tree inthe world that produced such fine figs. "

The Cardinal could not help smiling. He was indeed very fond of figs, andSantobono spoke truly: his fig-tree was renowned throughout the district. "Thank you, my dear Abbe, " said Boccanera, "you remember my littlefailings. Well, and what can I do for you?"

Again he became grave, for, in former times, there had been unpleasantdiscussions between him and the curate, a lack of agreement which hadangered him. Born at Nemi, in the core of a fierce district, Santobonobelonged to a violent family, and his eldest brother had died of a stab. He himself had always professed ardently patriotic opinions. It was saidthat he had all but taken up arms for Garibaldi; and, on the day when theItalians had entered Rome, force had been needed to prevent him fromraising the flag of Italian unity above his roof. His passionate dreamwas to behold Rome mistress of the world, when the Pope and the Kingshould have embraced and made cause together. Thus the Cardinal looked onhim as a dangerous revolutionary, a renegade who imperilled Catholicism. 

"Oh! what your Eminence can do for me, what your Eminence can do if onlycondescending and willing!" repeated Santobono in an ardent voice, clasping his big knotty hands. And then, breaking off, he inquired, "Didnot his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti explain my affair to your mostreverend Eminence?"

"No, the Cardinal simply advised me of your visit, saying that you hadsomething to ask of me. "

Whilst speaking Boccanera's face had clouded over, and it was withincreased sternness of manner that he again waited. He was aware that thepriest had become Sanguinetti's "client" since the latter had been in thehabit of spending weeks together at his suburban see of Frascati. Walkingin the shadow of every cardinal who is a candidate to the papacy, thereare familiars of low degree who stake the ambition of their life on thepossibility of that cardinal's election. If he becomes Pope some day, ifthey themselves help him to the throne, they enter the great pontificalfamily in his train. It was related that Sanguinetti had once alreadyextricated Santobono from a nasty difficulty: the priest having one daycaught a marauding urchin in the act of climbing his wall, had beaten thelittle fellow with such severity that he had ultimately died of it. However, to Santobono's credit it must be added that his fanaticaldevotion to the Cardinal was largely based upon the hope that he wouldprove the Pope whom men awaited, the Pope who would make Italy thesovereign nation of the world. 

"Well, this is my misfortune, " he said. "Your Eminence knows my brotherAgostino, who was gardener at the villa for two years in your Eminence'stime. He is certainly a very pleasant and gentle young fellow, of whomnobody has ever complained. And so it is hard to understand how such anaccident can have happened to him, but it seems that he has killed a manwith a knife at Genzano, while walking in the street in the evening. I amdreadfully distressed about it, and would willingly give two fingers ofmy right hand to extricate him from prison. However, it occurred to methat your Eminence would not refuse me a certificate stating thatAgostino was formerly in your Eminence's service, and that your Eminencewas always well pleased with his quiet disposition. "

But the Cardinal flatly protested: "I was not at all pleased withAgostino. He was wildly violent, and I had to dismiss him preciselybecause he was always quarrelling with the other servants. "

"Oh! how grieved I am to hear your Eminence say that! So it is true, then, my poor little Agostino's disposition has really changed! Stillthere is always a way out of a difficulty, is there not? You can stillgive me a certificate, first arranging the wording of it. A certificatefrom your Eminence would have such a favourable effect upon the lawofficers. "

"No doubt, " replied Boccanera; "I can understand that, but I will give nocertificate. "

"What! does your most reverend Eminence refuse my prayer?"

"Absolutely! I know that you are a priest of perfect morality, that youdischarge the duties of your ministry with strict punctuality, and thatyou would be deserving of high commendation were it not for yourpolitical fancies. Only your fraternal affection is now leading youastray. I cannot tell a lie to please you. "

Santobono gazed at him in real stupefaction, unable to understand that aprince, an all-powerful cardinal, should be influenced by such pettyscruples, when the entire question was a mere knife thrust, the mostcommonplace and frequent of incidents in the yet wild land of the oldRoman castles. 

"A lie! a lie!" he muttered; "but surely it isn't lying just to say whatis good of a man, leaving out all the rest, especially when a man hasgood points as Agostino certainly has. In a certificate, too, everythingdepends on the words one uses. "

He stubbornly clung to that idea; he could not conceive that a personshould refuse to soften the rigour of justice by an ingeniouspresentation of the facts. However, on acquiring a certainty that hewould obtain nothing, he made a gesture of despair, his livid faceassuming an expression of violent rancour, whilst his black eyes flamedwith restrained passion. 

"Well, well! each looks on truth in his own way, " he said. "I shall goback to tell his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. And I beg your Eminencenot to be displeased with me for having disturbed your Eminence to nopurpose. By the way, perhaps the figs are not yet quite ripe; but I willtake the liberty to bring another basketful towards the end of theseason, when they will be quite nice and sweet. A thousand thanks and athousand felicities to your most reverend Eminence. "

Santobono went off backwards, his big bony figure bending double withrepeated genuflections. Pierre, whom the scene had greatly interested, inhim beheld a specimen of the petty clergy of Rome and its environs, ofwhom people had told him before his departure from Paris. This was notthe _scagnozzo_, the wretched famished priest whom some nasty affairbrings from the provinces, who seeks his daily bread on the pavements ofRome; one of the herd of begowned beggars searching for a livelihoodamong the crumbs of Church life, voraciously fighting for chance masses, and mingling with the lowest orders in taverns of the worst repute. Norwas this the country priest of distant parts, a man of crass ignoranceand superstition, a peasant among the peasants, treated as an equal byhis pious flock, which is careful not to mistake him for the Divinity, and which, whilst kneeling in all humility before the parish saint, doesnot bend before the man who from that saint derives his livelihood. AtFrascati the officiating minister of a little church may receive astipend of some nine hundred _lire_ a year, * and he has only bread andmeat to buy if his garden yields him wine and fruit and vegetables. Thisone, Santobono, was not without education; he knew a little theology anda little history, especially the history of the past grandeur of Rome, which had inflamed his patriotic heart with the mad dream that universaldomination would soon fall to the portion of renascent Rome, the capitalof united Italy. But what an insuperable distance still remained betweenthis petty Roman clergy, often very worthy and intelligent, and the highclergy, the high dignitaries of the Vatican! Nobody that was not at leasta prelate seemed to count. 

 * About 36 pounds. One is reminded of Goldsmith's line: "And passing rich with forty pounds a year. "--Trans. 

"A thousand thanks to your most reverend Eminence, and may success attendall your Eminence's desires. "

With these words Santobono finally disappeared, and the Cardinal returnedto Pierre, who also bowed preparatory to taking his leave. 

"To sum up the matter, Monsieur l'Abbe, " said Boccanera, "the affair ofyour book presents certain difficulties. As I have told you, I have noprecise information, I have seen no documents. But knowing that my niecetook an interest in you, I said a few words on the subject to CardinalSanguinetti, the Prefect of the Index, who was here just now. And heknows little more than I do, for nothing has yet left the Secretary'shands. Still he told me that the denunciation emanated from personages ofrank and influence, and applied to numerous pages of your work, in whichit was said there were passages of the most deplorable character asregards both discipline and dogma. "

Greatly moved by the idea that he had hidden foes, secret adversaries whopursued him in the dark, the young priest responded: "Oh! denounced, denounced! If your Eminence only knew how that word pains my heart! Anddenounced, too, for offences which were certainly involuntary, since myone ardent desire was the triumph of the Church! All I can do, then, isto fling myself at the feet of the Holy Father and entreat him to hear mydefence. "

Boccanera suddenly became very grave again. A stern look rested on hislofty brow as he drew his haughty figure to its full height. "HisHoliness, " said he, "can do everything, even receive you, if such be hisgood pleasure, and absolve you also. But listen to me. I again advise youto withdraw your book yourself, to destroy it, simply and courageously, before embarking in a struggle in which you will reap the shame of beingoverwhelmed. Reflect on that. "

Pierre, however, had no sooner spoken of the Pope than he had regrettedit, for he realised that an appeal to the sovereign authority wascalculated to wound the Cardinal's feelings. Moreover, there was nofurther room for doubt. Boccanera would be against his book, and theutmost that he could hope for was to gain his neutrality by bringingpressure to bear on him through those about him. At the same time he hadfound the Cardinal very plain spoken, very frank, far removed from allthe secret intriguing in which the affair of his book was involved, as henow began to realise; and so it was with deep respect and genuineadmiration for the prelate's strong and lofty character that he tookleave of him. 

"I am infinitely obliged to your Eminence, " he said, "and I promise thatI will carefully reflect upon all that your Eminence has been kind enoughto say to me. "

On returning to the ante-room, Pierre there found five or six persons whohad arrived during his audience, and were now waiting. There was abishop, a domestic prelate, and two old ladies, and as he drew near toDon Vigilio before retiring, he was surprised to find him conversing witha tall, fair young fellow, a Frenchman, who, also in astonishment, exclaimed, "What! are you here in Rome, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

For a moment Pierre had hesitated. "Ah! I must ask your pardon, MonsieurNarcisse Habert, " he replied, "I did not at first recognise you! It wasthe less excusable as I knew that you had been an _attache_ at ourembassy here ever since last year. "

Tall, slim, and elegant of appearance, Narcisse Habert had a clearcomplexion, with eyes of a bluish, almost mauvish, hue, a fair frizzybeard, and long curling fair hair cut short over the forehead in theFlorentine fashion. Of a wealthy family of militant Catholics, chieflymembers of the bar or bench, he had an uncle in the diplomaticprofession, and this had decided his own career. Moreover, a place atRome was marked out for him, for he there had powerful connections. Hewas a nephew by marriage of Cardinal Sarno, whose sister had marriedanother of his uncles, a Paris notary; and he was also cousin german ofMonsignor Gamba del Zoppo, a _Cameriere segreto_, and son of one of hisaunts, who had married an Italian colonel. And in some measure for thesereasons he had been attached to the embassy to the Holy See, hissuperiors tolerating his somewhat fantastic ways, his everlasting passionfor art which sent him wandering hither and thither through Rome. He wasmoreover very amiable and extremely well-bred; and it occasionallyhappened, as was the case that morning, that with his weary and somewhatmysterious air he came to speak to one or another of the cardinals onsome real matter of business in the ambassador's name. 

So as to converse with Pierre at his ease, he drew him into the deepembrasure of one of the windows. "Ah! my dear Abbe, how pleased I am tosee you!" said he. "You must remember what pleasant chats we had when wemet at Cardinal Bergerot's! I told you about some paintings which youwere to see for your book, some miniatures of the fourteenth andfifteenth centuries. And now, you know, I mean to take possession of you. I'll show you Rome as nobody else could show it to you. I've seen andexplored everything. Ah! there are treasures, such treasures! But intruth there is only one supreme work; one always comes back to one'sparticular passion. The Botticelli in the Sixtine Chapel--ah, theBotticelli!"

His voice died away, and he made a faint gesture as if overcome byadmiration. Then Pierre had to promise that he would place himself in hishands and accompany him to the Sixtine Chapel. "You know why I am here, "at last said the young priest. "Proceedings have been taken against mybook; it has been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. "

"Your book! is it possible?" exclaimed Narcisse: "a book like that withpages recalling the delightful St. Francis of Assisi!" And thereupon heobligingly placed himself at Pierre's disposal. "But our ambassador willbe very useful to you, " he said. "He is the best man in the world, ofcharming affability, and full of the old French spirit. I will presentyou to him this afternoon or to-morrow morning at the latest; and sinceyou desire an immediate audience with the Pope, he will endeavour toobtain one for you. His position naturally designates him as yourintermediary. Still, I must confess that things are not always easilymanaged. Although the Holy Father is very fond of him, there are timeswhen his Excellency fails, for the approaches are so extremelyintricate. "

Pierre had not thought of employing the ambassador's good offices, for hehad naively imagined that an accused priest who came to defend himselfwould find every door open. However, he was delighted with Narcisse'soffer, and thanked him as warmly as if the audience were alreadyobtained. 

"Besides, " the young man continued, "if we encounter any difficulties Ihave relatives at the Vatican, as you know. I don't mean my uncle theCardinal, who would be of no use to us, for he never stirs out of hisoffice at the Propaganda, and will never apply for anything. But mycousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, is very obliging, and he lives inintimacy with the Pope, his duties requiring his constant attendance onhim. So, if necessary, I will take you to see him, and he will no doubtfind a means of procuring you an interview, though his extreme prudencekeeps him perpetually afraid of compromising himself. However, it'sunderstood, you may rely on me in every respect. "

"Ah! my dear sir, " exclaimed Pierre, relieved and happy, "I heartilyaccept your offer. You don't know what balm your words have brought me;for ever since my arrival everybody has been discouraging me, and you arethe first to restore my strength by looking at things in the true Frenchway. "

Then, lowering his voice, he told the _attache_ of his interview withCardinal Boccanera, of his conviction that the latter would not help him, of the unfavourable information which had been given by CardinalSanguinetti, and of the rivalry which he had divined between the twoprelates. Narcisse listened, smiling, and in his turn began to gossipconfidentially. The rivalry which Pierre had mentioned, the prematurecontest for the tiara which Sanguinetti and Boccanera were waging, impelled to it by a furious desire to become the next Pope, had for along time been revolutionising the black world. There was incredibleintricacy in the depths of the affair; none could exactly tell who waspulling the strings, conducting the vast intrigue. As regardsgeneralities it was simply known that Boccanera representedabsolutism--the Church freed from all compromises with modern society, and waiting in immobility for the Deity to triumph over Satan, for Rometo be restored to the Holy Father, and for repentant Italy to performpenance for its sacrilege; whereas Sanguinetti, extremely politic andsupple, was reported to harbour bold and novel ideas: permission to voteto be granted to all true Catholics, * a majority to be gained by thismeans in the Legislature; then, as a fatal corollary, the downfall of theHouse of Savoy, and the proclamation of a kind of republican federationof all the former petty States of Italy under the august protectorate ofthe Pope. On the whole, the struggle was between these two antagonisticelements--the first bent on upholding the Church by a rigorousmaintenance of the old traditions, and the other predicting the fall ofthe Church if it did not follow the bent of the coming century. But allwas steeped in so much mystery that people ended by thinking that, if thepresent Pope should live a few years longer, his successor wouldcertainly be neither Boccanera nor Sanguinetti. 

 * Since the occupation of Rome by the Italian authorities, the supporters of the Church, obedient to the prohibition of the Vatican, have abstained from taking part in the political elections, this being their protest against the new order of things which they do not recognise. Various attempts have been made, however, to induce the Pope to give them permission to vote, many members of the Roman aristocracy considering the present course impolitic and even harmful to the interests of the Church. --Trans. 

All at once Pierre interrupted Narcisse: "And Monsignor Nani, do you knowhim? I spoke with him yesterday evening. And there he is coming in now!"

Nani was indeed just entering the ante-room with his usual smile on hisamiable pink face. His cassock of fine texture, and his sash of violetsilk shone with discreet soft luxury. And he showed himself very amiableto Abbe Paparelli, who, accompanying him in all humility, begged him tobe kind enough to wait until his Eminence should be able to receive him. 

"Oh! Monsignor Nani, " muttered Narcisse, becoming serious, "he is a manwhom it is advisable to have for a friend. "

Then, knowing Nani's history, he related it in an undertone. Born atVenice, of a noble but ruined family which had produced heroes, Nani, after first studying under the Jesuits, had come to Rome to perfecthimself in philosophy and theology at the Collegio Romano, which was thenalso under Jesuit management. Ordained when three and twenty, he had atonce followed a nuncio to Bavaria as private secretary; and then had goneas _auditore_ to the nunciatures of Brussels and Paris, in which lattercity he had lived for five years. Everything seemed to predestine him todiplomacy, his brilliant beginnings and his keen and encyclopaedicalintelligence; but all at once he had been recalled to Rome, where he wassoon afterwards appointed Assessor to the Holy Office. It was asserted atthe time that this was done by the Pope himself, who, being wellacquainted with Nani, and desirous of having a person he could dependupon at the Holy Office, had given instructions for his recall, sayingthat he could render far more services at Rome than abroad. Already adomestic prelate, Nani had also lately become a Canon of St. Peter's andan apostolic prothonotary, with the prospect of obtaining a cardinal'shat whenever the Pope should find some other favourite who would pleasehim better as assessor. 

"Oh, Monsignor Nani!" continued Narcisse. "He's a superior man, thoroughly well acquainted with modern Europe, and at the same time avery saintly priest, a sincere believer, absolutely devoted to theChurch, with the substantial faith of an intelligent politician--a beliefdifferent, it is true, from the narrow gloomy theological faith which weknow so well in France. And this is one of the reasons why you willhardly understand things here at first. The Roman prelates leave theDeity in the sanctuary and reign in His name, convinced that Catholicismis the human expression of the government of God, the only perfect andeternal government, beyond the pales of which nothing but falsehood andsocial danger can be found. While we in our country lag behind, furiouslyarguing whether there be a God or not, they do not admit that God'sexistence can be doubted, since they themselves are his delegatedministers; and they entirely devote themselves to playing their parts asministers whom none can dispossess, exercising their power for thegreatest good of humanity, and devoting all their intelligence, all theirenergy to maintaining themselves as the accepted masters of the nations. As for Monsignor Nani, after being mixed up in the politics of the wholeworld, he has for ten years been discharging the most delicate functionsin Rome, taking part in the most varied and most important affairs. Hesees all the foreigners who come to Rome, knows everything, has a hand ineverything. Add to this that he is extremely discreet and amiable, with amodesty which seems perfect, though none can tell whether, with his lightsilent footstep, he is not really marching towards the highest ambition, the purple of sovereignty. "

"Another candidate for the tiara, " thought Pierre, who had listenedpassionately; for this man Nani interested him, caused him an instinctivedisquietude, as though behind his pink and smiling face he could divinean infinity of obscure things. At the same time, however, the youngpriest but ill understood his friend, for he again felt bewildered by allthis strange Roman world, so different from what he had expected. 

Nani had perceived the two young men and came towards them with his handcordially outstretched "Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, I am happy to meetyou again. I won't ask you if you have slept well, for people alwayssleep well at Rome. Good-day, Monsieur Habert; your health has kept goodI hope, since I met you in front of Bernini's Santa Teresa, which youadmire so much. * I see that you know one another. That is very nice. Imust tell you, Monsieur l'Abbe, that Monsieur Habert is a passionatelover of our city; he will be able to show you all its finest sights. "

 * The allusion is to a statue representing St. Theresa in ecstasy, with the Angel of Death descending to transfix her with his dart. It stands in a transept of Sta. Maria della Vittoria. --Trans. 

Then, in his affectionate way, he at once asked for informationrespecting Pierre's interview with the Cardinal. He listened attentivelyto the young man's narrative, nodding his head at certain passages, andoccasionally restraining his sharp smile. The Cardinal's severity andPierre's conviction that he would accord him no support did not at allastonish Nani. It seemed as if he had expected that result. However, onhearing that Cardinal Sanguinetti had been there that morning, and hadpronounced the affair of the book to be very serious, he appeared to losehis self-control for a moment, for he spoke out with sudden vivacity:

"It can't be helped, my dear child, my intervention came too late. Directly I heard of the proceedings I went to his Eminence CardinalSanguinetti to tell him that the result would be an immense advertisementfor your book. Was it sensible? What was the use of it? We know that youare inclined to be carried away by your ideas, that you are anenthusiast, and are prompt to do battle. So what advantage should we gainby embarrassing ourselves with the revolt of a young priest who mightwage war against us with a book of which some thousands of copies havebeen sold already? For my part I desired that nothing should be done. AndI must say that the Cardinal, who is a man of sense, was of the samemind. He raised his arms to heaven, went into a passion, and exclaimedthat he was never consulted, that the blunder was already committedbeyond recall, and that it was impossible to prevent process from takingits course since the matter had already been brought before theCongregation, in consequence of denunciations from authoritative sources, based on the gravest motives. Briefly, as he said, the blunder wascommitted, and I had to think of something else. "

All at once Nani paused. He had just noticed that Pierre's ardent eyeswere fixed upon his own, striving to penetrate his meaning. A faint flushthen heightened the pinkiness of his complexion, whilst in an easy way hecontinued, unwilling to reveal how annoyed he was at having said toomuch: "Yes, I thought of helping you with all the little influence Ipossess, in order to extricate you from the worries in which this affairwill certainly land you. "

An impulse of revolt was stirring Pierre, who vaguely felt that he wasperhaps being made game of. Why should he not be free to declare hisfaith, which was so pure, so free from personal considerations, so fullof glowing Christian charity? "Never, " said he, "will I withdraw; neverwill I myself suppress my book, as I am advised to do. It would be an actof cowardice and falsehood, for I regret nothing, I disown nothing. If Ibelieve that my book brings a little truth to light I cannot destroy itwithout acting criminally both towards myself and towards others. No, never! You hear me--never!"

Silence fell. But almost immediately he resumed: "It is at the knees ofthe Holy Father that I desire to make that declaration. He willunderstand me, he will approve me. "

Nani no longer smiled; henceforth his face remained as it were closed. Heseemed to be studying the sudden violence of the young priest withcuriosity; then sought to calm him with his own tranquil kindliness. "Nodoubt, no doubt, " said he. "There is certainly great sweetness inobedience and humility. Still I can understand that, before anythingelse, you should desire to speak to his Holiness. And afterwards you willsee--is that not so?--you will see--"

Then he evinced a lively interest in the suggested application for anaudience. He expressed keen regret that Pierre had not forwarded thatapplication from Paris, before even coming to Rome: in that course wouldhave rested the best chance of a favourable reply. Bother of any kind wasnot liked at the Vatican, and if the news of the young priest's presencein Rome should only spread abroad, and the motives of his journey bediscussed, all would be lost. Then, on learning that Narcisse had offeredto present Pierre to the French ambassador, Nani seemed full of anxiety, and deprecated any such proceeding: "No, no! don't do that--it would bemost imprudent. In the first place you would run the risk of embarrassingthe ambassador, whose position is always delicate in affairs of thiskind. And then, too, if he failed--and my fear is that he mightfail--yes, if he failed it would be all over; you would no longer havethe slightest chance of obtaining an audience by any other means. For theVatican would not like to hurt the ambassador's feelings by yielding toother influence after resisting his. "

Pierre anxiously glanced at Narcisse, who wagged his head, embarrassedand hesitating. "The fact is, " the _attache_ at last murmured, "we latelysolicited an audience for a high French personage and it was refused, which was very unpleasant for us. Monsignor is right. We must keep ourambassador in reserve, and only utilise him when we have exhausted allother means. " Then, noticing Pierre's disappointment, he addedobligingly: "Our first visit therefore shall be for my cousin at theVatican. "

Nani, his attention again roused, looked at the young man inastonishment. "At the Vatican? You have a cousin there?"

"Why, yes--Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo. "

"Gamba! Gamba! Yes, yes, excuse me, I remember now. Ah! so you thought ofGamba to bring influence to bear on his Holiness? That's an idea, nodoubt; one must see--one must see. "

He repeated these words again and again as if to secure time to see intothe matter himself, to weigh the pros and cons of the suggestion. Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo was a worthy man who played no part at thePapal Court, whose nullity indeed had become a byword at the Vatican. Hischildish stories, however, amused the Pope, whom he greatly flattered, and who was fond of leaning on his arm while walking in the gardens. Itwas during these strolls that Gamba easily secured all sorts of littlefavours. However, he was a remarkable poltroon, and had such an intensefear of losing his influence that he never risked a request withouthaving convinced himself by long meditation that no possible harm couldcome to him through it. 

"Well, do you know, the idea is not a bad one, " Nani at last declared. "Yes, yes, Gamba can secure the audience for you, if he is willing. Iwill see him myself and explain the matter. "

At the same time Nani did not cease advising extreme caution. He evenventured to say that it was necessary to be on one's guard with the papal_entourage_, for, alas! it was a fact his Holiness was so good, and hadsuch a blind faith in the goodness of others, that he had not alwayschosen his familiars with the critical care which he ought to havedisplayed. Thus one never knew to what sort of man one might be applying, or in what trap one might be setting one's foot. Nani even allowed it tobe understood that on no account ought any direct application to be madeto his Eminence the Secretary of State, for even his Eminence was not afree agent, but found himself encompassed by intrigues of such intricacythat his best intentions were paralysed. And as Nani went on discoursingin this fashion, in a very gentle, extremely unctuous manner, the Vaticanappeared like some enchanted castle, guarded by jealous and treacherousdragons--a castle where one must not take a step, pass through a doorway, risk a limb, without having carefully assured oneself that one would notleave one's whole body there to be devoured. 

Pierre continued listening, feeling colder and colder at heart, and againsinking into uncertainty. "_Mon Dieu_!" he exclaimed, "I shall never knowhow to act. You discourage me, Monsignor. "

At this Nani's cordial smile reappeared. "I, my dear child? I should besorry to do so. I only want to repeat to you that you must wait and donothing. Avoid all feverishness especially. There is no hurry, I assureyou, for it was only yesterday that a _consultore_ was chosen to reportupon your book, so you have a good full month before you. Avoideverybody, live in such a way that people shall be virtually ignorant ofyour existence, visit Rome in peace and quietness--that is the bestcourse you can adopt to forward your interests. " Then, taking one of thepriest's hands between both his own, so aristocratic, soft, and plump, headded: "You will understand that I have my reasons for speaking to youlike this. I should have offered my own services; I should have made it apoint of honour to take you straight to his Holiness, had I thought itadvisable. But I do not wish to mix myself up in the matter at thisstage; I realise only too well that at the present moment we shouldsimply make sad work of it. Later on--you hear me--later on, in the eventof nobody else succeeding, I myself will obtain you an audience; Iformally promise it. But meanwhile, I entreat you, refrain from usingthose words 'a new religion, ' which, unfortunately, occur in your book, and which I heard you repeat again only last night. There can be no newreligion, my dear child; there is but one eternal religion, which isbeyond all surrender and compromise--the Catholic, Apostolic, and Romanreligion. And at the same time leave your Paris friends to themselves. Don't rely too much on Cardinal Bergerot, whose lofty piety is notsufficiently appreciated in Rome. I assure you that I am speaking to youas a friend. "

Then, seeing how disabled Pierre appeared to be, half overcome already, no longer knowing in what direction to begin his campaign, he againstrove to comfort him: "Come, come, things will right themselves;everything will end for the best, both for the welfare of the Church andyour own. And now you must excuse me, I must leave you; I shall not beable to see his Eminence to-day, for it is impossible for me to wait anylonger. "

Abbe Paparelli, whom Pierre had noticed prowling around with his earscocked, now hastened forward and declared to Monsignor Nani that therewere only two persons to be received before him. But the prelate verygraciously replied that he would come back again at another time, for theaffair which he wished to lay before his Eminence was in no wisepressing. Then he withdrew, courteously bowing to everybody. 

Narcisse Habert's turn came almost immediately afterwards. However, before entering the throne-room he pressed Pierre's hand, repeating, "Soit is understood. I will go to see my cousin at the Vatican to-morrow, and directly I get a reply I will let you know. We shall meet again soonI hope. "

It was now past twelve o'clock, and the only remaining visitor was one ofthe two old ladies who seemed to have fallen asleep. At his littlesecretarial table Don Vigilio still sat covering huge sheets of yellowpaper with fine handwriting, from which he only lifted his eyes atintervals to glance about him distrustfully, and make sure that nothingthreatened him. 

In the mournful silence which fell around, Pierre lingered for yetanother moment in the deep embrasure of the window. Ah! what anxietyconsumed his poor, tender, enthusiastic heart! On leaving Paris thingshad seemed so simple, so natural to him! He was unjustly accused, and hestarted off to defend himself, arrived and flung himself at the feet ofthe Holy Father, who listened to him indulgently. Did not the Popepersonify living religion, intelligence to understand, justice based upontruth? And was he not, before aught else, the Father, the delegate ofdivine forgiveness and mercy, with arms outstretched towards all thechildren of the Church, even the guilty ones? Was it not meet, then, thathe should leave his door wide open so that the humblest of his sons mightfreely enter to relate their troubles, confess their transgressions, explain their conduct, imbibe comfort from the source of eternal lovingkindness? And yet on the very first day of his, Pierre's, arrival, thedoors closed upon him with a bang; he felt himself sinking into a hostilesphere, full of traps and pitfalls. One and all cried out to him"Beware!" as if he were incurring the greatest dangers in setting onefoot before the other. His desire to see the Pope became an extraordinarypretension, so difficult of achievement that it set the interests andpassions and influences of the whole Vatican agog. And there was endlessconflicting advice, long-discussed manoeuvring, all the strategy ofgenerals leading an army to victory, and fresh complications ever arisingin the midst of a dim stealthy swarming of intrigues. Ah! good Lord! howdifferent all this was from the charitable reception that Pierre hadanticipated: the pastor's house standing open beside the high road forthe admission of all the sheep of the flock, both those that were docileand those that had gone astray. 

That which began to frighten Pierre, however, was the evil, thewickedness, which he could divine vaguely stirring in the gloom: CardinalBergerot suspected, dubbed a Revolutionary, deemed so compromising thathe, Pierre, was advised not to mention his name again! The young priestonce more saw Cardinal Boccanera's pout of disdain while speaking of hiscolleague. And then Monsignor Nani had warned him not to repeat thosewords "a new religion, " as if it were not clear to everybody that theysimply signified the return of Catholicism to the primitive purity ofChristianity! Was that one of the crimes denounced to the Congregation ofthe Index? He had begun to suspect who his accusers were, and feltalarmed, for he was now conscious of secret subterranean plotting, agreat stealthy effort to strike him down and suppress his work. All thatsurrounded him became suspicious. If he listened to advice andtemporised, it was solely to follow the same politic course as hisadversaries, to learn to know them before acting. He would spend a fewdays in meditation, in surveying and studying that black world of Romewhich to him had proved so unexpected. But, at the same time, in therevolt of his apostle-like faith, he swore, even as he had said to Nani, that he would never yield, never change either a page or a line of hisbook, but maintain it in its integrity in the broad daylight as theunshakable testimony of his belief. Even were the book condemned by theIndex, he would not tender submission, withdraw aught of it. And shouldit become necessary he would quit the Church, he would go even as far asschism, continuing to preach the new religion and writing a new book, _Real Rome_, such as he now vaguely began to espy. 

However, Don Vigilio had ceased writing, and gazed so fixedly at Pierrethat the latter at last stepped up to him politely in order to takeleave. And then the secretary, yielding, despite his fears, to a desireto confide in him, murmured, "He came simply on your account, you know;he wanted to ascertain the result of your interview with his Eminence. "

It was not necessary for Don Vigilio to mention Nani by name; Pierreunderstood. "Really, do you think so?" he asked. 

"Oh! there is no doubt of it. And if you take my advice you will do whathe desires with a good grace, for it is absolutely certain that you willdo it later on. "

These words brought Pierre's disquietude and exasperation to a climax. Hewent off with a gesture of defiance. They would see if he would everyield. 

The three ante-rooms which he again crossed appeared to him blacker, emptier, more lifeless than ever. In the second one Abbe Paparellisaluted him with a little silent bow; in the first the sleepy lackey didnot even seem to see him. A spider was weaving its web between thetassels of the great red hat under the _baldacchino_. Would not thebetter course have been to set the pick at work amongst all that rottingpast, now crumbling into dust, so that the sunlight might stream infreely and restore to the purified soil the fruitfulness of youth?

PART II. 

IV. 

ON the afternoon of that same day Pierre, having leisure before him, atonce thought of beginning his peregrinations through Rome by a visit onwhich he had set his heart. Almost immediately after the publication of"New Rome" he had been deeply moved and interested by a letter addressedto him from the Eternal City by old Count Orlando Prada, the hero ofItalian independence and reunion, who, although unacquainted with him, had written spontaneously after a first hasty perusal of his book. Andthe letter had been a flaming protest, a cry of the patriotic faith stillyoung in the heart of that aged man, who accused him of having forgottenItaly and claimed Rome, the new Rome, for the country which was at lastfree and united. Correspondence had ensued, and the priest, whileclinging to his dream of Neo-Catholicism saving the world, had from afargrown attached to the man who wrote to him with such glowing love ofcountry and freedom. He had eventually informed him of his journey, andpromised to call upon him. But the hospitality which he had accepted atthe Boccanera mansion now seemed to him somewhat of an impediment; forafter Benedetta's kindly, almost affectionate, greeting, he felt that hecould not, on the very first day and with out warning her, sally forth tovisit the father of the man from whom she had fled and from whom she nowasked the Church to part her for ever. Moreover, old Orlando was actuallyliving with his son in a little palazzo which the latter had erected atthe farther end of the Via Venti Settembre. 

Before venturing on any step Pierre resolved to confide in the Contessinaherself; and this seemed the easier as Viscount Philibert de la Choue hadtold him that the young woman still retained a filial feeling, mingledwith admiration, for the old hero. And indeed, at the very first wordswhich he uttered after lunch, Benedetta promptly retorted: "But go, Monsieur l'Abbe, go at once! Old Orlando, you know, is one of ournational glories--you must not be surprised to hear me call him by hisChristian name. All Italy does so, from pure affection and gratitude. Formy part I grew up among people who hated him, who likened him to Satan. It was only later that I learned to know him, and then I loved him, forhe is certainly the most just and gentle man in the world. "

She had begun to smile, but timid tears were moistening her eyes at therecollection, no doubt, of the year of suffering she had spent in herhusband's house, where her only peaceful hours had been those passed withthe old man. And in a lower and somewhat tremulous voice she added: "Asyou are going to see him, tell him from me that I still love him, and, whatever happens, shall never forget his goodness. "

So Pierre set out, and whilst he was driving in a cab towards the ViaVenti Settembre, he recalled to mind the heroic story of old Orlando'slife which had been told him in Paris. It was like an epic poem, full offaith, bravery, and the disinterestedness of another age. 

Born of a noble house of Milan, Count Orlando Prada had learnt to hatethe foreigner at such an early age that, when scarcely fifteen, healready formed part of a secret society, one of the ramifications of theantique Carbonarism. This hatred of Austrian domination had beentransmitted from father to son through long years, from the olden days ofrevolt against servitude, when the conspirators met by stealth inabandoned huts, deep in the recesses of the forests; and it was renderedthe keener by the eternal dream of Italy delivered, restored to herself, transformed once more into a great sovereign nation, the worthy daughterof those who had conquered and ruled the world. Ah! that land of whilomglory, that unhappy, dismembered, parcelled Italy, the prey of a crowd ofpetty tyrants, constantly invaded and appropriated by neighbouringnations--how superb and ardent was that dream to free her from such longopprobrium! To defeat the foreigner, drive out the despots, awaken thepeople from the base misery of slavery, to proclaim Italy free and Italyunited--such was the passion which then inflamed the young withinextinguishable ardour, which made the youthful Orlando's heart leapwith enthusiasm. He spent his early years consumed by holy indignation, proudly and impatiently longing for an opportunity to give his blood forhis country, and to die for her if he could not deliver her. 

Quivering under the yoke, wasting his time in sterile conspiracies, hewas living in retirement in the old family residence at Milan, when, shortly after his marriage and his twenty-fifth birthday, tidings came tohim of the flight of Pius IX and the Revolution of Rome. * And at once hequitted everything, wife and hearth, and hastened to Rome as if summonedthither by the call of destiny. This was the first time that he set outscouring the roads for the attainment of independence; and howfrequently, yet again and again, was he to start upon fresh campaigns, never wearying, never disheartened! And now it was that he becameacquainted with Mazzini, and for a moment was inflamed with enthusiasmfor that mystical unitarian Republican. He himself indulged in an ardentdream of a Universal Republic, adopted the Mazzinian device, "_Dio epopolo_" (God and the people), and followed the procession which wendedits way with great pomp through insurrectionary Rome. The time was one ofvast hopes, one when people already felt a need of renovated religion, and looked to the coming of a humanitarian Christ who would redeem theworld yet once again. But before long a man, a captain of the ancientdays, Giuseppe Garibaldi, whose epic glory was dawning, made Orlandoentirely his own, transformed him into a soldier whose sole cause wasfreedom and union. Orlando loved Garibaldi as though the latter were ademi-god, fought beside him in defence of Republican Rome, took part inthe victory of Rieti over the Neapolitans, and followed the stubbornpatriot in his retreat when he sought to succour Venice, compelled as hewas to relinquish the Eternal City to the French army of General Oudinot, who came thither to reinstate Pius IX. And what an extraordinary andmadly heroic adventure was that of Garibaldi and Venice! Venice, whichManin, another great patriot, a martyr, had again transformed into arepublican city, and which for long months had been resisting theAustrians! And Garibaldi starts with a handful of men to deliver thecity, charters thirteen fishing barks, loses eight in a naval engagement, is compelled to return to the Roman shores, and there in all wretchednessis bereft of his wife, Anita, whose eyes he closes before returning toAmerica, where, once before, he had awaited the hour of insurrection. Ah!that land of Italy, which in those days rumbled from end to end with theinternal fire of patriotism, where men of faith and courage arose inevery city, where riots and insurrections burst forth on all sides likeeruptions--it continued, in spite of every check, its invincible march tofreedom!

 * It was on November 24, 1848, that the Pope fled to Gaeta, consequent upon the insurrection which had broken out nine days previously. --Trans. 

Orlando returned to his young wife at Milan, and for two years livedthere, almost in concealment, devoured by impatience for the gloriousmorrow which was so long in coming. Amidst his fever a gleam of happinesssoftened his heart; a son, Luigi, was born to him, but the birth killedthe mother, and joy was turned into mourning. Then, unable to remain anylonger at Milan, where he was spied upon, tracked by the police, suffering also too grievously from the foreign occupation, Orlandodecided to realise the little fortune remaining to him, and to withdrawto Turin, where an aunt of his wife took charge of the child. Count diCavour, like a great statesman, was then already seeking to bring aboutindependence, preparing Piedmont for the decisive _role_ which it wasdestined to play. It was the time when King Victor Emmanuel evincedflattering cordiality towards all the refugees who came to him from everypart of Italy, even those whom he knew to be Republicans, compromised andflying the consequences of popular insurrection. The rough, shrewd Houseof Savoy had long been dreaming of bringing about Italian unity to theprofit of the Piedmontese monarchy, and Orlando well knew under whatmaster he was taking service; but in him the Republican already wentbehind the patriot, and indeed he had begun to question the possibilityof a united Republican Italy, placed under the protectorate of a liberalPope, as Mazzini had at one time dreamed. Was that not indeed a chimerabeyond realisation which would devour generation after generation if oneobstinately continued to pursue it? For his part, he did not wish to diewithout having slept in Rome as one of the conquerors. Even if libertywas to be lost, he desired to see his country united and erect, returningonce more to life in the full sunlight. And so it was with feverishhappiness that he enlisted at the outset of the war of 1859; and hisheart palpitated with such force as almost to rend his breast, when, after Magenta, he entered Milan with the French army--Milan which he hadquitted eight years previously, like an exile, in despair. The treaty ofVillafranca which followed Solferino proved a bitter deception: Venetiawas not secured, Venice remained enthralled. Nevertheless the Milanesewas conquered from the foe, and then Tuscany and the duchies of Parma andModena voted for annexation. So, at all events, the nucleus of theItalian star was formed; the country had begun to build itself up afresharound victorious Piedmont. 

Then, in the following year, Orlando plunged into epopoeia once more. Garibaldi had returned from his two sojourns in America, with the halo ofa legend round him--paladin-like feats in the pampas of Uruguay, anextraordinary passage from Canton to Lima--and he had returned to takepart in the war of 1859, forestalling the French army, overthrowing anAustrian marshal, and entering Como, Bergamo, and Brescia. And now, allat once, folks heard that he had landed at Marsala with only a thousandmen--the Thousand of Marsala, the ever illustrious handful of braves!Orlando fought in the first rank, and Palermo after three days'resistance was carried. Becoming the dictator's favourite lieutenant, hehelped him to organise a government, then crossed the straits with him, and was beside him on the triumphal entry into Naples, whose king hadfled. There was mad audacity and valour at that time, an explosion of theinevitable; and all sorts of supernatural stories were current--Garibaldiinvulnerable, protected better by his red shirt than by the strongestarmour, Garibaldi routing opposing armies like an archangel, by merelybrandishing his flaming sword! The Piedmontese on their side had defeatedGeneral Lamoriciere at Castelfidardo, and were invading the States of theChurch. And Orlando was there when the dictator, abdicating power, signedthe decree which annexed the Two Sicilies to the Crown of Italy; even assubsequently he took part in that forlorn attempt on Rome, when therageful cry was "Rome or Death!"--an attempt which came to a tragic issueat Aspromonte, when the little army was dispersed by the Italian troops, and Garibaldi, wounded, was taken prisoner, and sent back to the solitudeof his island of Caprera, where he became but a fisherman and a tiller ofthe rocky soil. *

 * M. Zola's brief but glowing account of Garibaldi's glorious achievements has stirred many memories in my mind. My uncle, Frank Vizetelly, the war artist of the _Illustrated London News_, whose bones lie bleaching somewhere in the Soudan, was one of Garibaldi's constant companions throughout the memorable campaign of the Two Sicilies, and afterwards he went with him to Caprera. Later, in 1870, my brother, Edward Vizetelly, acted as orderly-officer to the general when he offered the help of his sword to France. --Trans. 

Six years of waiting again went by, and Orlando still dwelt at Turin, even after Florence had been chosen as the new capital. The Senate hadacclaimed Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy; and Italy was indeed almostbuilt, it lacked only Rome and Venice. But the great battles seemed allover, the epic era was closed; Venice was to be won by defeat. Orlandotook part in the unlucky battle of Custozza, where he received twowounds, full of furious grief at the thought that Austria should betriumphant. But at that same moment the latter, defeated at Sadowa, relinquished Venetia, and five months later Orlando satisfied his desireto be in Venice participating in the joy of triumph, when Victor Emmanuelmade his entry amidst the frantic acclamations of the people. Rome aloneremained to be won, and wild impatience urged all Italy towards the city;but friendly France had sworn to maintain the Pope, and this acted as acheck. Then, for the third time, Garibaldi dreamt of renewing the featsof the old-world legends, and threw himself upon Rome like a soldier offortune illumined by patriotism and free from every tie. And for thethird time Orlando shared in that fine heroic madness destined to bevanquished at Mentana by the Pontifical Zouaves supported by a smallFrench corps. Again wounded, he came back to Turin in almost a dyingcondition. But, though his spirit quivered, he had to resign himself; thesituation seemed to have no outlet; only an upheaval of the nations couldgive Rome to Italy. 

All at once the thunderclap of Sedan, of the downfall of France, resounded through the world; and then the road to Rome lay open, andOrlando, having returned to service in the regular army, was with thetroops who took up position in the Campagna to ensure the safety of theHoly See, as was said in the letter which Victor Emmanuel wrote to PiusIX. There was, however, but the shadow of an engagement: GeneralKanzler's Pontifical Zouaves were compelled to fall back, and Orlando wasone of the first to enter the city by the breach of the Porta Pia. Ah!that twentieth of September--that day when he experienced the greatesthappiness of his life--a day of delirium, of complete triumph, whichrealised the dream of so many years of terrible contest, the dream forwhich he had sacrificed rest and fortune, and given both body and mind!

Then came more than ten happy years in conquered Rome--in Rome adored, flattered, treated with all tenderness, like a woman in whom one hasplaced one's entire hope. From her he awaited so much national vigour, such a marvellous resurrection of strength and glory for the endowment ofthe young nation. Old Republican, old insurrectional soldier that he was, he had been obliged to adhere to the monarchy, and accept a senatorship. But then did not Garibaldi himself--Garibaldi his divinity--likewise callupon the King and sit in parliament? Mazzini alone, rejecting allcompromises, was unwilling to rest content with a united and independentItaly that was not Republican. Moreover, another consideration influencedOrlando, the future of his son Luigi, who had attained his eighteenthbirthday shortly after the occupation of Rome. Though he, Orlando, couldmanage with the crumbs which remained of the fortune he had expended inhis country's service, he dreamt of a splendid destiny for the child ofhis heart. Realising that the heroic age was over, he desired to make agreat politician of him, a great administrator, a man who should beuseful to the mighty nation of the morrow; and it was on this accountthat he had not rejected royal favour, the reward of long devotion, desiring, as he did, to be in a position to help, watch, and guide Luigi. Besides, was he himself so old, so used-up, as to be unable to assist inorganisation, even as he had assisted in conquest? Struck by his son'squick intelligence in business matters, perhaps also instinctivelydivining that the battle would now continue on financial and economicgrounds, he obtained him employment at the Ministry of Finances. Andagain he himself lived on, dreaming, still enthusiastically believing ina splendid future, overflowing with boundless hope, seeing Rome doubleher population, grow and spread with a wild vegetation of new districts, and once more, in his loving enraptured eyes, become the queen of theworld. 

But all at once came a thunderbolt. One morning, as he was goingdownstairs, Orlando was stricken with paralysis. Both his legs suddenlybecame lifeless, as heavy as lead. It was necessary to carry him upagain, and never since had he set foot on the street pavement. At thattime he had just completed his fifty-sixth year, and for fourteen yearssince he had remained in his arm-chair, as motionless as stone, he whohad so impetuously trod every battlefield of Italy. It was a pitifulbusiness, the collapse of a hero. And worst of all, from that room wherehe was for ever imprisoned, the old soldier beheld the slow crumbling ofall his hopes, and fell into dismal melancholy, full of unacknowledgedfear for the future. Now that the intoxication of action no longer dimmedhis eyes, now that he spent his long and empty days in thought, hisvision became clear. Italy, which he had desired to see so powerful, sotriumphant in her unity, was acting madly, rushing to ruin, possibly tobankruptcy. Rome, which to him had ever been the one necessary capital, the city of unparalleled glory, requisite for the sovereign people ofto-morrow, seemed unwilling to take upon herself the part of a greatmodern metropolis; heavy as a corpse she weighed with all her centurieson the bosom of the young nation. Moreover, his son Luigi distressed him. Rebellious to all guidance, the young man had become one of the devouringoffsprings of conquest, eager to despoil that Italy, that Rome, which hisfather seemed to have desired solely in order that he might pillage themand batten on them. Orlando had vainly opposed Luigi's departure from theministry, his participation in the frantic speculations on land and houseproperty to which the mad building of the new districts had given rise. But at the same time he loved his son, and was reduced to silence, especially now when everything had succeeded with Luigi, even his mostrisky financial ventures, such as the transformation of the VillaMontefiori into a perfect town--a colossal enterprise in which many ofgreat wealth had been ruined, but whence he himself had emerged withmillions. And it was in part for this reason that Orlando, sad andsilent, had obstinately restricted himself to one small room on the thirdfloor of the little palazzo erected by Luigi in the Via VentiSettembre--a room where he lived cloistered with a single servant, subsisting on his own scanty income, and accepting nothing but thatmodest hospitality from his son. 

As Pierre reached that new Via Venti Settembre* which climbs the side andsummit of the Viminal hill, he was struck by the heavy sumptuousness ofthe new "palaces, " which betokened among the moderns the same taste forthe huge that marked the ancient Romans. In the warm afternoon glow, blent of purple and old gold, the broad, triumphant thoroughfare, withits endless rows of white house-fronts, bore witness to new Rome's proudhope of futurity and sovereign power. And Pierre fairly gasped when hebeheld the Palazzo delle Finanze, or Treasury, a gigantic erection, acyclopean cube with a profusion of columns, balconies, pediments, andsculptured work, to which the building mania had given birth in a day ofimmoderate pride. And on the other side of the street, a little higherup, before reaching the Villa Bonaparte, stood Count Prada's littlepalazzo. 

 * The name--Twentieth September Street--was given to the thoroughfare to commemorate the date of the occupation of Rome by Victor Emmanuel's army. --Trans. 

After discharging his driver, Pierre for a moment remained somewhatembarrassed. The door was open, and he entered the vestibule; but, as atthe mansion in the Via Giulia, no door porter or servant was to be seen. So he had to make up his mind to ascend the monumental stairs, which withtheir marble balustrades seemed to be copied, on a smaller scale, fromthose of the Palazzo Boccanera. And there was much the same coldbareness, tempered, however, by a carpet and red door-hangings, whichcontrasted vividly with the white stucco of the walls. Thereception-rooms, sixteen feet high, were on the first floor, and as adoor chanced to be ajar he caught a glimpse of two _salons_, onefollowing the other, and both displaying quite modern richness, with aprofusion of silk and velvet hangings, gilt furniture, and lofty mirrorsreflecting a pompous assemblage of stands and tables. And still there wasnobody, not a soul, in that seemingly forsaken abode, which exhalednought of woman's presence. Indeed Pierre was on the point of going downagain to ring, when a footman at last presented himself. 

"Count Prada, if you please. "

The servant silently surveyed the little priest, and seemed tounderstand. "The father or the son?" he asked. 

"The father, Count Orlando Prada. "

"Oh! that's on the third floor. " And he condescended to add: "The littledoor on the right-hand side of the landing. Knock loudly if you wish tobe admitted. "

Pierre indeed had to knock twice, and then a little withered old man ofmilitary appearance, a former soldier who had remained in the Count'sservice, opened the door and apologised for the delay by saying that hehad been attending to his master's legs. Immediately afterwards heannounced the visitor, and the latter, after passing through a dim andnarrow ante-room, was lost in amazement on finding himself in arelatively small chamber, extremely bare and bright, with wall-paper of alight hue studded with tiny blue flowers. Behind a screen was an ironbedstead, the soldier's pallet, and there was no other furniture than thearm-chair in which the cripple spent his days, with a table of black woodplaced near him, and covered with books and papers, and two oldstraw-seated chairs which served for the accommodation of the infrequentvisitors. A few planks, fixed to one of the walls, did duty asbook-shelves. However, the broad, clear, curtainless window overlookedthe most admirable panorama of Rome that could be desired. 

Then the room disappeared from before Pierre's eyes, and with a suddenshock of deep emotion he only beheld old Orlando, the old blanched lion, still superb, broad, and tall. A forest of white hair crowned hispowerful head, with its thick mouth, fleshy broken nose, and large, sparkling, black eyes. A long white beard streamed down with the vigourof youth, curling like that of an ancient god. By that leonine muzzle onedivined what great passions had growled within; but all, carnal andintellectual alike, had erupted in patriotism, in wild bravery, andriotous love of independence. And the old stricken hero, his torso stillerect, was fixed there on his straw-seated arm-chair, with lifeless legsburied beneath a black wrapper. Alone did his arms and hands live, andhis face beam with strength and intelligence. 

Orlando turned towards his servant, and gently said to him: "You can goaway, Batista. Come back in a couple of hours. " Then, looking Pierre fullin the face, he exclaimed in a voice which was still sonorous despite hisseventy years: "So it's you at last, my dear Monsieur Froment, and weshall be able to chat at our ease. There, take that chair, and sit downin front of me. "

He had noticed the glance of surprise which the young priest had castupon the bareness of the room, and he gaily added: "You will excuse mefor receiving you in my cell. Yes, I live here like a monk, like an oldinvalided soldier, henceforth withdrawn from active life. My son longbegged me to take one of the fine rooms downstairs. But what would havebeen the use of it? I have no needs, and I scarcely care for featherbeds, for my old bones are accustomed to the hard ground. And then too Ihave such a fine view up here, all Rome presenting herself to me, nowthat I can no longer go to her. "

With a wave of the hand towards the window he sought to hide theembarrassment, the slight flush which came to him each time that he thusexcused his son; unwilling as he was to tell the true reason, the scrupleof probity which had made him obstinately cling to his bare pauper'slodging. 

"But it is very nice, the view is superb!" declared Pierre, in order toplease him. "I am for my own part very glad to see you, very glad to beable to grasp your valiant hands, which accomplished so many greatthings. "

Orlando made a fresh gesture, as though to sweep the past away. "Pooh!pooh! all that is dead and buried. Let us talk about you, my dearMonsieur Froment, you who are young and represent the present; andespecially about your book, which represents the future! Ah! if you onlyknew how angry your book, your 'New Rome, ' made me first of all. "

He began to laugh, and took the book from off the table near him; then, tapping on its cover with his big, broad hand, he continued: "No, youcannot imagine with what starts of protest I read your book. The Pope, and again the Pope, and always the Pope! New Rome to be created by thePope and for the Pope, to triumph thanks to the Pope, to be given to thePope, and to fuse its glory in the glory of the Pope! But what about us?What about Italy? What about all the millions which we have spent inorder to make Rome a great capital? Ah! only a Frenchman, and a Frenchmanof Paris, could have written such a book! But let me tell you, my dearsir, if you are ignorant of it, that Rome has become the capital of thekingdom of Italy, that we here have King Humbert, and the Italian people, a whole nation which must be taken into account, and which means to keepRome--glorious, resuscitated Rome--for itself!"

This juvenile ardour made Pierre laugh in turn. "Yes, yes, " said he, "youwrote me that. Only what does it matter from my point of view? Italy isbut one nation, a part of humanity, and I desire concord and fraternityamong all the nations, mankind reconciled, believing, and happy. Of whatconsequence, then, is any particular form of government, monarchy orrepublic, of what consequence is any question of a united and independentcountry, if all mankind forms but one free people subsisting on truth andjustice?"

To only one word of this enthusiastic outburst did Orlando pay attention. In a lower tone, and with a dreamy air, he resumed: "Ah! a republic. Inmy youth I ardently desired one. I fought for one; I conspired withMazzini, a saintly man, a believer, who was shattered by collision withthe absolute. And then, too, one had to bow to practical necessities; themost obstinate ended by submitting. And nowadays would a republic saveus? In any case it would differ but little from our parliamentarymonarchy. Just think of what goes on in France! And so why risk arevolution which would place power in the hands of the extremerevolutionists, the anarchists? We fear all that, and this explains ourresignation. I know very well that a few think they can detect salvationin a republican federation, a reconstitution of all the former littlestates in so many republics, over which Rome would preside. The Vaticanwould gain largely by any such transformation; still one cannot say thatit endeavours to bring it about; it simply regards the eventualitywithout disfavour. But it is a dream, a dream!"

At this Orlando's gaiety came back to him, with even a little gentleirony: "You don't know, I suppose, what it was that took my fancy in yourbook--for, in spite of all my protests, I have read it twice. Well, whatpleased me was that Mazzini himself might almost have written it at onetime. Yes! I found all my youth again in your pages, all the wild hope ofmy twenty-fifth year, the new religion of a humanitarian Christ, thepacification of the world effected by the Gospel! Are you aware that, long before your time, Mazzini desired the renovation of Christianity? Heset dogma and discipline on one side and only retained morals. And it wasnew Rome, the Rome of the people, which he would have given as see to theuniversal Church, in which all the churches of the past were to befused--Rome, the eternal and predestined city, the mother and queen, whose domination was to arise anew to ensure the definitive happiness ofmankind! Is it not curious that all the present-day Neo-Catholicism, thevague, spiritualistic awakening, the evolution towards communion andChristian charity, with which some are making so much stir, should besimply a return of the mystical and humanitarian ideas of 1848? Alas! Isaw all that, I believed and burned, and I know in what a fine mess thoseflights into the azure of mystery landed us! So it cannot be helped, Ilack confidence. "

Then, as Pierre on his side was growing impassioned and sought to reply, he stopped him: "No, let me finish. I only want to convince you howabsolutely necessary it was that we should take Rome and make her thecapital of Italy. Without Rome new Italy could not have existed; Romerepresented the glory of ancient time; in her dust lay the sovereignpower which we wished to re-establish; she brought strength, beauty, eternity to those who possessed her. Standing in the middle of ourcountry, she was its heart, and must assuredly become its life as soon asshe should be awakened from the long sleep of ruin. Ah! how we desiredher, amidst victory and amidst defeat, through years and years offrightful impatience! For my part I loved her, and longed for her, farmore than for any woman, with my blood burning, and in despair that Ishould be growing old. And when we possessed her, our folly was a desireto behold her huge, magnificent, and commanding all at once, the equal ofthe other great capitals of Europe--Berlin, Paris, and London. Look ather! she is still my only love, my only consolation now that I amvirtually dead, with nothing alive in me but my eyes. "

With the same gesture as before, he directed Pierre's attention to thewindow. Under the glowing sky Rome stretched out in its immensity, empurpled and gilded by the slanting sunrays. Across the horizon, far, far away, the trees of the Janiculum stretched a green girdle, of alimpid emerald hue, whilst the dome of St. Peter's, more to the left, showed palely blue, like a sapphire bedimmed by too bright a light. Thencame the low town, the old ruddy city, baked as it were by centuries ofburning summers, soft to the eye and beautiful with the deep life of thepast, an unbounded chaos of roofs, gables, towers, _campanili_, andcupolas. But, in the foreground under the window, there was the newcity--that which had been building for the last five and twentyyears--huge blocks of masonry piled up side by side, still white withplaster, neither the sun nor history having as yet robed them in purple. And in particular the roofs of the colossal Palazzo delle Finanze had adisastrous effect, spreading out like far, bare steppes of cruelhideousness. And it was upon the desolation and abomination of all thenewly erected piles that the eyes of the old soldier of conquest at lastrested. 

Silence ensued. Pierre felt the faint chill of hidden, unacknowledgedsadness pass by, and courteously waited. 

"I must beg your pardon for having interrupted you just now, " resumedOrlando; "but it seems to me that we cannot talk about your book to anygood purpose until you have seen and studied Rome closely. You onlyarrived yesterday, did you not? Well, stroll about the city, look atthings, question people, and I think that many of your ideas will change. I shall particularly like to know your impression of the Vatican sinceyou have cone here solely to see the Pope and defend your book againstthe Index. Why should we discuss things to-day, if facts themselves arecalculated to bring you to other views, far more readily than the finestspeeches which I might make? It is understood, you will come to see meagain, and we shall then know what we are talking about, and, maybe, agree together. "

"Why certainly, you are too kind, " replied Pierre. "I only came to-day toexpress my gratitude to you for having read my book so attentively, andto pay homage to one of the glories of Italy. "

Orlando was not listening, but remained for a moment absorbed in thought, with his eyes still resting upon Rome. And overcome, despite himself, bysecret disquietude, he resumed in a low voice as though making aninvoluntary confession: "We have gone too fast, no doubt. There wereexpenses of undeniable utility--the roads, ports, and railways. And itwas necessary to arm the country also; I did not at first disapprove ofthe heavy military burden. But since then how crushing has been the warbudget--a war which has never come, and the long wait for which hasruined us. Ah! I have always been the friend of France. I only reproachher with one thing, that she has failed to understand the position inwhich we were placed, the vital reasons which compelled us to allyourselves with Germany. And then there are the thousand millions of_lire_* swallowed up in Rome! That was the real madness; pride andenthusiasm led us astray. Old and solitary as I've been for many yearsnow, given to deep reflection, I was one of the first to divine thepitfall, the frightful financial crisis, the deficit which would bringabout the collapse of the nation. I shouted it from the housetops, to myson, to all who came near me; but what was the use? They didn't listen;they were mad, still buying and selling and building, with no thought butfor gambling booms and bubbles. But you'll see, you'll see. And the worstis that we are not situated as you are; we haven't a reserve of men andmoney in a dense peasant population, whose thrifty savings are always athand to fill up the gaps caused by big catastrophes. There is no socialrise among our people as yet; fresh men don't spring up out of the lowerclasses to reinvigorate the national blood, as they constantly do in yourcountry. And, besides, the people are poor; they have no stockings toempty. The misery is frightful, I must admit it. Those who have any moneyprefer to spend it in the towns in a petty way rather than to risk it inagricultural or manufacturing enterprise. Factories are but slowly built, and the land is almost everywhere tilled in the same primitive manner asit was two thousand years ago. And then, too, take Rome--Rome, whichdidn't make Italy, but which Italy made its capital to satisfy an ardent, overpowering desire--Rome, which is still but a splendid bit of scenery, picturing the glory of the centuries, and which, apart from itshistorical splendour, has only given us its degenerate papal population, swollen with ignorance and pride! Ah! I loved Rome too well, and I stilllove it too well to regret being now within its walls. But, good heavens!what insanity its acquisition brought us, what piles of money it has costus, and how heavily and triumphantly it weighs us down! Look! look!"

 * 40, 000, 000 pounds. 

He waved his hand as he spoke towards the livid roofs of the Palazzodelle Finanze, that vast and desolate steppe, as though he could see theharvest of glory all stripped off and bankruptcy appear with its fearful, threatening bareness. Restrained tears were dimming his eyes, and helooked superbly pitiful with his expression of baffled hope and grievousdisquietude, with his huge white head, the muzzle of an old blanched lionhenceforth powerless and caged in that bare, bright room, whosepoverty-stricken aspect was instinct with so much pride that it seemed, as it were, a protest against the monumental splendour of the wholesurrounding district! So those were the purposes to which the conquesthad been put! And to think that he was impotent, henceforth unable togive his blood and his soul as he had done in the days gone by. 

"Yes, yes, " he exclaimed in a final outburst; "one gave everything, heartand brain, one's whole life indeed, so long as it was a question ofmaking the country one and independent. But, now that the country isours, just try to stir up enthusiasm for the reorganisation of itsfinances! There's no ideality in that! And this explains why, whilst theold ones are dying off, not a new man comes to the front among the youngones--"

All at once he stopped, looking somewhat embarrassed, yet smiling at hisfeverishness. "Excuse me, " he said, "I'm off again, I'm incorrigible. Butit's understood, we'll leave that subject alone, and you'll come backhere, and we'll chat together when you've seen everything. "

From that moment he showed himself extremely pleasant, and it wasapparent to Pierre that he regretted having said so much, by theseductive affability and growing affection which he now displayed. Hebegged the young priest to prolong his sojourn, to abstain from all hastyjudgments on Rome, and to rest convinced that, at bottom, Italy stillloved France. And he was also very desirous that France should loveItaly, and displayed genuine anxiety at the thought that perhaps sheloved her no more. As at the Boccanera mansion, on the previous evening, Pierre realised that an attempt was being made to persuade him toadmiration and affection. Like a susceptible woman with secret misgivingsrespecting the attractive power of her beauty, Italy was all anxiety withregard to the opinion of her visitors, and strove to win and retain theirlove. 

However, Orlando again became impassioned when he learnt that Pierre wasstaying at the Boccanera mansion, and he made a gesture of extremeannoyance on hearing, at that very moment, a knock at the outer door. "Come in!" he called; but at the same time he detained Pierre, saying, "No, no, don't go yet; I wish to know--"

But a lady came in--a woman of over forty, short and extremely plump, andstill attractive with her small features and pretty smile swamped in fat. She was a blonde, with green, limpid eyes; and, fairly well dressed in asober, nicely fitting mignonette gown, she looked at once pleasant, modest, and shrewd. 

"Ah! it's you, Stefana, " said the old man, letting her kiss him. 

"Yes, uncle, I was passing by and came up to see how you were gettingon. "

The visitor was the Signora Sacco, niece of Prada and a Neapolitan bybirth, her mother having quitted Milan to marry a certain Pagani, aNeapolitan banker, who had afterwards failed. Subsequent to that disasterStefana had married Sacco, then merely a petty post-office clerk. He, later on, wishing to revive his father-in-law's business, had launchedinto all sorts of terrible, complicated, suspicious affairs, which byunforeseen luck had ended in his election as a deputy. Since he hadarrived in Rome, to conquer the city in his turn, his wife had beencompelled to assist his devouring ambition by dressing well and opening a_salon_; and, although she was still a little awkward, she rendered himmany real services, being very economical and prudent, a thorough goodhousewife, with all the sterling, substantial qualities of Northern Italywhich she had inherited from her mother, and which showed conspicuouslybeside the turbulence and carelessness of her husband, in whom flaredSouthern Italy with its perpetual, rageful appetite. 

Despite his contempt for Sacco, old Orlando had retained some affectionfor his niece, in whose veins flowed blood similar to his own. He thankedher for her kind inquiries, and then at once spoke of an announcementwhich he had read in the morning papers, for he suspected that the deputyhad sent his wife to ascertain his opinion. 

"Well, and that ministry?" he asked. 

The Signora had seated herself and made no haste to reply, but glanced atthe newspapers strewn over the table. "Oh! nothing is settled yet, " sheat last responded; "the newspapers spoke out too soon. The Prime Ministersent for Sacco, and they had a talk together. But Sacco hesitates a gooddeal; he fears that he has no aptitude for the Department of Agriculture. Ah! if it were only the Finances--However, in any case, he would not havecome to a decision without consulting you. What do you think of it, uncle?"

He interrupted her with a violent wave of the hand: "No, no, I won't mixmyself up in such matters!"

To him the rapid success of that adventurer Sacco, that schemer andgambler who had always fished in troubled waters, was an abomination, thebeginning of the end. His son Luigi certainly distressed him; but it waseven worse to think that--whilst Luigi, with his great intelligence andmany remaining fine qualities, was nothing at all--Sacco, on the otherhand, Sacco, blunderhead and ever-famished battener that he was, had notmerely slipped into parliament, but was now, it seemed, on the point ofsecuring office! A little, swarthy, dry man he was, with big, round eyes, projecting cheekbones, and prominent chin. Ever dancing and chattering, he was gifted with a showy eloquence, all the force of which lay in hisvoice--a voice which at will became admirably powerful or gentle! Andwithal an insinuating man, profiting by every opportunity, wheedling andcommanding by turn. 

"You hear, Stefana, " said Orlando; "tell your husband that the onlyadvice I have to give him is to return to his clerkship at thepost-office, where perhaps he may be of use. "

What particularly filled the old soldier with indignation and despair wasthat such a man, a Sacco, should have fallen like a bandit on Rome--onthat Rome whose conquest had cost so many noble efforts. And in his turnSacco was conquering the city, was carrying it off from those who had wonit by such hard toil, and was simply using it to satisfy his wild passionfor power and its attendant enjoyments. Beneath his wheedling air therewas the determination to devour everything. After the victory, while thespoil lay there, still warm, the wolves had come. It was the North thathad made Italy, whereas the South, eager for the quarry, simply rushedupon the country, preyed upon it. And beneath the anger of the oldstricken hero of Italian unity there was indeed all the growingantagonism of the North towards the South--the North industrious, economical, shrewd in politics, enlightened, full of all the great modernideas, and the South ignorant and idle, bent on enjoying lifeimmediately, amidst childish disorder in action, and an empty show offine sonorous words. 

Stefana had begun to smile in a placid way while glancing at Pierre, whohad approached the window. "Oh, you say that, uncle, " she responded; "butyou love us well all the same, and more than once you have given memyself some good advice, for which I'm very thankful to you. Forinstance, there's that affair of Attilio's--"

She was alluding to her son, the lieutenant, and his love affair withCelia, the little Princess Buongiovanni, of which all the drawing-rooms, white and black alike, were talking. 

"Attilio--that's another matter!" exclaimed Orlando. "He and you are bothof the same blood as myself, and it's wonderful how I see myself again inthat fine fellow. Yes, he is just the same as I was at his age, good-looking and brave and enthusiastic! I'm paying myself compliments, you see. But, really now, Attilio warms my heart, for he is the future, and brings me back some hope. Well, and what about his affair?"

"Oh! it gives us a lot of worry, uncle. I spoke to you about it before, but you shrugged your shoulders, saying that in matters of that kind allthat the parents had to do was to let the lovers settle their affairsbetween them. Still, we don't want everybody to repeat that we are urgingour son to get the little princess to elope with him, so that he mayafterwards marry her money and title. "

At this Orlando indulged in a frank outburst of gaiety: "That's a finescruple! Was it your husband who instructed you to tell me of it? I know, however, that he affects some delicacy in this matter. For my own part, Ibelieve myself to be as honest as he is, and I can only repeat that, if Ihad a son like yours, so straightforward and good, and candidly loving, Ishould let him marry whomsoever he pleased in his own way. TheBuongiovannis--good heavens! the Buongiovannis--why, despite all theirrank and lineage and the money they still possess, it will be a greathonour for them to have a handsome young man with a noble heart as theirson-in-law!"

Again did Stefana assume an expression of placid satisfaction. She hadcertainly only come there for approval. "Very well, uncle, " she replied, "I'll repeat that to my husband, and he will pay great attention to it;for if you are severe towards him he holds you in perfect veneration. Andas for that ministry--well, perhaps nothing will be done, Sacco willdecide according to circumstances. "

She rose and took her leave, kissing the old soldier very affectionatelyas on her arrival. And she complimented him on his good looks, declaringthat she found him as handsome as ever, and making him smile by speakingof a lady who was still madly in love with him. Then, after acknowledgingthe young priest's silent salutation by a slight bow, she went off, oncemore wearing her modest and sensible air. 

For a moment Orlando, with his eyes turned towards the door, remainedsilent, again sad, reflecting no doubt on all the difficult, equivocalpresent, so different from the glorious past. But all at once he turnedto Pierre, who was still waiting. "And so, my friend, " said he, "you arestaying at the Palazzo Boccanera? Ah! what a grievous misfortune therehas been on that side too!"

However, when the priest had told him of his conversation with Benedetta, and of her message that she still loved him and would never forget hisgoodness to her, no matter whatever happened, he appeared moved and hisvoice trembled: "Yes, she has a good heart, she has no spite. But whatwould you have? She did not love Luigi, and he was possibly violent. There is no mystery about the matter now, and I can speak to you freely, since to my great grief everybody knows what has happened. "

Then Orlando abandoned himself to his recollections, and related how keenhad been his delight on the eve of the marriage at the thought that solovely a creature would become his daughter, and set some youth and charmaround his invalid's arm-chair. He had always worshipped beauty, andwould have had no other love than woman, if his country had not seizedupon the best part of him. And Benedetta on her side loved him, reveredhim, constantly coming up to spend long hours with him, sharing his poorlittle room, which at those times became resplendent with all the divinegrace that she brought with her. With her fresh breath near him, the purescent she diffused, the caressing womanly tenderness with which shesurrounded him, he lived anew. But, immediately afterwards, what afrightful drama and how his heart had bled at his inability to reconcilethe husband and the wife! He could not possibly say that his son was inthe wrong in desiring to be the loved and accepted spouse. At firstindeed he had hoped to soften Benedetta, and throw her into Luigi's arms. But when she had confessed herself to him in tears, owning her old lovefor Dario, and her horror of belonging to another, he realised that shewould never yield. And a whole year had then gone by; he had lived for awhole year imprisoned in his arm-chair, with that poignant dramaprogressing beneath him in those luxurious rooms whence no sound evenreached his ears. How many times had he not listened, striving to hear, fearing atrocious quarrels, in despair at his inability to prove stilluseful by creating happiness. He knew nothing by his son, who kept hisown counsel; he only learnt a few particulars from Benedetta at intervalswhen emotion left her defenceless; and that marriage in which he had fora moment espied the much-needed alliance between old and new Rome, thatunconsummated marriage filled him with despair, as if it were indeed thedefeat of every hope, the final collapse of the dream which had filledhis life. And he himself had ended by desiring the divorce, so unbearablehad become the suffering caused by such a situation. 

"Ah! my friend!" he said to Pierre; "never before did I so wellunderstand the fatality of certain antagonism, the possibility of workingone's own misfortune and that of others, even when one has the mostloving heart and upright mind!"

But at that moment the door again opened, and this time, withoutknocking, Count Luigi Prada came in. And after rapidly bowing to thevisitor, who had risen, he gently took hold of his father's hands andfelt them, as if fearing that they might be too warm or too cold. 

"I've just arrived from Frascati, where I had to sleep, " said he; "forthe interruption of all that building gives me a lot of worry. And I'mtold that you spent a bad night!"

"No, I assure you. "

"Oh! I knew you wouldn't own it. But why will you persist in living uphere without any comfort? All this isn't suited to your age. I should beso pleased if you would accept a more comfortable room where you mightsleep better. "

"No, no--I know that you love me well, my dear Luigi. But let me do as myold head tells me. That's the only way to make me happy. "

Pierre was much struck by the ardent affection which sparkled in the eyesof the two men as they gazed at one another, face to face. This seemed tohim very touching and beautiful, knowing as he did how many contraryideas and actions, how many moral divergencies separated them. And henext took an interest in comparing them physically. Count Luigi Prada, shorter, more thick-set than his father, had, however, much the samestrong energetic head, crowned with coarse black hair, and the same frankbut somewhat stern eyes set in a face of clear complexion, barred bythick moustaches. But his mouth differed--a sensual, voracious mouth itwas, with wolfish teeth--a mouth of prey made for nights of rapine, whenthe only question is to bite, and tear, and devour others. And for thisreason, when some praised the frankness in his eyes, another wouldretort: "Yes, but I don't like his mouth. " His feet were large, his handsplump and over-broad, but admirably cared for. 

And Pierre marvelled at finding him such as he had anticipated. He knewenough of his story to picture in him a hero's son spoilt by conquest, eagerly devouring the harvest garnered by his father's glorious sword. And he particularly studied how the father's virtues had deflected andbecome transformed into vices in the son--the most noble qualities beingperverted, heroic and disinterested energy lapsing into a ferociousappetite for possession, the man of battle leading to the man of booty, since the great gusts of enthusiasm no longer swept by, since men nolonger fought, since they remained there resting, pillaging, anddevouring amidst the heaped-up spoils. And the pity of it was that theold hero, the paralytic, motionless father beheld it all--beheld thedegeneration of his son, the speculator and company promoter gorged withmillions!

However, Orlando introduced Pierre. "This is Monsieur l'Abbe PierreFroment, whom I spoke to you about, " he said, "the author of the bookwhich I gave you to read. "

Luigi Prada showed himself very amiable, at once talking of home with anintelligent passion like one who wished to make the city a great moderncapital. He had seen Paris transformed by the Second Empire; he had seenBerlin enlarged and embellished after the German victories; and, according to him, if Rome did not follow the movement, if it did notbecome the inhabitable capital of a great people, it was threatened withprompt death: either a crumbling museum or a renovated, resuscitatedcity--those were the alternatives. *

 * Personally I should have thought the example of Berlin a great deterrent. The enlargement and embellishment of the Prussian capital, after the war of 1870, was attended by far greater roguery and wholesale swindling than even the previous transformation of Paris. Thousands of people too were ruined, and instead of an increase of prosperity the result was the very reverse. --Trans. 

Greatly struck, almost gained over already, Pierre listened to thisclever man, charmed with his firm, clear mind. He knew how skilfullyPrada had manoeuvred in the affair of the Villa Montefiori, enrichinghimself when every one else was ruined, having doubtless foreseen thefatal catastrophe even while the gambling passion was maddening theentire nation. However, the young priest could already detect marks ofweariness, precocious wrinkles and a fall of the lips, on thatdetermined, energetic face, as though its possessor were growing tired ofthe continual struggle that he had to carry on amidst surroundingdownfalls, the shock of which threatened to bring the most firmlyestablished fortunes to the ground. It was said that Prada had recentlyhad grave cause for anxiety; and indeed there was no longer any solidityto be found; everything might be swept away by the financial crisis whichday by day was becoming more and more serious. In the case of Luigi, sturdy son though he was of Northern Italy, a sort of degeneration hadset in, a slow rot, caused by the softening, perversive influence ofRome. He had there rushed upon the satisfaction of every appetite, andprolonged enjoyment was exhausting him. This, indeed, was one of thecauses of the deep silent sadness of Orlando, who was compelled towitness the swift deterioration of his conquering race, whilst Sacco, theItalian of the South--served as it were by the climate, accustomed to thevoluptuous atmosphere, the life of those sun-baked cities compounded ofthe dust of antiquity--bloomed there like the natural vegetation of asoil saturated with the crimes of history, and gradually graspedeverything, both wealth and power. 

As Orlando spoke of Stefana's visit to his son, Sacco's name wasmentioned. Then, without another word, the two men exchanged a smile. Arumour was current that the Minister of Agriculture, lately deceased, would perhaps not be replaced immediately, and that another ministerwould take charge of the department pending the next session of theChamber. 

Next the Palazzo Boccanera was mentioned, and Pierre, his interestawakened, became more attentive. "Ah!" exclaimed Count Luigi, turning tohim, "so you are staying in the Via Giulia? All the Rome of olden timesleeps there in the silence of forgetfulness. "

With perfect ease he went on to speak of the Cardinal and even ofBenedetta--"the Countess, " as he called her. But, although he was carefulto let no sign of anger escape him, the young priest could divine that hewas secretly quivering, full of suffering and spite. In him theenthusiastic energy of his father appeared in a baser, degenerate form. Quitting the yet handsome Princess Flavia in his passion for Benedetta, her divinely beautiful niece, he had resolved to make the latter his ownat any cost, determined to marry her, to struggle with her and overcomeher, although he knew that she loved him not, and that he would almostcertainly wreck his entire life. Rather than relinquish her, however, hewould have set Rome on fire. And thus his hopeless suffering was nowgreat indeed: this woman was but his wife in name, and so torturing wasthe thought of her disdain, that at times, however calm his outwarddemeanour, he was consumed by a jealous vindictive sensual madness thatdid not even recoil from the idea of crime. 

"Monsieur l'Abbe is acquainted with the situation, " sadly murmured oldOrlando. 

His son responded by a wave of the hand, as though to say that everybodywas acquainted with it. "Ah! father, " he added, "but for you I shouldnever have consented to take part in those proceedings for annulling themarriage! The Countess would have found herself compelled to return here, and would not nowadays be deriding us with her lover, that cousin ofhers, Dario!"

At this Orlando also waved his hand, as if in protest. 

"Oh! it's a fact, father, " continued Luigi. "Why did she flee from hereif it wasn't to go and live with her lover? And indeed, in my opinion, it's scandalous that a Cardinal's palace should shelter such goings-on!"

This was the report which he spread abroad, the accusation which heeverywhere levelled against his wife, of publicly carrying on a shameless_liaison_. In reality, however, he did not believe a word of it, beingtoo well acquainted with Benedetta's firm rectitude, and herdetermination to belong to none but the man she loved, and to him only inmarriage. However, in Prada's eyes such accusations were not only fairplay but also very efficacious. 

And now, although he turned pale with covert exasperation, and laughed ahard, vindictive, cruel laugh, he went on to speak in a bantering tone ofthe proceedings for annulling the marriage, and in particular of the pleaput forward by Benedetta's advocate Morano. And at last his languagebecame so free that Orlando, with a glance towards the priest, gentlyinterposed: "Luigi! Luigi!"

"Yes, you are right, father, I'll say no more, " thereupon added the youngCount. "But it's really abominable and ridiculous. Lisbeth, you know, ishighly amused at it. "

Orlando again looked displeased, for when visitors were present he didnot like his son to refer to the person whom he had just named. LisbethKauffmann, very blonde and pink and merry, was barely thirty years ofage, and belonged to the Roman foreign colony. For two years past she hadbeen a widow, her husband having died at Rome whither he had come tonurse a complaint of the lungs. Thenceforward free, and sufficiently welloff, she had remained in the city by taste, having a marked predilectionfor art, and painting a little, herself. In the Via Principe Amadeo, inthe new Viminal district, she had purchased a little palazzo, andtransformed a large apartment on its second floor into a studio hung withold stuffs, and balmy in every season with the scent of flowers. Theplace was well known to tolerant and intellectual society. Lisbeth wasthere found in perpetual jubilation, clad in a long blouse, somewhat of a_gamine_ in her ways, trenchant too and often bold of speech, butnevertheless capital company, and as yet compromised with nobody butPrada. Their _liaison_ had begun some four months after his wife had lefthim, and now Lisbeth was near the time of becoming a mother. This she inno wise concealed, but displayed such candid tranquillity and happinessthat her numerous acquaintances continued to visit her as if there werenothing in question, so facile and free indeed is the life of the greatcosmopolitan continental cities. Under the circumstances which his wife'ssuit had created, Prada himself was not displeased at the turn whichevents had taken with regard to Lisbeth, but none the less his incurablewound still bled. 

There could be no compensation for the bitterness of Benedetta's disdain, it was she for whom his heart burned, and he dreamt of one day wreakingon her a tragic punishment. 

Pierre, knowing nothing of Lisbeth, failed to understand the allusions ofOrlando and his son. But realising that there was some embarrassmentbetween them, he sought to take countenance by picking from off thelittered table a thick book which, to his surprise, he found to be aFrench educational work, one of those manuals for the _baccalaureat_, *containing a digest of the knowledge which the official programmesrequire. It was but a humble, practical, elementary work, yet itnecessarily dealt with all the mathematical, physical, chemical, andnatural sciences, thus broadly outlining the intellectual conquests ofthe century, the present phase of human knowledge. 

 * The examination for the degree of bachelor, which degree is the necessary passport to all the liberal professions in France. M. Zola, by the way, failed to secure it, being ploughed for "insufficiency in literature"!--Trans. 

"Ah!" exclaimed Orlando, well pleased with the diversion, "you arelooking at the book of my old friend Theophile Morin. He was one of thethousand of Marsala, you know, and helped us to conquer Sicily andNaples. A hero! But for more than thirty years now he has been living inFrance again, absorbed in the duties of his petty professorship, whichhasn't made him at all rich. And so he lately published that book, whichsells very well in France it seems; and it occurred to him that he mightincrease his modest profits on it by issuing translations, an Italian oneamong others. He and I have remained brothers, and thinking that myinfluence would prove decisive, he wishes to utilise it. But he ismistaken; I fear, alas! that I shall be unable to get anybody to take uphis book. "

At this Luigi Prada, who had again become very composed and amiable, shrugged his shoulders slightly, full as he was of the scepticism of hisgeneration which desired to maintain things in their actual state so asto derive the greatest profit from them. "What would be the good of it?"he murmured; "there are too many books already!"

"No, no!" the old man passionately retorted, "there can never be too manybooks! We still and ever require fresh ones! It's by literature, not bythe sword, that mankind will overcome falsehood and injustice and attainto the final peace of fraternity among the nations--Oh! you may smile; Iknow that you call these ideas my fancies of '48, the fancies of agreybeard, as people say in France. But it is none the less true thatItaly is doomed, if the problem be not attacked from down below, if thepeople be not properly fashioned. And there is only one way to make anation, to create men, and that is to educate them, to develop byeducational means the immense lost force which now stagnates in ignoranceand idleness. Yes, yes, Italy is made, but let us make an Italian nation. And give us more and more books, and let us ever go more and more forwardinto science and into light, if we wish to live and to be healthy, good, and strong!"

With his torso erect, with his powerful leonine muzzle flaming with thewhite brightness of his beard and hair, old Orlando looked superb. And inthat simple, candid chamber, so touching with its intentional poverty, heraised his cry of hope with such intensity of feverish faith, that beforethe young priest's eyes there arose another figure--that of CardinalBoccanera, erect and black save for his snow-white hair, and likewiseglowing with heroic beauty in his crumbling palace whose gilded ceilingsthreatened to fall about his head! Ah! the magnificent stubborn men ofthe past, the believers, the old men who still show themselves morevirile, more ardent than the young! Those two represented the oppositepoles of belief; they had not an idea, an affection in common, and inthat ancient city of Rome, where all was being blown away in dust, theyalone seemed to protest, indestructible, face to face like two partedbrothers, standing motionless on either horizon. And to have seen themthus, one after the other, so great and grand, so lonely, so detachedfrom ordinary life, was to fill one's day with a dream of eternity. 

Luigi, however, had taken hold of the old man's hands to calm him by anaffectionate filial clasp. "Yes, yes, you are right, father, alwaysright, and I'm a fool to contradict you. Now, pray don't move about likethat, for you are uncovering yourself, and your legs will get coldagain. "

So saying, he knelt down and very carefully arranged the wrapper; andthen remaining on the floor like a child, albeit he was two and forty, heraised his moist eyes, full of mute, entreating worship towards the oldman who, calmed and deeply moved, caressed his hair with a tremblingtouch. 

Pierre had been there for nearly two hours, when he at last took leave, greatly struck and affected by all that he had seen and heard. And againhe had to promise that he would return and have a long chat with Orlando. Once out of doors he walked along at random. It was barely four o'clock, and it was his idea to ramble in this wise, without any predeterminedprogramme, through Rome at that delightful hour when the sun sinks in therefreshed and far blue atmosphere. Almost immediately, however, he foundhimself in the Via Nazionale, along which he had driven on arriving theprevious day. And he recognised the huge livid Banca d'Italia, the greengardens climbing to the Quirinal, and the heaven-soaring pines of theVilla Aldobrandini. Then, at the turn of the street, as he stopped shortin order that he might again contemplate the column of Trajan which nowrose up darkly from its low piazza, already full of twilight, he wassurprised to see a victoria suddenly pull up, and a young man courteouslybeckon to him. 

"Monsieur l'Abbe Froment! Monsieur l'Abbe Froment!"

It was young Prince Dario Boccanera, on his way to his daily drive alongthe Corso. He now virtually subsisted on the liberality of his uncle theCardinal, and was almost always short of money. But, like all the Romans, he would, if necessary, have rather lived on bread and water than haveforgone his carriage, horse, and coachman. An equipage, indeed, is theone indispensable luxury of Rome. 

"If you will come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, " said the youngPrince, "I will show you the most interesting part of our city. "

He doubtless desired to please Benedetta, by behaving amiably towards herprotege. Idle as he was, too, it seemed to him a pleasant occupation toinitiate that young priest, who was said to be so intelligent, into whathe deemed the inimitable side, the true florescence of Roman life. 

Pierre was compelled to accept, although he would have preferred asolitary stroll. Yet he was interested in this young man, the last bornof an exhausted race, who, while seemingly incapable of either thought oraction, was none the less very seductive with his high-born pride andindolence. Far more a Roman than a patriot, Dario had never had thefaintest inclination to rally to the new order of things, being wellcontent to live apart and do nothing; and passionate though he was, heindulged in no follies, being very practical and sensible at heart, asare all his fellow-citizens, despite their apparent impetuosity. As soonas his carriage, after crossing the Piazza di Venezia, entered the Corso, he gave rein to his childish vanity, his desire to shine, his passion forgay, happy life in the open under the lovely sky. All this, indeed, wasclearly expressed in the simple gesture which he made whilst exclaiming:"The Corso!"

As on the previous day, Pierre was filled with astonishment. The longnarrow street again stretched before him as far as the white dazzlingPiazza del Popolo, the only difference being that the right-hand houseswere now steeped in sunshine, whilst those on the left were black withshadow. What! was that the Corso then, that semi-obscure trench, closepressed by high and heavy house-fronts, that mean roadway where threevehicles could scarcely pass abreast, and which serried shops lined withgaudy displays? There was neither space, nor far horizon, nor refreshinggreenery such as the fashionable drives of Paris could boast! Nothing butjostling, crowding, and stifling on the little footways under the narrowstrip of sky. And although Dario named the pompous and historicalpalaces, Bonaparte, Doria, Odescalchi, Sciarra, and Chigi; although hepointed out the column of Marcus Aurelius on the Piazza Colonna, the mostlively square of the whole city with its everlasting throng of lounging, gazing, chattering people; although, all the way to the Piazza delPopolo, he never ceased calling attention to churches, houses, andside-streets, notably the Via dei Condotti, at the far end of which theTrinity de' Monti, all golden in the glory of the sinking sun, appearedabove that famous flight of steps, the triumphal Scala di Spagna--Pierrestill and ever retained the impression of disillusion which the narrow, airless thoroughfare had conveyed to him: the "palaces" looked to himlike mournful hospitals or barracks, the Piazza Colonna suffered terriblyfrom a lack of trees, and the Trinity de' Monti alone took his fancy byits distant radiance of fairyland. 

But it was necessary to come back from the Piazza del Popolo to thePiazza di Venezia, then return to the former square, and come back yetagain, following the entire Corso three and four times without wearying. The delighted Dario showed himself and looked about him, exchangingsalutations. On either footway was a compact crowd of promenaders whoseeyes roamed over the equipages and whose hands could have shaken those ofthe carriage folks. So great at last became the number of vehicles thatboth lines were absolutely unbroken, crowded to such a point that thecoachmen could do no more than walk their horses. Perpetually going upand coming down the Corso, people scrutinised and jostled one another. Itwas open-air promiscuity, all Rome gathered together in the smallestpossible space, the folks who knew one another and who met here as in afriendly drawing-room, and the folks belonging to adverse parties who didnot speak together but who elbowed each other, and whose glancespenetrated to each other's soul. Then a revelation came to Pierre, and hesuddenly understood the Corso, the ancient custom, the passion and gloryof the city. Its pleasure lay precisely in the very narrowness of thestreet, in that forced elbowing which facilitated not only desiredmeetings but the satisfaction of curiosity, the display of vanity, andthe garnering of endless tittle-tattle. All Roman society met here eachday, displayed itself, spied on itself, offering itself in spectacle toits own eyes, with such an indispensable need of thus beholding itselfthat the man of birth who missed the Corso was like one out of hiselement, destitute of newspapers, living like a savage. And withal theatmosphere was delightfully balmy, and the narrow strip of sky betweenthe heavy, rusty mansions displayed an infinite azure purity. 

Dario never ceased smiling, and slightly inclining his head while herepeated to Pierre the names of princes and princesses, dukes andduchesses--high-sounding names whose flourish had filled history, whosesonorous syllables conjured up the shock of armour on the battlefield andthe splendour of papal pomp with robes of purple, tiaras of gold, andsacred vestments sparkling with precious stones. And as Pierre listenedand looked he was pained to see merely some corpulent ladies orundersized gentlemen, bloated or shrunken beings, whose ill-looks seemedto be increased by their modern attire. However, a few pretty women wentby, particularly some young, silent girls with large, clear eyes. Andjust as Dario had pointed out the Palazzo Buongiovanni, a hugeseventeenth-century facade, with windows encompassed by foliagedornamentation deplorably heavy in style, he added gaily:

"Ah! look--that's Attilio there on the footway. Young LieutenantSacco--you know, don't you?"

Pierre signed that he understood. Standing there in uniform, Attilio, soyoung, so energetic and brave of appearance, with a frank countenancesoftly illumined by blue eyes like his mother's, at once pleased thepriest. He seemed indeed the very personification of youth and love, withall their enthusiastic, disinterested hope in the future. 

"You'll see by and by, when we pass the palace again, " said Dario. "He'llstill be there and I'll show you something. "

Then he began to talk gaily of the girls of Rome, the little princesses, the little duchesses, so discreetly educated at the convent of the SacredHeart, quitting it for the most part so ignorant and then completingtheir education beside their mothers, never going out but to accompanythe latter on the obligatory drive to the Corso, and living throughendless days, cloistered, imprisoned in the depths of sombre mansions. Nevertheless what tempests raged in those mute souls to which none hadever penetrated! what stealthy growth of will suddenly appeared fromunder passive obedience, apparent unconsciousness of surroundings! Howmany there were who stubbornly set their minds on carving out their livesfor themselves, on choosing the man who might please them, and securinghim despite the opposition of the entire world! And the lover was chosenthere from among the stream of young men promenading the Corso, the loverhooked with a glance during the daily drive, those candid eyes speakingaloud and sufficing for confession and the gift of all, whilst not abreath was wafted from the lips so chastely closed. And afterwards therecame love letters, furtively exchanged in church, and the winning-over ofmaids to facilitate stolen meetings, at first so innocent. In the end, amarriage often resulted. 

Celia, for her part, had determined to win Attilio on the very first daywhen their eyes had met. And it was from a window of the PalazzoBuongiovanni that she had perceived him one afternoon of mortalweariness. He had just raised his head, and she had taken him for everand given herself to him with those large, pure eyes of hers as theyrested on his own. She was but an _amorosa_--nothing more; he pleasedher; she had set her heart on him--him and none other. She would havewaited twenty years for him, but she relied on winning him at once byquiet stubbornness of will. People declared that the terrible fury of thePrince, her father, had proved impotent against her respectful, obstinatesilence. He, man of mixed blood as he was, son of an American woman, andhusband of an English woman, laboured but to retain his own name andfortune intact amidst the downfall of others; and it was rumoured that asthe result of a quarrel which he had picked with his wife, whom heaccused of not sufficiently watching over their daughter, the Princesshad revolted, full not only of the pride of a foreigner who had brought ahuge dowry in marriage, but also of such plain, frank egotism that shehad declared she no longer found time enough to attend to herself, letalone another. Had she not already done enough in bearing him fivechildren? She thought so; and now she spent her time in worshippingherself, letting Celia do as she listed, and taking no further interestin the household through which swept stormy gusts. 

However, the carriage was again about to pass the Buongiovanni mansion, and Dario forewarned Pierre. "You see, " said he, "Attilio has come back. And now look up at the third window on the first floor. "

It was at once rapid and charming. Pierre saw the curtain slightly drawnaside and Celia's gentle face appear. Closed, candid lily, she did notsmile, she did not move. Nothing could be read on those pure lips, or inthose clear but fathomless eyes of hers. Yet she was taking Attilio toherself, and giving herself to him without reserve. And soon the curtainfell once more. 

"Ah, the little mask!" muttered Dario. "Can one ever tell what there isbehind so much innocence?"

As Pierre turned round he perceived Attilio, whose head was still raised, and whose face was also motionless and pale, with closed mouth, andwidely opened eyes. And the young priest was deeply touched, for this waslove, absolute love in its sudden omnipotence, true love, eternal andjuvenescent, in which ambition and calculation played no part. 

Then Dario ordered the coachman to drive up to the Pincio; for, before orafter the Corso, the round of the Pincio is obligatory on fine, clearafternoons. First came the Piazza del Popolo, the most airy and regularsquare of Rome, with its conjunction of thoroughfares, its churches andfountains, its central obelisk, and its two clumps of trees facing oneanother at either end of the small white paving-stones, betwixt thesevere and sun-gilt buildings. Then, turning to the right, the carriagebegan to climb the inclined way to the Pincio--a magnificent windingascent, decorated with bas-reliefs, statues, and fountains--a kind ofapotheosis of marble, a commemoration of ancient Rome, rising amidstgreenery. Up above, however, Pierre found the garden small, little betterthan a large square, with just the four necessary roadways to enable thecarriages to drive round and round as long as they pleased. Anuninterrupted line of busts of the great men of ancient and modern Italyfringed these roadways. But what Pierre most admired was the trees--treesof the most rare and varied kinds, chosen and tended with infinite care, and nearly always evergreens, so that in winter and summer alike the spotwas adorned with lovely foliage of every imaginable shade of verdure. Andbeside these trees, along the fine, breezy roadways, Dario's victoriabegan to turn, following the continuous, unwearying stream of the othercarriages. 

Pierre remarked one young woman of modest demeanour and attractivesimplicity who sat alone in a dark-blue victoria, drawn by awell-groomed, elegantly harnessed horse. She was very pretty, short, withchestnut hair, a creamy complexion, and large gentle eyes. Quietly robedin dead-leaf silk, she wore a large hat, which alone looked somewhatextravagant. And seeing that Dario was staring at her, the priestinquired her name, whereat the young Prince smiled. Oh! she was nobody, La Tonietta was the name that people gave her; she was one of the few_demi-mondaines_ that Roman society talked of. Then, with the freenessand frankness which his race displays in such matters, Dario added someparticulars. La Tonietta's origin was obscure; some said that she was thedaughter of an innkeeper of Tivoli, and others that of a Neapolitanbanker. At all events, she was very intelligent, had educated herself, and knew thoroughly well how to receive and entertain people at thelittle palazzo in the Via dei Mille, which had been given to her by oldMarquis Manfredi now deceased. She made no scandalous show, had but oneprotector at a time, and the princesses and duchesses who paid attentionto her at the Corso every afternoon, considered her nice-looking. Onepeculiarity had made her somewhat notorious. There was some one whom sheloved and from whom she never accepted aught but a bouquet of whiteroses; and folks would smile indulgently when at times for weeks togethershe was seen driving round the Pincio with those pure, white bridalflowers on the carriage seat. 

Dario, however, suddenly paused in his explanations to address aceremonious bow to a lady who, accompanied by a gentleman, drove by in alarge landau. Then he simply said to the priest: "My mother. "

Pierre already knew of her. Viscount de la Choue had told him her story, how, after Prince Onofrio Boccanera's death, she had married again, although she was already fifty; how at the Corso, just like some younggirl, she had hooked with her eyes a handsome man to her liking--one, too, who was fifteen years her junior. And Pierre also knew who that manwas, a certain Jules Laporte, an ex-sergeant of the papal Swiss Guard, anex-traveller in relics, compromised in an extraordinary "false relic"fraud; and he was further aware that Laporte's wife had made afine-looking Marquis Montefiori of him, the last of the fortunateadventurers of romance, triumphing as in the legendary lands whereshepherds are wedded to queens. 

At the next turn, as the large landau again went by, Pierre looked at thecouple. The Marchioness was really wonderful, blooming with all theclassical Roman beauty, tall, opulent, and very dark, with the head of agoddess and regular if somewhat massive features, nothing as yetbetraying her age except the down upon her upper lip. And the Marquis, the Romanised Swiss of Geneva, really had a proud bearing, with his solidsoldierly figure and long wavy moustaches. People said that he was in nowise a fool but, on the contrary, very gay and very supple, just the manto please women. His wife so gloried in him that she dragged him aboutand displayed him everywhere, having begun life afresh with him as if shewere still but twenty, spending on him the little fortune which she hadsaved from the Villa Montefiori disaster, and so completely forgettingher son that she only saw the latter now and again at the promenade andacknowledged his bow like that of some chance acquaintance. 

"Let us go to see the sun set behind St. Peter's, " all at once saidDario, conscientiously playing his part as a showman of curiosities. 

The victoria thereupon returned to the terrace, where a military band wasnow playing with a terrific blare of brass instruments. In order thattheir occupants might hear the music, a large number of carriages hadalready drawn up, and a growing crowd of loungers on foot had assembledthere. And from that beautiful terrace, so broad and lofty, one of themost wonderful views of Rome was offered to the gaze. Beyond the Tiber, beyond the pale chaos of the new district of the castle meadows, * andbetween the greenery of Monte Mario and the Janiculum arose St. Peter's. Then on the left came all the olden city, an endless stretch of roofs, arolling sea of edifices as far as the eye could reach. But one's glancesalways came back to St. Peter's, towering into the azure with pure andsovereign grandeur. And, seen from the terrace, the slow sunsets in thedepths of the vast sky behind the colossus were sublime. 

 * See _ante_ note on castle meadows. 

Sometimes there are topplings of sanguineous clouds, battles of giantshurling mountains at one another and succumbing beneath the monstrousruins of flaming cities. Sometimes only red streaks or fissures appear onthe surface of a sombre lake, as if a net of light has been flung to fishthe submerged orb from amidst the seaweed. Sometimes, too, there is arosy mist, a kind of delicate dust which falls, streaked with pearls by adistant shower, whose curtain is drawn across the mystery of the horizon. And sometimes there is a triumph, a _cortege_ of gold and purple chariotsof cloud rolling along a highway of fire, galleys floating upon an azuresea, fantastic and extravagant pomps slowly sinking into the less andless fathomable abyss of the twilight. 

But that night the sublime spectacle presented itself to Pierre with acalm, blinding, desperate grandeur. At first, just above the dome of St. Peter's, the sun, descending in a spotless, deeply limpid sky, proved yetso resplendent that one's eyes could not face its brightness. And in thisresplendency the dome seemed to be incandescent, you would have said adome of liquid silver; whilst the surrounding districts, the house-roofsof the Borgo, were as though changed into a lake of live embers. Then, asthe sun was by degrees inclined, it lost some of its blaze, and one couldlook; and soon afterwards sinking with majestic slowness it disappearedbehind the dome, which showed forth darkly blue, while the orb, nowentirely hidden, set an aureola around it, a glory like a crown offlaming rays. And then began the dream, the dazzling symbol, the singularillumination of the row of windows beneath the cupola which weretranspierced by the light and looked like the ruddy mouths of furnaces, in such wise that one might have imagined the dome to be poised upon abrazier, isolated, in the air, as though raised and upheld by theviolence of the fire. It all lasted barely three minutes. Down below thejumbled roofs of the Borgo became steeped in violet vapour, sank intoincreasing gloom, whilst from the Janiculum to Monte Mario the horizonshowed its firm black line. And it was the sky then which became allpurple and gold, displaying the infinite placidity of a supernaturalradiance above the earth which faded into nihility. Finally the lastwindow reflections were extinguished, the glow of the heavens departed, and nothing remained but the vague, fading roundness of the dome of St. Peter's amidst the all-invading night. 

And, by some subtle connection of ideas, Pierre at that moment once againsaw rising before him the lofty, sad, declining figures of CardinalBoccanera and old Orlando. On the evening of that day when he had learntto know them, one after the other, both so great in the obstinacy oftheir hope, they seemed to be there, erect on the horizon above theirannihilated city, on the fringe of the heavens which death apparently wasabout to seize. Was everything then to crumble with them? was everythingto fade away and disappear in the falling night following uponaccomplished Time?

V. 

ON the following day Narcisse Habert came in great worry to tell Pierrethat Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo complained of being unwell, and asked fora delay of two or three days before receiving the young priest andconsidering the matter of his audience. Pierre was thus reduced toinaction, for he dared not make any attempt elsewhere in view of seeingthe Pope. He had been so frightened by Nani and others that he feared hemight jeopardise everything by inconsiderate endeavours. And so he beganto visit Rome in order to occupy his leisure. 

His first visit was for the ruins of the Palatine. Going out alone oneclear morning at eight o'clock, he presented himself at the entrance inthe Via San Teodoro, an iron gateway flanked by the lodges of thekeepers. One of the latter at once offered his services, and thoughPierre would have preferred to roam at will, following the bent of hisdream, he somehow did not like to refuse the offer of this man, who spokeFrench very distinctly, and smiled in a very good-natured way. He was asquatly built little man, a former soldier, some sixty years of age, andhis square-cut, ruddy face was barred by thick white moustaches. 

"Then will you please follow me, Monsieur l'Abbe, " said he. "I can seethat you are French, Monsieur l'Abbe. I'm a Piedmontese myself, but Iknow the French well enough; I was with them at Solferino. Yes, yes, whatever people may say, one can't forget old friendships. Here, thisway, please, to the right. "

Raising his eyes, Pierre had just perceived the line of cypresses edgingthe plateau of the Palatine on the side of the Tiber; and in the delicateblue atmosphere the intense greenery of these trees showed like a blackfringe. They alone attracted the eye; the slope, of a dusty, dirty grey, stretched out bare and devastated, dotted by a few bushes, among whichpeeped fragments of ancient walls. All was instinct with the ravaged, leprous sadness of a spot handed over to excavation, and where only menof learning could wax enthusiastic. 

"The palaces of Tiberius, Caligula, and the Flavians are up above, "resumed the guide. "We must keep then for the end and go round. "Nevertheless he took a few steps to the left, and pausing before anexcavation, a sort of grotto in the hillside, exclaimed: "This is theLupercal den where the wolf suckled Romulus and Remus. Just here at theentry used to stand the Ruminal fig-tree which sheltered the twins. "

Pierre could not restrain a smile, so convinced was the tone in which theold soldier gave these explanations, proud as he was of all the ancientglory, and wont to regard the wildest legends as indisputable facts. However, when the worthy man pointed out some vestiges of RomaQuadrata--remnants of walls which really seemed to date from thefoundation of the city--Pierre began to feel interested, and a firsttouch of emotion made his heart beat. This emotion was certainly not dueto any beauty of scene, for he merely beheld a few courses of tufablocks, placed one upon the other and uncemented. But a past which hadbeen dead for seven and twenty centuries seemed to rise up before him, and those crumbling, blackened blocks, the foundation of such a mightyeclipse of power and splendour, acquired extraordinary majesty. 

Continuing their inspection, they went on, skirting the hillside. Theoutbuildings of the palaces must have descended to this point; fragmentsof porticoes, fallen beams, columns and friezes set up afresh, edged therugged path which wound through wild weeds, suggesting a neglectedcemetery; and the guide repeated the words which he had used day by dayfor ten years past, continuing to enunciate suppositions as facts, andgiving a name, a destination, a history, to every one of the fragments. 

"The house of Augustus, " he said at last, pointing towards some masses ofearth and rubbish. 

Thereupon Pierre, unable to distinguish anything, ventured to inquire:"Where do you mean?"

"Oh!" said the man, "it seems that the walls were still to be seen at theend of the last century. But it was entered from the other side, from theSacred Way. On this side there was a huge balcony which overlooked theCircus Maximus so that one could view the sports. However, as you cansee, the greater part of the palace is still buried under that big gardenup above, the garden of the Villa Mills. When there's money for freshexcavations it will be found again, together with the temple of Apolloand the shrine of Vesta which accompanied it. "

Turning to the left, he next entered the Stadium, the arena erected forfoot-racing, which stretched beside the palace of Augustus; and thepriest's interest was now once more awakened. It was not that he foundhimself in presence of well-preserved and monumental remains, for not acolumn had remained erect, and only the right-hand walls were stillstanding. But the entire plan of the building had been traced, with thegoals at either end, the porticus round the course, and the colossalimperial tribune which, after being on the left, annexed to the house ofAugustus, had afterwards opened on the right, fitting into the palace ofSeptimius Severus. And while Pierre looked on all the scattered remnants, his guide went on chattering, furnishing the most copious and preciseinformation, and declaring that the gentlemen who directed theexcavations had mentally reconstructed the Stadium in each and everyparticular, and were even preparing a most exact plan of it, showing allthe columns in their proper order and the statues in their niches, andeven specifying the divers sorts of marble which had covered the walls. 

"Oh! the directors are quite at ease, " the old soldier eventually addedwith an air of infinite satisfaction. "There will be nothing for theGermans to pounce on here. They won't be allowed to set thingstopsy-turvy as they did at the Forum, where everybody's at sea since theycame along with their wonderful science!"

Pierre--a Frenchman--smiled, and his interest increased when, by brokensteps and wooden bridges thrown over gaps, he followed the guide into thegreat ruins of the palace of Severus. Rising on the southern point of thePalatine, this palace had overlooked the Appian Way and the Campagna asfar as the eye could reach. Nowadays, almost the only remains are thesubstructures, the subterranean halls contrived under the arches of theterraces, by which the plateau of the hill was enlarged; and yet thesedismantled substructures suffice to give some idea of the triumphantpalace which they once upheld, so huge and powerful have they remained intheir indestructible massiveness. Near by arose the famous Septizonium, the tower with the seven tiers of arcades, which only finally disappearedin the sixteenth century. One of the palace terraces yet juts out uponcyclopean arches and from it the view is splendid. But all the rest is acommingling of massive yet crumbling walls, gaping depths whose ceilingshave fallen, endless corridors and vast halls of doubtful destination. Well cared for by the new administration, swept and cleansed of weeds, the ruins have lost their romantic wildness and assumed an aspect of bareand mournful grandeur. However, flashes of living sunlight often gild theancient walls, penetrate by their breaches into the black halls, andanimate with their dazzlement the mute melancholy of all this deadsplendour now exhumed from the earth in which it slumbered for centuries. Over the old ruddy masonry, stripped of its pompous marble covering, isthe purple mantle of the sunlight, draping the whole with imperial gloryonce more. 

For more than two hours already Pierre had been walking on, and yet hestill had to visit all the earlier palaces on the north and east of theplateau. "We must go back, " said the guide, "the gardens of the VillaMills and the convent of San Bonaventura stop the way. We shall only beable to pass on this side when the excavations have made a clearance. Ah!Monsieur l'Abbe, if you had walked over the Palatine merely some fiftyyears ago! I've seen some plans of that time. There were only somevineyards and little gardens with hedges then, a real campagna, where nota soul was to be met. And to think that all these palaces were sleepingunderneath!"

Pierre followed him, and after again passing the house of Augustus, theyascended the slope and reached the vast Flavian palace, * still halfburied by the neighbouring villa, and composed of a great number of hallslarge and small, on the nature of which scholars are still arguing. Theaula regia, or throne-room, the basilica, or hall of justice, thetriclinium, or dining-room, and the peristylium seem certainties; but forall the rest, and especially the small chambers of the private part ofthe structure, only more or less fanciful conjectures can be offered. Moreover, not a wall is entire; merely foundations peep out of theground, mutilated bases describing the plan of the edifice. The only ruinpreserved, as if by miracle, is the house on a lower level which someassert to have been that of Livia, * a house which seems very small besideall the huge palaces, and where are three halls comparatively intact, with mural paintings of mythological scenes, flowers, and fruits, stillwonderfully fresh. As for the palace of Tiberius, not one of its stonescan be seen; its remains lie buried beneath a lovely public garden;whilst of the neighbouring palace of Caligula, overhanging the Forum, there are only some huge substructures, akin to those of the house ofSeverus--buttresses, lofty arcades, which upheld the palace, vastbasements, so to say, where the praetorians were posted and gorgedthemselves with continual junketings. And thus this lofty plateaudominating the city merely offered some scarcely recognisable vestiges tothe view, stretches of grey, bare soil turned up by the pick, and dottedwith fragments of old walls; and it needed a real effort of scholarlyimagination to conjure up the ancient imperial splendour which once hadtriumphed there. 

 * Begun by Vespasian and finished by Domitian. --Trans. 

 ** Others assert it to have been the house of Germanicus, father of Caligula. --Trans. 

Nevertheless Pierre's guide, with quiet conviction, persisted in hisexplanations, pointing to empty space as though the edifices still rosebefore him. "Here, " said he, "we are in the Area Palatina. Yonder, yousee, is the facade of Domitian's palace, and there you have that ofCaligula's palace, while on turning round the temple of Jupiter Stator isin front of you. The Sacred Way came up as far as here, and passed underthe Porta Mugonia, one of the three gates of primitive Rome. "

He paused and pointed to the northwest portion of the height. "You willhave noticed, " he resumed, "that the Caesars didn't build yonder. Andthat was evidently because they had to respect some very ancientmonuments dating from before the foundation of the city and greatlyvenerated by the people. There stood the temple of Victory built byEvander and his Arcadians, the Lupercal grotto which I showed you, andthe humble hut of Romulus constructed of reeds and clay. Oh! everythinghas been found again, Monsieur l'Abbe; and, in spite of all that theGermans say there isn't the slightest doubt of it. "

Then, quite abruptly, like a man suddenly remembering the mostinteresting thing of all, he exclaimed: "Ah! to wind up we'll just go tosee the subterranean gallery where Caligula was murdered. "

Thereupon they descended into a long crypto-porticus, through thebreaches of which the sun now casts bright rays. Some ornaments of stuccoand fragments of mosaic-work are yet to be seen. Still the spot remainsmournful and desolate, well fitted for tragic horror. The old soldier'svoice had become graver as he related how Caligula, on returning from thePalatine games, had been minded to descend all alone into this gallery towitness certain sacred dances which some youths from Asia were practisingthere. And then it was that the gloom gave Cassius Chaereas, the chief ofthe conspirators, an opportunity to deal him the first thrust in theabdomen. Howling with pain, the emperor sought to flee; but theassassins, his creatures, his dearest friends, rushed upon him, threw himdown, and dealt him blow after blow, whilst he, mad with rage and fright, filled the dim, deaf gallery with the howling of a slaughtered beast. When he had expired, silence fell once more, and the frightened murderersfled. 

The classical visit to the Palatine was now over, and when Pierre came upinto the light again, he wished to rid himself of his guide and remainalone in the pleasant, dreamy garden on the summit of the height. Forthree hours he had been tramping about with the guide's voice buzzing inhis ears. The worthy man was now talking of his friendship for France andrelating the battle of Magenta in great detail. He smiled as he took thepiece of silver which Pierre offered him, and then started on the battleof Solferino. Indeed, it seemed impossible to stop him, when fortunatelya lady came up to ask for some information. And, thereupon, he went offwith her. "Good-evening, Monsieur l'Abbe, " he said; "you can go down byway of Caligula's palace. "

Delightful was Pierre's relief when he was at last able to rest for amoment on one of the marble seats in the garden. There were but fewclumps of trees, cypresses, box-trees, palms, and some fine evergreenoaks; but the latter, sheltering the seat, cast a dark shade of exquisitefreshness around. The charm of the spot was also largely due to itsdreamy solitude, to the low rustle which seemed to come from that ancientsoil saturated with resounding history. Here formerly had been thepleasure grounds of the Villa Farnese which still exists though greatlydamaged, and the grace of the Renascence seems to linger here, its breathpassing caressingly through the shiny foliage of the old evergreen oaks. You are, as it were, enveloped by the soul of the past, an etherealconglomeration of visions, and overhead is wafted the straying breath ofinnumerable generations buried beneath the sod. 

After a time, however, Pierre could no longer remain seated, so powerfulwas the attraction of Rome, scattered all around that august summit. Sohe rose and approached the balustrade of a terrace; and beneath himappeared the Forum, and beyond it the Capitoline hill. To the eye thelatter now only presented a commingling of grey buildings, lacking bothgrandeur and beauty. On the summit one saw the rear of the Palace of theSenator, flat, with little windows, and surmounted by a high, squarecampanile. The large, bare, rusty-looking walls hid the church of SantaMaria in Ara Coeli and the spot where the temple of Capitoline Jove hadformerly stood, radiant in all its royalty. On the left, some ugly housesrose terrace-wise upon the slope of Monte Caprino, where goats werepastured in the middle ages; while the few fine trees in the grounds ofthe Caffarelli palace, the present German embassy, set some greeneryabove the ancient Tarpeian rock now scarcely to be found, lost, hidden asit is, by buttress walls. Yet this was the Mount of the Capitol, the mostglorious of the seven hills, with its citadel and its temple, the templeto which universal dominion was promised, the St. Peter's of pagan Rome;this indeed was the hill--steep on the side of the Forum, and a precipiceon that of the Campus Martius--where the thunder of Jupiter fell, wherein the dimmest of the far-off ages the Asylum of Romulus rose with itssacred oaks, a spot of infinite savage mystery. Here, later, werepreserved the public documents of Roman grandeur inscribed on tablets ofbrass; hither climbed the heroes of the triumphs; and here the emperorsbecame gods, erect in statues of marble. And nowadays the eye inquireswonderingly how so much history and so much glory can have had for theirscene so small a space, such a rugged, jumbled pile of paltry buildings, a mole-hill, looking no bigger, no loftier than a hamlet perched betweentwo valleys. 

Then another surprise for Pierre was the Forum, starting from the Capitoland stretching out below the Palatine: a narrow square, close pressed bythe neighbouring hills, a hollow where Rome in growing had been compelledto rear edifice close to edifice till all stifled for lack of breathingspace. It was necessary to dig very deep--some fifty feet--to find thevenerable republican soil, and now all you see is a long, clean, lividtrench, cleared of ivy and bramble, where the fragments of paving, thebases of columns, and the piles of foundations appear like bits of bone. Level with the ground the Basilica Julia, entirely mapped out, looks likean architect's ground plan. On that side the arch of Septimius Severusalone rears itself aloft, virtually intact, whilst of the temple ofVespasian only a few isolated columns remain still standing, as if bymiracle, amidst the general downfall, soaring with a proud elegance, withsovereign audacity of equilibrium, so slender and so gilded, into theblue heavens. The column of Phocas is also erect; and you see someportions of the Rostra fitted together out of fragments discovered nearby. But if the eye seeks a sensation of extraordinary vastness, it musttravel beyond the three columns of the temple of Castor and Pollux, beyond the vestiges of the house of the Vestals, beyond the temple ofFaustina, in which the Christian Church of San Lorenzo has so composedlyinstalled itself, and even beyond the round temple of Romulus, to lightupon the Basilica of Constantine with its three colossal, gapingarchways. From the Palatine they look like porches built for a nation ofgiants, so massive that a fallen fragment resembles some huge rock hurledby a whirlwind from a mountain summit. And there, in that illustrious, narrow, overflowing Forum the history of the greatest of nations held forcenturies, from the legendary time of the Sabine women, reconciling theirrelatives and their ravishers, to that of the proclamation of publicliberty, so slowly wrung from the patricians by the plebeians. Was notthe Forum at once the market, the exchange, the tribunal, the open-airhall of public meeting? The Gracchi there defended the cause of thehumble; Sylla there set up the lists of those whom he proscribed; Cicerothere spoke, and there, against the rostra, his bleeding head was hung. Then, under the emperors, the old renown was dimmed, the centuries buriedthe monuments and temples with such piles of dust that all that themiddle ages could do was to turn the spot into a cattle market! Respecthas come back once more, a respect which violates tombs, which is full offeverish curiosity and science, which is dissatisfied with merehypotheses, which loses itself amidst this historical soil wheregenerations rise one above the other, and hesitates between the fifteenor twenty restorations of the Forum that have been planned on paper, eachof them as plausible as the other. But to the mere passer-by, who is nota professional scholar and has not recently re-perused the history ofRome, the details have no significance. All he sees on this searched andscoured spot is a city's cemetery where old exhumed stones are whitening, and whence rises the intense sadness that envelops dead nations. Pierre, however, noting here and there fragments of the Sacred Way, now turning, now running down, and now ascending with their pavement of silex indentedby the chariot-wheels, thought of the triumphs, of the ascent of thetriumpher, so sorely shaken as his chariot jolted over that roughpavement of glory. 

But the horizon expanded towards the southeast, and beyond the arches ofTitus and Constantine he perceived the Colosseum. Ah! that colossus, onlyone-half or so of which has been destroyed by time as with the stroke ofa mighty scythe, it rises in its enormity and majesty like a stonelace-work with hundreds of empty bays agape against the blue of heaven!There is a world of halls, stairs, landings, and passages, a world whereone loses oneself amidst death-like silence and solitude. The furrowedtiers of seats, eaten into by the atmosphere, are like shapeless stepsleading down into some old extinct crater, some natural circus excavatedby the force of the elements in indestructible rock. The hot suns ofeighteen hundred years have baked and scorched this ruin, which hasreverted to a state of nature, bare and golden-brown like amountain-side, since it has been stripped of its vegetation, the florawhich once made it like a virgin forest. And what an evocation when themind sets flesh and blood and life again on all that dead osseousframework, fills the circus with the 90, 000 spectators which it couldhold, marshals the games and the combats of the arena, gathers a wholecivilisation together, from the emperor and the dignitaries to thesurging plebeian sea, all aglow with the agitation and brilliancy of animpassioned people, assembled under the ruddy reflection of the giantpurple velum. And then, yet further, on the horizon, were other cyclopeanruins, the baths of Caracalla, standing there like relics of a race ofgiants long since vanished from the world: halls extravagantly andinexplicably spacious and lofty; vestibules large enough for an entirepopulation; a _frigidarium_ where five hundred people could swimtogether; a _tepidarium_ and a _calidarium_* on the same proportions, born of a wild craving for the huge; and then the terrific massiveness ofthe structures, the thickness of the piles of brick-work, such as nofeudal castle ever knew; and, in addition, the general immensity whichmakes passing visitors look like lost ants; such an extraordinary riot ofthe great and the mighty that one wonders for what men, for whatmultitudes, this monstrous edifice was reared. To-day, you would say amass of rocks in the rough, thrown from some height for building theabode of Titans. 

 * Tepidarium, warm bath; calidarium, vapour bath. --Trans. 

And as Pierre gazed, he became more and more immersed in the limitlesspast which encompassed him. On all sides history rose up like a surgingsea. Those bluey plains on the north and west were ancient Etruria; thosejagged crests on the east were the Sabine Mountains; while southward, theAlban Mountains and Latium spread out in the streaming gold of thesunshine. Alba Longa was there, and so was Monte Cavo, with its crown ofold trees, and the convent which has taken the place of the ancienttemple of Jupiter. Then beyond the Forum, beyond the Capitol, the greaterpart of Rome stretched out, whilst behind Pierre, on the margin of theTiber, was the Janiculum. And a voice seemed to come from the whole city, a voice which told him of Rome's eternal life, resplendent with pastgreatness. He remembered just enough of what he had been taught at schoolto realise where he was; he knew just what every one knows of Rome withno pretension to scholarship, and it was more particularly his artistictemperament which awoke within him and gathered warmth from the flame ofmemory. The present had disappeared, and the ocean of the past was stillrising, buoying him up, carrying him away. 

And then his mind involuntarily pictured a resurrection instinct withlife. The grey, dismal Palatine, razed like some accursed city, suddenlybecame animated, peopled, crowned with palaces and temples. There hadbeen the cradle of the Eternal City, founded by Romulus on that summitoverlooking the Tiber. There assuredly the seven kings of its two and ahalf centuries of monarchical rule had dwelt, enclosed within high, strong walls, which had but three gateways. Then the five centuries ofrepublican sway spread out, the greatest, the most glorious of all thecenturies, those which brought the Italic peninsula and finally the knownworld under Roman dominion. During those victorious years of social andwar-like struggle, Rome grew and peopled the seven hills, and thePalatine became but a venerable cradle with legendary temples, and waseven gradually invaded by private residences. But at last Caesar, theincarnation of the power of his race, after Gaul and after Pharsaliatriumphed in the name of the whole Roman people, having completed thecolossal task by which the five following centuries of imperialism wereto profit, with a pompous splendour and a rush of every appetite. Andthen Augustus could ascend to power; glory had reached its climax;millions of gold were waiting to be filched from the depths of theprovinces; and the imperial gala was to begin in the world's capital, before the eyes of the dazzled and subjected nations. Augustus had beenborn on the Palatine, and after Actium had given him the empire, he sethis pride in reigning from the summit of that sacred mount, venerated bythe people. He bought up private houses and there built his palace withluxurious splendour: an atrium upheld by four pilasters and eightcolumns; a peristylium encompassed by fifty-six Ionic columns; privateapartments all around, and all in marble; a profusion of marble, broughtat great cost from foreign lands, and of the brightest hues, resplendentlike gems. And he lodged himself with the gods, building near his ownabode a large temple of Apollo and a shrine of Vesta in order to ensurehimself divine and eternal sovereignty. And then the seed of the imperialpalaces was sown; they were to spring up, grow and swarm, and cover theentire mount. 

Ah! the all-powerfulness of Augustus, his four and forty years of total, absolute, superhuman power, such as no despot has known even in hisdreams! He had taken to himself every title, united every magistracy inhis person. Imperator and consul, he commanded the armies and exercisedexecutive power; pro-consul, he was supreme in the provinces; perpetualcensor and princeps, he reigned over the senate; tribune, he was themaster of the people. And, formerly called Octavius, he had causedhimself to be declared Augustus, sacred, god among men, having histemples and his priests, worshipped in his lifetime like a divinitydeigning to visit the earth. And finally he had resolved to be supremepontiff, annexing religious to civil power, and thus by a stroke ofgenius attaining to the most complete dominion to which man can climb. Asthe supreme pontiff could not reside in a private house, he declared hisabode to be State property. As the supreme pontiff could not leave thevicinity of the temple of Vesta, he built a temple to that goddess nearhis own dwelling, leaving the guardianship of the ancient altar below thePalatine to the Vestal virgins. He spared no effort, for he well realisedthat human omnipotence, the mastery of mankind and the world, lay in thatreunion of sovereignty, in being both king and priest, emperor and pope. All the sap of a mighty race, all the victories achieved, and all thefavours of fortune yet to be garnered, blossomed forth in Augustus, in aunique splendour which was never again to shed such brilliant radiance. He was really the master of the world, amidst the conquered and pacifiednations, encompassed by immortal glory in literature and in art. In himwould seem to have been satisfied the old intense ambition of his people, the ambition which it had pursued through centuries of patient conquest, to become the people-king. The blood of Rome, the blood of Augustus, atlast coruscated in the sunlight, in the purple of empire. And the bloodof Augustus, of the divine, triumphant, absolute sovereign of bodies andsouls, of the man in whom seven centuries of national pride hadculminated, was to descend through the ages, through an innumerableposterity with a heritage of boundless pride and ambition. For it wasfatal: the blood of Augustus was bound to spring into life once more andpulsate in the veins of all the successive masters of Rome, ever hauntingthem with the dream of ruling the whole world. And later on, after thedecline and fall, when power had once more become divided between theking and the priest, the popes--their hearts burning with the red, devouring blood of their great forerunner--had no other passion, no otherpolicy, through the centuries, than that of attaining to civil dominion, to the totality of human power. 

But Augustus being dead, his palace having been closed and consecrated, Pierre saw that of Tiberius spring up from the soil. It had stood wherehis feet now rested, where the beautiful evergreen oaks sheltered him. Hepictured it with courts, porticoes, and halls, both substantial andgrand, despite the gloomy bent of the emperor who betook himself far fromRome to live amongst informers and debauchees, with his heart and brainpoisoned by power to the point of crime and most extraordinary insanity. Then the palace of Caligula followed, an enlargement of that of Tiberius, with arcades set up to increase its extent, and a bridge thrown over theForum to the Capitol, in order that the prince might go thither at hisease to converse with Jove, whose son he claimed to be. And sovereigntyalso rendered this one ferocious--a madman with omnipotence to do as helisted! Then, after Claudius, Nero, not finding the Palatine largeenough, seized upon the delightful gardens climbing the Esquiline inorder to set up his Golden House, a dream of sumptuous immensity which hecould not complete and the ruins of which disappeared in the troublesfollowing the death of this monster whom pride demented. Next, ineighteen months, Galba, Otho, and Vitellius fell one upon the other, inmire and in blood, the purple converting them also into imbeciles andmonsters, gorged like unclean beasts at the trough of imperial enjoyment. And afterwards came the Flavians, at first a respite, with commonsenseand human kindness: Vespasian; next Titus, who built but little on thePalatine; but then Domitian, in whom the sombre madness of omnipotenceburst forth anew amidst a _regime_ of fear and spying, idiotic atrocitiesand crimes, debauchery contrary to nature, and building enterprises bornof insane vanity instinct with a desire to outvie the temples of thegods. The palace of Domitian, parted by a lane from that of Tiberius, arose colossal-like--a palace of fairyland. There was the hall ofaudience, with its throne of gold, its sixteen columns of Phrygian andNumidian marble and its eight niches containing colossal statues; therewere the hall of justice, the vast dining-room, the peristylium, thesleeping apartments, where granite, porphyry, and alabaster overflowed, carved and decorated by the most famous artists, and lavished on allsides in order to dazzle the world. And finally, many years later, a lastpalace was added to all the others--that of Septimius Severus: again abuilding of pride, with arches supporting lofty halls, terraced storeys, towers o'er-topping the roofs, a perfect Babylonian pile, rising up atthe extreme point of the mount in view of the Appian Way, so that theemperor's compatriots--those from the province of Africa, where he wasborn--might, on reaching the horizon, marvel at his fortune and worshiphim in his glory. 

And now Pierre beheld all those palaces which he had conjured up aroundhim, resuscitated, resplendent in the full sunlight. They were as iflinked together, parted merely by the narrowest of passages. In orderthat not an inch of that precious summit might be lost, they had sproutedthickly like the monstrous florescence of strength, power, and unbridledpride which satisfied itself at the cost of millions, bleeding the wholeworld for the enjoyment of one man. And in truth there was but one palacealtogether, a palace enlarged as soon as one emperor died and was placedamong the deities, and another, shunning the consecrated pile wherepossibly the shadow of death frightened him, experienced an imperiousneed to build a house of his own and perpetuate in everlasting stone thememory of his reign. All the emperors were seized with this buildingcraze; it was like a disease which the very throne seemed to carry fromone occupant to another with growing intensity, a consuming desire toexcel all predecessors by thicker and higher walls, by a more and morewonderful profusion of marbles, columns, and statues. And among all theseprinces there was the idea of a glorious survival, of leaving a testimonyof their greatness to dazzled and stupefied generations, of perpetuatingthemselves by marvels which would not perish but for ever weigh heavilyupon the earth, when their own light ashes should long since have beenswept away by the winds. And thus the Palatine became but the venerablebase of a monstrous edifice, a thick vegetation of adjoining buildings, each new pile being like a fresh eruption of feverish pride; while thewhole, now showing the snowy brightness of white marble and now theglowing hues of coloured marble, ended by crowning Rome and theworld with the most extraordinary and most insolent abode ofsovereignty--whether palace, temple, basilica, or cathedral--thatomnipotence and dominion have ever reared under the heavens. 

But death lurked beneath this excess of strength and glory. Seven hundredand thirty years of monarchy and republic had sufficed to make Romegreat; and in five centuries of imperial sway the people-king was to bedevoured down to its last muscles. There was the immensity of theterritory, the more distant provinces gradually pillaged and exhausted;there was the fisc consuming everything, digging the pit of fatalbankruptcy; and there was the degeneration of the people, poisoned by thescenes of the circus and the arena, fallen to the sloth and debauchery oftheir masters, the Caesars, while mercenaries fought the foe and tilledthe soil. Already at the time of Constantine, Rome had a rival, Byzantium; disruption followed with Honorius; and then some ten emperorssufficed for decomposition to be complete, for the bones of the dyingprey to be picked clean, the end coming with Romulus Augustulus, thesorry creature whose name is, so to say, a mockery of the whole glorioushistory, a buffet for both the founder of Rome and the founder of theempire. 

The palaces, the colossal assemblage of walls, storeys, terraces, andgaping roofs, still remained on the deserted Palatine; many ornaments andstatues, however, had already been removed to Byzantium. And the empire, having become Christian, had afterwards closed the temples andextinguished the fire of Vesta, whilst yet respecting the ancientPalladium. But in the fifth century the barbarians rush upon Rome, sackand burn it, and carry the spoils spared by the flames away in theirchariots. As long as the city was dependent on Byzantium a custodian ofthe imperial palaces remained there watching over the Palatine. Then allfades and crumbles in the night of the middle ages. It would really seemthat the popes then slowly took the place of the Caesars, succeeding themboth in their abandoned marble halls and their ever-subsisting passionfor domination. Some of them assuredly dwelt in the palace of SeptimiusSeverus; a council of the Church was held in the Septizonium; and, lateron, Gelasius II was elected in a neighbouring monastery on the sacredmount. It was as if Augustus were again rising from the tomb, once moremaster of the world, with a Sacred College of Cardinals resuscitating theRoman Senate. In the twelfth century the Septizonium belonged to someBenedictine monks, and was sold by them to the powerful Frangipanifamily, who fortified it as they had already fortified the Colosseum andthe arches of Constantine and Titus, thus forming a vast fortress roundabout the venerable cradle of the city. And the violent deeds of civilwar and the ravages of invasion swept by like whirlwinds, throwing downthe walls, razing the palaces and towers. And afterwards successivegenerations invaded the ruins, installed themselves in them by right oftrover and conquest, turned them into cellars, store-places for forage, and stables for mules. Kitchen gardens were formed, vines were planted onthe spots where fallen soil had covered the mosaics of the imperialhalls. All around nettles and brambles grew up, and ivy preyed on theoverturned porticoes, till there came a day when the colossal assemblageof palaces and temples, which marble was to have rendered eternal, seemedto dive beneath the dust, to disappear under the surging soil andvegetation which impassive Nature threw over it. And then, in the hotsunlight, among the wild flowerets, only big, buzzing flies remained, whilst herds of goats strayed in freedom through the throne-room ofDomitian and the fallen sanctuary of Apollo. 

A great shudder passed through Pierre. To think of so much strength, pride, and grandeur, and such rapid ruin--a world for ever swept away! Hewondered how entire palaces, yet peopled by admirable statuary, couldthus have been gradually buried without any one thinking of protectingthem. It was no sudden catastrophe which had swallowed up thosemasterpieces, subsequently to be disinterred with exclamations ofadmiring wonder; they had been drowned, as it were--caught progressivelyby the legs, the waist, and the neck, till at last the head had sunkbeneath the rising tide. And how could one explain that generations hadheedlessly witnessed such things without thought of putting forth ahelping hand? It would seem as if, at a given moment, a black curtainwere suddenly drawn across the world, as if mankind began afresh, with anew and empty brain which needed moulding and furnishing. Rome had becomedepopulated; men ceased to repair the ruins left by fire and sword; theedifices which by their very immensity had become useless were utterlyneglected, allowed to crumble and fall. And then, too, the new religioneverywhere hunted down the old one, stole its temples, overturned itsgods. Earthly deposits probably completed the disaster--there were, it issaid, both earthquakes and inundations--and the soil was ever rising, thealluvia of the young Christian world buried the ancient pagan society. And after the pillaging of the temples, the theft of the bronze roofs andmarble columns, the climax came with the filching of the stones torn fromthe Colosseum and the Theatre of Marcellus, with the pounding of thestatuary and sculpture-work, thrown into kilns to procure the lime neededfor the new monuments of Catholic Rome. 

It was nearly one o'clock, and Pierre awoke as from a dream. The sun-rayswere streaming in a golden rain between the shiny leaves of theever-green oaks above him, and down below Rome lay dozing, overcome bythe great heat. Then he made up his mind to leave the garden, and wentstumbling over the rough pavement of the Clivus Victoriae, his mind stillhaunted by blinding visions. To complete his day, he had resolved tovisit the old Appian Way during the afternoon, and, unwilling to returnto the Via Giulia, he lunched at a suburban tavern, in a large, dim room, where, alone with the buzzing flies, he lingered for more than two hours, awaiting the sinking of the sun. 

Ah! that Appian Way, that ancient queen of the high roads, crossing theCampagna in a long straight line with rows of proud tombs on eitherhand--to Pierre it seemed like a triumphant prolongation of the Palatine. He there found the same passion for splendour and domination, the samecraving to eternise the memory of Roman greatness in marble and daylight. Oblivion was vanquished; the dead refused to rest, and remained for evererect among the living, on either side of that road which was traversedby multitudes from the entire world. The deified images of those who werenow but dust still gazed on the passers-by with empty eyes; theinscriptions still spoke, proclaiming names and titles. In former timesthe rows of sepulchres must have extended without interruption along allthe straight, level miles between the tomb of Caecilia Metella and thatof Casale Rotondo, forming an elongated cemetery where the powerful andwealthy competed as to who should leave the most colossal and lavishlydecorated mausoleum: such, indeed, was the craving for survival, thepassion for pompous immortality, the desire to deify death by lodging itin temples; whereof the present-day monumental splendour of the GenoeseCampo Santo and the Roman Campo Verano is, so to say, a remoteinheritance. And what a vision it was to picture all the tremendous tombson the right and left of the glorious pavement which the legions trod ontheir return from the conquest of the world! That tomb of CaeciliaMetella, with its bond-stones so huge, its walls so thick that the middleages transformed it into the battlemented keep of a fortress! And thenall the tombs which follow, the modern structures erected in order thatthe marble fragments discovered might be set in place, the old blocks ofbrick and concrete, despoiled of their sculptured-work and rising up likeseared rocks, yet still suggesting their original shapes as shrines, _cippi_, and _sarcophagi_. There is a wondrous succession of high reliefsfiguring the dead in groups of three and five; statues in which the deadlive deified, erect; seats contrived in niches in order that wayfarersmay rest and bless the hospitality of the dead; laudatory epitaphscelebrating the dead, both the known and the unknown, the children ofSextius Pompeius Justus, the departed Marcus Servilius Quartus, HilariusFuscus, Rabirius Hermodorus; without counting the sepulchres venturouslyascribed to Seneca and the Horatii and Curiatii. And finally there is themost extraordinary and gigantic of all the tombs, that known as CasaleRotondo, which is so large that it has been possible to establish afarmhouse and an olive garden on its substructures, which formerly uphelda double rotunda, adorned with Corinthian pilasters, large candelabra, and scenic masks. *

 * Some believe this tomb to have been that of Messalla Corvinus, the historian and poet, a friend of Augustus and Horace; others ascribe it to his son, Aurelius Messallinus Cotta. --Trans. 

Pierre, having driven in a cab as far as the tomb of Caecilia Metella, continued his excursion on foot, going slowly towards Casale Rotondo. Inmany places the old pavement appears--large blocks of basaltic lava, worninto deep ruts that jolt the best-hung vehicles. Among the ruined tombson either hand run bands of grass, the neglected grass of cemeteries, scorched by the summer suns and sprinkled with big violet thistles andtall sulphur-wort. Parapets of dry stones, breast high, enclose therusset roadsides, which resound with the crepitation of grasshoppers;and, beyond, the Campagna stretches, vast and bare, as far as the eye cansee. A parasol pine, a eucalyptus, some olive or fig trees, white withdust, alone rise up near the road at infrequent intervals. On the leftthe ruddy arches of the Acqua Claudia show vigorously in the meadows, andstretches of poorly cultivated land, vineyards, and little farms, extendto the blue and lilac Sabine and Alban hills, where Frascati, Rocca diPapa, and Albano set bright spots, which grow and whiten as one getsnearer to them. Then, on the right, towards the sea, the houseless, treeless plain grows and spreads with vast, broad ripples, extraordinaryocean-like simplicity and grandeur, a long, straight line alone partingit from the sky. At the height of summer all burns and flares on thislimitless prairie, then of a ruddy gold; but in September a green tingebegins to suffuse the ocean of herbage, which dies away in the pink andmauve and vivid blue of the fine sunsets. 

As Pierre, quite alone and in a dreary mood, slowly paced the endless, flat highway, that resurrection of the past which he had beheld on thePalatine again confronted his mind's eye. On either hand the tombs oncemore rose up intact, with marble of dazzling whiteness. Had not the headof a colossal statue been found, mingled with fragments of huge sphinxes, at the foot of yonder vase-shaped mass of bricks? He seemed to see theentire colossal statue standing again between the huge, crouching beasts. Farther on a beautiful headless statue of a woman had been discovered inthe cella of a sepulchre, and he beheld it, again whole, with featuresexpressive of grace and strength smiling upon life. The inscriptions alsobecame perfect; he could read and understand them at a glance, as ifliving among those dead ones of two thousand years ago. And the road, too, became peopled: the chariots thundered, the armies tramped along, the people of Rome jostled him with the feverish agitation of greatcommunities. It was a return of the times of the Flavians or theAntonines, the palmy years of the empire, when the pomp of the AppianWay, with its grand sepulchres, carved and adorned like temples, attainedits apogee. What a monumental Street of Death, what an approach to Rome, that highway, straight as an arrow, where with the extraordinary pomp oftheir pride, which had survived their dust, the great dead greeted thetraveller, ushered him into the presence of the living! He may well havewondered among what sovereign people, what masters of the world, he wasabout to find himself--a nation which had committed to its dead the dutyof telling strangers that it allowed nothing whatever to perish--that itsdead, like its city, remained eternal and glorious in monuments ofextraordinary vastness! To think of it--the foundations of a fortress, and a tower sixty feet in diameter, that one woman might be laid to rest!And then, far away, at the end of the superb, dazzling highway, borderedwith the marble of its funereal palaces, Pierre, turning round, distinctly beheld the Palatine, with the marble of its imperialpalaces--the huge assemblage of palaces whose omnipotence had dominatedthe world!

But suddenly he started: two carabiniers had just appeared among theruins. The spot was not safe; the authorities watched over tourists evenin broad daylight. And later on came another meeting which caused himsome emotion. He perceived an ecclesiastic, a tall old man, in a blackcassock, edged and girt with red; and was surprised to recognise CardinalBoccanera, who had quitted the roadway, and was slowly strolling alongthe band of grass, among the tall thistles and sulphur-wort. With hishead lowered and his feet brushing against the fragments of the tombs, the Cardinal did not even see Pierre. The young priest courteously turnedaside, surprised to find him so far from home and alone. Then, onperceiving a heavy coach, drawn by two black horses, behind a building, he understood matters. A footman in black livery was waiting motionlessbeside the carriage, and the coachman had not quitted his box. And Pierreremembered that the Cardinals were not expected to walk in Rome, so thatthey were compelled to drive into the country when they desired to takeexercise. But what haughty sadness, what solitary and, so to say, ostracised grandeur there was about that tall, thoughtful old man, thusforced to seek the desert, and wander among the tombs, in order tobreathe a little of the evening air!

Pierre had lingered there for long hours; the twilight was coming on, andonce again he witnessed a lovely sunset. On his left the Campagna becameblurred, and assumed a slaty hue, against which the yellowish arcades ofthe aqueduct showed very plainly, while the Alban hills, far away, fadedinto pink. Then, on the right, towards the sea, the planet sank among anumber of cloudlets, figuring an archipelago of gold in an ocean of dyingembers. And excepting the sapphire sky, studded with rubies, above theendless line of the Campagna, which was likewise changed into a sparklinglake, the dull green of the herbage turning to a liquid emerald tint, there was nothing to be seen, neither a hillock nor a flock--nothing, indeed, but Cardinal Boccanera's black figure, erect among the tombs, andlooking, as it were, enlarged as it stood out against the last purpleflush of the sunset. 

Early on the following morning Pierre, eager to see everything, returnedto the Appian Way in order to visit the catacomb of St. Calixtus, themost extensive and remarkable of the old Christian cemeteries, and one, too, where several of the early popes were buried. You ascend through ascorched garden, past olives and cypresses, reach a shanty of boards andplaster in which a little trade in "articles of piety" is carried on, andthere a modern and fairly easy flight of steps enables you to descend. Pierre fortunately found there some French Trappists, who guard thesecatacombs and show them to strangers. One brother was on the point ofgoing down with two French ladies, the mother and daughter, the formerstill comely and the other radiant with youth. They stood there smiling, though already slightly frightened, while the monk lighted some long, slim candles. He was a man with a bossy brow, the large, massive jaw ofan obstinate believer and pale eyes bespeaking an ingenuous soul. 

"Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe, " he said to Pierre, "you've come just in time. Ifthe ladies are willing, you had better come with us; for three Brothersare already below with people, and you would have a long time to wait. This is the great season for visitors. "

The ladies politely nodded, and the Trappist handed a candle to thepriest. In all probability neither mother nor daughter was devout, forboth glanced askance at their new companion's cassock, and suddenlybecame serious. Then they all went down and found themselves in a narrowsubterranean corridor. "Take care, mesdames, " repeated the Trappist, lighting the ground with his candle. "Walk slowly, for there areprojections and slopes. "

Then, in a shrill voice full of extraordinary conviction, he began hisexplanations. Pierre had descended in silence, his heart beating withemotion. Ah! how many times, indeed, in his innocent seminary days, hadhe not dreamt of those catacombs of the early Christians, those asylumsof the primitive faith! Even recently, while writing his book, he hadoften thought of them as of the most ancient and venerable remains ofthat community of the lowly and simple, for the return of which hecalled. But his brain was full of pages written by poets and great prosewriters. He had beheld the catacombs through the magnifying glass ofthose imaginative authors, and had believed them to be vast, similar tosubterranean cities, with broad highways and spacious halls, fit for theaccommodation of vast crowds. And now how poor and humble the reality!

"Well, yes, " said the Trappist in reply to the ladies' questions, "thecorridor is scarcely more than a yard in width; two persons could notpass along side by side. How they dug it? Oh! it was simple enough. Afamily or a burial association needed a place of sepulchre. Well, a firstgallery was excavated with pickaxes in soil of this description--granulartufa, as it is called--a reddish substance, as you can see, both soft andyet resistant, easy to work and at the same time waterproof. In a word, just the substance that was needed, and one, too, that has preserved theremains of the buried in a wonderful way. " He paused and brought theflamelet of his candle near to the compartments excavated on either handof the passage. "Look, " he continued, "these are the _loculi_. Well, asubterranean gallery was dug, and on both sides these compartments werehollowed out, one above the other. The bodies of the dead were laid inthem, for the most part simply wrapped in shrouds. Then the aperture wasclosed with tiles or marble slabs, carefully cemented. So, as you cansee, everything explains itself. If other families joined the first one, or the burial association became more numerous, fresh galleries wereadded to those already filled. Passages were excavated on either hand, inevery sense; and, indeed, a second and lower storey, at times even athird, was dug out. And here, you see, we are in a gallery which iscertainly thirteen feet high. Now, you may wonder how they raised thebodies to place them in the compartments of the top tier. Well, they didnot raise them to any such height; in all their work they kept on goinglower and lower, removing more and more of the soil as the compartmentsbecame filled. And in this wise, in these catacombs of St. Calixtus, inless than four centuries, the Christians excavated more than ten miles ofgalleries, in which more than a million of their dead must have been laidto rest. Now, there are dozens of catacombs; the environs of Rome arehoneycombed with them. Think of that, and perhaps you will be able toform some idea of the vast number of people who were buried in thismanner. "

Pierre listened, feeling greatly impressed. He had once visited a coalpit in Belgium, and he here found the same narrow passages, the sameheavy, stifling atmosphere, the same nihility of darkness and silence. The flamelets of the candles showed merely like stars in the deep gloom;they shed no radiance around. And he at last understood the character ofthis funereal, termite-like labour--these chance burrowings continuedaccording to requirements, without art, method, or symmetry. The ruggedsoil was ever ascending and descending, the sides of the gallery snaked:neither plumb-line nor square had been used. All this, indeed, had simplybeen a work of charity and necessity, wrought by simple, willinggrave-diggers, illiterate craftsmen, with the clumsy handiwork of thedecline and fall. Proof thereof was furnished by the inscriptions andemblems on the marble slabs. They reminded one of the childish drawingswhich street urchins scrawl upon blank walls. 

"You see, " the Trappist continued, "most frequently there is merely aname; and sometimes there is no name, but simply the words _In Pace_. Atother times there is an emblem, the dove of purity, the palm ofmartyrdom, or else the fish whose name in Greek is composed of fiveletters which, as initials, signify: 'Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour. '"

He again brought his candle near to the marble slabs, and the palm couldbe distinguished: a central stroke, whence started a few oblique lines;and then came the dove or the fish, roughly outlined, a zigzag indicatinga tail, two bars representing the bird's feet, while a round pointsimulated an eye. And the letters of the short inscriptions were allaskew, of various sizes, often quite misshapen, as in the coarsehandwriting of the ignorant and simple. 

However, they reached a crypt, a sort of little hall, where the graves ofseveral popes had been found; among others that of Sixtus II, a holymartyr, in whose honour there was a superbly engraved metricalinscription set up by Pope Damasus. Then, in another hall, a family vaultof much the same size, decorated at a later stage, with naive muralpaintings, the spot where St. Cecilia's body had been discovered wasshown. And the explanations continued. The Trappist dilated on thepaintings, drawing from them a confirmation of every dogma and belief, baptism, the Eucharist, the resurrection, Lazarus arising from the tomb, Jonas cast up by the whale, Daniel in the lions' den, Moses drawing waterfrom the rock, and Christ--shown beardless, as was the practice in theearly ages--accomplishing His various miracles. 

"You see, " repeated the Trappist, "all those things are shown there; andremember that none of the paintings was specially prepared: they areabsolutely authentic. "

At a question from Pierre, whose astonishment was increasing, he admittedthat the catacombs had been mere cemeteries at the outset, when noreligious ceremonies had been celebrated in them. It was only later, inthe fourth century, when the martyrs were honoured, that the crypts wereutilised for worship. And in the same way they only became places ofrefuge during the persecutions, when the Christians had to conceal theentrances to them. Previously they had remained freely and legally open. This was indeed their true history: cemeteries four centuries oldbecoming places of asylum, ravaged at times during the persecutions;afterwards held in veneration till the eighth century; then despoiled oftheir holy relics, and subsequently blocked up and forgotten, so thatthey remained buried during more than seven hundred years, peoplethinking of them so little that at the time of the first searches in thefifteenth century they were considered an extraordinary discovery--anintricate historical problem--one, moreover, which only our own age hassolved. 

"Please stoop, mesdames, " resumed the Trappist. "In this compartment hereis a skeleton which has not been touched. It has been lying here forsixteen or seventeen hundred years, and will show you how the bodies werelaid out. Savants say that it is the skeleton of a female, probably ayoung girl. It was still quite perfect last spring; but the skull, as youcan see, is now split open. An American broke it with his walking stickto make sure that it was genuine. "

The ladies leaned forward, and the flickering light illumined their palefaces, expressive of mingled fright and compassion. Especially noticeablewas the pitiful, pain-fraught look which appeared on the countenance ofthe daughter, so full of life with her red lips and large black eyes. Then all relapsed into gloom, and the little candles were borne aloft andwent their way through the heavy darkness of the galleries. The visitlasted another hour, for the Trappist did not spare a detail, fond as hewas of certain nooks and corners, and as zealous as if he desired to workthe redemption of his visitors. 

While Pierre followed the others, a complete evolution took place withinhim. As he looked about him, and formed a more and more complete idea ofhis surroundings, his first stupefaction at finding the reality sodifferent from the embellished accounts of story-tellers and poets, hisdisillusion at being plunged into such rudely excavated mole-burrows, gave way to fraternal emotion. It was not that he thought of the fifteenhundred martyrs whose sacred bones had rested there. But how humble, resigned, yet full of hope had been those who had chosen such a place ofsepulchre! Those low, darksome galleries were but temporarysleeping-places for the Christians. If they did not burn the bodies oftheir dead, as the Pagans did, it was because, like the Jews, theybelieved in the resurrection of the body; and it was that lovely idea ofsleep, of tranquil rest after a just life, whilst awaiting the celestialreward, which imparted such intense peacefulness, such infinite charm, tothe black, subterranean city. Everything there spoke of calm and silentnight; everything there slumbered in rapturous quiescence, patient untilthe far-off awakening. What could be more touching than those terra-cottatiles, those marble slabs, which bore not even a name--nothing but thewords _In Pace_--at peace. Ah! to be at peace--life's work at lastaccomplished; to sleep in peace, to hope in peace for the advent ofheaven! And the peacefulness seemed the more delightful as it was enjoyedin such deep humility. Doubtless the diggers worked chance-wise andclumsily; the craftsmen no longer knew how to engrave a name or carve apalm or a dove. Art had vanished; but all the feebleness and ignorancewere instinct with the youth of a new humanity. Poor and lowly and meekones swarmed there, reposing beneath the soil, whilst up above the suncontinued its everlasting task. You found there charity and fraternityand death; husband and wife often lying together with their offspring attheir feet; the great mass of the unknown submerging the personage, thebishop, or the martyr; the most touching equality--that springing frommodesty--prevailing amidst all that dust, with compartments ever similarand slabs destitute of ornament, so that rows and rows of the sleepersmingled without distinctive sign. The inscriptions seldom ventured on aword of praise, and then how prudent, how delicate it was: the men werevery worthy, very pious: the women very gentle, very beautiful, verychaste. A perfume of infancy arose, unlimited human affection spread:this was death as understood by the primitive Christians--death which hiditself to await the resurrection, and dreamt no more of the empire of theworld!

And all at once before Pierre's eyes arose a vision of the sumptuoustombs of the Appian Way, displaying the domineering pride of a wholecivilisation in the sunlight--tombs of vast dimensions, with a profusionof marbles, grandiloquent inscriptions, and masterpieces ofsculptured-work. Ah! what an extraordinary contrast between that pompousavenue of death, conducting, like a highway of triumph, to the regalEternal City, when compared with the subterranean necropolis of theChristians, that city of hidden death, so gentle, so beautiful, and sochaste! Here only quiet slumber, desired and accepted night, resignationand patience were to be found. Millions of human beings had here laidthemselves to rest in all humility, had slept for centuries, and wouldstill be sleeping here, lulled by the silence and the gloom, if theliving had not intruded on their desire to remain in oblivion so long asthe trumpets of the Judgment Day did not awaken them. Death had thenspoken of Life: nowhere had there been more intimate and touching lifethan in these buried cities of the unknown, lowly dead. And a mightybreath had formerly come from them--the breath of a new humanity destinedto renew the world. With the advent of meekness, contempt for the flesh, terror and hatred of nature, relinquishment of terrestrial joys, and apassion for death, which delivers and opens the portals of Paradise, another world had begun. And the blood of Augustus, so proud of purplingin the sunlight, so fired by the passion for sovereign dominion, seemedfor a moment to disappear, as if, indeed, the new world had sucked it upin the depths of its gloomy sepulchres. 

However, the Trappist insisted on showing the ladies the steps ofDiocletian, and began to tell them the legend. "Yes, " said he, "it was amiracle. One day, under that emperor, some soldiers were pursuing severalChristians, who took refuge in these catacombs; and when the soldiersfollowed them inside the steps suddenly gave way, and all the persecutorswere hurled to the bottom. The steps remain broken to this day. Come andsee them; they are close by. "

But the ladies were quite overcome, so affected by their prolongedsojourn in the gloom and by the tales of death which the Trappist hadpoured into their ears that they insisted on going up again. Moreover, the candles were coming to an end. They were all dazzled when they foundthemselves once more in the sunlight, outside the little hut wherearticles of piety and souvenirs were sold. The girl bought a paperweight, a piece of marble on which was engraved the fish symbolical of"Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour of Mankind. "

On the afternoon of that same day Pierre decided to visit St. Peter's. Hehad as yet only driven across the superb piazza with its obelisk and twinfountains, encircled by Bernini's colonnades, those four rows of columnsand pilasters which form a girdle of monumental majesty. At the far endrises the basilica, its facade making it look smaller and heavier than itreally is, but its sovereign dome nevertheless filling the heavens. 

Pebbled, deserted inclines stretched out, and steps followed steps, wornand white, under the burning sun; but at last Pierre reached the door andwent in. It was three o'clock. Broad sheets of light streamed in throughthe high square windows, and some ceremony--the vesper service, nodoubt--was beginning in the Capella Clementina on the left. Pierre, however, heard nothing; he was simply struck by the immensity of theedifice, as with raised eyes he slowly walked along. At the entrance camethe giant basins for holy water with their boy-angels as chubby asCupids; then the nave, vaulted and decorated with sunken coffers; thenthe four cyclopean buttress-piers upholding the dome, and then again thetransepts and apsis, each as large as one of our churches. And the proudpomp, the dazzling, crushing splendour of everything, also astonishedhim: he marvelled at the cupola, looking like a planet, resplendent withthe gold and bright colours of its mosaic-work, at the sumptuous_baldacchino_ of bronze, crowning the high altar raised above the verytomb of St. Peter, and whence descend the double steps of the Confession, illumined by seven and eighty lamps, which are always kept burning. Andfinally he was lost in astonishment at the extraordinary profusion ofmarble, both white and coloured. Oh! those polychromatic marbles, Bernini's luxurious passion! The splendid pavement reflecting the entireedifice, the facings of the pilasters with their medallions of popes, thetiara and the keys borne aloft by chubby angels, the walls covered withemblems, particularly the dove of Innocent X, the niches with theircolossal statues uncouth in taste, the _loggie_ and their balconies, thebalustrade and double steps of the Confession, the rich altars and yetricher tombs--all, nave, aisles, transepts, and apsis, were in marble, resplendent with the wealth of marble; not a nook small as the palm ofone's hand appearing but it showed the insolent opulence of marble. Andthe basilica triumphed, beyond discussion, recognised and admired byevery one as the largest and most splendid church in the whole world--thepersonification of hugeness and magnificence combined. 

Pierre still wandered on, gazing, overcome, as yet not distinguishingdetails. He paused for a moment before the bronze statue of St. Peter, seated in a stiff, hierarchical attitude on a marble pedestal. A few ofthe faithful were there kissing the large toe of the Saint's right foot. Some of them carefully wiped it before applying their lips; others, withno thought of cleanliness, kissed it, pressed their foreheads to it, andthen kissed it again. Next, Pierre turned into the transept on the left, where stand the confessionals. Priests are ever stationed there, ready toconfess penitents in every language. Others wait, holding long staves, with which they lightly tap the heads of kneeling sinners, who therebyobtain thirty days' indulgence. However, there were few people present, and inside the small wooden boxes the priests occupied their leisure timein reading and writing, as if they were at home. Then Pierre again foundhimself before the Confession, and gazed with interest at the eightylamps, scintillating like stars. The high altar, at which the Pope alonecan officiate, seemed wrapped in the haughty melancholy of solitude underits gigantic, flowery _baldacchino_, the casting and gilding of whichcost two and twenty thousand pounds. But suddenly Pierre remembered theceremony in the Capella Clementina, and felt astonished, for he couldhear nothing of it. As he drew near a faint breath, like the far-awaypiping of a flute, was wafted to him. Then the volume of sound slowlyincreased, but it was only on reaching the chapel that he recognised anorgan peal. The sunlight here filtered through red curtains drawn beforethe windows, and thus the chapel glowed like a furnace whilst resoundingwith the grave music. But in that huge pile all became so slight, soweak, that at sixty paces neither voice nor organ could be distinguished. 

On entering the basilica Pierre had fancied that it was quite empty andlifeless. There were, however, some people there, but so few and farbetween that their presence was not noticed. A few tourists wanderedabout wearily, guide-book in hand. In the grand nave a painter with hiseasel was taking a view, as in a public gallery. Then a French seminarywent by, conducted by a prelate who named and explained the tombs. But inall that space these fifty or a hundred people looked merely like a fewblack ants who had lost themselves and were vainly seeking their way. AndPierre pictured himself in some gigantic gala hall or tremendousvestibule in an immeasurable palace of reception. The broad sheets ofsunlight streaming through the lofty square windows of plain white glassillumined the church with blending radiance. There was not a single stoolor chair: nothing but the superb, bare pavement, such as you might findin a museum, shining mirror-like under the dancing shower of sunrays. Norwas there a single corner for solitary reflection, a nook of gloom andmystery, where one might kneel and pray. In lieu thereof the sumptuous, sovereign dazzlement of broad daylight prevailed upon every side. And, onthus suddenly finding himself in this deserted opera-house, all aglowwith flaring gold and purple, Pierre could but remember the quiveringgloom of the Gothic cathedrals of France, where dim crowds sob andsupplicate amidst a forest of pillars. In presence of all this ceremonialmajesty--this huge, empty pomp, which was all Body--he recalled with apang the emaciate architecture and statuary of the middle ages, whichwere all Soul. He vainly sought for some poor, kneeling woman, somecreature swayed by faith or suffering, yielding in a modest half-light tothoughts of the unknown, and with closed lips holding communion with theinvisible. These he found not: there was but the weary wandering of thetourists, and the bustle of the prelates conducting the young priests tothe obligatory stations; while the vesper service continued in theleft-hand chapel, nought of it reaching the ears of the visitors save, perhaps, a confused vibration, as of the peal of a bell penetrating fromoutside through the vaults above. 

And Pierre then understood that this was the splendid skeleton of acolossus whence life was departing. To fill it, to animate it with asoul, all the gorgeous display of great religious ceremonies was needed;the eighty thousand worshippers which it could hold, the great pontificalpomps, the festivals of Christmas and Easter, the processions and_corteges_ displaying all the luxury of the Church amidst operaticscenery and appointments. And he tried to conjure up a picture of thepast magnificence--the basilica overflowing with an idolatrous multitude, and the superhuman _cortege_ passing along whilst every head was lowered;the cross and the sword opening the march, the cardinals going two bytwo, like twin divinities, in their rochets of lace and their mantles androbes of red moire, which train-bearers held up behind them; and at last, with Jove-like pomp, the Pope, carried on a stage draped with red velvet, seated in an arm-chair of red velvet and gold, and dressed in whitevelvet, with cope of gold, stole of gold, and tiara of gold. The bearersof the _Sedia gestatoria_* shone bravely in red tunics broidered withgold. Above the one and only Sovereign Pontiff of the world the_flabelli_ waved those huge fans of feathers which formerly were wavedbefore the idols of pagan Rome. And around the seat of triumph what adazzling, glorious court there was! The whole pontifical family, thestream of assistant prelates, the patriarchs, the archbishops, and thebishops, with vestments and mitres of gold, the _Camerieri segretipartecipanti_ in violet silk, the _Camerieri partecipanti_ of the capeand the sword in black velvet Renascence costumes, with ruffs and goldenchains, the whole innumerable ecclesiastical and laical suite, which noteven a hundred pages of the "Gerarchia" can completely enumerate, theprothonotaries, the chaplains, the prelates of every class and degree, without mentioning the military household, the gendarmes with theirbusbies, the Palatine Guards in blue trousers and black tunics, the SwissGuards costumed in red, yellow, and black, with breastplates of silver, suggesting the men at arms of some drama of the Romantic school, and theNoble Guards, superb in their high boots, white pigskins, red tunics, gold lace, epaulets, and helmets! However, since Rome had become thecapital of Italy the doors were no longer thrown wide open; on the rareoccasions when the Pope yet came down to officiate, to show himself asthe supreme representative of the Divinity on earth, the basilica wasfilled with chosen ones. To enter it you needed a card of invitation. Youno longer saw the people--a throng of fifty, even eighty, thousandChristians--flocking to the Church and swarming within it promiscuously;there was but a select gathering, a congregation of friends convened asfor a private function. Even when, by dint of effort, thousands werecollected together there, they formed but a picked audience invited tothe performance of a monster concert. 

 * The chair and stage are known by that name. --Trans. 

And as Pierre strolled among the bright, crude marbles in that cold ifgorgeous museum, the feeling grew upon him that he was in some pagantemple raised to the deity of Light and Pomp. The larger temples ofancient Rome were certainly similar piles, upheld by the same preciouscolumns, with walls covered with the same polychromatic marbles andvaulted ceilings having the same gilded panels. And his feeling wasdestined to become yet more acute after his visits to the otherbasilicas, which could but reveal the truth to him. First one found theChristian Church quietly, audaciously quartering itself in a paganchurch, as, for instance, San Lorenzo in Miranda installed in the templeof Antoninus and Faustina, and retaining the latter's rare porticus in_cipollino_ marble and its handsome white marble entablature. Then therewas the Christian Church springing from the ruins of the destroyed paganedifice, as, for example, San Clemente, beneath which centuries ofcontrary beliefs are stratified: a very ancient edifice of the time ofthe kings or the republic, then another of the days of the empireidentified as a temple of Mithras, and next a basilica of the primitivefaith. Then, too, there was the Christian Church, typified by that ofSaint Agnes-beyond-the-walls which had been built on exactly the samepattern as the Roman secular basilica--that Tribunal and Exchange whichaccompanied every Forum. And, in particular, there was the ChristianChurch erected with material stolen from the demolished pagan temples. Tothis testified the sixteen superb columns of that same Saint Agnes, columns of various marbles filched from various gods; the one and twentycolumns of Santa Maria in Trastevere, columns of all sorts of orders tornfrom a temple of Isis and Serapis, who even now are represented on theircapitals; also the six and thirty white marble Ionic columns of SantaMaria Maggiore derived from the temple of Juno Lucina; and the two andtwenty columns of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli, these varying in substance, size, and workmanship, and certain of them said to have been stolen fromJove himself, from the famous temple of Jupiter Capitolinus which roseupon the sacred summit. In addition, the temples of the opulent Imperialperiod seemed to resuscitate in our times at San Giovanni in Laterano andSan Paolo-fuori-le-mura. Was not that Basilica of San Giovanni--"theMother and Head of all the churches of the city and the earth"--like theabode of honour of some pagan divinity whose splendid kingdom was of thisworld? It boasted five naves, parted by four rows of columns; it was aprofusion of bas-reliefs, friezes, and entablatures, and its twelvecolossal statues of the Apostles looked like subordinate deities liningthe approach to the master of the gods! And did not San Paolo, latelycompleted, its new marbles shimmering like mirrors, recall the abode ofthe Olympian immortals, typical temple as it was with its majesticcolonnade, its flat, gilt-panelled ceiling, its marble pavementincomparably beautiful both in substance and workmanship, its violetcolumns with white bases and capitals, and its white entablature withviolet frieze: everywhere, indeed, you found, the mingling of those twocolours so divinely carnal in their harmony. And there, as at St. Peter's, not one patch of gloom, not one nook of mystery where one mightpeer into the invisible, could be found! And, withal, St. Peter'sremained the monster, the colossus, larger than the largest of allothers, an extravagant testimony of what the mad passion for the huge canachieve when human pride, by dint of spending millions, dreams of lodgingthe divinity in an over-vast, over-opulent palace of stone, where intruth that pride itself, and not the divinity, triumphs!

And to think that after long centuries that gala colossus had been theoutcome of the fervour of primitive faith! You found there a blossomingof that ancient sap, peculiar to the soil of Rome, which in all ages hasthrown up preposterous edifices, of exaggerated hugeness and dazzling andruinous luxury. It would seem as if the absolute masters successivelyruling the city brought that passion for cyclopean building with them, derived it from the soil in which they grew, for they transmitted it oneto the other, without a pause, from civilisation to civilisation, howeverdiverse and contrary their minds. It has all been, so to say, acontinuous blossoming of human vanity, a passionate desire to set one'sname on an imperishable wall, and, after being master of the world, toleave behind one an indestructible trace, a tangible proof of one'spassing glory, an eternal edifice of bronze and marble fit to attest thatglory until the end of time. At the bottom the spirit of conquest, theproud ambition to dominate the world, subsists; and when all hascrumbled, and a new society has sprung up from the ruins of itspredecessor, men have erred in imagining it to be cured of the sin ofpride, steeped in humility once more, for it has had the old blood in itsveins, and has yielded to the same insolent madness as its ancestors, aprey to all the violence of its heredity directly it has become great andstrong. Among the illustrious popes there has not been one that did notseek to build, did not revert to the traditions of the Caesars, eternising their reigns in stone and raising temples for resting-places, so as to rank among the gods. Ever the same passion for terrestrialimmortality has burst forth: it has been a battle as to who should leavethe highest, most substantial, most gorgeous monument; and so acute hasbeen the disease that those who, for lack of means and opportunity, havebeen unable to build, and have been forced to content themselves withrepairing, have, nevertheless, desired to bequeath the memory of theirmodest achievements to subsequent generations by commemorative marbleslabs engraved with pompous inscriptions! These slabs are to be seen onevery side: not a wall has ever been strengthened but some pope hasstamped it with his arms, not a ruin has been restored, not a palacerepaired, not a fountain cleaned, but the reigning pope has signed thework with his Roman and pagan title of "Pontifex Maximus. " It is ahaunting passion, a form of involuntary debauchery, the fated florescenceof that compost of ruins, that dust of edifices whence new edifices areever arising. And given the perversion with which the old Roman soilalmost immediately tarnished the doctrines of Jesus, that resolutepassion for domination and that desire for terrestrial glory whichwrought the triumph of Catholicism in scorn of the humble and pure, thefraternal and simple ones of the primitive Church, one may well askwhether Rome has ever been Christian at all!

And whilst Pierre was for the second time walking round the hugebasilica, admiring the tombs of the popes, truth, like a suddenillumination, burst upon him and filled him with its glow. Ah! thosetombs! Yonder in the full sunlight, in the rosy Campagna, on either sideof the Appian Way--that triumphal approach to Rome, conducting thestranger to the august Palatine with its crown of circling palaces--therearose the gigantic tombs of the powerful and wealthy, tombs ofunparalleled artistic splendour, perpetuating in marble the pride andpomp of a strong race that had mastered the world. Then, near at hand, beneath the sod, in the shrouding night of wretched mole-holes, othertombs were hidden--the tombs of the lowly, the poor, and thesuffering--tombs destitute of art or display, but whose very humilityproclaimed that a breath of affection and resignation had passed by, thatOne had come preaching love and fraternity, the relinquishment of thewealth of the earth for the everlasting joys of a future life, andcommitting to the soil the good seed of His Gospel, sowing the newhumanity which was to transform the olden world. And, behold, from thatseed, buried in the soil for centuries, behold, from those humble, unobtrusive tombs, where martyrs slept their last and gentle sleep whilstwaiting for the glorious call, yet other tombs had sprung, tombs asgigantic and as pompous as the ancient, destroyed sepulchres of theidolaters, tombs uprearing their marbles among a pagan-temple-likesplendour, proclaiming the same superhuman pride, the same mad passionfor universal sovereignty. At the time of the Renascence Rome becamepagan once more; the old imperial blood frothed up and swept Christianityaway with the greatest onslaught ever directed against it. Ah! thosetombs of the popes at St. Peter's, with their impudent, insolentglorification of the departed, their sumptuous, carnal hugeness, defyingdeath and setting immortality upon this earth. There are giant popes ofbronze, allegorical figures and angels of equivocal character wearing thebeauty of lovely girls, of passion-compelling women with the thighs andthe breasts of pagan goddesses! Paul III is seated on a high pedestal, Justice and Prudence are almost prostrate at his feet. Urban VIII isbetween Prudence and Religion, Innocent XI between Religion and Justice, Innocent XII between Justice and Charity, Gregory XIII between Religionand Strength. Attended by Prudence and Justice, Alexander VII appearskneeling, with Charity and Truth before him, and a skeleton rises updisplaying an empty hour-glass. Clement XIII, also on his knees, triumphsabove a monumental sarcophagus, against which leans Religion bearing theCross; while the Genius of Death, his elbow resting on the right-handcorner, has two huge, superb lions, emblems of omnipotence, beneath him. Bronze bespeaks the eternity of the figures, white marble describesopulent flesh, and coloured marble winds around in rich draperies, deifying the monuments under the bright, golden glow of nave and aisles. 

And Pierre passed from one tomb to the other on his way through themagnificent, deserted, sunlit basilica. Yes, these tombs, so imperial intheir ostentation, were meet companions for those of the Appian Way. Assuredly it was Rome, the soil of Rome, that soil where pride anddomination sprouted like the herbage of the fields that had transformedthe humble Christianity of primitive times, the religion of fraternity, justice, and hope into what it now was: victorious Catholicism, allied tothe rich and powerful, a huge implement of government, prepared for theconquest of every nation. The popes had awoke as Caesars. Remote heredityhad acted, the blood of Augustus had bubbled forth afresh, flowingthrough their veins and firing their minds with immeasurable ambition. Asyet none but Augustus had held the empire of the world, had been bothemperor and pontiff, master of the body and the soul. And thence had comethe eternal dream of the popes in despair at only holding the spiritualpower, and obstinately refusing to yield in temporal matters, clingingfor ever to the ancient hope that their dream might at last be realised, and the Vatican become another Palatine, whence they might reign withabsolute despotism over all the conquered nations. 

VI. 

PIERRE had been in Rome for a fortnight, and yet the affair of his bookwas no nearer solution. He was still possessed by an ardent desire to seethe Pope, but could in no wise tell how to satisfy it, so frequent werethe delays and so greatly had he been frightened by Monsignor Nani'spredictions of the dire consequences which might attend any imprudentaction. And so, foreseeing a prolonged sojourn, he at last betook himselfto the Vicariate in order that his "celebret" might be stamped, andafterwards said his mass each morning at the Church of Santa Brigida, where he received a kindly greeting from Abbe Pisoni, Benedetta's formerconfessor. 

One Monday evening he resolved to repair early to Donna Serafina'scustomary reception in the hope of learning some news and expediting hisaffairs. Perhaps Monsignor Nani would look in; perhaps he might be luckyenough to come across some cardinal or domestic prelate willing to helphim. It was in vain that he had tried to extract any positive informationfrom Don Vigilio, for, after a short spell of affability and willingness, Cardinal Pio's secretary had relapsed into distrust and fear, and avoidedPierre as if he were resolved not to meddle in a business which, allconsidered, was decidedly suspicious and dangerous. Moreover, for acouple of days past a violent attack of fever had compelled him to keephis room. 

Thus the only person to whom Pierre could turn for comfort was VictorineBosquet, the old Beauceronne servant who had been promoted to the rank ofhousekeeper, and who still retained a French heart after thirty years'residence in Rome. She often spoke to the young priest of Auneau, hernative place, as if she had left it only the previous day; but on thatparticular Monday even she had lost her wonted gay vivacity, and when sheheard that he meant to go down in the evening to see the ladies shewagged her head significantly. "Ah! you won't find them very cheerful, "said she. "My poor Benedetta is greatly worried. Her divorce suit is notprogressing at all well. "

All Rome, indeed, was again talking of this affair. An extraordinaryrevival of tittle-tattle had set both white and black worlds agog. And sothere was no need for reticence on Victorine's part, especially inconversing with a compatriot. It appeared, then, that, in reply toAdvocate Morano's memoir setting forth that the marriage had not beenconsummated, there had come another memoir, a terrible one, emanatingfrom Monsignor Palma, a doctor in theology, whom the Congregation of theCouncil had selected to defend the marriage. As a first point, MonsignorPalma flatly disputed the alleged non-consummation, questioned thecertificate put forward on Benedetta's behalf, and quoted instancesrecorded in scientific text-books which showed how deceptive appearancesoften were. He strongly insisted, moreover, on the narrative which CountPrada supplied in another memoir, a narrative well calculated to inspiredoubt; and, further, he so turned and twisted the evidence of Benedetta'sown maid as to make that evidence also serve against her. Finally heargued in a decisive way that, even supposing the marriage had not beenconsummated, this could only be ascribed to the resistance of theCountess, who had thus set at defiance one of the elementary laws ofmarried life, which was that a wife owed obedience to her husband. 

Next had come a fourth memoir, drawn up by the reporter of theCongregation, who analysed and discussed the three others, andsubsequently the Congregation itself had dealt with the matter, opiningin favour of the dissolution of the marriage by a majority of onevote--such a bare majority, indeed, that Monsignor Palma, exercising hisrights, had hastened to demand further inquiry, a course which broughtthe whole _procedure_ again into question, and rendered a fresh votenecessary. 

"Ah! the poor Contessina!" exclaimed Victorine, "she'll surely die ofgrief, for, calm as she may seem, there's an inward fire consuming her. It seems that Monsignor Palma is the master of the situation, and canmake the affair drag on as long as he likes. And then a deal of money hadalready been spent, and one will have to spend a lot more. Abbe Pisoni, whom you know, was very badly inspired when he helped on that marriage;and though I certainly don't want to soil the memory of my good mistress, Countess Ernesta, who was a real saint, it's none the less true that shewrecked her daughter's life when she gave her to Count Prada. "

The housekeeper paused. Then, impelled by an instinctive sense ofjustice, she resumed. "It's only natural that Count Prada should beannoyed, for he's really being made a fool of. And, for my part, as thereis no end to all the fuss, and this divorce is so hard to obtain, Ireally don't see why the Contessina shouldn't live with her Dario withouttroubling any further. Haven't they loved one another ever since theywere children? Aren't they both young and handsome, and wouldn't they behappy together, whatever the world might say? Happiness, _mon Dieu_! onefinds it so seldom that one can't afford to let it pass. "

Then, seeing how greatly surprised Pierre was at hearing such language, she began to laugh with the quiet composure of one belonging to thehumble classes of France, whose only desire is a quiet and happy life, irrespective of matrimonial ties. Next, in more discreet language, sheproceeded to lament another worry which had fallen on the household, another result of the divorce affair. A rupture had come about betweenDonna Serafina and Advocate Morano, who was very displeased with the illsuccess of his memoir to the congregation, and accused FatherLorenza--the confessor of the Boccanera ladies--of having urged them intoa deplorable lawsuit, whose only fruit could be a wretched scandalaffecting everybody. And so great had been Morano's annoyance that he hadnot returned to the Boccanera mansion, but had severed a connection ofthirty years' standing, to the stupefaction of all the Romandrawing-rooms, which altogether disapproved of his conduct. DonnaSerafina was, for her part, the more grieved as she suspected theadvocate of having purposely picked the quarrel in order to secure anexcuse for leaving her; his real motive, in her estimation, being asudden, disgraceful passion for a young and intriguing woman of themiddle classes. 

That Monday evening, when Pierre entered the drawing-room, hung withyellow brocatelle of a flowery Louis XIV pattern, he at once realisedthat melancholy reigned in the dim light radiating from the lace-veiledlamps. Benedetta and Celia, seated on a sofa, were chatting with Dario, whilst Cardinal Sarno, ensconced in an arm-chair, listened to theceaseless chatter of the old relative who conducted the little Princessto each Monday gathering. And the only other person present was DonnaSerafina, seated all alone in her wonted place on the right-hand side ofthe chimney-piece, and consumed with secret rage at seeing the chair onthe left-hand side unoccupied--that chair which Morano had always takenduring the thirty years that he had been faithful to her. Pierre noticedwith what anxious and then despairing eyes she observed his entrance, herglance ever straying towards the door, as though she even yet hoped forthe fickle one's return. Withal her bearing was erect and proud; sheseemed to be more tightly laced than ever; and there was all the wontedhaughtiness on her hard-featured face, with its jet-black eyebrows andsnowy hair. 

Pierre had no sooner paid his respects to her than he allowed his ownworry to appear by inquiring whether they would not have the pleasure ofseeing Monsignor Nani that evening. Thereupon Donna Serafina could notrefrain from answering: "Oh! Monsignor Nani is forsaking us like theothers. People always take themselves off when they can be of service. "

She harboured a spite against the prelate for having done so little tofurther the divorce in spite of his many promises. Beneath his outwardshow of extreme willingness and caressing affability he doubtlessconcealed some scheme of his own which he was tenaciously pursuing. However, Donna Serafina promptly regretted the confession which anger hadwrung from her, and resumed: "After all, he will perhaps come. He is sogood-natured, and so fond of us. "

In spite of the vivacity of her temperament she really wished to actdiplomatically, so as to overcome the bad luck which had recently set in. Her brother the Cardinal had told her how irritated he was by theattitude of the Congregation of the Council; he had little doubt that thefrigid reception accorded to his niece's suit had been due in part to thedesire of some of his brother cardinals to be disagreeable to him. Personally, he desired the divorce, as it seemed to him the only means ofensuring the perpetuation of the family; for Dario obstinately refused tomarry any other woman than his cousin. And thus there was an accumulationof disasters; the Cardinal was wounded in his pride, his sister sharedhis sufferings and on her own side was stricken in the heart, whilst bothlovers were plunged in despair at finding their hopes yet again deferred. 

As Pierre approached the sofa where the young folks were chatting hefound that they were speaking of the catastrophe. "Why should you be sodespondent?" asked Celia in an undertone. "After all, there was amajority of a vote in favour of annulling the marriage. Your suit hasn'tbeen rejected; there is only a delay. "

But Benedetta shook her head. "No, no! If Monsignor Palma provesobstinate his Holiness will never consent. It's all over. "

"Ah! if one were only rich, very rich!" murmured Dario, with such an airof conviction that no one smiled. And, turning to his cousin, he added ina whisper: "I must really have a talk with you. We cannot go on livinglike this. "

In a breath she responded: "Yes, you are right. Come down to-morrowevening at five. I will be here alone. "

Then dreariness set in; the evening seemed to have no end. Pierre wasgreatly touched by the evident despair of Benedetta, who as a rule was socalm and sensible. The deep eyes which illumined her pure, delicate, infantile face were now blurred as by restrained tears. He had alreadyformed a sincere affection for her, pleased as he was with her equable ifsomewhat indolent disposition, the semblance of discreet good sense withwhich she veiled her soul of fire. That Monday even she certainly triedto smile while listening to the pretty secrets confided to her by Celia, whose love affairs were prospering far more than her own. There was onlyone brief interval of general conversation, and that was brought about bythe little Princess's aunt, who, suddenly raising her voice, began tospeak of the infamous manner in which the Italian newspapers referred tothe Holy Father. Never, indeed, had there been so much bad feelingbetween the Vatican and the Quirinal. Cardinal Sarno felt so strongly onthe subject that he departed from his wonted silence to announce that onthe occasion of the sacrilegious festivities of the Twentieth ofSeptember, celebrating the capture of Rome, the Pope intended to cast afresh letter of protest in the face of all the Christian powers, whoseindifference proved their complicity in the odious spoliation of theChurch. 

"Yes, indeed! what folly to try and marry the Pope and the King, "bitterly exclaimed Donna Serafina, alluding to her niece's deplorablemarriage. 

The old maid now seemed quite beside herself; it was already so late thatneither Monsignor Nani nor anybody else was expected. However, at theunhoped-for sound of footsteps her eyes again brightened and turnedfeverishly towards the door. But it was only to encounter a finaldisappointment. The visitor proved to be Narcisse Habert, who stepped upto her, apologising for making so late a call. It was Cardinal Sarno, hisuncle by marriage, who had introduced him into this exclusive _salon_, where he had received a cordial reception on account of his religiousviews, which were said to be most uncompromising. If, however, despitethe lateness of the hour, he had ventured to call there that evening, itwas solely on account of Pierre, whom he at once drew on one side. 

"I felt sure I should find you here, " he said. "Just now I managed to seemy cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, and I have some good news for you. He will see us to-morrow at about eleven in his rooms at the Vatican. "Then, lowering his voice: "I think he will endeavour to conduct you tothe Holy Father. Briefly, the audience seems to me assured. "

Pierre was greatly delighted by this promised certainty, which came tohim so suddenly in that dreary drawing-room, where for a couple of hourshe had been gradually sinking into despair! So at last a solution was athand!

Meantime Narcisse, after shaking hands with Dario and bowing to Benedettaand Celia, approached his uncle the Cardinal, who, having rid himself ofthe old relation, made up his mind to talk. But his conversation wasconfined to the state of his health, and the weather, and sundryinsignificant anecdotes which he had lately heard. Not a word escaped himrespecting the thousand complicated matters with which he dealt at thePropaganda. It was as though, once outside his office, he plunged intothe commonplace and the unimportant by way of resting from the anxioustask of governing the world. And after he had spoken for a time every onegot up, and the visitors took leave. 

"Don't forget, " Narcisse repeated to Pierre, "you will find me at theSixtine Chapel to-morrow at ten. And I will show you the Botticellisbefore we go to our appointment. "

At half-past nine on the following morning Pierre, who had come on foot, was already on the spacious Piazza of St. Peter's; and before turning tothe right, towards the bronze gate near one corner of Bernini'scolonnade, he raised his eyes and lingered, gazing at the Vatican. Nothing to his mind could be less monumental than the jumble of buildingswhich, without semblance of architectural order or regularity of anykind, had grown up in the shadow cast by the dome of the basilica. Roofsrose one above the other and broad, flat walls stretched out chance-wise, just as wings and storeys had been added. The only symmetry observableabove the colonnade was that of the three sides of the court of SanDamaso, where the lofty glass-work which now encloses the old _loggie_sparkled in the sun between the ruddy columns and pilasters, suggesting, as it were, three huge conservatories. 

And this was the most beautiful palace in the world, the largest of allpalaces, comprising no fewer than eleven thousand apartments andcontaining the most admirable masterpieces of human genius! But Pierre, disillusioned as he was, had eyes only for the lofty facade on the right, overlooking the piazza, for he knew that the second-floor windows therewere those of the Pope's private apartments. And he contemplated thosewindows for a long time, and remembered having been told that the fifthone on the right was that of the Pope's bed-room, and that a lamp couldalways be seen burning there far into the night. 

What was there, too, behind that gate of bronze which he saw beforehim--that sacred portal by which all the kingdoms of the worldcommunicated with the kingdom of heaven, whose august vicar had secludedhimself behind those lofty, silent walls? From where he stood Pierregazed on that gate with its metal panels studded with large square-headednails, and wondered what it defended, what it concealed, what it shut offfrom the view, with its stern, forbidding air, recalling that of the gateof some ancient fortress. What kind of world would he find behind it, what treasures of human charity jealously preserved in yonder gloom, whatrevivifying hope for the new nations hungering for fraternity andjustice? He took pleasure in fancying, in picturing the one holy pastorof humanity, ever watching in the depths of that closed palace, and, while the nations strayed into hatred, preparing all for the final reignof Jesus, and at last proclaiming the advent of that reign bytransforming our democracies into the one great Christian communitypromised by the Saviour. Assuredly the world's future was being preparedbehind that bronze portal; assuredly it was that future which would issueforth. 

But all at once Pierre was amazed to find himself face to face withMonsignor Nani, who had just left the Vatican on his way to theneighbouring Palace of the Inquisition, where, as Assessor, he had hisresidence. 

"Ah! Monsignor, " said Pierre, "I am very pleased. My friend MonsieurHabert is going to present me to his cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, and I think I shall obtain the audience I so greatly desire. "

Monsignor Nani smiled with his usual amiable yet keen expression. "Yes, yes, I know. " But, correcting himself as it were, he added: "I share yoursatisfaction, my dear son. Only, you must be prudent. " And then, as iffearing that the young priest might have understood by his first wordsthat he had just seen Monsignor Gamba, the most easily terrified prelateof the whole prudent pontifical family, he related that he had beenrunning about since an early hour on behalf of two French ladies, wholikewise were dying of a desire to see the Pope. However, he greatlyfeared that the help he was giving them would not prove successful. 

"I will confess to you, Monsignor, " replied Pierre, "that I myself wasgetting very discouraged. Yes, it is high time I should find a littlecomfort, for my sojourn here is hardly calculated to brace my soul. "

He went on in this strain, allowing it to be seen that the sights of Romewere finally destroying his faith. Such days as those which he had spenton the Palatine and along the Appian Way, in the Catacombs and at St. Peter's, grievously disturbed him, spoilt his dream of Christianityrejuvenated and triumphant. He emerged from them full of doubt andgrowing lassitude, having already lost much of his usually rebelliousenthusiasm. 

Still smiling, Monsignor Nani listened and nodded approvingly. Yes, nodoubt that was the fatal result. He seemed to have foreseen it, and to bewell satisfied thereat. "At all events, my dear son, " said he, "everything is going on well, since you are now certain that you will seehis Holiness. "

"That is true, Monsignor; I have placed my only hope in the very just andperspicacious Leo XIII. He alone can judge me, since he alone canrecognise in my book his own ideas, which I think I have very faithfullyset forth. Ah! if he be willing he will, in Jesus' name and by democracyand science, save this old world of ours!"

Pierre's enthusiasm was returning again, and Nani, smiling more and moreaffably with his piercing eyes and thin lips, again expressed approval:"Certainly; quite so, my dear son. You will speak to him, you will see. "

Then as they both raised their heads and looked towards the Vatican, Nanicarried his amiability so far as to undeceive Pierre with respect to thePope's bed-room. No, the window where a light was seen every evening wassimply that of a landing where the gas was kept burning almost all night. The window of his Holiness's bed-chamber was the second one farther on. Then both relapsed into silence, equally grave as they continued to gazeat the facade. 

"Well, till we meet again, my dear son, " said Nani at last. "You willtell me of your interview, I hope. "

As soon as Pierre was alone he went in by the bronze portal, his heartbeating violently, as if he were entering some redoubtable sanctuarywhere the future happiness of mankind was elaborated. A sentry was onduty there, a Swiss guard, who walked slowly up and down in a grey-bluecloak, below which one only caught a glimpse of his baggy red, black, andyellow breeches; and it seemed as if this cloak of sober hue werepurposely cast over a disguise in order to conceal its strangeness, whichhad become irksome. Then, on the right-hand, came the covered stairwayconducting to the Court of San Damaso; but to reach the Sixtine Chapel itwas necessary to follow a long gallery, with columns on either hand, andascend the royal staircase, the Scala Regia. And in this realm of thegigantic, where every dimension is exaggerated and replete withoverpowering majesty, Pierre's breath came short as he ascended the broadsteps. 

He was much surprised on entering the Sixtine Chapel, for it at firstseemed to him small, a sort of rectangular and lofty hall, with adelicate screen of white marble separating the part where guestscongregate on the occasion of great ceremonies from the choir where thecardinals sit on simple oaken benches, while the inferior prelates remainstanding behind them. On a low platform to the right of the soberlyadorned altar is the pontifical throne; while in the wall on the leftopens the narrow singing gallery with its balcony of marble. And foreverything suddenly to spread out and soar into the infinite one mustraise one's head, allow one's eyes to ascend from the huge fresco of theLast Judgment, occupying the whole of the end wall, to the paintingswhich cover the vaulted ceiling down to the cornice extending between thetwelve windows of white glass, six on either hand. 

Fortunately there were only three or four quiet tourists there; andPierre at once perceived Narcisse Habert occupying one of the cardinals'seats above the steps where the train-bearers crouch. Motionless, andwith his head somewhat thrown back, the young man seemed to be inecstasy. But it was not the work of Michael Angelo that he thuscontemplated. His eyes never strayed from one of the earlier frescoesbelow the cornice; and on recognising the priest he contented himselfwith murmuring: "Ah! my friend, just look at the Botticelli. " Then, withdreamy eyes, he relapsed into a state of rapture. 

Pierre, for his part, had received a great shock both in heart and inmind, overpowered as he was by the superhuman genius of Michael Angelo. The rest vanished; there only remained, up yonder, as in a limitlessheaven, the extraordinary creations of the master's art. That which atfirst surprised one was that the painter should have been the soleartisan of the mighty work. No marble cutters, no bronze workers, nogilders, no one of another calling had intervened. The painter with hisbrush had sufficed for all--for the pilasters, columns, and cornices ofmarble, for the statues and the ornaments of bronze, for the _fleurons_and roses of gold, for the whole of the wondrously rich decorative workwhich surrounded the frescoes. And Pierre imagined Michael Angelo on theday when the bare vault was handed over to him, covered with plaster, offering only a flat white surface, hundreds of square yards to beadorned. And he pictured him face to face with that huge white page, refusing all help, driving all inquisitive folks away, jealously, violently shutting himself up alone with his gigantic task, spending fourand a half years in fierce solitude, and day by day adding to hiscolossal work of creation. Ah! that mighty work, a task to fill a wholelifetime, a task which he must have begun with quiet confidence in hisown will and power, drawing, as it were, an entire world from his brainand flinging it there with the ceaseless flow of creative virility in thefull heyday of its omnipotence. 

And Pierre was yet more overcome when he began to examine thesepresentments of humanity, magnified as by the eyes of a visionary, overflowing in mighty sympathetic pages of cyclopean symbolisation. Royalgrace and nobility, sovereign peacefulness and power--every beauty shoneout like natural florescence. And there was perfect science, the mostaudacious foreshortening risked with the certainty of success--aneverlasting triumph of technique over the difficulty which an archedsurface presented. And, in particular, there was wonderful simplicity ofmedium; matter was reduced almost to nothingness; a few colours were usedbroadly without any studied search for effect or brilliancy. Yet thatsufficed, the blood seethed freely, the muscles projected, the figuresbecame animated and stood out of their frames with such energy and dashthat it seemed as if a flame were flashing by aloft, endowing all thosebeings with superhuman and immortal life. Life, aye, it was life, whichburst forth and triumphed--mighty, swarming life, miraculous life, thecreation of one sole hand possessed of the supreme gift--simplicityblended with power. 

That a philosophical system, a record of the whole of human destiny, should have been found therein, with the creation of the world, of man, and of woman, the fall, the chastisement, then the redemption, andfinally God's judgment on the last day--this was a matter on which Pierrewas unable to dwell, at this first visit, in the wondering stupor intowhich the paintings threw him. But he could not help noticing how thehuman body, its beauty, its power, and its grace were exalted! Ah! thatregal Jehovah, at once terrible and paternal, carried off amid thewhirlwind of his creation, his arms outstretched and giving birth toworlds! And that superb and nobly outlined Adam, with extended hand, whomJehovah, though he touch him not, animates with his finger--a wondrousand admirable gesture, leaving a sacred space between the finger of theCreator and that of the created--a tiny space, in which, nevertheless, abides all the infinite of the invisible and the mysterious. And thenthat powerful yet adorable Eve, that Eve with the sturdy flanks fit forthe bearing of humanity, that Eve with the proud, tender grace of a womanbent on being loved even to perdition, that Eve embodying the whole ofwoman with her fecundity, her seductiveness, her empire! Moreover, eventhe decorative figures of the pilasters at the corners of the frescoescelebrate the triumph of the flesh: there are the twenty young menradiant in their nakedness, with incomparable splendour of torso and oflimb, and such intensity of life that a craze for motion seems to carrythem off, bend them, throw them over in superb attitudes. And between thewindows are the giants, the prophets and the sibyls--man and womandeified, with inordinate wealth of muscle and grandeur of intellectualexpression. There is Jeremiah with his elbow resting on his knee and hischin on his hand, plunged as he is in reflection--in the very depths ofhis visions and his dreams; there is the Sibylla Erithraea, so pure ofprofile, so young despite the opulence of her form, and with one fingerresting on the open book of destiny; there is Isaiah with the thick lipsof truth, virile and haughty, his head half turned and his hand raisedwith a gesture of command; there is the Sibylla Cumaea, terrifying withher science and her old age, her wrinkled countenance, her vulture'snose, her square protruding chin; there is Jonah cast forth by the whale, and wondrously foreshortened, his torso twisted, his arms bent, his headthrown back, and his mouth agape and shouting: and there are the others, all of the same full-blown, majestic family, reigning with thesovereignty of eternal health and intelligence, and typifying the dreamof a broader, loftier, and indestructible humanity. Moreover, in thelunettes and the arches over the windows other figures of grace, power, and beauty appear and throng, the ancestors of the Christ, thoughtfulmothers with lovely nude infants, men with wondering eyes peering intothe future, representatives of the punished weary race longing for thepromised Redeemer; while in the pendentives of the four corners variousbiblical episodes, the victories of Israel over the Spirit of Evil, spring into life. And finally there is the gigantic fresco at the farend, the Last Judgment with its swarming multitude, so numerous that daysand days are needed to see each figure aright, a distracted crowd, fullof the hot breath of life, from the dead rising in response to thefurious trumpeting of the angels, from the fearsome groups of the damnedwhom the demons fling into hell, even to Jesus the justiciar, surroundedby the saints and apostles, and to the radiant concourse of the blessedwho ascend upheld by angels, whilst higher and still higher other angels, bearing the instruments of the Passion, triumph as in full glory. Andyet, above this gigantic composition, painted thirty years subsequently, in the full ripeness of age, the ceiling retains its ethereality, itsunquestionable superiority, for on it the artist bestowed all his virginpower, his whole youth, the first great flare of his genius. 

And Pierre found but one word to express his feelings: Michael Angelo wasthe monster dominating and crushing all others. Beneath his immenseachievement you had only to glance at the works of Perugino, Pinturicchio, Roselli, Signorelli, and Botticelli, those earlierfrescoes, admirable in their way, which below the cornice spread outaround the chapel. 

Narcisse for his part had not raised his eyes to the overpoweringsplendour of the ceiling. Wrapt in ecstasy, he did not allow his gaze tostray from one of the three frescoes of Botticelli. "Ah! Botticelli, " heat last murmured; "in him you have the elegance and the grace of themysterious; a profound feeling of sadness even in the midst ofvoluptuousness, a divination of the whole modern soul, with the mosttroublous charm that ever attended artist's work. "

Pierre glanced at him in amazement, and then ventured to inquire: "Youcome here to see the Botticellis?"

"Yes, certainly, " the young man quietly replied; "I only come here forhim, and five hours every week I only look at his work. There, just studythat fresco, Moses and the daughters of Jethro. Isn't it the mostpenetrating work that human tenderness and melancholy have produced?"

Then, with a faint, devout quiver in his voice and the air of a priestinitiating another into the delightful but perturbing atmosphere of asanctuary, he went on repeating the praises of Botticelli's art; hiswomen with long, sensual, yet candid faces, supple bearing, and roundedforms showing from under light drapery; his young men, his angels ofdoubtful sex, blending stateliness of muscle with infinite delicacy ofoutline; next the mouths he painted, fleshy, fruit-like mouths, at timessuggesting irony, at others pain, and often so enigmatical with theirsinuous curves that one knew not whether the words they left unutteredwere words of purity or filth; then, too, the eyes which he bestowed onhis figures, eyes of languor and passion, of carnal or mystical rapture, their joy at times so instinct with grief as they peer into the nihilityof human things that no eyes in the world could be more impenetrable. Andfinally there were Botticelli's hands, so carefully and delicatelypainted, so full of life, wantoning so to say in a free atmosphere, nowjoining, caressing, and even, as it were, speaking, the whole evincingsuch intense solicitude for gracefulness that at times there seems to beundue mannerism, though every hand has its particular expression, eachvarying expression of the enjoyment or pain which the sense of touch canbring. And yet there was nothing effeminate or false about the painter'swork: on all sides a sort of virile pride was apparent, an atmosphere ofsuperb passionate motion, absolute concern for truth, direct study fromlife, conscientiousness, veritable realism, corrected and elevated by agenial strangeness of feeling and character that imparted anever-to-be-forgotten charm even to ugliness itself. 

Pierre's stupefaction, however, increased as he listened to Narcisse, whose somewhat studied elegance, whose curly hair cut in the Florentinefashion, and whose blue, mauvish eyes paling with enthusiasm he now forthe first time remarked. "Botticelli, " he at last said, "was no doubt amarvellous artist, only it seems to me that here, at any rate, MichaelAngelo--"

But Narcisse interrupted him almost with violence. "No! no! Don't talk ofhim! He spoilt everything, ruined everything! A man who harnessed himselfto his work like an ox, who laboured at his task like a navvy, at therate of so many square yards a day! And a man, too, with no sense of themysterious and the unknown, who saw everything so huge as to disgust onewith beauty, painting girls like the trunks of oak-trees, women likegiant butchers, with heaps and heaps of stupid flesh, and never a gleamof a divine or infernal soul! He was a mason--a colossal mason, if youlike--but he was nothing more. "

Weary "modern" that Narcisse was, spoilt by the pursuit of the originaland the rare, he thus unconsciously gave rein to his fated hate of healthand power. That Michael Angelo who brought forth without an effort, whohad left behind him the most prodigious of all artistic creations, wasthe enemy. And his crime precisely was that he had created life, producedlife in such excess that all the petty creations of others, even the mostdelightful among them, vanished in presence of the overflowing torrent ofhuman beings flung there all alive in the sunlight. 

"Well, for my part, " Pierre courageously declared, "I'm not of youropinion. I now realise that life is everything in art; that realimmortality belongs only to those who create. The case of Michael Angeloseems to me decisive, for he is the superhuman master, the monster whooverwhelms all others, precisely because he brought forth thatmagnificent living flesh which offends your sense of delicacy. Those whoare inclined to the curious, those who have minds of a pretty turn, whoseintellects are ever seeking to penetrate things, may try to improve onthe equivocal and invisible, and set all the charm of art in someelaborate stroke or symbolisation; but, none the less, Michael Angeloremains the all-powerful, the maker of men, the master of clearness, simplicity, and health. "

At this Narcisse smiled with indulgent and courteous disdain. And heanticipated further argument by remarking: "It's already eleven. Mycousin was to have sent a servant here as soon as he could receive us. Iam surprised to have seen nobody as yet. Shall we go up to see the_stanze_ of Raffaelle while we wait?"

Once in the rooms above, he showed himself perfect, both lucid in hisremarks and just in his appreciations, having recovered all his easyintelligence as soon as he was no longer upset by his hatred of colossallabour and cheerful decoration. 

It was unfortunate that Pierre should have first visited the SixtineChapel; for it was necessary he should forget what he had just seen andaccustom himself to what he now beheld in order to enjoy its pure beauty. It was as if some potent wine had confused him, and prevented anyimmediate relish of a lighter vintage of delicate fragrance. Admirationdid not here fall upon one with lightning speed; it was slowly, irresistibly that one grew charmed. And the contrast was like that ofRacine beside Corneille, Lamartine beside Hugo, the eternal pair, themasculine and feminine genius coupled through centuries of glory. WithRaffaelle it is nobility, grace, exquisiteness, and correctness of line, and divineness of harmony that triumph. You do not find in him merely thematerialist symbolism so superbly thrown off by Michael Angelo; heintroduces psychological analysis of deep penetration into the painter'sart. Man is shown more purified, idealised; one sees more of that whichis within him. And though one may be in presence of an artist ofsentimental bent, a feminine genius whose quiver of tenderness one canfeel, it is also certain that admirable firmness of workmanship confrontsone, that the whole is very strong and very great. Pierre graduallyyielded to such sovereign masterliness, such virile elegance, such avision of supreme beauty set in supreme perfection. But if the "Disputeon the Sacrament" and the so-called "School of Athens, " both prior to thepaintings of the Sixtine Chapel, seemed to him to be Raffaelle'smasterpieces, he felt that in the "Burning of the Borgo, " andparticularly in the "Expulsion of Heliodorus from the Temple, " and "PopeSt. Leo staying Attila at the Gates of Rome, " the artist had lost theflower of his divine grace, through the deep impression which theoverwhelming grandeur of Michael Angelo had wrought upon him. Howcrushing indeed had been the blow when the Sixtine Chapel was thrown openand the rivals entered! The creations of the monster then appeared, andthe greatest of the humanisers lost some of his soul at sight of them, thenceforward unable to rid himself of their influence. 

From the _stanze_ Narcisse took Pierre to the _loggie_, those glazedgalleries which are so high and so delicately decorated. But here youonly find work which pupils executed after designs left by Raffaelle athis death. The fall was sudden and complete, and never had Pierre betterunderstood that genius is everything--that when it disappears the schoolcollapses. The man of genius sums up his period; at a given hour hethrows forth all the sap of the social soil, which afterwards remainsexhausted often for centuries. So Pierre became more particularlyinterested in the fine view that the _loggie_ afford, and all at once henoticed that the papal apartments were in front of him, just across theCourt of San Damaso. This court, with its porticus, fountain, and whitepavement, had an aspect of empty, airy, sunlit solemnity which surprisedhim. There was none of the gloom or pent-up religious mystery that he haddreamt of with his mind full of the surroundings of the old northerncathedrals. Right and left of the steps conducting to the rooms of thePope and the Cardinal Secretary of State four or five carriages wereranged, the coachmen stiffly erect and the horses motionless in thebrilliant light; and nothing else peopled that vast square desert of acourt which, with its bareness gilded by the coruscations of itsglass-work and the ruddiness of its stones, suggested a pagan templededicated to the sun. But what more particularly struck Pierre was thesplendid panorama of Rome, for he had not hitherto imagined that the Popefrom his windows could thus behold the entire city spread out before himas if he merely had to stretch forth his hand to make it his own oncemore. 

While Pierre contemplated the scene a sound of voices caused him to turn;and he perceived a servant in black livery who, after repeating a messageto Narcisse, was retiring with a deep bow. Looking much annoyed, the_attache_ approached the young priest. "Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, " saidhe, "has sent word that he can't see us this morning. Some unexpectedduties require his presence. " However, Narcisse's embarrassment showedthat he did not believe in the excuse, but rather suspected some one ofhaving so terrified his cousin that the latter was afraid of compromisinghimself. Obliging and courageous as Habert himself was, this made himindignant. Still he smiled and resumed: "Listen, perhaps there's a meansof forcing an entry. If your time is your own we can lunch together andthen return to visit the Museum of Antiquities. I shall certainly end bycoming across my cousin and we may, perhaps, be lucky enough to meet thePope should he go down to the gardens. "

At the news that his audience was yet again postponed Pierre had feltkeenly disappointed. However, as the whole day was at his disposal, hewillingly accepted the _attache's_ offer. They lunched in front of St. Peter's, in a little restaurant of the Borgo, most of whose customerswere pilgrims, and the fare, as it happened, was far from good. Then atabout two o'clock they set off for the museum, skirting the basilica byway of the Piazza della Sagrestia. It was a bright, deserted, burningdistrict; and again, but in a far greater degree, did the young priestexperience that sensation of bare, tawny, sun-baked majesty which hadcome upon him while gazing into the Court of San Damaso. Then, as hepassed the apse of St. Peter's, the enormity of the colossus was broughthome to him more strongly than ever: it rose like a giant bouquet ofarchitecture edged by empty expanses of pavement sprinkled with fineweeds. And in all the silent immensity there were only two childrenplaying in the shadow of a wall. The old papal mint, the Zecca, now anItalian possession, and guarded by soldiers of the royal army, is on theleft of the passage leading to the museums, while on the right, just infront, is one of the entrances of honour to the Vatican where the papalSwiss Guard keeps watch and ward; and this is the entrance by which, according to etiquette, the pair-horse carriages convey the Pope'svisitors into the Court of San Damaso. 

Following the long lane which ascends between a wing of the palace andits garden wall, Narcisse and Pierre at last reached the Museum ofAntiquities. Ah! what a museum it is, with galleries innumerable, amuseum compounded of three museums, the Pio-Clementino, Chiaramonti, andthe Braccio-Nuovo, and containing a whole world found beneath the soil, then exhumed, and now glorified in full sunlight. For more than two hoursPierre went from one hall to another, dazzled by the masterpieces, bewildered by the accumulation of genius and beauty. It was not only thecelebrated examples of statuary, the Laocoon and the Apollo of thecabinets of the Belvedere, the Meleager, or even the torso ofHercules--that astonished him. He was yet more impressed by the_ensemble_, by the innumerable quantities of Venuses, Bacchuses, anddeified emperors and empresses, by the whole superb growth of beautifulor August flesh celebrating the immortality of life. Three dayspreviously he had visited the Museum of the Capitol, where he had admiredthe Venus, the Dying Gaul, * the marvellous Centaurs of black marble, andthe extraordinary collection of busts, but here his admiration becameintensified into stupor by the inexhaustible wealth of the galleries. And, with more curiosity for life than for art, perhaps, he againlingered before the busts which so powerfully resuscitate the Rome ofhistory--the Rome which, whilst incapable of realising the ideal beautyof Greece, was certainly well able to create life. The emperors, thephilosophers, the learned men, the poets are all there, and live such asthey really were, studied and portrayed in all scrupulousness with theirdeformities, their blemishes, the slightest peculiarities of theirfeatures. And from this extreme solicitude for truth springs a wonderfulwealth of character and an incomparable vision of the past. Nothing, indeed, could be loftier: the very men live once more, and retrace thehistory of their city, that history which has been so falsified that theteaching of it has caused generations of school-boys to hold antiquity inhorror. But on seeing the men, how well one understands, how fully onecan sympathise! And indeed the smallest bits of marble, the maimedstatues, the bas-reliefs in fragments, even the isolated limbs--whetherthe divine arm of a nymph or the sinewy, shaggy thigh of a satyr--evokethe splendour of a civilisation full of light, grandeur, and strength. 

 * Best known in England, through Byron's lines, as the Dying Gladiator, though that appellation is certainly erroneous. --Trans. 

At last Narcisse brought Pierre back into the Gallery of the Candelabra, three hundred feet in length and full of fine examples of sculpture. "Listen, my dear Abbe, " said he. "It is scarcely more than four o'clock, and we will sit down here for a while, as I am told that the Holy Fathersometimes passes this way to go down to the gardens. It would be reallylucky if you could see him, perhaps even speak to him--who can tell? Atall events, it will rest you, for you must be tired out. "

Narcisse was known to all the attendants, and his relationship toMonsignor Gamba gave him the run of almost the entire Vatican, where hewas fond of spending his leisure time. Finding two chairs, they sat down, and the _attache_ again began to talk of art. 

How astonishing had been the destiny of Rome, what a singular, borrowedroyalty had been hers! She seemed like a centre whither the whole worldconverged, but where nothing grew from the soil itself, which from theoutset appeared to be stricken with sterility. The arts required to beacclimatised there; it was necessary to transplant the genius ofneighbouring nations, which, once there, however, flourishedmagnificently. Under the emperors, when Rome was the queen of the earth, the beauty of her monuments and sculpture came to her from Greece. Later, when Christianity arose in Rome, it there remained impregnated withpaganism; it was on another soil that it produced Gothic art, theChristian Art _par excellence_. Later still, at the Renascence, it wascertainly at Rome that the age of Julius II and Leo X shone forth; butthe artists of Tuscany and Umbria prepared the evolution, brought it toRome that it might thence expand and soar. For the second time, indeed, art came to Rome from without, and gave her the royalty of the world byblossoming so triumphantly within her walls. Then occurred theextraordinary awakening of antiquity, Apollo and Venus resuscitatedworshipped by the popes themselves, who from the time of Nicholas Vdreamt of making papal Rome the equal of the imperial city. After theprecursors, so sincere, tender, and strong in their art--Fra Angelico, Perugino, Botticelli, and so many others--came the two sovereigns, Michael Angelo and Raffaelle, the superhuman and the divine. Then thefall was sudden, years elapsed before the advent of Caravaggio with powerof colour and modelling, all that the science of painting could achievewhen bereft of genius. And afterwards the decline continued until Berniniwas reached--Bernini, the real creator of the Rome of the present popes, the prodigal child who at twenty could already show a galaxy of colossalmarble wenches, the universal architect who with fearful activityfinished the facade, built the colonnade, decorated the interior of St. Peter's, and raised fountains, churches, and palaces innumerable. Andthat was the end of all, for since then Rome has little by littlewithdrawn from life, from the modern world, as though she, who alwayslived on what she derived from others, were dying of her inability totake anything more from them in order to convert it to her own glory. 

"Ah! Bernini, that delightful Bernini!" continued Narcisse with hisrapturous air. "He is both powerful and exquisite, his verve alwaysready, his ingenuity invariably awake, his fecundity full of grace andmagnificence. As for their Bramante with his masterpiece, that cold, correct Cancelleria, we'll dub him the Michael Angelo and Raffaelle ofarchitecture and say no more about it. But Bernini, that exquisiteBernini, why, there is more delicacy and refinement in his pretended badtaste than in all the hugeness and perfection of the others! Our own ageought to recognise itself in his art, at once so varied and so deep, sotriumphant in its mannerisms, so full of a perturbing solicitude for theartificial and so free from the baseness of reality. Just go to the VillaBorghese to see the group of Apollo and Daphne which Bernini executedwhen he was eighteen, * and in particular see his statue of Santa Teresain ecstasy at Santa Maria della Vittoria! Ah! that Santa Teresa! It islike heaven opening, with the quiver that only a purely divine enjoymentcan set in woman's flesh, the rapture of faith carried to the point ofspasm, the creature losing breath and dying of pleasure in the arms ofthe Divinity! I have spent hours and hours before that work withoutexhausting the infinite scope of its precious, burning symbolisation. "

 * There is also at the Villa Borghese Bernini's _Anchises carried by Aeneas_, which he sculptured when only sixteen. No doubt his faults were many; but it was his misfortune to belong to a decadent period. --Trans. 

Narcisse's voice died away, and Pierre, no longer astonished at hiscovert, unconscious hatred of health, simplicity, and strength, scarcelylistened to him. The young priest himself was again becoming absorbed inthe idea he had formed of pagan Rome resuscitating in Christian Rome andturning it into Catholic Rome, the new political, sacerdotal, domineeringcentre of earthly government. Apart from the primitive age of theCatacombs, had Rome ever been Christian? The thoughts that had come tohim on the Palatine, in the Appian Way, and in St. Peter's were gatheringconfirmation. Genius that morning had brought him fresh proof. No doubtthe paganism which reappeared in the art of Michael Angelo and Raffaellewas tempered, transformed by the Christian spirit. But did it not stillremain the basis? Had not the former master peered across Olympus whensnatching his great nudities from the terrible heavens of Jehovah? Didnot the ideal figures of Raffaelle reveal the superb, fascinating fleshof Venus beneath the chaste veil of the Virgin? It seemed so to Pierre, and some embarrassment mingled with his despondency, for all thosebeautiful forms glorifying the ardent passions of life, were inopposition to his dream of rejuvenated Christianity giving peace to theworld and reviving the simplicity and purity of the early ages. 

All at once he was surprised to hear Narcisse, by what transition hecould not tell, speaking to him of the daily life of Leo XIII. "Yes, mydear Abbe, at eighty-four* the Holy Father shows the activity of a youngman and leads a life of determination and hard work such as neither younor I would care for! At six o'clock he is already up, says his mass inhis private chapel, and drinks a little milk for breakfast. Then, fromeight o'clock till noon, there is a ceaseless procession of cardinals andprelates, all the affairs of the congregations passing under his eyes, and none could be more numerous or intricate. At noon the public andcollective audiences usually begin. At two he dines. Then comes thesiesta which he has well earned, or else a promenade in the gardens untilsix o'clock. The private audiences then sometimes keep him for an hour ortwo. He sups at nine and scarcely eats, lives on nothing, in fact, and isalways alone at his little table. What do you think, eh, of the etiquettewhich compels him to such loneliness? There you have a man who foreighteen years has never had a guest at his table, who day by day sitsall alone in his grandeur! And as soon as ten o'clock strikes, aftersaying the Rosary with his familiars, he shuts himself up in his room. But, although he may go to bed, he sleeps very little; he is frequentlytroubled by insomnia, and gets up and sends for a secretary to dictatememoranda or letters to him. When any interesting matter requires hisattention he gives himself up to it heart and soul, never letting itescape his thoughts. And his life, his health, lies in all this. His mindis always busy; his will and strength must always be exerting themselves. You may know that he long cultivated Latin verse with affection; and Ibelieve that in his days of struggle he had a passion for journalism, inspired the articles of the newspapers he subsidised, and even dictatedsome of them when his most cherished ideas were in question. "

 * The reader should remember that the period selected for this narrative is the year 1894. Leo XIII was born in 1810. --Trans. 

Silence fell. At every moment Narcisse craned his neck to see if thelittle papal _cortege_ were not emerging from the Gallery of theTapestries to pass them on its way to the gardens. "You are perhapsaware, " he resumed, "that his Holiness is brought down on a low chairwhich is small enough to pass through every doorway. It's quite ajourney, more than a mile, through the _loggie_, the _stanze_ ofRaffaelle, the painting and sculpture galleries, not to mention thenumerous staircases, before he reaches the gardens, where a pair-horsecarriage awaits him. It's quite fine this evening, so he will surelycome. We must have a little patience. "

Whilst Narcisse was giving these particulars Pierre again sank into areverie and saw the whole extraordinary history pass before him. Firstcame the worldly, ostentatious popes of the Renascence, those whoresuscitated antiquity with so much passion and dreamt of draping theHoly See with the purple of empire once more. There was Paul II, themagnificent Venetian who built the Palazzo di Venezia; Sixtus IV, to whomone owes the Sixtine Chapel; and Julius II and Leo X, who made Rome acity of theatrical pomp, prodigious festivities, tournaments, ballets, hunts, masquerades, and banquets. At that time the papacy had justrediscovered Olympus amidst the dust of buried ruins, and as thoughintoxicated by the torrent of life which arose from the ancient soil, itfounded the museums, thus reviving the superb temples of the pagan age, and restoring them to the cult of universal admiration. Never had theChurch been in such peril of death, for if the Christ was still honouredat St. Peter's, Jupiter and all the other gods and goddesses, with theirbeauteous, triumphant flesh, were enthroned in the halls of the Vatican. Then, however, another vision passed before Pierre, one of the modernpopes prior to the Italian occupation--notably Pius IX, who, whilst yetfree, often went into his good city of Rome. His huge red and gold coachwas drawn by six horses, surrounded by Swiss Guards and followed by NobleGuards; but now and again he would alight in the Corso, and continue hispromenade on foot, and then the mounted men of the escort gallopedforward to give warning and stop the traffic. The carriages drew up, thegentlemen had to alight and kneel on the pavement, whilst the ladiessimply rose and devoutly inclined their heads, as the Holy Father, attended by his Court, slowly wended his way to the Piazza del Popolo, smiling and blessing at every step. And now had come Leo XIII, thevoluntary prisoner, shut up in the Vatican for eighteen years, and he, behind the high, silent walls, in the unknown sphere where each of hisdays flowed by so quietly, had acquired a more exalted majesty, instinctwith sacred and redoubtable mysteriousness. 

Ah! that Pope whom you no longer meet or see, that Pope hidden from thecommon of mankind like some terrible divinity whom the priests alone dareto approach! It is in that sumptuous Vatican which his forerunners of theRenascence built and adorned for giant festivities that he has secludedhimself; it is there he lives, far from the crowd, in prison with thehandsome men and the lovely women of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle, withthe gods and goddesses of marble, with the whole of resplendent Olympuscelebrating around him the religion of life and light. With him theentire Papacy is there steeped in paganism. What a spectacle when theslender, weak old man, all soul, so purely white, passes along thegalleries of the Museum of Antiquities on his way to the gardens. Rightand left the statues behold him pass with all their bare flesh. There isJupiter, there is Apollo, there is Venus the _dominatrix_, there is Pan, the universal god in whose laugh the joys of earth ring out. Nereidsbathe in transparent water. Bacchantes roll, unveiled, in the warm grass. Centaurs gallop by carrying lovely girls, faint with rapture, on theirsteaming haunches. Ariadne is surprised by Bacchus, Ganymede fondles theeagle, Adonis fires youth and maiden with his flame. And on and on passesthe weak, white old man, swaying on his low chair, amidst that splendidtriumph, that display and glorification of the flesh, which shouts aloudthe omnipotence of Nature, of everlasting matter! Since they have foundit again, exhumed it, and honoured it, that it is which once more reignsthere imperishable; and in vain have they set vine leaves on the statues, even as they have swathed the huge figures of Michael Angelo; sex stillflares on all sides, life overflows, its germs course in torrents throughthe veins of the world. Near by, in that Vatican library of incomparablewealth, where all human science lies slumbering, there lurks a yet moreterrible danger--the danger of an explosion which would sweep awayeverything, Vatican and St. Peter's also, if one day the books in theirturn were to awake and speak aloud as speak the beauty of Venus and themanliness of Apollo. But the white, diaphanous old man seems neither tosee nor to hear, and the huge heads of Jupiter, the trunks of Hercules, the equivocal statues of Antinous continue to watch him as he passes on!

However, Narcisse had become impatient, and, going in search of anattendant, he learnt from him that his Holiness had already gone down. Toshorten the distance, indeed, the _cortege_ often passes along a kind ofopen gallery leading towards the Mint. "Well, let us go down as well, "said Narcisse to Pierre; "I will try to show you the gardens. "

Down below, in the vestibule, a door of which opened on to a broad path, he spoke to another attendant, a former pontifical soldier whom hepersonally knew. The man at once let him pass with Pierre, but was unableto tell him whether Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo had accompanied hisHoliness that day. 

"No matter, " resumed Narcisse when he and his companion were alone in thepath; "I don't despair of meeting him--and these, you see, are the famousgardens of the Vatican. "

They are very extensive grounds, and the Pope can go quite two and a halfmiles by passing along the paths of the wood, the vineyard, and thekitchen garden. Occupying the plateau of the Vatican hill, which themedieval wall of Leo IV still girdles, the gardens are separated from theneighbouring valleys as by a fortified rampart. The wall formerlystretched to the castle of Sant' Angelo, thereby forming what was knownas the Leonine City. No inquisitive eyes can peer into the groundsexcepting from the dome of St. Peter's, which casts its huge shadow overthem during the hot summer weather. They are, too, quite a little world, which each pope has taken pleasure in embellishing. There is a largeparterre with lawns of geometrical patterns, planted with handsome palmsand adorned with lemon and orange trees in pots; there is a less formal, a shadier garden, where, amidst deep plantations of yoke-elms, you findGiovanni Vesanzio's fountain, the Aquilone, and Pius IV's old Casino;then, too, there are the woods with their superb evergreen oaks, theirthickets of plane-trees, acacias, and pines, intersected by broadavenues, which are delightfully pleasant for leisurely strolls; andfinally, on turning to the left, beyond other clumps of trees, come thekitchen garden and the vineyard, the last well tended. 

Whilst walking through the wood Narcisse told Pierre of the life led bythe Holy Father in these gardens. He strolls in them every second daywhen the weather allows. Formerly the popes left the Vatican for theQuirinal, which is cooler and healthier, as soon as May arrived; andspent the dog days at Castle Gandolfo on the margins of the Lake ofAlbano. But nowadays the only summer residence possessed by his Holinessis a virtually intact tower of the old rampart of Leo IV. He here spendsthe hottest days, and has even erected a sort of pavilion beside it forthe accommodation of his suite. Narcisse, like one at home, went in andsecured permission for Pierre to glance at the one room occupied by thePope, a spacious round chamber with semispherical ceiling, on which arepainted the heavens with symbolical figures of the constellations; one ofthe latter, the lion, having two stars for eyes--stars which a system oflighting causes to sparkle during the night. The walls of the tower areso thick that after blocking up a window, a kind of room, for theaccommodation of a couch, has been contrived in the embrasure. Besidethis couch the only furniture is a large work-table, a dining-table withflaps, and a large regal arm-chair, a mass of gilding, one of the giftsof the Pope's episcopal jubilee. And you dream of the days of solitudeand perfect silence, spent in that low donjon hall, where the coolness ofa tomb prevails whilst the heavy suns of August are scorching overpoweredRome. 

An astronomical observatory has been installed in another tower, surmounted by a little white cupola, which you espy amidst the greenery;and under the trees there is also a Swiss chalet, where Leo XIII is fondof resting. He sometimes goes on foot to the kitchen garden, and takesmuch interest in the vineyard, visiting it to see if the grapes areripening and if the vintage will be a good one. What most astonishedPierre, however, was to learn that the Holy Father had been very fond of"sport" before age had weakened him. He was indeed passionately addictedto bird snaring. Broad-meshed nets were hung on either side of a path onthe fringe of a plantation, and in the middle of the path were placedcages containing the decoys, whose songs soon attracted all the birds ofthe neighbourhood--red-breasts, white-throats, black-caps, nightingales, fig-peckers of all sorts. And when a numerous company of them wasgathered together Leo XIII, seated out of sight and watching, wouldsuddenly clap his hands and startle the birds, which flew up and werecaught by the wings in the meshes of the nets. All that then remained tobe done was to take them out of the nets and stifle them by a touch ofthe thumb. Roast fig-peckers are delicious. *

 * Perhaps so; but what a delightful pastime for the Vicar of the Divinity!--Trans. 

As Pierre came back through the wood he had another surprise. He suddenlylighted on a "Grotto of Lourdes, " a miniature imitation of the original, built of rocks and blocks of cement. And such was his emotion at thesight that he could not conceal it. "It's true, then!" said he. "I wastold of it, but I thought that the Holy Father was of loftier mind--freefrom all such base superstitions!"

"Oh!" replied Narcisse, "I fancy that the grotto dates from Pius IX, whoevinced especial gratitude to our Lady of Lourdes. At all events, it mustbe a gift, and Leo XIII simply keeps it in repair. "

For a few moments Pierre remained motionless and silent before thatimitation grotto, that childish plaything. Some zealously devout visitorshad left their visiting cards in the cracks of the cement-work! For hispart, he felt very sad, and followed his companion with bowed head, lamenting the wretched idiocy of the world. Then, on emerging from thewood, on again reaching the parterre, he raised his eyes. 

Ah! how exquisite in spite of everything was that decline of a lovelyday, and what a victorious charm ascended from the soil in that part ofthe gardens. There, in front of that bare, noble, burning parterre, farmore than under the languishing foliage of the wood or among the fruitfulvines, Pierre realised the strength of Nature. Above the grass growingmeagrely over the compartments of geometrical pattern which the pathwaystraced there were barely a few low shrubs, dwarf roses, aloes, rare tuftsof withering flowers. Some green bushes still described the escutcheon ofPius IX in accordance with the strange taste of former times. And amidstthe warm silence one only heard the faint crystalline murmur of the watertrickling from the basin of the central fountain. But all Rome, itsardent heavens, sovereign grace, and conquering voluptuousness, seemedwith their own soul to animate this vast rectangular patch of decorativegardening, this mosaic of verdure, which in its semi-abandonment andscorched decay assumed an aspect of melancholy pride, instinct with theever returning quiver of a passion of fire that could not die. Someantique vases and statues, whitely nude under the setting sun, skirtedthe parterres. And above the aroma of eucalyptus and of pine, strongereven than that of the ripening oranges, there rose the odour of thelarge, bitter box-shrubs, so laden with pungent life that it disturbedone as one passed as if indeed it were the very scent of the fecundity ofthat ancient soil saturated with the dust of generations. 

"It's very strange that we have not met his Holiness, " exclaimedNarcisse. "Perhaps his carriage took the other path through the woodwhile we were in the tower. "

Then, reverting to Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, the _attache_ explainedthat the functions of _Copiere_, or papal cup-bearer, which his cousinshould have discharged as one of the four _Camerieri segretipartecipanti_ had become purely honorary since the dinners offered todiplomatists or in honour of newly consecrated bishops had been given bythe Cardinal Secretary of State. Monsignor Gamba, whose cowardice andnullity were legendary, seemed therefore to have no other _role_ thanthat of enlivening Leo XIII, whose favour he had won by his incessantflattery and the anecdotes which he was ever relating about both theblack and the white worlds. Indeed this fat, amiable man, who could evenbe obliging when his interests were not in question, was a perfectnewspaper, brimful of tittle-tattle, disdaining no item of gossipwhatever, even if it came from the kitchens. And thus he was quietlymarching towards the cardinalate, certain of obtaining the hat withoutother exertion than that of bringing a budget of gossip to beguile thepleasant hours of the promenade. And Heaven knew that he was always ableto garner an abundant harvest of news in that closed Vatican swarmingwith prelates of every kind, in that womanless pontifical family of oldbegowned bachelors, all secretly exercised by vast ambitions, covert andrevolting rivalries, and ferocious hatreds, which, it is said, are stillsometimes carried as far as the good old poison of ancient days. 

All at once Narcisse stopped. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "I was certain of it. There's the Holy Father! But we are not in luck. He won't even see us; heis about to get into his carriage again. "

As he spoke a carriage drew up at the verge of the wood, and a little_cortege_ emerging from a narrow path, went towards it. 

Pierre felt as if he had received a great blow in the heart. Motionlessbeside his companion, and half hidden by a lofty vase containing alemon-tree, it was only from a distance that he was able to see the whiteold man, looking so frail and slender in the wavy folds of his whitecassock, and walking so very slowly with short, gliding steps. The youngpriest could scarcely distinguish the emaciated face of old diaphanousivory, emphasised by a large nose which jutted out above thin lips. However, the Pontiff's black eyes were glittering with an inquisitivesmile, while his right ear was inclined towards Monsignor Gamba delZoppo, who was doubtless finishing some story at once rich and short, flowery and dignified. And on the left walked a Noble Guard; and twoother prelates followed. 

It was but a familiar apparition; Leo XIII was already climbing into theclosed carriage. And Pierre, in the midst of that large, odoriferous, burning garden, again experienced the singular emotion which had comeupon him in the Gallery of the Candelabra while he was picturing the Popeon his way between the Apollos and Venuses radiant in their triumphantnudity. There, however, it was only pagan art which had celebrated theeternity of life, the superb, almighty powers of Nature. But here he hadbeheld the Pontiff steeped in Nature itself, in Nature clad in the mostlovely, most voluptuous, most passionate guise. Ah! that Pope, that oldman strolling with his Divinity of grief, humility, and renunciationalong the paths of those gardens of love, in the languid evenings of thehot summer days, beneath the caressing scents of pine and eucalyptus, ripe oranges, and tall, acrid box-shrubs! The whole atmosphere around himproclaimed the powers of the great god Pan. How pleasant was the thoughtof living there, amidst that magnificence of heaven and of earth, ofloving the beauty of woman and of rejoicing in the fruitfulness of all!And suddenly the decisive truth burst forth that from a land of such joyand light it was only possible for a temporal religion of conquest andpolitical domination to rise; not the mystical, pain-fraught religion ofthe North--the religion of the soul!

However, Narcisse led the young priest away, telling him other anecdotesas they went--anecdotes of the occasional _bonhomie_ of Leo XIII, whowould stop to chat with the gardeners, and question them about the healthof the trees and the sale of the oranges. And he also mentioned thePope's former passion for a pair of gazelles, sent him from Africa, twograceful creatures which he had been fond of caressing, and at whosedeath he had shed tears. But Pierre no longer listened. When they foundthemselves on the Piazza of St. Peter's, he turned round and gazed at theVatican once more. 

His eyes had fallen on the gate of bronze, and he remembered havingwondered that morning what there might be behind these metal panelsornamented with big nails. And he did not yet dare to answer thequestion, and decide if the new nations thirsting for fraternity andjustice would really find there the religion necessary for thedemocracies of to-morrow; for he had not been able to probe things, andonly carried a first impression away with him. But how keen it was, andhow ill it boded for his dreams! A gate of bronze! Yes, a hard, impregnable gate, so completely shutting the Vatican off from the rest ofthe world that nothing new had entered the palace for three hundredyears. Behind that portal the old centuries, as far as the sixteenth, remained immutable. Time seemed to have stayed its course there for ever;nothing more stirred; the very costumes of the Swiss Guards, the NobleGuards, and the prelates themselves were unchanged; and you foundyourself in the world of three hundred years ago, with its etiquette, itscostumes, and its ideas. That the popes in a spirit of haughty protestshould for five and twenty years have voluntarily shut themselves up intheir palace was already regrettable; but this imprisonment of centurieswithin the past, within the grooves of tradition, was far more seriousand dangerous. It was all Catholicism which was thus imprisoned, whosedogmas and sacerdotal organisation were obstinately immobilised. Perhaps, in spite of its apparent flexibility, Catholicism was really unable toyield in anything, under peril of being swept away, and therein lay bothits weakness and its strength. And then what a terrible world was there, how great the pride and ambition, how numerous the hatreds and rivalries!And how strange the prison, how singular the company assembled behind thebars--the Crucified by the side of Jupiter Capitolinus, all paganantiquity fraternising with the Apostles, all the splendours of theRenascence surrounding the pastor of the Gospel who reigns in the name ofthe humble and the poor!

The sun was sinking, the gentle, luscious sweetness of the Roman eveningswas falling from the limpid heavens, and after that splendid day spentwith Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, the ancients, and the Pope, in the finestpalace of the world, the young priest lingered, distracted, on the Piazzaof St. Peter's. 

"Well, you must excuse me, my dear Abbe, " concluded Narcisse. "But I willnow confess to you that I suspect my worthy cousin of a fear that hemight compromise himself by meddling in your affair. I shall certainlysee him again, but you will do well not to put too much reliance on him. "

It was nearly six o'clock when Pierre got back to the Boccanera mansion. As a rule, he passed in all modesty down the lane, and entered by thelittle side door, a key of which had been given him. But he had thatmorning received a letter from M. De la Choue, and desired to communicateit to Benedetta. So he ascended the grand staircase, and on reaching theanteroom was surprised to find nobody there. As a rule, whenever theman-servant went out Victorine installed herself in his place and busiedherself with some needlework. Her chair was there, and Pierre evennoticed some linen which she had left on a little table when probablysummoned elsewhere. Then, as the door of the first reception-room wasajar, he at last ventured in. It was almost night there already, thetwilight was softly dying away, and all at once the young priest stoppedshort, fearing to take another step, for, from the room beyond, the largeyellow _salon_, there came a murmur of feverish, distracted words, ardententreaties, fierce panting, a rustling and a shuffling of footsteps. Andsuddenly Pierre no longer hesitated, urged on despite himself by theconviction that the sounds he heard were those of a struggle, and thatsome one was hard pressed. 

And when he darted into the further room he was stupefied, for Dario wasthere, no longer showing the degenerate elegance of the last scion of anexhausted race, but maddened by the hot, frantic blood of the Boccaneraswhich had bubbled up within him. He had clasped Benedetta by theshoulders in a frenzy of passion and was scorching her face with his hot, entreating words: "But since you say, my darling, that it is all over, that your marriage will never be dissolved--oh! why should we be wretchedfor ever! Love me as you do love me, and let me love you--let me loveyou!"

But the Contessina, with an indescribable expression of tenderness andsuffering on her tearful face, repulsed him with her outstretched arms, she likewise evincing a fierce energy as she repeated: "No, no; I loveyou, but it must not, it must not be. "

At that moment, amidst the roar of his despair, Dario became consciousthat some one was entering the room. He turned and gazed at Pierre withan expression of stupefied insanity, scarce able even to recognise him. Then he carried his two hands to his face, to his bloodshot eyes and hischeeks wet with scalding tears, and fled, heaving a terrible, pain-fraught sigh in which baffled passion mingled with grief andrepentance. 

Benedetta seated herself, breathing hard, her strength and couragewellnigh exhausted. But as Pierre, too much embarrassed to speak, turnedtowards the door, she addressed him in a calmer voice: "No, no, Monsieurl'Abbe, do not go away--sit down, I pray you; I should like to speak toyou for a moment. "

He thereupon thought it his duty to account for his sudden entrance, andexplained that he had found the door of the first _salon_ ajar, and thatVictorine was not in the ante-room, though he had seen her work lying onthe table there. 

"Yes, " exclaimed the Contessina, "Victorine ought to have been there; Isaw her there but a short time ago. And when my poor Dario lost his headI called her. Why did she not come?" Then, with sudden expansion, leaningtowards Pierre, she continued: "Listen, Monsieur l'Abbe, I will tell youwhat happened, for I don't want you to form too bad an opinion of my poorDario. It was all in some measure my fault. Last night he asked me for anappointment here in order that we might have a quiet chat, and as I knewthat my aunt would be absent at this time to-day I told him to come. Itwas only natural--wasn't it?--that we should want to see one another andcome to an agreement after the grievous news that my marriage willprobably never be annulled. We suffer too much, and must form a decision. And so when he came this evening we began to weep and embrace, minglingour tears together. I kissed him again and again, telling him how Iadored him, how bitterly grieved I was at being the cause of hissufferings, and how surely I should die of grief at seeing him sounhappy. Ah! no doubt I did wrong; I ought not to have caught him to myheart and embraced him as I did, for it maddened him, Monsieur l'Abbe; helost his head, and would have made me break my vow to the BlessedVirgin. "

She spoke these words in all tranquillity and simplicity, without sign ofembarrassment, like a young and beautiful woman who is at once sensibleand practical. Then she resumed: "Oh! I know my poor Dario well, but itdoes not prevent me from loving him; perhaps, indeed, it only makes melove him the more. He looks delicate, perhaps rather sickly, but in truthhe is a man of passion. Yes, the old blood of my people bubbles up inhim. I know something of it myself, for when I was a child I sometimeshad fits of angry passion which left me exhausted on the floor, and evennow, when the gusts arise within me, I have to fight against myself andtorture myself in order that I may not act madly. But my poor Dario doesnot know how to suffer. He is like a child whose fancies must begratified. And yet at bottom he has a good deal of common sense; he waitsfor me because he knows that the only real happiness lies with the womanwho adores him. "

As Pierre listened he was able to form a more precise idea of the youngprince, of whose character he had hitherto had but a vague perception. Whilst dying of love for his cousin, Dario had ever been a man ofpleasure. Though he was no doubt very amiable, the basis of histemperament was none the less egotism. And, in particular, he was unableto endure suffering; he loathed suffering, ugliness, and poverty, whetherthey affected himself or others. Both his flesh and his soul requiredgaiety, brilliancy, show, life in the full sunlight. And withal he wasexhausted, with no strength left him but for the idle life he led, soincapable of thought and will that the idea of joining the new _regime_had not even occurred to him. Yet he had all the unbounded pride of aRoman; sagacity--a keen, practical perception of the real--was mingledwith his indolence; while his inveterate love of woman, more frequentlydisplayed in charm of manner, burst forth at times in attacks of franticsensuality. 

"After all he is a man, " concluded Benedetta in a low voice, "and I mustnot ask impossibilities of him. " Then, as Pierre gazed at her, hisnotions of Italian jealousy quite upset, she exclaimed, aglow withpassionate adoration: "No, no. Situated as we are, I am not jealous. Iknow very well that he will always return to me, and that he will be minealone whenever I please, whenever it may be possible. "

Silence followed; shadows were filling the room, the gilding of the largepier tables faded away, and infinite melancholy fell from the lofty, dimceiling and the old hangings, yellow like autumn leaves. But soon, bysome chance play of the waning light, a painting stood out above the sofaon which the Contessina was seated. It was the portrait of the beautifulyoung girl with the turban--Cassia Boccanera the forerunner, the_amorosa_ and avengeress. Again was Pierre struck by the portrait'sresemblance to Benedetta, and, thinking aloud, he resumed: "Passionalways proves the stronger; there invariably comes a moment when onesuccumbs--"

But Benedetta violently interrupted him: "I! I! Ah! you do not know me; Iwould rather die!" And with extraordinary exaltation, all aglow withlove, as if her superstitious faith had fired her passion to ecstasy, shecontinued: "I have vowed to the Madonna that I will belong to none butthe man I love, and to him only when he is my husband. And hitherto Ihave kept that vow, at the cost of my happiness, and I will keep itstill, even if it cost me my life! Yes, we will die, my poor Dario and I, if it be necessary; but the holy Virgin has my vow, and the angels shallnot weep in heaven!"

She was all in those words, her nature all simplicity, intricate, inexplicable though it might seem. She was doubtless swayed by that ideaof human nobility which Christianity has set in renunciation and purity;a protest, as it were, against eternal matter, against the forces ofNature, the everlasting fruitfulness of life. But there was more thanthis; she reserved herself, like a divine and priceless gift, to bebestowed on the one being whom her heart had chosen, he who would be herlord and master when God should have united them in marriage. For hereverything lay in the blessing of the priest, in the religioussolemnisation of matrimony. And thus one understood her long resistanceto Prada, whom she did not love, and her despairing, grievous resistanceto Dario, whom she did love, but who was not her husband. And howtorturing it was for that soul of fire to have to resist her love; howcontinual was the combat waged by duty in the Virgin's name against thewild, passionate blood of her race! Ignorant, indolent though she mightbe, she was capable of great fidelity of heart, and, moreover, she wasnot given to dreaming: love might have its immaterial charms, but shedesired it complete. 

As Pierre looked at her in the dying twilight he seemed to see andunderstand her for the first time. The duality of her nature appeared inher somewhat full, fleshy lips, in her big black eyes, which suggested adark, tempestuous night illumined by flashes of lightning, and in thecalm, sensible expression of the rest of her gentle, infantile face. And, withal, behind those eyes of flame, beneath that pure, candid skin, onedivined the internal tension of a superstitious, proud, and self-willedwoman, who was obstinately intent on reserving herself for her one love. And Pierre could well understand that she should be adored, that sheshould fill the life of the man she chose with passion, and that to hisown eyes she should appear like the younger sister of that lovely, tragicCassia who, unwilling to survive the blow that had rendered self-bestowalimpossible, had flung herself into the Tiber, dragging her brother Ercoleand the corpse of her lover Flavio with her. 

However, with a gesture of kindly affection Benedetta caught hold ofPierre's hands. "You have been here a fortnight, Monsieur l'Abbe, " saidshe, "and I have come to like you very much, for I feel you to be afriend. If at first you do not understand us, at least pray do not judgeus too severely. Ignorant as I may be, I always strive to act for thebest, I assure you. "

Pierre was greatly touched by her affectionate graciousness, and thankedher whilst for a moment retaining her beautiful hands in his own, for healso was becoming much attached to her. A fresh dream was carrying himoff, that of educating her, should he have the time, or, at all events, of not returning home before winning her soul over to his own ideas offuture charity and fraternity. Did not that adorable, unoccupied, indolent, ignorant creature, who only knew how to defend her love, personify the Italy of yesterday? The Italy of yesterday, so lovely andso sleepy, instinct with a dying grace, charming one even in herdrowsiness, and retaining so much mystery in the fathomless depths of herblack, passionate eyes! And what a _role_ would be that of awakening her, instructing her, winning her over to truth, making her the rejuvenatedItaly of to-morrow such as he had dreamt of! Even in that disastrousmarriage with Count Prada he tried to see merely a first attempt atrevival which had failed, the modern Italy of the North being over-hasty, too brutal in its eagerness to love and transform that gentle, belatedRome which was yet so superb and indolent. But might he not take up thetask? Had he not noticed that his book, after the astonishment of thefirst perusal, had remained a source of interest and reflection withBenedetta amidst the emptiness of her days given over to grief? What! wasit really possible that she might find some appeasement for her ownwretchedness by interesting herself in the humble, in the happiness ofthe poor? Emotion already thrilled her at the idea, and he, quivering atthe thought of all the boundless love that was within her and that shemight bestow, vowed to himself that he would draw tears of pity from hereyes. 

But the night had now almost completely fallen, and Benedetta rose to askfor a lamp. Then, as Pierre was about to take leave, she detained him foranother moment in the gloom. He could no longer see her; he only heardher grave voice: "You will not go away with too bad an opinion of us, will you, Monsieur l'Abbe? We love one another, Dario and I, and that isno sin when one behaves as one ought. Ah! yes, I love him, and have lovedhim for years. I was barely thirteen, he was eighteen, and we alreadyloved one another wildly in those big gardens of the Villa Montefioriwhich are now all broken up. Ah! what days we spent there, wholeafternoons among the trees, hours in secret hiding-places, where wekissed like little angels. When the oranges ripened their perfumeintoxicated us. And the large box-plants, ah, _Dio!_ how they envelopedus, how their strong, acrid scent made our hearts beat! I can never smellthen nowadays without feeling faint!"

A man-servant brought in the lamp, and Pierre ascended to his room. Butwhen half-way up the little staircase he perceived Victorine, who startedslightly, as if she had posted herself there to watch his departure fromthe _salon_. And now, as she followed him up, talking and seeking forinformation, he suddenly realised what had happened. "Why did you not goto your mistress instead of running off, " he asked, "when she called you, while you were sewing in the ante-room?"

At first she tried to feign astonishment and reply that she had heardnothing. But her good-natured, frank face did not know how to lie, andshe ended by confessing, with a gay, courageous air. "Well, " she said, "it surely wasn't for me to interfere between lovers! Besides, my poorlittle Benedetta is simply torturing herself to death with those ideas ofhers. Why shouldn't they be happy, since they love one another? Lifeisn't so amusing as some may think. And how bitterly one regrets nothaving seized hold of happiness when the time for it has gone!"

Once alone in his room, Pierre suddenly staggered, quite overcome. Thegreat box-plants, the great box-plants with their acrid, perturbingperfume! She, Benedetta, like himself, had quivered as she smelt them;and he saw them once more in a vision of the pontifical gardens, thevoluptuous gardens of Rome, deserted, glowing under the August sun. Andnow his whole day crystallised, assumed clear and full significance. Itspoke to him of the fruitful awakening, of the eternal protest of Natureand life, Venus and Hercules, whom one may bury for centuries beneath thesoil, but who, nevertheless, one day arise from it, and though one mayseek to wall them up within the domineering, stubborn, immutable Vatican, reign yet even there, and rule the whole, wide world with sovereignpower!

PART III. 

VII. 

On the following day as Pierre, after a long ramble, once more foundhimself in front of the Vatican, whither a harassing attraction ever ledhim, he again encountered Monsignor Nani. It was a Wednesday evening, andthe Assessor of the Holy Office had just come from his weekly audiencewith the Pope, whom he had acquainted with the proceedings of theCongregation at its meeting that morning. "What a fortunate chance, mydear sir, " said he; "I was thinking of you. Would you like to see hisHoliness in public while you are waiting for a private audience?"

Nani had put on his pleasant expression of smiling civility, beneathwhich one would barely detect the faint irony of a superior man who kneweverything, prepared everything, and could do everything. 

"Why, yes, Monsignor, " Pierre replied, somewhat astonished by theabruptness of the offer. "Anything of a nature to divert one's mind iswelcome when one loses one's time in waiting. "

"No, no, you are not losing your time, " replied the prelate. "You arelooking round you, reflecting, and enlightening yourself. Well, this isthe point. You are doubtless aware that the great internationalpilgrimage of the Peter's Pence Fund will arrive in Rome on Friday, andbe received on Saturday by his Holiness. On Sunday, moreover, the HolyFather will celebrate mass at the Basilica. Well, I have a few cardsleft, and here are some very good places for both ceremonies. " So sayinghe produced an elegant little pocketbook bearing a gilt monogram andhanded Pierre two cards, one green and the other pink. "If you only knewhow people fight for them, " he resumed. "You remember that I told you oftwo French ladies who are consumed by a desire to see his Holiness. Well, I did not like to support their request for an audience in too pressing away, and they have had to content themselves with cards like these. Thefact is, the Holy Father is somewhat fatigued at the present time. Ifound him looking yellow and feverish just now. But he has so muchcourage; he nowadays only lives by force of soul. " Then Nani's smile cameback with its almost imperceptible touch of derision as he resumed:"Impatient ones ought to find a great example in him, my dear son. Iheard that Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo had been unable to help you. But youmust not be too much distressed on that account. This long delay isassuredly a grace of Providence in order that you may instruct yourselfand come to understand certain things which you French priests do not, unfortunately, realise when you arrive in Rome. And perhaps it willprevent you from making certain mistakes. Come, calm yourself, andremember that the course of events is in the hands of God, who, in Hissovereign wisdom, fixes the hour for all things. "

Thereupon Nani offered Pierre his plump, supple, shapely hand, a handsoft like a woman's but with the grasp of a vice. And afterwards heclimbed into his carriage, which was waiting for him. 

It so happened that the letter which Pierre had received from ViscountPhilibert de la Choue was a long cry of spite and despair in connectionwith the great international pilgrimage of the Peter's Pence Fund. TheViscount wrote from his bed, to which he was confined by a very severeattack of gout, and his grief at being unable to come to Rome was thegreater as the President of the Committee, who would naturally presentthe pilgrims to the Pope, happened to be Baron de Fouras, one of his mostbitter adversaries of the old conservative, Catholic party. M. De laChoue felt certain that the Baron would profit by his opportunity to winthe Pope over to the theory of free corporations; whereas he, theViscount, believed that the salvation of Catholicism and the world couldonly be worked by a system in which the corporations should be closed andobligatory. And so he urged Pierre to exert himself with such cardinalsas were favourable, to secure an audience with the Holy Father whateverthe obstacles, and to remain in Rome until he should have secured thePontiff's approbation, which alone could decide the victory. The letterfurther mentioned that the pilgrimage would be made up of a number ofgroups headed by bishops and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, and wouldcomprise three thousand people from France, Belgium, Spain, Austria, andeven Germany. Two thousand of these would come from France alone. Aninternational committee had assembled in Paris to organise everything andselect the pilgrims, which last had proved a delicate task, as arepresentative gathering had been desired, a commingling of members ofthe aristocracy, sisterhood of middle-class ladies, and associations ofthe working classes, among whom all social differences would be forgottenin the union of a common faith. And the Viscount added that thepilgrimage would bring the Pope a large sum of money, and had settled thedate of its arrival in the Eternal City in such wise that it would figureas a solemn protest of the Catholic world against the festivities ofSeptember 20, by which the Quirinal had just celebrated the anniversaryof the occupation of Rome. 

The reception of the pilgrimage being fixed for noon, Pierre in allsimplicity thought that he would be sufficiently early if he reached St. Peter's at eleven. The function was to take place in the Hall ofBeatifications, which is a large and handsome apartment over the portico, and has been arranged as a chapel since 1890. One of its windows opens onto the central balcony, whence the popes formerly blessed the people, thecity, and the world. To reach the apartment you pass through two otherhalls of audience, the Sala Regia and Sala Ducale, and when Pierre wishedto gain the place to which his green card entitled him he found boththose rooms so extremely crowded that he could only elbow his way forwardwith the greatest difficulty. For an hour already the three or fourthousand people assembled there had been stifling, full of growingemotion and feverishness. At last the young priest managed to reach thethreshold of the third hall, but was so discouraged at sight of theextraordinary multitude of heads before him that he did not attempt to goany further. 

The apartment, which he could survey at a glance by rising on tip-toe, appeared to him to be very rich of aspect, with walls gilded and paintedunder a severe and lofty ceiling. On a low platform, where the altarusually stood, facing the entry, the pontifical throne had now been set:a large arm-chair upholstered in red velvet with glittering golden backand arms; whilst the hangings of the _baldacchino_, also of red velvet, fell behind and spread out on either side like a pair of huge purplewings. However, what more particularly interested Pierre was the wildlypassionate concourse of people whose hearts he could almost hear beatingand whose eyes sought to beguile their feverish impatience bycontemplating and adoring the empty throne. As if it had been some goldenmonstrance which the Divinity in person would soon deign to occupy, thatthrone dazzled them, disturbed them, filled them all with devout rapture. Among the throng were workmen rigged out in their Sunday best, with clearchildish eyes and rough ecstatic faces; ladies of the upper classeswearing black, as the regulations required, and looking intensely palefrom the sacred awe which mingled with their excessive desire; andgentlemen in evening dress, who appeared quite glorious, inflated withthe conviction that they were saving both the Church and the nations. Onecluster of dress-coats assembled near the throne, was particularlynoticeable; it comprised the members of the International Committee, headed by Baron de Fouras, a very tall, stout, fair man of fifty, whobestirred and exerted himself and issued orders like some commander onthe morning of a decisive victory. Then, amidst the general mass of grey, neutral hue, there gleamed the violet silk of some bishop's cassock, foreach pastor had desired to remain with his flock; whilst members ofvarious religious orders, superiors in brown, black, and white habits, rose up above all others with lofty bearded or shaven heads. Right andleft drooped banners which associations and congregations had brought topresent to the Pope. And the sea of pilgrims ever waved and surged with agrowing clamour: so much impatient love being exhaled by those perspiringfaces, burning eyes, and hungry mouths that the atmosphere, reeking withthe odour of the throng, seemed thickened and darkened. 

All at once, however, Pierre perceived Monsignor Nani standing near thethrone and beckoning him to approach; and although the young priestreplied by a modest gesture, implying that he preferred to remain wherehe was, the prelate insisted and even sent an usher to make way for him. Directly the usher had led him forward, Nani inquired: "Why did you notcome to take your place? Your card entitled you to be here, on the leftof the throne. "

"The truth is, " answered the priest, "I did not like to disturb so manypeople. Besides, this is an undue honour for me. "

"No, no; I gave you that place in order that you should occupy it. I wantyou to be in the first rank, so that you may see everything of theceremony. "

Pierre could not do otherwise than thank him. Then, on looking round, hesaw that several cardinals and many other prelates were likewise waitingon either side of the throne. But it was in vain that he sought CardinalBoccanera, who only came to St. Peter's and the Vatican on the days whenhis functions required his presence there. However, he recognisedCardinal Sanguinetti, who, broad and sturdy and red of face, was talkingin a loud voice to Baron de Fouras. And Nani, with his obliging air, stepped up again to point out two other Eminences who were high andmighty personages--the Cardinal Vicar, a short, fat man, with a feverishcountenance scorched by ambition, and the Cardinal Secretary, who wasrobust and bony, fashioned as with a hatchet, suggesting a romantic typeof Sicilian bandit, who, to other courses, had preferred the discreet, smiling diplomacy of the Church. A few steps further on, and quite alone, the Grand Penitentiary, silent and seemingly suffering, showed his grey, lean, ascetic profile. 

Noon had struck. There was a false alert, a burst of emotion, which sweptin like a wave from the other halls. But it was merely the ushers openinga passage for the _cortege_. Then, all at once, acclamations arose in thefirst hall, gathered volume, and drew nearer. This time it was the_cortege_ itself. First came a detachment of the Swiss Guard in undress, headed by a sergeant; then a party of chair-bearers in red; and next thedomestic prelates, including the four _Camerieri segreti partecipanti_. And finally, between two rows of Noble Guards, in semi-gala uniforms, walked the Holy Father, alone, smiling a pale smile, and slowly blessingthe pilgrims on either hand. In his wake the clamour which had risen inthe other apartments swept into the Hall of Beatifications with theviolence of delirious love; and, under his slender, white, benedictivehand, all those distracted creatures fell upon both knees, noughtremaining but the prostration of a devout multitude, overwhelmed, as itwere, by the apparition of its god. 

Quivering, carried away, Pierre had knelt like the others. Ah! thatomnipotence, that irresistible contagion of faith, of the redoubtablecurrent from the spheres beyond, increased tenfold by a _scenario_ and apomp of sovereign grandeur! Profound silence fell when Leo XIII wasseated on the throne surrounded by the cardinals and his court; and thenthe ceremony proceeded according to rite and usage. First a bishop spoke, kneeling and laying the homage of the faithful of all Christendom at hisHoliness's feet. The President of the Committee, Baron de Fouras, followed, remaining erect whilst he read a long address in which heintroduced the pilgrimage and explained its motive, investing it with allthe gravity of a political and religious protest. This stout man had ashrill and piercing voice, and his words jarred like the grating of agimlet as he proclaimed the grief of the Catholic world at the spoliationwhich the Holy See had endured for a quarter of a century, and the desireof all the nations there represented by the pilgrims to console thesupreme and venerated Head of the Church by bringing him the offerings ofrich and poor, even to the mites of the humblest, in order that thePapacy might retain the pride of independence and be able to treat itsenemies with contempt. And he also spoke of France, deplored her errors, predicted her return to healthy traditions, and gave it to be understoodthat she remained in spite of everything the most opulent and generous ofthe Christian nations, the donor whose gold and presents flowed into Romein a never ending stream. At last Leo XIII arose to reply to the bishopand the baron. His voice was full, with a strong nasal twang, andsurprised one coming from a man so slight of build. In a few sentences heexpressed his gratitude, saying how touched he was by the devotion of thenations to the Holy See. Although the times might be bad, the finaltriumph could not be delayed much longer. There were evident signs thatmankind was returning to faith, and that iniquity would soon cease underthe universal dominion of the Christ. As for France, was she not theeldest daughter of the Church, and had she not given too many proofs ofher affection for the Holy See for the latter ever to cease loving her?Then, raising his arm, he bestowed on all the pilgrims present, on thesocieties and enterprises they represented, on their families andfriends, on France, on all the nations of the Catholic world, hisapostolic benediction, in gratitude for the precious help which they senthim. And whilst he was again seating himself applause burst forth, frantic salvoes of applause lasting for ten minutes and mingling withvivats and inarticulate cries--a passionate, tempestuous outburst, whichmade the very building shake. 

Amidst this blast of frantic adoration Pierre gazed at Leo XIII, nowagain motionless on his throne. With the papal cap on his head and thered cape edged with ermine about his shoulders, he retained in his longwhite cassock the rigid, sacerdotal attitude of an idol venerated by twohundred and fifty millions of Christians. Against the purple backgroundof the hangings of the _baldacchino_, between the wing-like drapery oneither side, enclosing, as it were, a brasier of glory, he assumed realmajesty of aspect. He was no longer the feeble old man with the slow, jerky walk and the slender, scraggy neck of a poor ailing bird. Thesimious ugliness of his face, the largeness of his nose, the long slit ofhis mouth, the hugeness of his ears, the conflicting jumble of hiswithered features disappeared. In that waxen countenance you onlydistinguished the admirable, dark, deep eyes, beaming with eternal youth, with extraordinary intelligence and penetration. And then there was aresolute bracing of his entire person, a consciousness of the eternitywhich he represented, a regal nobility, born of the very circumstancethat he was now but a mere breath, a soul set in so pellucid a body ofivory that it became visible as though it were already freed from thebonds of earth. And Pierre realised what such a man--the SovereignPontiff, the king obeyed by two hundred and fifty millions ofsubjects--must be for the devout and dolent creatures who came to adorehim from so far, and who fell at his feet awestruck by the splendour ofthe powers incarnate in him. Behind him, amidst the purple of thehangings, what a gleam was suddenly afforded of the spheres beyond, whatan Infinite of ideality and blinding glory! So many centuries of historyfrom the Apostle Peter downward, so much strength and genius, so manystruggles and triumphs to be summed up in one being, the Elect, theUnique, the Superhuman! And what a miracle, incessantly renewed, was thatof Heaven deigning to descend into human flesh, of the Deity fixing Hisabode in His chosen servant, whom He consecrated above and beyond allothers, endowing him with all power and all science! What sacredperturbation, what emotion fraught with distracted love might one notfeel at the thought of the Deity being ever there in the depths of thatman's eyes, speaking with his voice and emanating from his hand each timethat he raised it to bless! Could one imagine the exorbitant absolutenessof that sovereign who was infallible, who disposed of the totality ofauthority in this world and of salvation in the next! At all events, howwell one understood that souls consumed by a craving for faith should flytowards him, that those who at last found the certainty they had soardently sought should seek annihilation in him, the consolation ofself-bestowal and disappearance within the Deity Himself. 

Meantime, the ceremony was drawing to an end; Baron de Fouras was nowpresenting the members of the committee and a few other persons ofimportance. There was a slow procession with trembling genuflections andmuch greedy kissing of the papal ring and slipper. Then the banners wereoffered, and Pierre felt a pang on seeing that the finest and richest ofthem was one of Lourdes, an offering no doubt from the Fathers of theImmaculate Conception. On one side of the white, gold-bordered silk OurLady of Lourdes was painted, while on the other appeared a portrait ofLeo XIII. Pierre saw the Pope smile at the presentment of himself, andwas greatly grieved thereat, as though, indeed, his whole dream of anintellectual, evangelical Pope, disentangled from all low superstition, were crumbling away. And just then his eyes met those of Nani, who fromthe outset had been watching him with the inquisitive air of a man who ismaking an experiment. 

"That banner is superb, isn't it?" said Nani, drawing near. "How it mustplease his Holiness to be so nicely painted in company with so pretty avirgin. " And as the young priest, turning pale, did not reply, theprelate added, with an air of devout enjoyment: "We are very fond ofLourdes in Rome; that story of Bernadette is so delightful. "

However, the scene which followed was so extraordinary that for a longtime Pierre remained overcome by it. He had beheld never-to-be-forgottenidolatry at Lourdes, incidents of naive faith and frantic religiouspassion which yet made him quiver with alarm and grief. But the crowdsrushing on the grotto, the sick dying of divine love before the Virgin'sstatue, the multitudes delirious with the contagion of themiraculous--nothing of all that gave an idea of the blast of madnesswhich suddenly inflamed the pilgrims at the feet of the Pope. Somebishops, superiors of religious orders, and other delegates of variouskinds had stepped forward to deposit near the throne the offerings whichthey brought from the whole Catholic world, the universal "collection" ofSt. Peter's Pence. It was the voluntary tribute of the nations to theirsovereign: silver, gold, and bank notes in purses, bags, and cases. Ladies came and fell on their knees to offer silk and velvet alms-bagswhich they themselves had embroidered. Others had caused the note caseswhich they tendered to be adorned with the monogram of Leo XIII indiamonds. And at one moment the enthusiasm became so intense that severalwomen stripped themselves of their adornments, flung their own purses onto the platform, and emptied their pockets even to the very coppers theyhad about them. One lady, tall and slender, very beautiful and very dark, wrenched her watch from about her neck, pulled off her rings, and threweverything upon the carpet. Had it been possible, they would have tornaway their flesh to pluck out their love-burnt hearts and fling themlikewise to the demi-god. They would even have flung themselves, havegiven themselves without reserve. It was a rain of presents, an explosionof the passion which impels one to strip oneself for the object of one'scult, happy at having nothing of one's own that shall not belong to him. And meantime the clamour grew, vivats and shrill cries of adoration aroseamidst pushing and jostling of increased violence, one and all yieldingto the irresistible desire to kiss the idol!

But a signal was given, and Leo XIII made haste to quit the throne andtake his place in the _cortege_ in order to return to his apartments. TheSwiss Guards energetically thrust back the throng, seeking to open a waythrough the three halls. But at sight of his Holiness's departure alamentation of despair arose and spread, as if heaven had suddenly closedagain and shut out those who had not yet been able to approach. What afrightful disappointment--to have beheld the living manifestation of theDeity and to see it disappear before gaining salvation by just touchingit! So terrible became the scramble, so extraordinary the confusion, thatthe Swiss Guards were swept away. And ladies were seen to dart after thePope, to drag themselves on all fours over the marble slabs and kiss hisfootprints and lap up the dust of his steps! The tall dark lady suddenlyfell at the edge of the platform, raised a loud shriek, and fainted; andtwo gentlemen of the committee had to hold her so that she might not doherself an injury in the convulsions of the hysterical fit which had comeupon her. Another, a plump blonde, was wildly, desperately kissing one ofthe golden arms of the throne-chair, on which the old man's poor, bonyelbow had just rested. And others, on seeing her, came to disputepossession, seized both arms, gilding and velvet, and pressed theirmouths to wood-work or upholstery, their bodies meanwhile shaking withtheir sobs. Force had to be employed in order to drag them away. 

When it was all over Pierre went off, emerging as it were from a painfuldream, sick at heart, and with his mind revolting. And again heencountered Nani's glance, which never left him. "It was a superbceremony, was it not?" said the prelate. "It consoles one for manyiniquities. "

"Yes, no doubt; but what idolatry!" the young priest murmured despitehimself. 

Nani, however, merely smiled, as if he had not heard the last word. Atthat same moment the two French ladies whom he had provided with ticketscame up to thank him, and. Pierre was surprised to recognise the motherand daughter whom he had met at the Catacombs. Charming, bright, andhealthy as they were, their enthusiasm was only for the spectacle: theydeclared that they were well pleased at having seen it--that it wasreally astonishing, unique. 

As the crowd slowly withdrew Pierre all at once felt a tap on hisshoulder, and, on turning his head, perceived Narcisse Habert, who alsowas very enthusiastic. "I made signs to you, my dear Abbe, " said he, "butyou didn't see me. Ah! how superb was the expression of that dark womanwho fell rigid beside the platform with her arms outstretched. Shereminded me of a masterpiece of one of the primitives, Cimabue, Giotto, or Fra Angelico. And the others, those who devoured the chair arms withtheir kisses, what suavity, beauty, and love! I never miss theseceremonies: there are always some fine scenes, perfect pictures, in whichsouls reveal themselves. "

The long stream of pilgrims slowly descended the stairs, and Pierre, followed by Nani and Narcisse, who had begun to chat, tried to bring theideas which were tumultuously throbbing in his brain into something likeorder. There was certainly grandeur and beauty in that Pope who had shuthimself up in his Vatican, and who, the more he became a purely moral, spiritual authority, freed from all terrestrial cares, had grown in theadoration and awe of mankind. Such a flight into the ideal deeply stirredPierre, whose dream of rejuvenated Christianity rested on the idea of thesupreme Head of the Church exercising only a purified, spiritualauthority. He had just seen what an increase of majesty and power was inthat way gained by the Supreme Pontiff of the spheres beyond, at whosefeet the women fainted, and behind whom they beheld a vision of theDeity. But at the same moment the pecuniary side of the question hadrisen before him and spoilt his joy. If the enforced relinquishment ofthe temporal power had exalted the Pope by freeing him from the worriesof a petty sovereignty which was ever threatened, the need of money stillremained like a chain about his feet tying him to earth. As he could notaccept the proffered subvention of the Italian Government, * there wascertainly in the Peter's Pence a means of placing the Holy See above allmaterial cares, provided, however, that this Peter's Pence were reallythe Catholic _sou_, the mite of each believer, levied on his daily incomeand sent direct to Rome. Such a voluntary tribute paid by the flock toits pastor would, moreover, suffice for the wants of the Church if eachof the 250, 000, 000 of Catholics gave his or her _sou_ every week. In thiswise the Pope, indebted to each and all of his children, would beindebted to none in particular. A _sou_ was so little and so easy togive, and there was also something so touching about the idea. But, unhappily, things were not worked in that way; the great majority ofCatholics gave nothing whatever, while the rich ones sent large sums frommotives of political passion; and a particular objection was that thegifts were centralised in the hands of certain bishops and religiousorders, so that these became ostensibly the benefactors of the papacy, the indispensable cashiers from whom it drew the sinews of life. Thelowly and humble whose mites filled the collection boxes were, so to say, suppressed, and the Pope became dependent on the intermediaries, and wascompelled to act cautiously with them, listen to their remonstrances, andeven at times obey their passions, lest the stream of gifts shouldsuddenly dry up. And so, although he was disburdened of the dead weightof the temporal power, he was not free; but remained the tributary of hisclergy, with interests and appetites around him which he must needssatisfy. And Pierre remembered the "Grotto of Lourdes" in the Vaticangardens, and the banner which he had just seen, and he knew that theLourdes fathers levied 200, 000 francs a year on their receipts to sendthem as a present to the Holy Father. Was not that the chief reason oftheir great power? He quivered, and suddenly became conscious that, dowhat he might, he would be defeated, and his book would be condemned. 

 * 110, 000 pounds per annum. It has never been accepted, and the accumulations lapse to the Government every five years, and cannot afterwards be recovered. --Trans. 

At last, as he was coming out on to the Piazza of St. Peter's, he heardNarcisse asking Monsignor Nani: "Indeed! Do you really think thatto-day's gifts exceeded that figure?"

"Yes, more than three millions, * I'm convinced of it, " the prelatereplied. 

 * All the amounts given on this and the following pages are calculated in francs. The reader will bear in mind that a million francs is equivalent to 40, 000 pounds. --Trans. 

For a moment the three men halted under the right-hand colonnade andgazed at the vast, sunlit piazza where the pilgrims were spreading outlike little black specks hurrying hither and thither--an ant-hill, as itwere, in revolution. 

Three millions! The words had rung in Pierre's ears. And, raising hishead, he gazed at the Vatican, all golden in the sunlight against theexpanse of blue sky, as if he wished to penetrate its walls and followthe steps of Leo XIII returning to his apartments. He pictured him ladenwith those millions, with his weak, slender arms pressed to his breast, carrying the silver, the gold, the bank notes, and even the jewels whichthe women had flung him. And almost unconsciously the young priest spokealoud: "What will he do with those millions? Where is he taking them?"

Narcisse and even Nani could not help being amused by this strangelyexpressed curiosity. It was the young _attache_ who replied. "Why, hisHoliness is taking them to his room; or, at least, is having them carriedthere before him. Didn't you see two persons of his suite picking upeverything and filling their pockets? And now his Holiness has shuthimself up quite alone; and if you could see him you would find himcounting and recounting his treasure with cheerful care, ranging therolls of gold in good order, slipping the bank notes into envelopes inequal quantities, and then putting everything away in hiding-places whichare only known to himself. "

While his companion was speaking Pierre again raised his eyes to thewindows of the Pope's apartments, as if to follow the scene. Moreover, Narcisse gave further explanations, asserting that the money was put awayin a certain article of furniture, standing against the right-hand wallin the Holy Father's bedroom. Some people, he added, also spoke of awriting table or secretaire with deep drawers; and others declared thatthe money slumbered in some big padlocked trunks stored away in thedepths of the alcove, which was very roomy. Of course, on the left sideof the passage leading to the Archives there was a large room occupied bya general cashier and a monumental safe; but the funds kept there weresimply those of the Patrimony of St. Peter, the administrative receiptsof Rome; whereas the Peter's Pence money, the voluntary donations ofChristendom, remained in the hands of Leo XIII: he alone knew the exactamount of that fund, and lived alone with its millions, which he disposedof like an absolute master, rendering account to none. And such was hisprudence that he never left his room when the servants cleaned and set itin order. At the utmost he would consent to remain on the threshold ofthe adjoining apartment in order to escape the dust. And whenever hemeant to absent himself for a few hours, to go down into the gardens, forinstance, he double-locked the doors and carried the keys away with him, never confiding them to another. 

At this point Narcisse paused and, turning to Nani, inquired: "Is notthat so, Monsignor? These are things known to all Rome. "

The prelate, ever smiling and wagging his head without expressing eitherapproval or disapproval, had begun to study on Pierre's face the effectof these curious stories. "No doubt, no doubt, " he responded; "so manythings are said! I know nothing myself, but you seem to be certain of itall, Monsieur Habert. "

"Oh!" resumed the other, "I don't accuse his Holiness of sordid avarice, such as is rumoured. Some fabulous stories are current, stories ofcoffers full of gold in which the Holy Father is said to plunge his handsfor hours at a time; treasures which he has heaped up in corners for thesole pleasure of counting them over and over again. Nevertheless, one maywell admit that his Holiness is somewhat fond of money for its own sake, for the pleasure of handling it and setting it in order when he happensto be alone--and after all that is a very excusable mania in an old manwho has no other pastime. But I must add that he is yet fonder of moneyfor the social power which it brings, the decisive help which it willgive to the Holy See in the future, if the latter desires to triumph. "

These words evoked the lofty figure of a wise and prudent Pope, consciousof modern requirements, inclined to utilise the powers of the century inorder to conquer it, and for this reason venturing on business andspeculation. As it happened, the treasure bequeathed by Pius IX hadnearly been lost in a financial disaster, but ever since that time LeoXIII had sought to repair the breach and make the treasure whole again, in order that he might leave it to his successor intact and evenenlarged. Economical he certainly was, but he saved for the needs of theChurch, which, as he knew, increased day by day; and money was absolutelynecessary if Atheism was to be met and fought in the sphere of theschools, institutions, and associations of all sorts. Without money, indeed, the Church would become a vassal at the mercy of the civilpowers, the Kingdom of Italy and other Catholic states; and so, althoughhe liberally helped every enterprise which might contribute to thetriumph of the Faith, Leo XIII had a contempt for all expenditure withoutan object, and treated himself and others with stern closeness. Personally, he had no needs. At the outset of his pontificate he had sethis small private patrimony apart from the rich patrimony of St. Peter, refusing to take aught from the latter for the purpose of assisting hisrelatives. Never had pontiff displayed less nepotism: his three nephewsand his two nieces had remained poor--in fact, in great pecuniaryembarrassment. Still he listened neither to complaints nor accusations, but remained inflexible, proudly resolved to bequeath the sinews of life, the invincible weapon money, to the popes of future times, and thereforevigorously defending the millions of the Holy See against the desperatecovetousness of one and all. 

"But, after all, what are the receipts and expenses of the Holy See?"inquired Pierre. 

In all haste Nani again made his amiable, evasive gesture. "Oh! I amaltogether ignorant in such matters, " he replied. "Ask Monsieur Habert, who is so well informed. "

"For my part, " responded the _attache_, "I simply know what is known toall the embassies here, the matters which are the subject of commonreport. With respect to the receipts there is, first of all, the treasureleft by Pius IX, some twenty millions, invested in various ways andformerly yielding about a million a year in interest. But, as I saidbefore, a disaster happened, and there must then have been a falling offin the income. Still, nowadays it is reported that nearly alldeficiencies have been made good. Well, besides the regular income fromthe invested money, a few hundred thousand francs are derived every yearfrom chancellery dues, patents of nobility, and all sorts of little feespaid to the Congregations. However, as the annual expenses exceed sevenmillions, it has been necessary to find quite six millions every year;and certainly it is the Peter's Pence Fund that has supplied, not the sixmillions, perhaps, but three or four of them, and with these the Holy Seehas speculated in the hope of doubling them and making both ends meet. Itwould take me too long just now to relate the whole story of thesespeculations, the first huge gains, then the catastrophe which almostswept everything away, and finally the stubborn perseverance which isgradually supplying all deficiencies. However, if you are anxious on thesubject, I will one day tell you all about it. "

Pierre had listened with deep interest. "Six millions--even four!" heexclaimed, "what does the Peter's Pence Fund bring in, then?"

"Oh! I can only repeat that nobody has ever known the exact figures. Informer times the Catholic Press published lists giving the amounts ofdifferent offerings, and in this way one could frame an approximateestimate. But the practice must have been considered unadvisable, for nodocuments nowadays appear, and it is absolutely impossible for people toform any real idea of what the Pope receives. He alone knows the correctamount, keeps the money, and disposes of it with absolute authority. Still I believe that in good years the offerings have amounted to betweenfour and five millions. Originally France contributed one-half of thesum; but nowadays it certainly gives much less. Then come Belgium andAustria, England and Germany. As for Spain and Italy--oh! Italy--"

Narcisse paused and smiled at Monsignor Nani, who was wagging his headwith the air of a man delighted at learning some extremely curious thingsof which he had previously had no idea. 

"Oh, you may proceed, you may proceed, my dear son, " said he. 

"Well, then, Italy scarcely distinguishes itself. If the Pope had toprovide for his living out of the gifts of the Italian Catholics therewould soon be a famine at the Vatican. Far from helping him, indeed, theRoman nobility has cost him dear; for one of the chief causes of hispecuniary losses was his folly in lending money to the princes whospeculated. It is really only from France and England that rich people, noblemen and so forth, have sent royal gifts to the imprisoned andmartyred Pontiff. Among others there was an English nobleman who came toRome every year with a large offering, the outcome of a vow which he hadmade in the hope that Heaven would cure his unhappy idiot son. And, ofcourse, I don't refer to the extraordinary harvest garnered during thesacerdotal and the episcopal jubilees--the forty millions which then fellat his Holiness's feet. "

"And the expenses?" asked Pierre. 

"Well, as I told you, they amount to about seven millions. We may reckontwo of them for the pensions paid to former officials of the pontificalgovernment who were unwilling to take service under Italy; but I must addthat this source of expense is diminishing every year as people die offand their pensions become extinguished. Then, broadly speaking, we mayput down one million for the Italian sees, another for the Secretariateand the Nunciatures, and another for the Vatican. In this last sum Iinclude the expenses of the pontifical Court, the military establishment, the museums, and the repair of the palace and the Basilica. Well, we havereached five millions, and the two others may be set down for the varioussubsidised enterprises, the Propaganda, and particularly the schools, which Leo XIII, with great practical good sense, subsidises veryhandsomely, for he is well aware that the battle and the triumph be inthat direction--among the children who will be men to-morrow, and whowill then defend their mother the Church, provided that they have beeninspired with horror for the abominable doctrines of the age. "

A spell of silence ensued, and the three men slowly paced the majesticcolonnade. The swarming crowd had gradually disappeared, leaving thepiazza empty, so that only the obelisk and the twin fountains now arosefrom the burning desert of symmetrical paving; whilst on the entablatureof the porticus across the square a noble line of motionless statuesstood out in the bright sunlight. And Pierre, with his eyes still raisedto the Pope's windows, again fancied that he could see Leo XIII amidstall the streaming gold that had been spoken of, his whole, white, purefigure, his poor, waxen, transparent form steeped amidst those millionswhich he hid and counted and expended for the glory of God alone. "Andso, " murmured the young priest, "he has no anxiety, he is not in anypecuniary embarrassment. "

"Pecuniary embarrassment!" exclaimed Monsignor Nani, his patience sosorely tried by the remark that he could no longer retain his diplomaticreserve. "Oh! my dear son! Why, when Cardinal Mocenni, the treasurer, goes to his Holiness every month, his Holiness always gives him the sumhe asks for; he would give it, and be able to give it, however large itmight be! His Holiness has certainly had the wisdom to effect greateconomies; the Treasure of St. Peter is larger than ever. Pecuniaryembarrassment, indeed! Why, if a misfortune should occur, and theSovereign Pontiff were to make a direct appeal to all his children, theCatholics of the entire world, do you know that in that case a thousandmillions would fall at his feet just like the gold and the jewels whichyou saw raining on the steps of his throne just now?" Then suddenlycalming himself and recovering his pleasant smile, Nani added: "At least, that is what I sometimes hear said; for, personally, I know nothing, absolutely nothing; and it is fortunate that Monsieur Habert should havebeen here to give you information. Ah! Monsieur Habert, Monsieur Habert!Why, I fancied that you were always in the skies absorbed in your passionfor art, and far removed from all base mundane interests! But you reallyunderstand these things like a banker or a notary. Nothing escapes you, nothing. It is wonderful. "

Narcisse must have felt the sting of the prelate's delicate sarcasm. Atbottom, beneath this make-believe Florentine all-angelicalness, with longcurly hair and mauve eyes which grew dim with rapture at sight of aBotticelli, there was a thoroughly practical, business-like young man, who took admirable care of his fortune and was even somewhat miserly. However, he contented himself with lowering his eyelids and assuming alanguorous air. "Oh!" said he, "I'm all reverie; my soul is elsewhere. "

"At all events, " resumed Nani, turning towards Pierre, "I am very gladthat you were able to see such a beautiful spectacle. A few more suchopportunities and you will understand things far better than you wouldfrom all the explanations in the world. Don't miss the grand ceremony atSt. Peter's to-morrow. It will be magnificent, and will give you food foruseful reflection; I'm sure of it. And now allow me to leave you, delighted at seeing you in such a fit frame of mind. "

Darting a last glance at Pierre, Nani seemed to have observed withpleasure the weariness and uncertainty which were paling his face. Andwhen the prelate had gone off, and Narcisse also had taken leave with agentle hand-shake, the young priest felt the ire of protest rising withinhim. What fit frame of mind did Nani mean? Did that man hope to weary himand drive him to despair by throwing him into collision with obstacles, so that he might afterwards overcome him with perfect ease? For thesecond time Pierre became suddenly and briefly conscious of the stealthyefforts which were being made to invest and crush him. But, believing ashe did in his own strength of resistance, pride filled him with disdain. Again he swore that he would never yield, never withdraw his book, nomatter what might happen. And then, before crossing the piazza, he oncemore raised his eyes to the windows of the Vatican, all his impressionscrystallising in the thought of that much-needed money which like a lastbond still attached the Pope to earth. Its chief evil doubtless lay inthe manner in which it was provided; and if indeed the only question wereto devise an improved method of collection, his dream of a pope whoshould be all soul, the bond of love, the spiritual leader of the world, would not be seriously affected. At this thought, Pierre felt comfortedand was unwilling to look on things otherwise than hopefully, moved as hewas by the extraordinary scene which he had just beheld, that feeble oldman shining forth like the symbol of human deliverance, obeyed andvenerated by the multitudes, and alone among all men endowed with themoral omnipotence that might at last set the reign of charity and peaceon earth. 

For the ceremony on the following day, it was fortunate that Pierre helda private ticket which admitted him to a reserved gallery, for thescramble at the entrances to the Basilica proved terrible. The mass, which the Pope was to celebrate in person, was fixed for ten o'clock, butpeople began to pour into St. Peter's four hours earlier, as soon, indeed, as the gates had been thrown open. The three thousand members ofthe International Pilgrimage were increased tenfold by the arrival of allthe tourists in Italy, who had hastened to Rome eager to witness one ofthose great pontifical functions which nowadays are so rare. Moreover, the devotees and partisans whom the Holy See numbered in Rome itself andin other great cities of the kingdom, helped to swell the throng, allalacrity at the prospect of a demonstration. Judging by the ticketsdistributed, there would be a concourse of 40, 000 people. And, indeed, atnine o'clock, when Pierre crossed the piazza on his way to the Canons'Entrance in the Via Santa Marta, where the holders of pink tickets wereadmitted, he saw the portico of the facade still thronged with people whowere but slowly gaining admittance, while several gentlemen in eveningdress, members of some Catholic association, bestirred themselves tomaintain order with the help of a detachment of Pontifical Guards. Nevertheless, violent quarrels broke out in the crowd, and blows wereexchanged amidst the involuntary scramble. Some people were almoststifled, and two women were carried off half crushed to death. 

A disagreeable surprise met Pierre on his entry into the Basilica. Thehuge edifice was draped; coverings of old red damask with bands of goldswathed the columns and pilasters, seventy-five feet high; even theaisles were hung with the same old and faded silk; and the shrouding ofthose pompous marbles, of all the superb dazzling ornamentation of thechurch bespoke a very singular taste, a tawdry affectation of pomposity, extremely wretched in its effect. However, he was yet more amazed onseeing that even the statue of St. Peter was clad, costumed like a livingpope in sumptuous pontifical vestments, with a tiara on its metal head. He had never imagined that people could garment statues either for theirglory or for the pleasure of the eyes, and the result seemed to himdisastrous. 

The Pope was to say mass at the papal altar of the Confession, the highaltar which stands under the dome. On a platform at the entrance of theleft-hand transept was the throne on which he would afterwards take hisplace. Then, on either side of the nave, tribunes had been erected forthe choristers of the Sixtine Chapel, the Corps Diplomatique, the Knightsof Malta, the Roman nobility, and other guests of various kinds. And, finally, in the centre, before the altar, there were three rows ofbenches covered with red rugs, the first for the cardinals and the othertwo for the bishops and the prelates of the pontifical court. All therest of the congregation was to remain standing. 

Ah! that huge concert-audience, those thirty, forty thousand believersfrom here, there, and everywhere, inflamed with curiosity, passion, orfaith, bestirring themselves, jostling one another, rising on tip-toe tosee the better! The clamour of a human sea arose, the crowd was as gayand familiar as if it had found itself in some heavenly theatre where itwas allowable for one to chat aloud and recreate oneself with thespectacle of religious pomp! At first Pierre was thunderstruck, he whoonly knew of nervous, silent kneeling in the depths of dim cathedrals, who was not accustomed to that religion of light, whose brilliancytransformed a religious celebration into a morning festivity. Around him, in the same tribune as himself, were gentlemen in dress-coats and ladiesgowned in black, carrying glasses as in an opera-house. There were Germanand English women, and numerous Americans, all more or less charming, displaying the grace of thoughtless, chirruping birds. In the tribune ofthe Roman nobility on the left he recognised Benedetta and DonnaSerafina, and there the simplicity of the regulation attire for ladieswas relieved by large lace veils rivalling one another in richness andelegance. Then on the right was the tribune of the Knights of Malta, where the Grand Master stood amidst a group of commanders: while acrossthe nave rose the diplomatic tribune where Pierre perceived theambassadors of all the Catholic nations, resplendent in gala uniformscovered with gold lace. However, the young priest's eyes were everreturning to the crowd, the great surging throng in which the threethousand pilgrims were lost amidst the multitude of other spectators. Andyet as the Basilica was so vast that it could easily contain eightythousand people, it did not seem to be more than half full. People cameand went along the aisles and took up favourable positions withoutimpediment. Some could be seen gesticulating, and calls rang out abovethe ceaseless rumble of voices. From the lofty windows of plain whiteglass fell broad sheets of sunlight, which set a gory glow upon the fadeddamask hangings, and these cast a reflection as of fire upon all thetumultuous, feverish, impatient faces. The multitude of candles, and theseven-and-eighty lamps of the Confession paled to such a degree that theyseemed but glimmering night-lights in the blinding radiance; andeverything proclaimed the worldly gala of the imperial Deity of Romanpomp. 

All at once there came a premature shock of delight, a false alert. Criesburst forth and circulated through the crowd: "Eccolo! eccolo! Here hecomes!" And then there was pushing and jostling, eddying which made thehuman sea whirl and surge, all craning their necks, raising themselves totheir full height, darting forward in a frenzied desire to see the HolyFather and the _cortege_. But only a detachment of Noble Guards marchedby and took up position right and left of the altar. A flattering murmuraccompanied them, their fine impassive bearing with its exaggeratedmilitary stiffness, provoking the admiration of the throng. An Americanwoman declared that they were superb-looking fellows; and a Roman ladygave an English friend some particulars about the select corps to whichthey belonged. Formerly, said she, young men of the aristocracy hadgreatly sought the honour of forming part of it, for the sake of wearingits rich uniform and caracoling in front of the ladies. But recruitingwas now such a difficult matter that one had to content oneself withgood-looking young men of doubtful or ruined nobility, whose only carewas for the meagre "pay" which just enabled them to live. 

When another quarter of an hour of chatting and scrutinising had elapsed, the papal _cortege_ at last made its appearance, and no sooner was itseen than applause burst forth as in a theatre--furious applause it waswhich rose and rolled along under the vaulted ceilings, suggesting theacclamations which ring out when some popular, idolised actor makes hisentry on the stage. As in a theatre, too, everything had been veryskilfully contrived so as to produce all possible effect amidst themagnificent scenery of the Basilica. The _cortege_ was formed in thewings, that is in the Cappella della Pieta, the first chapel of the rightaisle, and in order to reach it, the Holy Father, coming from hisapartments by the way of the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, had beenstealthily carried behind the hangings of the aisle which served thepurpose of a drop-scene. Awaiting him in all readiness in the Cappelladella Pieta were the cardinals, archbishops, and bishops, the wholepontifical prelacy, hierarchically classified and grouped. And then, asat a signal from a ballet master, the _cortege_ made its entry, reachingthe nave and ascending it in triumph from the closed Porta Santa to thealtar of the Confession. On either hand were the rows of spectators whoseapplause at the sight of so much magnificence grew louder and louder astheir delirious enthusiasm increased. 

It was the _cortege_ of the olden solemnities, the cross and sword, theSwiss Guard in full uniform, the valets in scarlet simars, the Knights ofthe Cape and the Sword in Renascence costumes, the Canons in rochets oflace, the superiors of the religious communities, the apostolicprothonotaries, the archbishops, and bishops, all the pontifical prelatesin violet silk, the cardinals, each wearing the _cappa magna_ and drapedin purple, walking solemnly two by two with long intervals between eachpair. Finally, around his Holiness were grouped the officers of themilitary household, the chamber prelates, Monsignor the Majordomo, Monsignor the Grand Chamberlain, and all the other high dignitaries ofthe Vatican, with the Roman prince assistant of the throne, thetraditional, symbolical defender of the Church. And on the _sediagestatoria_, screened by the _flabelli_ with their lofty triumphal fansof feathers and carried on high by the bearers in red tunics broideredwith silk, sat the Pope, clad in the sacred vestments which he hadassumed in the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, the amict, the alb, thestole, and the white chasuble and white mitre enriched with gold, twogifts of extraordinary sumptuousness that had come from France. And, ashis Holiness drew near, all hands were raised and clapped yet more loudlyamidst the waves of living sunlight which streamed from the loftywindows. 

Then a new and different impression of Leo XIII came to Pierre. The Pope, as he now beheld him, was no longer the familiar, tired, inquisitive oldman, leaning on the arm of a talkative prelate as he strolled through theloveliest gardens in the world. He no longer recalled the Holy Father, inred cape and papal cap, giving a paternal welcome to a pilgrimage whichbrought him a fortune. He was here the Sovereign Pontiff, theall-powerful Master whom Christendom adored. His slim waxen form seemedto have stiffened within his white vestments, heavy with golden broidery, as in a reliquary of precious metal; and he retained a rigid, haughty, hieratic attitude, like that of some idol, gilded, withered for centuriespast by the smoke of sacrifices. Amidst the mournful stiffness of hisface only his eyes lived--eyes like black sparkling diamonds gazing afar, beyond earth, into the infinite. He gave not a glance to the crowd, helowered his eyes neither to right nor to left, but remained soaring inthe heavens, ignoring all that took place at his feet. 

And as that seemingly embalmed idol, deaf and blind, in spite of thebrilliancy of his eyes, was carried through the frantic multitude whichit appeared neither to hear nor to see, it assumed fearsome majesty, disquieting grandeur, all the rigidity of dogma, all the immobility oftradition exhumed with its _fascioe_ which alone kept it erect. StillPierre fancied he could detect that the Pope was ill and weary, sufferingfrom the attack of fever which Nani had spoken of when glorifying thecourage of that old man of eighty-four, whom strength of soul alone nowkept alive. 

The service began. Alighting from the _sedia gestatoria_ before the altarof the Confession, his Holiness slowly celebrated a low mass, assisted byfour prelates and the pro-prefect of the ceremonies. When the time camefor washing his fingers, Monsignor the Majordomo and Monsignor the GrandChamberlain, accompanied by two cardinals, poured the water on his augusthands; and shortly before the elevation of the host all the prelates ofthe pontifical court, each holding a lighted taper, came and knelt aroundthe altar. There was a solemn moment, the forty thousand believers thereassembled shuddered as if they could feel the terrible yet deliciousblast of the invisible sweeping over them when during the elevation thesilver clarions sounded the famous chorus of angels which invariablymakes some women swoon. Almost immediately an aerial chant descended fromthe cupola, from a lofty gallery where one hundred and twenty choristerswere concealed, and the enraptured multitude marvelled as though theangels had indeed responded to the clarion call. The voices descended, taking their flight under the vaulted ceilings with the airy sweetness ofcelestial harps; then in suave harmony they died away, reascended to theheavens as with a faint flapping of wings. And, after the mass, hisHoliness, still standing at the altar, in person started the _Te Deum_, which the singers of the Sixtine Chapel and the other choristers took up, each party chanting a verse alternately. But soon the whole congregationjoined them, forty thousand voices were raised, and a hymn of joy andglory spread through the vast nave with incomparable splendour of effect. And then the scene became one of extraordinary magnificence: there wasBernini's triumphal, flowery, gilded _baldacchino_, surrounded by thewhole pontifical court with the lighted tapers showing like starryconstellations, there was the Sovereign Pontiff in the centre, radiantlike a planet in his gold-broidered chasuble, there were the benchescrowded with cardinals in purple and archbishops and bishops in violetsilk, there were the tribunes glittering with official finery, the goldlace of the diplomatists, the variegated uniforms of foreign officers, and then there was the throng flowing and eddying on all sides, rollingbillows after billows of heads from the most distant depths of theBasilica. And the hugeness of the temple increased one's amazement; andeven the glorious hymn which the multitude repeated became colossal, ascended like a tempest blast amidst the great marble tombs, thesuperhuman statues and gigantic pillars, till it reached the vast vaultedheavens of stone, and penetrated into the firmament of the cupola wherethe Infinite seemed to open resplendent with the gold-work of themosaics. 

A long murmur of voices followed the _Te Deum_, whilst Leo XIII, afterdonning the tiara in lieu of the mitre, and exchanging the chasuble forthe pontifical cope, went to occupy his throne on the platform at theentry of the left transept. He thence dominated the whole assembly, through which a quiver sped when after the prayers of the ritual, he oncemore rose erect. Beneath the symbolic, triple crown, in the goldensheathing of his cope, he seemed to have grown taller. Amidst sudden andprofound silence, which only feverish heart-beats interrupted, he raisedhis arm with a very noble gesture and pronounced the papal benediction ina slow, loud, full voice, which seemed, as it were, the very voice of theDeity, so greatly did its power astonish one, coming from such waxenlips, from such a bloodless, lifeless frame. And the effect wasprodigious: as soon as the _cortege_ reformed to return whence it hadcome, applause again burst forth, a frenzy of enthusiasm which theclapping of hands could no longer content. Acclamations resounded andgradually gained upon the whole multitude. They began among a group ofardent partisans stationed near the statue of St. Peter: _"Evviva ilPapa-Re! evviva il Papa-Re_! Long live the Pope-King!" as the _cortege_went by the shout rushed along like leaping fire, inflaming heart afterheart, and at last springing from every mouth in a thunderous protestagainst the theft of the states of the Church. All the faith, all thelove of those believers, overexcited by the regal spectacle they had justbeheld, returned once more to the dream, to the rageful desire that thePope should be both King and Pontiff, master of men's bodies as he was oftheir souls--in one word, the absolute sovereign of the earth. Thereinlay the only truth, the only happiness, the only salvation! Let all begiven to him, both mankind and the world! "_Evviva il Papa-Re! evviva ilPapa-Re_! Long live the Pope-King!"

Ah! that cry, that cry of war which had caused so many errors and so muchbloodshed, that cry of self-abandonment and blindness which, realised, would have brought back the old ages of suffering, it shocked Pierre, andimpelled him in all haste to quit the tribune where he was in order thathe might escape the contagion of idolatry. And while the _cortege_ stillwent its way and the deafening clamour of the crowd continued, he for amoment followed the left aisle amidst the general scramble. This, however, made him despair of reaching the street, and anxious to escapethe crush of the general departure, it occurred to him to profit by adoor which he saw open and which led him into a vestibule, whenceascended the steps conducting to the dome. A sacristan standing in thedoorway, both bewildered and delighted at the demonstration, looked athim for a moment, hesitating whether he should stop him or not. However, the sight of the young priest's cassock combined with his own emotionrendered the man tolerant. Pierre was allowed to pass, and at once beganto climb the staircase as rapidly as he could, in order that he mightflee farther and farther away, ascend higher and yet higher into peaceand silence. 

And the silence suddenly became profound, the walls stifled the cry ofthe multitude. The staircase was easy and light, with broad paved stepsturning within a sort of tower. When Pierre came out upon the roofs ofnave and aisles, he was delighted to find himself in the bright sunlightand the pure keen air which blew there as in the open country. And it waswith astonishment that he gazed upon the huge expanse of lead, zinc, andstone-work, a perfect aerial city living a life of its own under the bluesky. He saw cupolas, spires, terraces, even houses and gardens, housesbright with flowers, the residences of the workmen who live atop of theBasilica, which is ever and ever requiring repair. A little populationhere bestirs itself, labours, loves, eats, and sleeps. However, Pierredesired to approach the balustrade so as to get a near view of thecolossal statues of the Saviour and the Apostles which surmount thefacade on the side of the piazza. These giants, some nineteen feet inheight, are constantly being mended; their arms, legs, and heads, intowhich the atmosphere is ever eating, nowadays only hold together by thehelp of cement, bars, and hooks. And having examined them, Pierre wasleaning forward to glance at the Vatican's jumble of ruddy roofs, when itseemed to him that the shout from which he had fled was rising from thepiazza, and thereupon, in all haste, he resumed his ascent within thepillar conducting to the dome. There was first a staircase, and then camesome narrow, oblique passages, inclines intersected by a few steps, between the inner and outer walls of the cupola. Yielding to curiosity, Pierre pushed a door open, and suddenly found himself inside the Basilicaagain, at nearly 200 feet from the ground. A narrow gallery there ranround the dome just above the frieze, on which, in letters five feethigh, appeared the famous inscription: _Tu es Petrus et super hanc petramoedificabo ecclesiam meam et tibi dabo claves regni coelorum. _* And then, as Pierre leant over to gaze into the fearful cavity beneath him and thewide openings of nave, and aisles, and transepts, the cry, the deliriouscry of the multitude, yet clamorously swarming below, struck him full inthe face. He fled once more; but, higher up, yet a second time he pushedanother door open and found another gallery, one perched above thewindows, just where the splendid mosaics begin, and whence the crowdseemed to him lost in the depths of a dizzy abyss, altar and_baldacchino_ alike looking no larger than toys. And yet the cry ofidolatry and warfare arose again, and smote him like the buffet of atempest which gathers increase of strength the farther it rushes. So toescape it he had to climb higher still, even to the outer gallery whichencircles the lantern, hovering in the very heavens. 

 * Thou art Peter (Petrus) and on that rock (Petram) will I build my church, and to thee will I give the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. 

How delightful was the relief which that bath of air and sunlight atfirst brought him! Above him now there only remained the ball of giltcopper into which emperors and queens have ascended, as is testified bythe pompous inscriptions in the passages; a hollow ball it is, where thevoice crashes like thunder, where all the sounds of space reverberate. Ashe emerged on the side of the apse, his eyes at first plunged into thepapal gardens, whose clumps of trees seemed mere bushes almost level withthe soil; and he could retrace his recent stroll among them, the broad_parterre_ looking like a faded Smyrna rug, the large wood showing thedeep glaucous greenery of a stagnant pool. Then there were the kitchengarden and the vineyard easily identified and tended with care. Thefountains, the observatory, the casino, where the Pope spent the hot daysof summer, showed merely like little white spots in those undulatinggrounds, walled in like any other estate, but with the fearsome rampartof the fourth Leo, which yet retained its fortress-like aspect. However, Pierre took his way round the narrow gallery and abruptly found himselfin front of Rome, a sudden and immense expanse, with the distant sea onthe west, the uninterrupted mountain chains on the east and the south, the Roman Campagna stretching to the horizon like a bare and greenishdesert, while the city, the Eternal City, was spread out at his feet. Never before had space impressed him so majestically. Rome was there, asa bird might see it, within the glance, as distinct as some geographicalplan executed in relief. To think of it, such a past, such a history, somuch grandeur, and Rome so dwarfed and contracted by distance! Houses aslilliputian and as pretty as toys; and the whole a mere mouldy speck uponthe earth's face! What impassioned Pierre was that he could at a glanceunderstand the divisions of Rome: the antique city yonder with theCapitol, the Forum, and the Palatine; the papal city in that Borgo whichhe overlooked, with St. Peter's and the Vatican gazing across the city ofthe middle ages--which was huddled together in the right angle describedby the yellow Tiber--towards the modern city, the Quirinal of the Italianmonarchy. And particularly did he remark the chalky girdle with which thenew districts encompassed the ancient, central, sun-tanned quarters, thussymbolising an effort at rejuvenescence, the old heart but slowly mended, whereas the outlying limbs were renewed as if by miracle. 

In that ardent noontide glow, however, Pierre no longer beheld the pureethereal Rome which had met his eyes on the morning of his arrival in thedelightfully soft radiance of the rising sun. That smiling, unobtrusivecity, half veiled by golden mist, immersed as it were in some dream ofchildhood, now appeared to him flooded with a crude light, motionless, hard of outline and silent like death. The distance was as if devoured bytoo keen a flame, steeped in a luminous dust in which it crumbled. Andagainst that blurred background the whole city showed with violentdistinctness in great patches of light and shade, their tracery harshlyconspicuous. One might have fancied oneself above some very ancient, abandoned stone quarry, which a few clumps of trees spotted with darkgreen. Of the ancient city one could see the sunburnt tower of theCapitol, the black cypresses of the Palatine, and the ruins of the palaceof Septimius Severus, suggesting the white osseous carcase of some fossilmonster, left there by a flood. In front, was enthroned the modern citywith the long, renovated buildings of the Quirinal, whose yellow wallsstood forth with wondrous crudity amidst the vigorous crests of thegarden trees. And to right and left on the Viminal, beyond the palace, the new districts appeared like a city of chalk and plaster mottled byinnumerable windows as with a thousand touches of black ink. Then hereand there were the Pincio showing like a stagnant mere, the Villa Mediciuprearing its campanili, the castle of Sant' Angelo brown like rust, thespire of Santa Maria Maggiore aglow like a burning taper, the threechurches of the Aventine drowsy amidst verdure, the Palazzo Farnese withits summer-baked tiles showing like old gold, the domes of the Gesu, ofSant' Andrea della Valle, of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, and yet otherdomes and other domes, all in fusion, incandescent in the brazier of theheavens. And Pierre again felt a heart-pang in presence of that harsh, stern Rome, so different from the Rome of his dream, the Rome ofrejuvenescence and hope, which he had fancied he had found on his firstmorning, but which had now faded away to give place to the immutable cityof pride and domination, stubborn under the sun even unto death. 

And there on high, all alone with his thoughts, Pierre suddenlyunderstood. It was as if a dart of flaming light fell on him in thatfree, unbounded expanse where he hovered. Had it come from the ceremonywhich he had just beheld, from the frantic cry of servitude still ringingin his ears? Had it come from the spectacle of that city beneath him, that city which suggested an embalmed queen still reigning amidst thedust of her tomb? He knew not; but doubtless both had acted as factors, and at all events the light which fell upon his mind was complete: hefelt that Catholicism could not exist without the temporal power, that itmust fatally disappear whenever it should no longer be king over thisearth. A first reason of this lay in heredity, in the forces of history, the long line of the heirs of the Caesars, the popes, the great pontiffs, in whose veins the blood of Augustus, demanding the empire of the world, had never ceased to flow. Though they might reside in the Vatican theyhad come from the imperial abodes on the Palatine, from the palace ofSeptimius Severus, and throughout the centuries their policy had everpursued the dream of Roman mastery, of all the nations vanquished, submissive, and obedient to Rome. If its sovereignty were not universal, extending alike over bodies and over souls, Catholicism would lose its_raison d'etre_; for the Church cannot recognise any empire or kingdomotherwise than politically--the emperors and the kings being purely andsimply so many temporary delegates placed in charge of the nationspending the time when they shall be called upon to relinquish theirtrust. All the nations, all humanity, and the whole world belong to theChurch to whom they have been given by God. And if real and effectivepossession is not hers to-day, this is only because she yields to force, compelled to face accomplished facts, but with the formal reserve thatshe is in presence of guilty usurpation, that her possessions areunjustly withheld from her, and that she awaits the realisation of thepromises of the Christ, who, when the time shall be accomplished, willfor ever restore to her both the earth and mankind. Such is the realfuture city which time is to bring: Catholic Rome, sovereign of the worldonce more. And Rome the city forms a substantial part of the dream, Romewhose eternity has been predicted, Rome whose soil has imparted toCatholicism the inextinguishable thirst of absolute power. And thus thedestiny of the papacy is linked to that of Rome, to such a point indeedthat a pope elsewhere than at Rome would no longer be a Catholic pope. The thought of all this frightened Pierre; a great shudder passed throughhim as he leant on the light iron balustrade, gazing down into the abysswhere the stern mournful city was even now crumbling away under thefierce sun. 

There was, however, evidence of the facts which had dawned on him. IfPius IX and Leo XIII had resolved to imprison themselves in the Vatican, it was because necessity bound them to Rome. A pope is not free to leavethe city, to be the head of the Church elsewhere; and in the same way apope, however well he may understand the modern world, has not the rightto relinquish the temporal power. This is an inalienable inheritancewhich he must defend, and it is moreover a question of life, peremptory, above discussion. And thus Leo XIII has retained the title of Master ofthe temporal dominions of the Church, and this he has done the morereadily since as a cardinal--like all the members of the Sacred Collegewhen elected--he swore that he would maintain those dominions intact. Italy may hold Rome as her capital for another century or more, but thecoming popes will never cease to protest and claim their kingdom. If everan understanding should be arrived at, it must be based on the gift of astrip of territory. Formerly, when rumours of reconciliation werecurrent, was it not said that the papacy exacted, as a formal condition, the possession of at least the Leonine City with the neutralisation of aroad leading to the sea? Nothing is not enough, one cannot start fromnothing to attain to everything, whereas that Civitas Leonina, that bitof a city, would already be a little royal ground, and it would then onlybe necessary to conquer the rest, first Rome, next Italy, then theneighbouring states, and at last the whole world. Never has the Churchdespaired, even when, beaten and despoiled, she seemed to be at the lastgasp. Never will she abdicate, never will she renounce the promises ofthe Christ, for she believes in a boundless future and declares herselfto be both indestructible and eternal. Grant her but a pebble on which torest her head, and she will hope to possess, first the field in whichthat pebble lies, and then the empire in which the field is situated. Ifone pope cannot achieve the recovery of the inheritance, another pope, ten, twenty other popes will continue the work. The centuries do notcount. And this explains why an old man of eighty-four has undertakencolossal enterprises whose achievement requires several lives, certain ashe is that his successors will take his place, and that the work willever and ever be carried forward and completed. 

As these thoughts coursed through his mind, Pierre, overlooking thatancient city of glory and domination, so stubbornly clinging to itspurple, realised that he was an imbecile with his dream of a purelyspiritual pope. The notion seemed to him so different from the reality, so out of place, that he experienced a sort of shame-fraught despair. Thenew pope, consonant to the teachings of the Gospel, such as a purelyspiritual pope reigning over souls alone, would be, was virtually beyondthe ken of a Roman prelate. At thought of that papal court congealed inritual, pride, and authority, Pierre suddenly understood what horror andrepugnance such a pastor would inspire. How great must be theastonishment and contempt of the papal prelates for that singular notionof the northern mind, a pope without dominions or subjects, militaryhousehold or royal honours, a pope who would be, as it were, a spirit, exercising purely moral authority, dwelling in the depths of God'stemple, and governing the world solely with gestures of benediction anddeeds of kindliness and love! All that was but a misty Gothic inventionfor this Latin clergy, these priests of light and magnificence, who werecertainly pious and even superstitious, but who left the Deity wellsheltered within the tabernacle in order to govern in His name, accordingto what they considered the interests of Heaven. Thence it arose thatthey employed craft and artifice like mere politicians, and lived by dintof expedients amidst the great battle of human appetites, marching withthe prudent, stealthy steps of diplomatists towards the final terrestrialvictory of the Christ, who, in the person of the Pope, was one day toreign over all the nations. And how stupefied must a French prelate havebeen--a prelate like Monseigneur Bergerot, that apostle of renunciationand charity--when he lighted amidst that world of the Vatican! Howdifficult must it have been for him to understand and focus things, andafterwards how great his grief at finding himself unable to come to anyagreement with those men without country, without fatherland, those"internationals, " who were ever poring over the maps of both hemispheres, ever absorbed in schemes which were to bring them empire. Days and dayswere necessary, one needed to live in Rome, and he, Pierre himself, hadonly seen things clearly after a month's sojourn, whilst labouring underthe violent shock of the royal pomp of St. Peter's, and standing face toface with the ancient city as it slumbered heavily in the sunlight anddreamt its dream of eternity. 

But on lowering his eyes to the piazza in front of the Basilica heperceived the multitude, the 40, 000 believers streaming over the pavementlike insects. And then he thought that he could hear the cry againrising: "_Evviva il Papa-Re! evviva il Papa-Re_! Long live thePope-King!" Whilst ascending those endless staircases a moment previouslyit had seemed to him as if the colossus of stone were quivering with thefrantic shout raised beneath its ceilings. And now that he had climbedeven into cloudland that shout apparently was traversing space. If thecolossal pile beneath him still vibrated with it, was it not as with alast rise of sap within its ancient walls, a reinvigoration of thatCatholic blood which formerly had demanded that the pile should be astupendous one, the veritable king of temples, and which now was strivingto reanimate it with the powerful breath of life, and this at the veryhour when death was beginning to fall upon its over-vast, deserted naveand aisles? The crowd was still streaming forth, filling the piazza, andPierre's heart was wrung by frightful anguish, for that throng with itsshout had just swept his last hope away. On the previous afternoon, afterthe reception of the pilgrimage, he had yet been able to deceive himselfby overlooking the necessity for money which bound the Pope to earth inorder that he might see nought but the feeble old man, all spirituality, resplendent like the symbol of moral authority. But his faith in such apastor of the Gospel, free from all considerations of earthly wealth, andking of none other than a heavenly kingdom, had fled. Not only did thePeter's Pence impose hard servitude upon Leo XIII but he was also theprisoner of papal tradition--the eternal King of Rome, riveted to thesoil of Rome, unable either to quit the city or to renounce the temporalpower. The fatal end would be collapse on the spot, the dome of St. Peter's falling even as the temple of Olympian Jupiter had fallen, Catholicism strewing the grass with its ruins whilst elsewhere schismburst forth: a new faith for the new nations. Of this Pierre had agrandiose and tragical vision: he beheld his dream destroyed, his bookswept away amidst that cry which spread around him as if flying to thefour corners of the Catholic world "_Evviva il Papa-Re! evviva ilPapa-Re!_ Long live the Pope-King!" But even in that hour of the papacy'spassing triumph he already felt that the giant of gold and marble onwhich he stood was oscillating, even as totter all old and rottensocieties. 

At last he took his way down again, and a fresh shock of emotion came tohim as he reached the roofs, that sunlit expanse of lead and zinc, largeenough for the site of a town. Monsignor Nani was there, in company withthe two French ladies, the mother and the daughter, both looking veryhappy and highly amused. No doubt the prelate had good-naturedly offeredto conduct them to the dome. However, as soon as he recognised the youngpriest he went towards him: "Well, my dear son, " he inquired, "are youpleased? Have you been impressed, edified?" As he spoke, his searchingeyes dived into Pierre's soul, as if to ascertain the present result ofhis experiments. Then, satisfied with what he detected, he began to laughsoftly: "Yes, yes, I see--come, you are a sensible fellow after all. Ibegin to think that the unfortunate affair which brought you here willhave a happy ending. "

VIII. 

WHEN Pierre remained in the morning at the Boccanera mansion he oftenspent some hours in the little neglected garden which had formerly endedwith a sort of colonnaded _loggia_, whence two flights of steps descendedto the Tiber. This garden was a delightful, solitary nook, perfumed bythe ripe fruit of the centenarian orange-trees, whose symmetrical lineswere the only indication of the former pathways, now hidden beneath rankweeds. And Pierre also found there the acrid scent of the largebox-shrubs growing in the old central fountain basin, which had beenfilled up with loose earth and rubbish. 

On those luminous October mornings, full of such tender and penetratingcharm, the spot was one where all the joy of living might well besavoured, but Pierre brought thither his northern dreaminess, his concernfor suffering, his steadfast feeling of compassion, which rendered yetsweeter the caress of the sunlight pervading that atmosphere of love. Heseated himself against the right-hand wall on a fragment of a fallencolumn over which a huge laurel cast a deep-black shadow, fresh andaromatic. In the antique greenish sarcophagus beside him, on which faunsoffered violence to nymphs, the streamlet of water trickling from themask incrusted in the wall, set the unchanging music of its crystal note, whilst he read the newspapers and the letters which he received, all thecommunications of good Abbe Rose, who kept him informed of his missionamong the wretched ones of gloomy Paris, now already steeped in fog andmud. 

One morning however, Pierre unexpectedly found Benedetta seated on thefallen column which he usually made his chair. She raised a light cry ofsurprise on seeing him, and for a moment remained embarrassed, for shehad with her his book "New Rome, " which she had read once already, buthad then imperfectly understood. And overcoming her embarrassment she nowhastened to detain him, making him sit down beside her, and franklyowning that she had come to the garden in order to be alone and applyherself to an attentive study of the book, in the same way as someignorant school-girl. Then they began to chat like a pair of friends, andthe young priest spent a delightful hour. Although Benedetta did notspeak of herself, he realised that it was her grief alone which broughther nearer to him, as if indeed her own sufferings enlarged her heart andmade her think of all who suffered in the world. Patrician as she was, regarding social hierarchy as a divine law, she had never previouslythought of such things, and some pages of Pierre's book greatlyastonished her. What! one ought to take interest in the lowly, realisethat they had the same souls and the same griefs as oneself, and seek inbrotherly or sisterly fashion to make them happy? She certainly sought toacquire such an interest, but with no great success, for she secretlyfeared that it might lead her into sin, as it could not be right to alteraught of the social system which had been established by God andconsecrated by the Church. Charitable she undoubtedly was, wont to bestowsmall sums in alms, but she did not give her heart, she felt no truesympathy for the humble, belonging as she did to such a different race, which looked to a throne in heaven high above the seats of all theplebeian elect. 

She and Pierre, however, found themselves on other mornings side by sidein the shade of the laurels near the trickling, singing water; and he, lacking occupation, weary of waiting for a solution which seemed torecede day by day, fervently strove to animate this young and beautifulwoman with some of his own fraternal feelings. He was impassioned by theidea that he was catechising Italy herself, the queen of beauty, who wasstill slumbering in ignorance, but who would recover all her past gloryif she were to awake to the new times with soul enlarged, swelling withpity for men and things. Reading good Abbe Rose's letters to Benedetta, he made her shudder at the frightful wail of wretchedness which ascendsfrom all great cities. With such deep tenderness in her eyes, with thehappiness of love reciprocated emanating from her whole being, why shouldshe not recognise, even as he did, that the law of love was the solemeans of saving suffering humanity, which, through hatred, incurred thedanger of death? And to please him she did try to believe in democracy, in the fraternal remodelling of society, but among other nationsonly--not at Rome, for an involuntary, gentle laugh came to her lipswhenever his words evoked the idea of the poor still remaining in theTrastevere district fraternising with those who yet dwelt in the oldprincely palaces. No, no, things had been as they were so long; theycould not, must not, be altered! And so, after all, Pierre's pupil madelittle progress: she was, in reality, simply touched by the wealth ofardent love which the young priest had chastely transferred from onealone to the whole of human kind. And between him and her, as thosesunlit October mornings went by, a tie of exquisite sweetness was formed;they came to love one another with deep, pure, fraternal affection, amidst the great glowing passion which consumed them both. 

Then, one day, Benedetta, her elbow resting on the sarcophagus, spoke ofDario, whose name she had hitherto refrained from mentioning. Ah! poor_amico_, how circumspect and repentant he had shown himself since thatfit of brutal insanity! At first, to conceal his embarrassment, he hadgone to spend three days at Naples, and it was said that La Tonietta, thesentimental _demi-mondaine_, had hastened to join him there, wildly inlove with him. Since his return to the mansion he had avoided all privatemeetings with his cousin, and scarcely saw her except at the Mondayreceptions, when he wore a submissive air, and with his eyes silentlyentreated forgiveness. 

"Yesterday, however, " continued Benedetta, "I met him on the staircaseand gave him my hand. He understood that I was no longer angry with himand was very happy. What else could I have done? One must not be severefor ever. Besides, I do not want things to go too far between him andthat woman. I want him to remember that I still love him, and am stillwaiting for him. Oh! he is mine, mine alone. But alas! I cannot say theword: our affairs are in such sorry plight. "

She paused, and two big tears welled into her eyes. The divorceproceedings to which she alluded had now come to a standstill, freshobstacles ever arising to stay their course. 

Pierre was much moved by her tears, for she seldom wept. She herselfsometimes confessed, with her calm smile, that she did not know how toweep. But now her heart was melting, and for a moment she remainedovercome, leaning on the mossy, crumbling sarcophagus, whilst the clearwater falling from the gaping mouth of the tragic mask still sounded itsflutelike note. And a sudden thought of death came to the priest as hesaw her, so young and so radiant with beauty, half fainting beside thatmarble resting-place where fauns were rushing upon nymphs in a franticbacchanal which proclaimed the omnipotence of love--that omnipotencewhich the ancients were fond of symbolising on their tombs as a token oflife's eternity. And meantime a faint, warm breeze passed through thesunlit, silent garden, wafting hither and thither the penetrating scentof box and orange. 

"One has so much strength when one loves, " Pierre at last murmured. 

"Yes, yes, you are right, " she replied, already smiling again. "I amchildish. But it is the fault of your book. It is only when I suffer thatI properly understand it. But all the same I am making progress, am Inot? Since you desire it, let all the poor, all those who suffer, as Ido, be my brothers and sisters. "

Then for a while they resumed their chat. 

On these occasions Benedetta was usually the first to return to thehouse, and Pierre would linger alone under the laurels, vaguely dreamingof sweet, sad things. Often did he think how hard life proved for poorcreatures whose only thirst was for happiness!

One Monday evening, at a quarter-past ten, only the young folks remainedin Donna Serafina's reception-room. Monsignor Nani had merely put in anappearance that night, and Cardinal Sarno had just gone off. 

Even Donna Serafina, in her usual seat by the fireplace, seemed to havewithdrawn from the others, absorbed as she was in contemplation of thechair which the absent Morano still stubbornly left unoccupied. Chattingand laughing in front of the sofa on which sat Benedetta and Celia wereDario, Pierre, and Narcisse Habert, the last of whom had begun to twitthe young Prince, having met him, so he asserted, a few days previously, in the company of a very pretty girl. 

"Oh! don't deny it, my dear fellow, " continued Narcisse, "for she wasreally superb. She was walking beside you, and you turned into a lanetogether--the Borgo Angelico, I think. "

Dario listened smiling, quite at his ease and incapable of denying hispassionate predilection for beauty. "No doubt, no doubt; it was I, Idon't deny it, " he responded. "Only the inferences you draw are notcorrect. " And turning towards Benedetta, who, without a thought ofjealous anxiety, wore as gay a look as himself, as though delighted thathe should have enjoyed that passing pleasure of the eyes, he went on: "Itwas the girl, you know, whom I found in tears six weeks ago. Yes, thatbead-worker who was sobbing because the workshop was shut up, and whorushed along, all blushing, to conduct me to her parents when I offeredher a bit of silver. Pierina her name is, as you, perhaps, remember. "

"Oh! yes, Pierina. "

"Well, since then I've met her in the street on four or five occasions. And, to tell the truth, she is so very beautiful that I've stopped andspoken to her. The other day, for instance, I walked with her as far as amanufacturer's. But she hasn't yet found any work, and she began to cry, and so, to console her a little, I kissed her. She was quite taken abackat it, but she seemed very well pleased. "

At this all the others began to laugh. But suddenly Celia desisted andsaid very gravely, "You know, Dario, she loves you; you must not be hardon her. "

Dario, no doubt, was of Celia's opinion, for he again looked atBenedetta, but with a gay toss of the head, as if to say that, althoughthe girl might love him, he did not love her. A bead-worker indeed, agirl of the lowest classes, pooh! She might be a Venus, but she could benothing to him. And he himself made merry over his romantic adventure, which Narcisse sought to arrange in a kind of antique sonnet: A beautifulbead-worker falling madly in love with a young prince, as fair assunlight, who, touched by her misfortune, hands her a silver crown; thenthe beautiful bead-worker, quite overcome at finding him as charitable ashandsome, dreaming of him incessantly, and following him everywhere, chained to his steps by a link of flame; and finally the beautifulbead-worker, who has refused the silver crown, so entreating the handsomeprince with her soft, submissive eyes, that he at last deigns to granther the alms of his heart. This pastime greatly amused Benedetta; butCelia, with her angelic face and the air of a little girl who ought tohave been ignorant of everything, remained very grave and repeated sadly, "Dario, Dario, she loves you; you must not make her suffer. "

Then the Contessina, in her turn, was moved to pity. "And those poorfolks are not happy!" said she. 

"Oh!" exclaimed the Prince, "it's misery beyond belief. On the day shetook me to the Quartiere dei Prati* I was quite overcome; it was awful, astonishingly awful!"

 * The district of the castle meadows--see _ante_ note. --Trans. 

"But I remember that we promised to go to see the poor people, " resumedBenedetta, "and we have done wrong in delaying our visit so long. Foryour studies, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, you greatly desired to accompanyus and see the poor of Rome--was that not so?"

As she spoke she raised her eyes to Pierre, who for a moment had beensilent. He was much moved by her charitable thought, for he realised, bythe faint quiver of her voice, that she desired to appear a docile pupil, progressing in affection for the lowly and the wretched. Moreover, hispassion for his apostolate had at once returned to him. "Oh!" said he, "Ishall not quit Rome without having seen those who suffer, those who lackwork and bread. Therein lies the malady which affects every nation;salvation can only be attained by the healing of misery. When the rootsof the tree cannot find sustenance the tree dies. "

"Well, " resumed the Contessina, "we will fix an appointment at once; youshall come with us to the Quartiere dei Prati--Dario will take us there. "

At this the Prince, who had listened to the priest with an air ofstupefaction, unable to understand the simile of the tree and its roots, began to protest distressfully, "No, no, cousin, take Monsieur l'Abbe fora stroll there if it amuses you. But I've been, and don't want to goback. Why, when I got home the last time I was so upset that I almosttook to my bed. No, no; such abominations are too awful--it isn'tpossible. "

At this moment a voice, bitter with displeasure, arose from the chimneycorner. Donna Serafina was emerging from her long silence. "Dario isquite right! Send your alms, my dear, and I will gladly add mine. Thereare other places where you might take Monsieur l'Abbe, and which it wouldbe far more useful for him to see. With that idea of yours you would sendhim away with a nice recollection of our city. "

Roman pride rang out amidst the old lady's bad temper. Why, indeed, showone's sores to foreigners, whose visit is possibly prompted by hostilecuriosity? One always ought to look beautiful; Rome should not be shownotherwise than in the garb of glory. 

Narcisse, however, had taken possession of Pierre. "It's true, my dearAbbe, " said he; "I forgot to recommend that stroll to you. You reallymust visit the new district built over the castle meadows. It's typical, and sums up all the others. And you won't lose your time there, I'llwarrant you, for nowhere can you learn more about the Rome of the presentday. It's extraordinary, extraordinary!" Then, addressing Benedetta, headded, "Is it decided? Shall we say to-morrow morning? You'll find theAbbe and me over there, for I want to explain matters to him beforehand, in order that he may understand them. What do you say to ten o'clock?"

Before answering him the Contessina turned towards her aunt andrespectfully opposed her views. "But Monsieur l'Abbe, aunt, has metenough beggars in our streets already, so he may well see everything. Besides, judging by his book, he won't see worse things than he has seenin Paris. As he says in one passage, hunger is the same all the worldover. " Then, with her sensible air, she gently laid siege to Dario. "Youknow, Dario, " said she, "you would please me very much by taking methere. We can go in the carriage and join these gentlemen. It will be avery pleasant outing for us. It is such a long time since we went outtogether. "

It was certainly that idea of going out with Dario, of having a pretextfor a complete reconciliation with him, that enchanted her; he himselfrealised it, and, unable to escape, he tried to treat the matter as ajoke. "Ah! cousin, " he said, "it will be your fault; I shall have thenightmare for a week. An excursion like that spoils all the enjoyment oflife for days and days. "

The mere thought made him quiver with revolt. However, laughter againrang out around him, and, in spite of Donna Serafina's mute disapproval, the appointment was finally fixed for the following morning at teno'clock. Celia as she went off expressed deep regret that she could notform one of the party; but, with the closed candour of a budding lily, she really took interest in Pierina alone. As she reached the ante-roomshe whispered in her friend's ear: "Take a good look at that beauty, mydear, so as to tell me whether she is so very beautiful--beautiful beyondcompare. "

When Pierre met Narcisse near the Castle of Sant' Angelo on the morrow, at nine o'clock, he was surprised to find him again languid andenraptured, plunged anew in artistic enthusiasm. At first not a word wassaid of the excursion. Narcisse related that he had risen at sunrise inorder that he might spend an hour before Bernini's "Santa Teresa. " Itseemed that when he did not see that statue for a week he suffered asacutely as if he were parted from some cherished mistress. And hisadoration varied with the time of day, according to the light in which hebeheld the figure: in the morning, when the pale glow of dawn steeped itin whiteness, he worshipped it with quite a mystical transport of thesoul, whilst in the afternoon, when the glow of the declining sun'soblique rays seemed to permeate the marble, his passion became as fieryred as the blood of martyrs. "Ah! my friend, " said he with a weary airwhilst his dreamy eyes faded to mauve, "you have no idea how delightfuland perturbing her awakening was this morning--how languorously sheopened her eyes, like a pure, candid virgin, emerging from the embrace ofthe Divinity. One could die of rapture at the sight!"

Then, growing calm again when he had taken a few steps, he resumed in thevoice of a practical man who does not lose his balance in the affairs oflife: "We'll walk slowly towards the castle-fields district--thebuildings yonder; and on our way I'll tell you what I know of the thingswe shall see there. It was the maddest affair imaginable, one of thosedelirious frenzies of speculation which have a splendour of their own, just like the superb, monstrous masterpiece of a man of genius whose mindis unhinged. I was told of it all by some relatives of mine, who tookpart in the gambling, and, in point of fact, made a good deal of money byit. "

Thereupon, with the clearness and precision of a financier, employingtechnical terms with perfect ease, he recounted the extraordinaryadventure. That all Italy, on the morrow of the occupation of Rome, should have been delirious with enthusiasm at the thought of at lastpossessing the ancient and glorious city, the eternal capital to whichthe empire of the world had been promised, was but natural. It was, so tosay, a legitimate explosion of the delight and the hopes of a youngnation anxious to show its power. The question was to make Rome a moderncapital worthy of a great kingdom, and before aught else there weresanitary requirements to be dealt with: the city needed to be cleansed ofall the filth which disgraced it. One cannot nowadays imagine in whatabominable putrescence the city of the popes, the _Roma sporca_ whichartists regret, was then steeped: the vast majority of the houses lackedeven the most primitive arrangements, the public thoroughfares were usedfor all purposes, noble ruins served as store-places for sewage, theprincely palaces were surrounded by filth, and the streets were perfectmanure beds which fostered frequent epidemics. Thus vast municipal workswere absolutely necessary, the question was one of health and lifeitself. And in much the same way it was only right to think of buildinghouses for the newcomers, who would assuredly flock into the city. Therehad been a precedent at Berlin, whose population, after the establishmentof the German empire, had suddenly increased by some hundreds ofthousands. In the same way the population of Rome would certainly bedoubled, tripled, quadrupled, for as the new centre of national life thecity would necessarily attract all the _vis viva_ of the provinces. Andat this thought pride stepped in: the fallen government of the Vaticanmust be shown what Italy was capable of achieving, what splendour shewould bestow on the new and third Rome, which, by the magnificence of itsthoroughfares and the multitude of its people, would far excel either theimperial or the papal city. 

True, during the early years some prudence was observed; wisely enough, houses were only built in proportion as they were required. Thepopulation had doubled at one bound, rising from two to four hundredthousand souls, thanks to the arrival of the little world of employeesand officials of the public services--all those who live on the State orhope to live on it, without mentioning the idlers and enjoyers of lifewhom a Court always carries in its train. However, this influx ofnewcomers was a first cause of intoxication, for every one imagined thatthe increase would continue, and, in fact, become more and more rapid. And so the city of the day before no longer seemed large enough; it wasnecessary to make immediate preparations for the morrow's need byenlarging Rome on all sides. Folks talked, too, of the Paris of thesecond empire, which had been so extended and transformed into a city oflight and health. But unfortunately on the banks of the Tiber there wasneither any preconcerted general plan nor any clear-seeing man, master ofthe situation, supported by powerful financial organisations. And thework, begun by pride, prompted by the ambition of surpassing the Rome ofthe Caesars and the Popes, the determination to make the eternal, predestined city the queen and centre of the world once more, wascompleted by speculation, one of those extraordinary gambling frenzies, those tempests which arise, rage, destroy, and carry everything awaywithout premonitory warning or possibility of arresting their course. Allat once it was rumoured that land bought at five francs the metre hadbeen sold again for a hundred francs the metre; and thereupon the feverarose--the fever of a nation which is passionately fond of gambling. Aflight of speculators descending from North Italy swooped down upon Rome, the noblest and easiest of preys. Those needy, famished mountaineersfound spoils for every appetite in that voluptuous South where life is sobenign, and the very delights of the climate helped to corrupt and hastenmoral gangrene. At first, too; it was merely necessary to stoop; moneywas to be found by the shovelful among the rubbish of the first districtswhich were opened up. People who were clever enough to scent the coursewhich the new thoroughfares would take and purchase buildings threatenedwith demolition increased their capital tenfold in a couple of years. Andafter that the contagion spread, infecting all classes--the princes, burgesses, petty proprietors, even the shop-keepers, bakers, grocers, andboot-makers; the delirium rising to such a pitch that a mere bakersubsequently failed for forty-five millions. * Nothing, indeed, was leftbut rageful gambling, in which the stakes were millions, whilst the landsand the houses became mere fictions, mere pretexts for stock-exchangeoperations. And thus the old hereditary pride, which had dreamt oftransforming Rome into the capital of the world, was heated to madness bythe high fever of speculation--folks buying, and building, and sellingwithout limit, without a pause, even as one might throw shares upon themarket as fast and as long as presses can be found to print them. 

 * 1, 800, 000 pounds. See _ante_ note. --Trans. 

No other city in course of evolution has ever furnished such a spectacle. Nowadays, when one strives to penetrate things one is confounded. Thepopulation had increased to five hundred thousand, and then seeminglyremained stationary; nevertheless, new districts continued to sprout upmore thickly than ever. Yet what folly it was not to wait for a furtherinflux of inhabitants! Why continue piling up accommodation for thousandsof families whose advent was uncertain? The only excuse lay in havingbeforehand propounded the proposition that the third Rome, the triumphantcapital of Italy, could not count less than a million souls, and inregarding that proposition as indisputable fact. The people had not come, but they surely would come: no patriot could doubt it without beingguilty of treason. And so houses were built and built without a pause, for the half-million citizens who were coming. There was no anxiety as tothe date of their arrival; it was sufficient that they should beexpected. Inside Rome the companies which had been formed in connectionwith the new thoroughfares passing through the old, demolished, pestiferous districts, certainly sold or let their house property, andthereby realised large profits. But, as the craze increased, othercompanies were established for the purpose of erecting yet more and moredistricts outside Rome--veritable little towns, of which there was noneed whatever. Beyond the Porta San Giovanni and the Porta San Lorenzo, suburbs sprang up as by miracle. A town was sketched out over the vastestate of the Villa Ludovisi, from the Porta Pia to the Porta Salaria andeven as far as Sant' Agnese. And then came an attempt to make quite alittle city, with church, school, and market, arise all at once on thefields of the Castle of Sant' Angelo. And it was no question of smalldwellings for labourers, modest flats for employees, and others oflimited means; no, it was a question of colossal mansions three and fourstoreys high, displaying uniform and endless facades which made these newexcentral quarters quite Babylonian, such districts, indeed, as onlycapitals endowed with intense life, like Paris and London, could contriveto populate. However, such were the monstrous products of pride andgambling; and what a page of history, what a bitter lesson now that Rome, financially ruined, is further disgraced by that hideous girdle of empty, and, for the most part, uncompleted carcases, whose ruins already strewthe grassy streets!

The fatal collapse, the disaster proved a frightful one. Narcisseexplained its causes and recounted its phases so clearly that Pierrefully understood. Naturally enough, numerous financial companies hadsprouted up: the Immobiliere, the Society d'Edilizia e Construzione, theFondaria, the Tiberiana, and the Esquilino. Nearly all of them built, erected huge houses, entire streets of them, for purposes of sale; butthey also gambled in land, selling plots at large profit to pettyspeculators, who also dreamt of making large profits amidst thecontinuous, fictitious rise brought about by the growing fever ofagiotage. And the worst was that the petty speculators, the middle-classpeople, the inexperienced shop-keepers without capital, were crazy enoughto build in their turn by borrowing of the banks or applying to thecompanies which had sold them the land for sufficient cash to enable themto complete their structures. As a general rule, to avoid the loss ofeverything, the companies were one day compelled to take back both landand buildings, incomplete though the latter might be, and from thecongestion which resulted they were bound to perish. If the expectedmillion of people had arrived to occupy the dwellings prepared for themthe gains would have been fabulous, and in ten years Rome might havebecome one of the most flourishing capitals of the world. But the peopledid not come, and the dwellings remained empty. Moreover, the buildingserected by the companies were too large and costly for the averageinvestor inclined to put his money into house property. Heredity hadacted, the builders had planned things on too huge a scale, raising aseries of magnificent piles whose purpose was to dwarf those of all otherages; but, as it happened, they were fated to remain lifeless anddeserted, testifying with wondrous eloquence to the impotence of pride. 

So there was no private capital that dared or could take the place ofthat of the companies. Elsewhere, in Paris for instance, new districtshave been erected and embellishments have been carried out with thecapital of the country--the money saved by dint of thrift. But in Romeall was built on the credit system, either by means of bills of exchangeat ninety days, or--and this was chiefly the case--by borrowing moneyabroad. The huge sum sunk in these enterprises is estimated at amilliard, four-fifths of which was French money. The bankers dideverything; the French ones lent to the Italian bankers at 3 1-2 or 4 percent. ; and the Italian bankers accommodated the speculators, the Romanbuilders, at 6, 7, and even 8 per cent. And thus the disaster was greatindeed when France, learning of Italy's alliance with Germany, withdrewher 800, 000, 000 francs in less than two years. The Italian banks weredrained of their specie, and the land and building companies, beinglikewise compelled to reimburse their loans, were compelled to apply tothe banks of issue, those privileged to issue notes. At the same timethey intimidated the Government, threatening to stop all work and throw40, 000 artisans and labourers starving on the pavement of Rome if it didnot compel the banks of issue to lend them the five or six millions ofpaper which they needed. And this the Government at last did, appalled bythe possibility of universal bankruptcy. Naturally, however, the five orsix millions could not be paid back at maturity, as the newly builthouses found neither purchasers nor tenants; and so the great fall began, and continued with a rush, heaping ruin upon ruin. The petty speculatorsfell on the builders, the builders on the land companies, the landcompanies on the banks of issue, and the latter on the public credit, ruining the nation. And that was how a mere municipal crisis became afrightful disaster: a whole milliard sunk to no purpose, Rome disfigured, littered with the ruins of the gaping and empty dwellings which had beenprepared for the five or six hundred thousand inhabitants for whom thecity yet waits in vain!

Moreover, in the breeze of glory which swept by, the state itself took acolossal view of things. It was a question of at once making Italytriumphant and perfect, of accomplishing in five and twenty years whatother nations have required centuries to effect. So there was feverishactivity and a prodigious outlay on canals, ports, roads, railway lines, and improvements in all the great cities. Directly after the alliancewith Germany, moreover, the military and naval estimates began to devourmillions to no purpose. And the ever growing financial requirements weresimply met by the issue of paper, by a fresh loan each succeeding year. In Rome alone, too, the building of the Ministry of War cost tenmillions, that of the Ministry of Finances fifteen, whilst a hundred wasspent on the yet unfinished quays, and two hundred and fifty were sunk onworks of defence around the city. And all this was a flare of the oldhereditary pride, springing from that soil whose sap can only blossom inextravagant projects; the determination to dazzle and conquer the worldwhich comes as soon as one has climbed to the Capitol, even though one'sfeet rest amidst the accumulated dust of all the forms of human powerwhich have there crumbled one above the other. 

"And, my dear friend, " continued Narcisse, "if I could go into all thestories that are current, that are whispered here and there, you would bestupefied at the insanity which overcame the whole city amidst theterrible fever to which the gambling passion gave rise. Folks of smallaccount, and fools and ignorant people were not the only ones to beruined; nearly all the Roman nobles lost their ancient fortunes, theirgold and their palaces and their galleries of masterpieces, which theyowed to the munificence of the popes. The colossal wealth which it hadtaken centuries of nepotism to pile up in the hands of a few melted awaylike wax, in less than ten years, in the levelling fire of modernspeculation. " Then, forgetting that he was speaking to a priest, he wenton to relate one of the whispered stories to which he had alluded:"There's our good friend Dario, Prince Boccanera, the last of the name, reduced to live on the crumbs which fall to him from his uncle theCardinal, who has little beyond his stipend left him. Well, Dario wouldbe a rich man had it not been for that extraordinary affair of the VillaMontefiori. You have heard of it, no doubt; how Prince Onofrio, Dario'sfather, speculated, sold the villa grounds for ten millions, then boughtthem back and built on them, and how, at last, not only the ten millionswere lost, but also all that remained of the once colossal fortune of theBoccaneras. What you haven't been told, however, is the secret part whichCount Prada--our Contessina's husband--played in the affair. He was thelover of Princess Boccanera, the beautiful Flavia Montefiori, who hadbrought the villa as dowry to the old Prince. She was a very fine woman, much younger than her husband, and it is positively said that it wasthrough her that Prada mastered the Prince--for she held her old dotinghusband at arm's length whenever he hesitated to give a signature or gofarther into the affair of which he scented the danger. And in all thisPrada gained the millions which he now spends, while as for the beautifulFlavia, you are aware, no doubt, that she saved a little fortune from thewreck and bought herself a second and much younger husband, whom sheturned into a Marquis Montefiori. In the whole affair the only victim isour good friend Dario, who is absolutely ruined, and wishes to marry hiscousin, who is as poor as himself. It's true that she's determined tohave him, and that it's impossible for him not to reciprocate her love. But for that he would have already married some American girl with adowry of millions, like so many of the ruined princes, on the verge ofstarvation, have done; that is, unless the Cardinal and Donna Serafinahad opposed such a match, which would not have been surprising, proud andstubborn as they are, anxious to preserve the purity of their old Romanblood. However, let us hope that Dario and the exquisite Benedetta willsome day be happy together. "

Narcisse paused; but, after taking a few steps in silence, he added in alower tone: "I've a relative who picked up nearly three millions in thatVilla Montefiori affair. Ah! I regret that I wasn't here in those heroicdays of speculation. It must have been very amusing; and what strokesthere were for a man of self-possession to make!"

However, all at once, as he raised his head, he saw before him theQuartiere dei Prati--the new district of the castle fields; and his facethereupon changed: he again became an artist, indignant with the modernabominations with which old Rome had been disfigured. His eyes paled, anda curl of his lips expressed the bitter disdain of a dreamer whosepassion for the vanished centuries was sorely hurt: "Look, look at itall!" he exclaimed. "To think of it, in the city of Augustus, the city ofLeo X, the city of eternal power and eternal beauty!"

Pierre himself was thunderstruck. The meadows of the Castle of Sant'Angelo, dotted with a few poplar trees, had here formerly stretchedalongside the Tiber as far as the first slopes of Monte Mario, thussupplying, to the satisfaction of artists, a foreground or greenery tothe Borgo and the dome of St. Peter's. But now, amidst the white, leprous, overturned plain, there stood a town of huge, massive houses, cubes of stone-work, invariably the same, with broad streets intersectingone another at right angles. From end to end similar facades appeared, suggesting series of convents, barracks, or hospitals. Extraordinary andpainful was the impression produced by this town so suddenly immobilisedwhilst in course of erection. It was as if on some accursed morning awicked magician had with one touch of his wand stopped the works andemptied the noisy stone-yards, leaving the buildings in mournfulabandonment. Here on one side the soil had been banked up; there deeppits dug for foundations had remained gaping, overrun with weeds. Therewere houses whose halls scarcely rose above the level of the soil; otherswhich had been raised to a second or third floor; others, again, whichhad been carried as high as was intended, and even roofed in, suggestingskeletons or empty cages. Then there were houses finished excepting thattheir walls had not been plastered, others which had been left withoutwindow frames, shutters, or doors; others, again, which had their doorsand shutters, but were nailed up like coffins with not a soul insidethem; and yet others which were partly, and in a few cases fully, inhabited--animated by the most unexpected of populations. And no wordscould describe the fearful mournfulness of that City of the SleepingBeauty, hushed into mortal slumber before it had even lived, lyingannihilated beneath the heavy sun pending an awakening which, likelyenough, would never come. 

Following his companion, Pierre walked along the broad, deserted streets, where all was still as in a cemetery. Not a vehicle nor a pedestrianpassed by. Some streets had no foot ways; weeds were covering the unpavedroads, turning them once more into fields; and yet there were temporarygas lamps, mere leaden pipes bound to poles, which had been there foryears. To avoid payment of the door and window tax, the house owners hadgenerally closed all apertures with planks; while some houses, of whichlittle had been built, were surrounded by high palings for fear lesttheir cellars should become the dens of all the bandits of the district. But the most painful sight of all was that of the young ruins, the proud, lofty structures, which, although unfinished, were already cracking onall sides, and required the support of an intricate arrangement oftimbers to prevent them from falling in dust upon the ground. A pang cameto one's heart as though one was in a city which some scourge haddepopulated--pestilence, war, or bombardment, of which these gapingcarcases seem to retain the mark. Then at the thought that this wasabortment, not death--that destruction would complete its work before thedreamt-of, vainly awaited denizens would bring life to the still-bornhouses, one's melancholy deepened to hopeless discouragement. And at eachcorner, moreover, there was the frightful irony of the magnificent marbleslabs which bore the names of the streets, illustrious historical names, Gracchus, Scipio, Pliny, Pompey, Julius Caesar, blazing forth on thoseunfinished, crumbling walls like a buffet dealt by the Past to modernincompetency. 

Then Pierre was once more struck by this truth--that whosoever possessesRome is consumed by the building frenzy, the passion for marble, theboastful desire to build and leave his monument of glory to futuregenerations. After the Caesars and the Popes had come the ItalianGovernment, which was no sooner master of the city than it wished toreconstruct it, make it more splendid, more huge than it had ever beenbefore. It was the fatal suggestion of the soil itself--the blood ofAugustus rushing to the brain of these last-comers and urging them to amad desire to make the third Rome the queen of the earth. Thence had comeall the vast schemes such as the cyclopean quays and the mere ministriesstruggling to outvie the Colosseum; and thence had come all the newdistricts of gigantic houses which had sprouted like towns around theancient city. It was not only on the castle fields, but at the Porta SanGiovanni, the Porta San Lorenzo, the Villa Ludovisi, and on the heightsof the Viminal and the Esquiline that unfinished, empty districts werealready crumbling amidst the weeds of their deserted streets. After twothousand years of prodigious fertility the soil really seemed to beexhausted. Even as in very old fruit gardens newly planted plum andcherry trees wither and die, so the new walls, no doubt, found no life inthat old dust of Rome, impoverished by the immemorial growth of so manytemples, circuses, arches, basilicas, and churches. And thus the modernhouses, which men had sought to render fruitful, the useless, over-hugehouses, swollen with hereditary ambition, had been unable to attainmaturity, and remained there sterile like dry bushes on a plot of landexhausted by over-cultivation. And the frightful sadness that one feltarose from the fact that so creative and great a past had culminated insuch present-day impotency--Rome, who had covered the world withindestructible monuments, now so reduced that she could only generateruins. 

"Oh, they'll be finished some day!" said Pierre. 

Narcisse gazed at him in astonishment: "For whom?"

That was the cruel question! Only by dint of patriotic enthusiasm on themorrow of the conquest had one been able to indulge in the hope of amighty influx of population, and now singular blindness was needed forthe belief that such an influx would ever take place. The pastexperiments seemed decisive; moreover, there was no reason why thepopulation should double: Rome offered neither the attraction of pleasurenor that of gain to be amassed in commerce and industry for those she hadnot, nor of intensity of social and intellectual life, since of this sheseemed no longer capable. In any case, years and years would berequisite. And, meantime, how could one people those houses which werefinished; and for whom was one to finish those which had remained mereskeletons, falling to pieces under sun and rain? Must they all remainthere indefinitely, some gaunt and open to every blast and others closedand silent like tombs, in the wretched hideousness of their inutility andabandonment? What a terrible proof of error they offered under theradiant sky! The new masters of Rome had made a bad start, and even ifthey now knew what they ought to have done would they have the courage toundo what they had done? Since the milliard sunk there seemed to bedefinitely lost and wasted, one actually hoped for the advent of a Nero, endowed with mighty, sovereign will, who would take torch and pick andburn and raze everything in the avenging name of reason and beauty. 

"Ah!" resumed Narcisse, "here are the Contessina and the Prince. "

Benedetta had told the coachman to pull up in one of the open spacesintersecting the deserted streets, and now along the broad, quiet, grassyroad--well fitted for a lovers' stroll--she was approaching on Dario'sarm, both of them delighted with their outing, and no longer thinking ofthe sad things which they had come to see. "What a nice day it is!" theContessina gaily exclaimed as she reached Pierre and Narcisse. "Howpleasant the sunshine is! It's quite a treat to be able to walk about alittle as if one were in the country!"

Dario was the first to cease smiling at the blue sky, all the delight ofhis stroll with his cousin on his arm suddenly departing. "My dear, " saidhe, "we must go to see those people, since you are bent on it, though itwill certainly spoil our day. But first I must take my bearings. I'm notparticularly clever, you know, in finding my way in places where I don'tcare to go. Besides, this district is idiotic with all its dead streetsand dead houses, and never a face or a shop to serve as a reminder. StillI think the place is over yonder. Follow me; at all events, we shallsee. "

The four friends then wended their way towards the central part of thedistrict, the part facing the Tiber, where a small nucleus of apopulation had collected. The landlords turned the few completed housesto the best advantage they could, letting the rooms at very low rentals, and waiting patiently enough for payment. Some needy employees, somepoverty-stricken families--had thus installed themselves there, and inthe long run contrived to pay a trifle for their accommodation. Inconsequence, however, of the demolition of the ancient Ghetto and theopening of the new streets by which air had been let into the Trasteveredistrict, perfect hordes of tatterdemalions, famished and homeless, andalmost without garments, had swooped upon the unfinished houses, fillingthem with wretchedness and vermin; and it had been necessary to toleratethis lawless occupation lest all the frightful misery should remaindisplayed in the public thoroughfares. And so it was to those frightfultenants that had fallen the huge four and five storeyed palaces, enteredby monumental doorways flanked by lofty statues and having carvedbalconies upheld by caryatides all along their fronts. Each family hadmade its choice, often closing the frameless windows with boards and thegaping doorways with rags, and occupying now an entire princely flat andnow a few small rooms, according to its taste. Horrid-looking linen hungdrying from the carved balconies, foul stains already degraded the whitewalls, and from the magnificent porches, intended for sumptuousequipages, there poured a stream of filth which rotted in stagnant poolsin the roads, where there was neither pavement nor footpath. 

On two occasions already Dario had caused his companions to retrace theirsteps. He was losing his way and becoming more and more gloomy. "I oughtto have taken to the left, " said he, "but how is one to know amidst sucha set as that!"

Parties of verminous children were now to be seen rolling in the dust;they were wondrously dirty, almost naked, with black skins and tangledlocks as coarse as horsehair. There were also women in sordid skirts andwith their loose jackets unhooked. Many stood talking together in yelpingvoices, whilst others, seated on old chairs with their hands on theirknees, remained like that idle for hours. Not many men were met; but afew lay on the scorched grass, sleeping heavily in the sunlight. However, the stench was becoming unbearable--a stench of misery as when the humananimal eschews all cleanliness to wallow in filth. And matters were madeworse by the smell from a small, improvised market--the emanations of therotting fruit, cooked and sour vegetables, and stale fried fish which afew poor women had set out on the ground amidst a throng of famished, covetous children. 

"Ah! well, my dear, I really don't know where it is, " all at onceexclaimed the Prince, addressing his cousin. "Be reasonable; we've surelyseen enough; let's go back to the carriage. "

He was really suffering, and, as Benedetta had said, he did not know howto suffer. It seemed to him monstrous that one should sadden one's lifeby such an excursion as this. Life ought to be buoyant and benign underthe clear sky, brightened by pleasant sights, by dance and song. And he, with his naive egotism, had a positive horror of ugliness, poverty, andsuffering, the sight of which caused him both mental and physical pain. 

Benedetta shuddered even as he did, but in presence of Pierre she desiredto be brave. Glancing at him, and seeing how deeply interested andcompassionate he looked, she desired to persevere in her effort tosympathise with the humble and the wretched. "No, no, Dario, we muststay. These gentlemen wish to see everything--is it not so?"

"Oh, the Rome of to-day is here, " exclaimed Pierre; "this tells one moreabout it than all the promenades among the ruins and the monuments. "

"You exaggerate, my dear Abbe, " declared Narcisse. "Still, I will admitthat it is very interesting. Some of the old women are particularlyexpressive. "

At this moment Benedetta, seeing a superbly beautiful girl in front ofher, could not restrain a cry of enraptured admiration: "_O chebellezza!_"

And then Dario, having recognised the girl, exclaimed with the samedelight: "Why, it's La Pierina; she'll show us the way. "

The girl had been following the party for a moment already without daringto approach. Her eyes, glittering with the joy of a loving slave, had atfirst darted towards the Prince, and then had hastily scrutinised theContessina--not, however, with any show of jealous anger, but with anexpression of affectionate submission and resigned happiness at seeingthat she also was very beautiful. And the girl fully answered to thePrince's description of her--tall, sturdy, with the bust of a goddess, areal antique, a Juno of twenty, her chin somewhat prominent, her mouthand nose perfect in contour, her eyes large and full like a heifer's, andher whole face quite dazzling--gilded, so to say, by a sunflash--beneathher casque of heavy jet-black hair. 

"So you will show us the way?" said Benedetta, familiar and smiling, already consoled for all the surrounding ugliness by the thought thatthere should be such beautiful creatures in the world. 

"Oh yes, signora, yes, at once!" And thereupon Pierina ran off beforethem, her feet in shoes which at any rate had no holes, whilst the oldbrown woollen dress which she wore appeared to have been recently washedand mended. One seemed to divine in her a certain coquettish care, adesire for cleanliness, which none of the others displayed; unless, indeed, it were simply that her great beauty lent radiance to her humblegarments and made her appear a goddess. 

"_Che bellezza! the bellezza!_" the Contessina repeated without wearying. "That girl, Dario _mio_, is a real feast for the eyes!"

"I knew she would please you, " he quietly replied, flattered at havingdiscovered such a beauty, and no longer talking of departure, since hecould at last rest his eyes on something pleasant. 

Behind them came Pierre, likewise full of admiration, whilst Narcissespoke to him of the scrupulosity of his own tastes, which were for therare and the subtle. "She's beautiful, no doubt, " said he; "but at bottomnothing can be more gross than the Roman style of beauty; there's nosoul, none of the infinite in it. These girls simply have blood undertheir skins without ever a glimpse of heaven. "

Meantime Pierina had stopped, and with a wave of the hand directedattention to her mother, who sat on a broken box beside the lofty doorwayof an unfinished mansion. She also must have once been very beautiful, but at forty she was already a wreck, with dim eyes, drawn mouth, blackteeth, broadly wrinkled countenance, and huge fallen bosom. And she wasalso fearfully dirty, her grey wavy hair dishevelled and her skirt andjacket soiled and slit, revealing glimpses of grimy flesh. On her kneesshe held a sleeping infant, her last-born, at whom she gazed like oneoverwhelmed and courageless, like a beast of burden resigned to her fate. 

"_Bene, bene, _" said she, raising her head, "it's the gentleman who cameto give me a crown because he saw you crying. And he's come back to seeus with some friends. Well, well, there are some good hearts in the worldafter all. "

Then she related their story, but in a spiritless way, without seeking tomove her visitors. She was called Giacinta, it appeared, and had marrieda mason, one Tomaso Gozzo, by whom she had had seven children, Pierina, then Tito, a big fellow of eighteen, then four more girls, each at aninterval of two years, and finally the infant, a boy, whom she now had onher lap. They had long lived in the Trastevere district, in an old housewhich had lately been pulled down; and their existence seemed to havethen been shattered, for since they had taken refuge in the Quartiere deiPrati the crisis in the building trade had reduced Tomaso and Tito toabsolute idleness, and the bead factory where Pierina had earned as muchas tenpence a day--just enough to prevent them from dying of hunger--hadclosed its doors. At present not one of them had any work; they livedpurely by chance. 

"If you like to go up, " the woman added, "you'll find Tomaso there withhis brother Ambrogio, whom we've taken to live with us. They'll knowbetter than I what to say to you. Tomaso is resting; but what else can hedo? It's like Tito--he's dozing over there. "

So saying she pointed towards the dry grass amidst which lay a tall youngfellow with a pronounced nose, hard mouth, and eyes as admirable asPierina's. He had raised his head to glance suspiciously at the visitors, a fierce frown gathering on his forehead when he remarked how rapturouslyhis sister contemplated the Prince. Then he let his head fall again, butkept his eyes open, watching the pair stealthily. 

"Take the lady and gentlemen upstairs, Pierina, since they would like tosee the place, " said the mother. 

Other women had now drawn near, shuffling along with bare feet in oldshoes; bands of children, too, were swarming around; little girls buthalf clad, amongst whom, no doubt, were Giacinta's four. However, withtheir black eyes under their tangled mops they were all so much alikethat only their mothers could identify them. And the whole resembled ateeming camp of misery pitched on that spot of majestic disaster, thatstreet of palaces, unfinished yet already in ruins. 

With a soft, loving smile, Benedetta turned to her cousin. "Don't youcome up, " she gently said; "I don't desire your death, Dario _mio_. Itwas very good of you to come so far. Wait for me here in the pleasantsunshine: Monsieur l'Abbe and Monsieur Habert will go up with me. "

Dario began to laugh, and willingly acquiesced. Then lighting acigarette, he walked slowly up and down, well pleased with the mildnessof the atmosphere. 

La Pierina had already darted into the spacious porch whose lofty, vaulted ceiling was adorned with coffers displaying a rosaceous pattern. However, a veritable manure heap covered such marble slabs as had alreadybeen laid in the vestibule, whilst the steps of the monumental stonestaircase with sculptured balustrade were already cracked and so grimythat they seemed almost black. On all sides appeared the greasy stains ofhands; the walls, whilst awaiting the painter and gilder, had beensmeared with repulsive filth. 

On reaching the spacious first-floor landing Pierina paused, andcontented herself with calling through a gaping portal which lacked bothdoor and framework: "Father, here's a lady and two gentlemen to see you. "Then to the Contessina she added: "It's the third room at the end. " Andforthwith she herself rapidly descended the stairs, hastening back to herpassion. 

Benedetta and her companions passed through two large rooms, bossy withplaster under foot and having frameless windows wide open upon space; andat last they reached a third room, where the whole Gozzo family hadinstalled itself with the remnants it used as furniture. On the floor, where the bare iron girders showed, no boards having been laid down, werefive or six leprous-looking palliasses. A long table, which was stillstrong, occupied the centre of the room, and here and there were a fewold, damaged, straw-seated chairs mended with bits of rope. The greatbusiness had been to close two of the three windows with boards, whilstthe third one and the door were screened with some old mattress tickingstudded with stains and holes. 

Tomaso's face expressed the surprise of a man who is unaccustomed tovisits of charity. Seated at the table, with his elbows resting on it andhis chin supported by his hands, he was taking repose, as his wifeGiacinta had said. He was a sturdy fellow of five and forty, bearded andlong-haired; and, in spite of all his misery and idleness, his large facehad remained as serene as that of a Roman senator. However, the sight ofthe two foreigners--for such he at once judged Pierre and Narcisse to be, made him rise to his feet with sudden distrust. But he smiled onrecognising Benedetta, and as she began to speak of Dario, and to explainthe charitable purpose of their visit, he interrupted her: "Yes, yes, Iknow, Contessina. Oh! I well know who you are, for in my father's time Ionce walled up a window at the Palazzo Boccanera. "

Then he complaisantly allowed himself to be questioned, telling Pierre, who was surprised, that although they were certainly not happy they wouldhave found life tolerable had they been able to work two days a week. Andone could divine that he was, at heart, fairly well content to go onshort commons, provided that he could live as he listed without fatigue. His narrative and his manner suggested the familiar locksmith who, onbeing summoned by a traveller to open his trunk, the key of which waslost, sent word that he could not possibly disturb himself during thehour of the siesta. In short, there was no rent to pay, as there wereplenty of empty mansions open to the poor, and a few coppers would havesufficed for food, easily contented and sober as one was. 

"But oh, sir, " Tomaso continued, "things were ever so much better underthe Pope. My father, a mason like myself, worked at the Vatican all hislife, and even now, when I myself get a job or two, it's always there. Wewere spoilt, you see, by those ten years of busy work, when we never leftour ladders and earned as much as we pleased. Of course, we fed ourselvesbetter, and bought ourselves clothes, and took such pleasure as we caredfor; so that it's all the harder nowadays to have to stint ourselves. Butif you'd only come to see us in the Pope's time! No taxes, everything tobe had for nothing, so to say--why, one merely had to let oneself live. "

At this moment a growl arose from one of the palliasses lying in theshade of the boarded windows, and the mason, in his slow, quiet way, resumed: "It's my brother Ambrogio, who isn't of my opinion. 

"He was with the Republicans in '49, when he was fourteen. But it doesn'tmatter; we took him with us when we heard that he was dying of hunger andsickness in a cellar. "

The visitors could not help quivering with pity. Ambrogio was the elderby some fifteen years; and now, though scarcely sixty, he was already aruin, consumed by fever, his legs so wasted that he spent his days on hispalliasse without ever going out. Shorter and slighter, but moreturbulent than his brother, he had been a carpenter by trade. And, despite his physical decay, he retained an extraordinary head--the headof an apostle and martyr, at once noble and tragic in its expression, andencompassed by bristling snowy hair and beard. 

"The Pope, " he growled; "I've never spoken badly of the Pope. Yet it'shis fault if tyranny continues. He alone in '49 could have given us theRepublic, and then we shouldn't have been as we are now. "

Ambrogio had known Mazzini, whose vague religiosity remained in him--thedream of a Republican pope at last establishing the reign of liberty andfraternity. But later on his passion for Garibaldi had disturbed theseviews, and led him to regard the papacy as worthless, incapable ofachieving human freedom. And so, between the dream of his youth and thestern experience of his life, he now hardly knew in which direction thetruth lay. Moreover, he had never acted save under the impulse of violentemotion, but contented himself with fine words--vague, indeterminatewishes. 

"Brother Ambrogio, " replied Tomaso, all tranquillity, "the Pope is thePope, and wisdom lies in putting oneself on his side, because he willalways be the Pope--that is to say, the stronger. For my part, if we hadto vote to-morrow I'd vote for him. "

Calmed by the shrewd prudence characteristic of his race, the oldcarpenter made no haste to reply. At last he said, "Well, as for me, brother Tomaso, I should vote against him--always against him. And youknow very well that we should have the majority. The Pope-king indeed!That's all over. The very Borgo would revolt. Still, I won't say that weoughtn't to come to an understanding with him, so that everybody'sreligion may be respected. "

Pierre listened, deeply interested, and at last ventured to ask: "Arethere many socialists among the Roman working classes?"

This time the answer came after a yet longer pause. "Socialists? Yes, there are some, no doubt, but much fewer than in other places. All thosethings are novelties which impatient fellows go in for withoutunderstanding much about them. We old men, we were for liberty; we don'tbelieve in fire and massacre. "

Then, fearing to say too much in presence of that lady and thosegentlemen, Ambrogio began to moan on his pallet, whilst the Contessina, somewhat upset by the smell of the place, took her departure, aftertelling the young priest that it would be best for them to leave theiralms with the wife downstairs. Meantime Tomaso resumed his seat at thetable, again letting his chin rest on his hands as he nodded to hisvisitors, no more impressed by their departure than he had been by theirarrival: "To the pleasure of seeing you again, and am happy to have beenable to oblige you. "

On the threshold, however, Narcisse's enthusiasm burst forth; he turnedto cast a final admiring glance at old Ambrogio's head, "a perfectmasterpiece, " which he continued praising whilst he descended the stairs. 

Down below Giacinta was still sitting on the broken box with her infantacross her lap, and a few steps away Pierina stood in front of Dario, watching him with an enchanted air whilst he finished his cigarette. Tito, lying low in the grass like an animal on the watch for prey, didnot for a moment cease to gaze at them. 

"Ah, signora!" resumed the woman, in her resigned, doleful voice, "theplace is hardly inhabitable, as you must have seen. The only good thingis that one gets plenty of room. But there are draughts enough to killme, and I'm always so afraid of the children falling down some of theholes. "

Thereupon she related a story of a woman who had lost her life throughmistaking a window for a door one evening and falling headlong into thestreet. Then, too, a little girl had broken both arms by tumbling from astaircase which had no banisters. And you could die there without anybodyknowing how bad you were and coming to help you. Only the previous daythe corpse of an old man had been found lying on the plaster in a lonelyroom. Starvation must have killed him quite a week previously, yet hewould still have been stretched there if the odour of his remains had notattracted the attention of neighbours. 

"If one only had something to eat things wouldn't be so bad!" continuedGiacinta. "But it's dreadful when there's a baby to suckle and one getsno food, for after a while one has no milk. This little fellow wants histitty and gets angry with me because I can't give him any. But it isn'tmy fault. He has sucked me till the blood came, and all I can do is tocry. "

As she spoke tears welled into her poor dim eyes. But all at once sheflew into a tantrum with Tito, who was still wallowing in the grass likean animal instead of rising by way of civility towards those fine people, who would surely leave her some alms. "Eh! Tito, you lazy fellow, can'tyou get up when people come to see you?" she called. 

After some pretence of not hearing, the young fellow at last rose with anair of great ill-humour; and Pierre, feeling interested in him, tried todraw him out as he had done with the father and uncle upstairs. But Titoonly returned curt answers, as if both bored and suspicious. Since therewas no work to be had, said he, the only thing was to sleep. It was of nouse to get angry; that wouldn't alter matters. So the best was to live asone could without increasing one's worry. As for socialists--well, yes, perhaps there were a few, but he didn't know any. And his weary, indifferent manner made it quite clear that, if his father was for thePope and his uncle for the Republic, he himself was for nothing at all. In this Pierre divined the end of a nation, or rather the slumber of anation in which democracy has not yet awakened. However, as the priestcontinued, asking Tito his age, what school he had attended, and in whatdistrict he had been born, the young man suddenly cut the questions shortby pointing with one finger to his breast and saying gravely, "_Io son'Romano di Roma_. "

And, indeed, did not that answer everything? "I am a Roman of Rome. "Pierre smiled sadly and spoke no further. Never had he more fullyrealised the pride of that race, the long-descending inheritance of glorywhich was so heavy to bear. The sovereign vanity of the Caesars livedanew in that degenerate young fellow who was scarcely able to read andwrite. Starveling though he was, he knew his city, and couldinstinctively have recounted the grand pages of its history. The names ofthe great emperors and great popes were familiar to him. And why shouldmen toil and moil when they had been the masters of the world? Why notlive nobly and idly in the most beautiful of cities, under the mostbeautiful of skies? "_Io son' Romano di Roma_!"

Benedetta had slipped her alms into the mother's hand, and Pierre andNarcisse were following her example when Dario, who had already done so, thought of Pierina. He did not like to offer her money, but a pretty, fanciful idea occurred to him. Lightly touching his lips with hisfinger-tips, he said, with a faint laugh, "For beauty!"

There was something really pretty and pleasing in the kiss thus waftedwith a slightly mocking laugh by that familiar, good-natured young Princewho, as in some love story of the olden time, was touched by thebeautiful bead-worker's mute adoration. Pierina flushed with pleasure, and, losing her head, darted upon Dario's hand and pressed her warm lipsto it with unthinking impulsiveness, in which there was as much divinegratitude as tender passion. But Tito's eyes flashed with anger at thesight, and, brutally seizing his sister by the skirt, he threw her back, growling between his teeth, "None of that, you know, or I'll kill you, and him too!"

It was high time for the visitors to depart, for other women, scentingthe presence of money, were now coming forward with outstretched hands, or despatching tearful children in their stead. The whole wretched, abandoned district was in a flutter, a distressful wail ascended fromthose lifeless streets with high resounding names. But what was to bedone? One could not give to all. So the only course lay in flight--amidstdeep sadness as one realised how powerless was charity in presence ofsuch appalling want. 

When Benedetta and Dario had reached their carriage they hastened to taketheir seats and nestle side by side, glad to escape from all suchhorrors. Still the Contessina was well pleased with her bravery in thepresence of Pierre, whose hand she pressed with the emotion of a pupiltouched by the master's lesson, after Narcisse had told her that he meantto take the young priest to lunch at the little restaurant on the Piazzaof St. Peter's whence one obtained such an interesting view of theVatican. 

"Try some of the light white wine of Genzano, " said Dario, who had becomequite gay again. "There's nothing better to drive away the blues. "

However, Pierre's curiosity was insatiable, and on the way he againquestioned Narcisse about the people of modern Rome, their life, habits, and manners. There was little or no education, he learnt; no largemanufactures and no export trade existed. The men carried on the fewtrades that were current, all consumption being virtually limited to thecity itself. Among the women there were bead-workers and embroiderers;and the manufacture of religious articles, such as medals and chaplets, and of certain popular jewellery had always occupied a fair number ofhands. But after marriage the women, invariably burdened with numerousoffspring, attempted little beyond household work. Briefly, thepopulation took life as it came, working just sufficiently to securefood, contenting itself with vegetables, pastes, and scraggy mutton, without thought of rebellion or ambition. The only vices were gamblingand a partiality for the red and white wines of the Roman province--wineswhich excited to quarrel and murder, and on the evenings of feast days, when the taverns emptied, strewed the streets with groaning men, slashedand stabbed with knives. The girls, however, but seldom went wrong; onecould count those who allowed themselves to be seduced; and this arosefrom the great union prevailing in each family, every member of whichbowed submissively to the father's absolute authority. Moreover, thebrothers watched over their sisters even as Tito did over Pierina, guarding them fiercely for the sake of the family honour. And amidst allthis there was no real religion, but simply a childish idolatry, allhearts going forth to Madonna and the Saints, who alone were entreatedand regarded as having being: for it never occurred to anybody to thinkof God. 

Thus the stagnation of the lower orders could easily be understood. Behind them were the many centuries during which idleness had beenencouraged, vanity flattered, and nerveless life willingly accepted. Whenthey were neither masons, nor carpenters, nor bakers, they were servantsserving the priests, and more or less directly in the pay of the Vatican. Thence sprang the two antagonistic parties, on the one hand the morenumerous party composed of the old Carbonari, Mazzinians, andGaribaldians, the _elite_ of the Trastevere; and on the other the"clients" of the Vatican, all who lived on or by the Church and regrettedthe Pope-King. But, after all, the antagonism was confined to opinions;there was no thought of making an effort or incurring a risk. For that, some sudden flare of passion, strong enough to overcome the sturdycalmness of the race, would have been needed. But what would have beenthe use of it? The wretchedness had lasted for so many centuries, the skywas so blue, the siesta preferable to aught else during the hot hours!And only one thing seemed positive--that the majority was certainly infavour of Rome remaining the capital of Italy. Indeed, rebellion hadalmost broken out in the Leonine City when the cession of the latter tothe Holy See was rumoured. As for the increase of want and poverty, thiswas largely due to the circumstance that the Roman workman had reallygained nothing by the many works carried on in his city during fifteenyears. First of all, over 40, 000 provincials, mostly from the North, morespirited and resistant than himself, and working at cheaper rates, hadinvaded Rome; and when he, the Roman, had secured his share of thelabour, he had lived in better style, without thought of economy; so thatafter the crisis, when the 40, 000 men from the provinces were sent homeagain, he had found himself once more in a dead city where trade wasalways slack. And thus he had relapsed into his antique indolence, atheart well pleased at no longer being hustled by press of work, and againaccommodating himself as best he could to his old mistress, Want, emptyin pocket yet always a _grand seigneur_. 

However, Pierre was struck by the great difference between the want andwretchedness of Rome and Paris. In Rome the destitution was certainlymore complete, the food more loathsome, the dirt more repulsive. Yet atthe same time the Roman poor retained more ease of manner and more realgaiety. The young priest thought of the fireless, breadless poor ofParis, shivering in their hovels at winter time; and suddenly heunderstood. The destitution of Rome did not know cold. What a sweet andeternal consolation; a sun for ever bright, a sky for ever blue andbenign out of charity to the wretched! And what mattered the vileness ofthe dwelling if one could sleep under the sky, fanned by the warm breeze!What mattered even hunger if the family could await the windfall ofchance in sunlit streets or on the scorched grass! The climate inducedsobriety; there was no need of alcohol or red meat to enable one to facetreacherous fogs. Blissful idleness smiled on the golden evenings, poverty became like the enjoyment of liberty in that delightfulatmosphere where the happiness of living seemed to be all sufficient. Narcisse told Pierre that at Naples, in the narrow odoriferous streets ofthe port and Santa Lucia districts, the people spent virtually theirwhole lives out-of-doors, gay, childish, and ignorant, seeking nothingbeyond the few pence that were needed to buy food. And it was certainlythe climate which fostered the prolonged infancy of the nation, whichexplained why such a democracy did not awaken to social ambition andconsciousness of itself. No doubt the poor of Naples and Rome sufferedfrom want; but they did not know the rancour which cruel winter implantsin men's hearts, the dark rancour which one feels on shivering with coldwhile rich people are warming themselves before blazing fires. They didnot know the infuriated reveries in snow-swept hovels, when the gutteringdip burns low, the passionate need which then comes upon one to wreakjustice, to revolt, as from a sense of duty, in order that one may savewife and children from consumption, in order that they also may have awarm nest where life shall be a possibility! Ah! the want that shiverswith the bitter cold--therein lies the excess of social injustice, themost terrible of schools, where the poor learn to realise theirsufferings, where they are roused to indignation, and swear to make thosesufferings cease, even if in doing so they annihilate all olden society!

And in that same clemency of the southern heavens Pierre also found anexplanation of the life of St. Francis, * that divine mendicant of lovewho roamed the high roads extolling the charms of poverty. Doubtless hewas an unconscious revolutionary, protesting against the overflowingluxury of the Roman court by his return to the love of the humble, thesimplicity of the primitive Church. But such a revival of innocence andsobriety would never have been possible in a northern land. Theenchantment of Nature, the frugality of a people whom the sunlightnourished, the benignity of mendicancy on roads for ever warm, wereneeded to effect it. And yet how was it possible that a St. Francis, glowing with brotherly love, could have appeared in a land which nowadaysso seldom practises charity, which treats the lowly so harshly andcontemptuously, and cannot even bestow alms on its own Pope? Is itbecause ancient pride ends by hardening all hearts, or because theexperience of very old races leads finally to egotism, that one nowbeholds Italy seemingly benumbed amidst dogmatic and pompous Catholicism, whilst the return to the ideals of the Gospel, the passionate interest inthe poor and the suffering comes from the woeful plains of the North, from the nations whose sunlight is so limited? Yes, doubtless all thathas much to do with the change, and the success of St. Francis was inparticular due to the circumstance that, after so gaily espousing hislady, Poverty, he was able to lead her, bare-footed and scarcely clad, during endless and delightful spring-tides, among communities whom anardent need of love and compassion then consumed. 

 * St. Francis of Assisi, the founder of the famous order of mendicant friars. --Trans. 

While conversing, Pierre and Narcisse had reached the Piazza of St. Peter's, and they sat down at one of the little tables skirting thepavement outside the restaurant where they had lunched once before. Thelinen was none too clean, but the view was splendid. The Basilica rose upin front of them, and the Vatican on the right, above the majestic curveof the colonnade. Just as the waiter was bringing the _hors-d'oeuvre_, some _finocchio_* and anchovies, the young priest, who had fixed his eyeson the Vatican, raised an exclamation to attract Narcisse's attention:"Look, my friend, at that window, which I am told is the Holy Father's. Can't you distinguish a pale figure standing there, quite motionless?"

 * Fennel-root, eaten raw, a favourite "appetiser" in Rome during the spring and autumn. --Trans. 

The young man began to laugh. "Oh! well, " said he, "it must be the HolyFather in person. You are so anxious to see him that your very anxietyconjures him into your presence. "

"But I assure you, " repeated Pierre, "that he is over there behind thewindow-pane. There is a white figure looking this way. "

Narcisse, who was very hungry, began to eat whilst still indulging inbanter. All at once, however, he exclaimed: "Well, my dear Abbe, as thePope is looking at us, this is the moment to speak of him. I promised totell you how he sunk several millions of St. Peter's Patrimony in thefrightful financial crisis of which you have just seen the ruins; and, indeed, your visit to the new district of the castle fields would not becomplete without this story by way of appendix. "

Thereupon, without losing a mouthful, Narcisse spoke at considerablelength. At the death of Pius IX the Patrimony of St. Peter, it seemed, had exceeded twenty millions of francs. Cardinal Antonelli, whospeculated, and whose ventures were usually successful, had for a longtime left a part of this money with the Rothschilds and a part in thehands of different nuncios, who turned it to profit abroad. AfterAntonelli's death, however, his successor, Cardinal Simeoni, withdrew themoney from the nuncios to invest it at Rome; and Leo XIII on hisaccession entrusted the administration of the Patrimony to a commissionof cardinals, of which Monsignor Folchi was appointed secretary. Thisprelate, who for twelve years played such an important _role_, was theson of an employee of the Dataria, who, thanks to skilful financialoperations, had left a fortune of a million francs. Monsignor Folchiinherited his father's cleverness, and revealed himself to be a financierof the first rank in such wise that the commission gradually relinquishedits powers to him, letting him act exactly as he pleased and contentingitself with approving the reports which he laid before it at eachmeeting. The Patrimony, however, yielded scarcely more than a millionfrancs per annum, and, as the expenditure amounted to seven millions, sixhad to be found. Accordingly, from that other source of income, thePeter's Pence, the Pope annually gave three million francs to MonsignorFolchi, who, by skilful speculations and investments, was able to doublethem every year, and thus provide for all disbursements without everbreaking into the capital of the Patrimony. In the earlier times herealised considerable profit by gambling in land in and about Rome. Hetook shares also in many new enterprises, speculated in mills, omnibuses, and water-services, without mentioning all the gambling in which heparticipated with the Banca di Roma, a Catholic institution. Wonderstruckby his skill, the Pope, who, on his own side, had hitherto speculatedthrough the medium of a confidential employee named Sterbini, dismissedthe latter, and entrusted Monsignor Folchi with the duty of turning hismoney to profit in the same way as he turned that of the Holy See. Thiswas the climax of the prelate's favour, the apogee of his power. Bad dayswere dawning, things were tottering already, and the great collapse wassoon to come, sudden and swift like lightning. One of Leo XIII'spractices was to lend large sums to the Roman princes who, seized withthe gambling frenzy, and mixed up in land and building speculations, wereat a loss for money. To guarantee the Pope's advances they depositedshares with him, and thus, when the downfall came, he was left with heapsof worthless paper on his hands. Then another disastrous affair was anattempt to found a house of credit in Paris in view of working off theshares which could not be disposed of in Italy among the Frencharistocracy and religious people. To egg these on it was said that thePope was interested in the venture; and the worst was that he droppedthree millions of francs in it. * The situation then became the morecritical as he had gradually risked all the money he disposed of in theterrible agiotage going on in Rome, tempted thereto by the prospect ofhuge profits and perhaps indulging in the hope that he might win back bymoney the city which had been torn from him by force. His ownresponsibility remained complete, for Monsignor Folchi never made animportant venture without consulting him; and he must have been thereforethe real artisan of the disaster, mastered by his passion for gain, hisdesire to endow the Church with a huge capital, that great source ofpower in modern times. As always happens, however, the prelate was theonly victim. He had become imperious and difficult to deal with; and wasno longer liked by the cardinals of the commission, who were merelycalled together to approve such transactions as he chose to entrust tothem. So, when the crisis came, a plot was laid; the cardinals terrifiedthe Pope by telling him of all the evil rumours which were current, andthen forced Monsignor Folchi to render a full account of hisspeculations. The situation proved to be very bad; it was no longerpossible to avoid heavy losses. And so Monsignor Folchi was disgraced, and since then has vainly solicited an audience of Leo XIII, who hasalways refused to receive him, as if determined to punish him for theircommon fault--that passion for lucre which blinded them both. Very piousand submissive, however, Monsignor Folchi has never complained, but haskept his secrets and bowed to fate. Nobody can say exactly how manymillions the Patrimony of St. Peter lost when Rome was changed into agambling-hell, but if some prelates only admit ten, others go as far asthirty. The probability is that the loss was about fifteen millions. **

 * The allusion is evidently to the famous Union Generale, on which the Pope bestowed his apostolic benediction, and with which M. Zola deals at length in his novel _Money_. Certainly a very brilliant idea was embodied in the Union Generale, that of establishing a great international Catholic bank which would destroy the Jewish financial autocracy throughout Europe, and provide both the papacy and the Legitimist cause in several countries with the sinews of war. But in the battle which ensued the great Jew financial houses proved the stronger, and the disaster which overtook the Catholic speculators was a terrible one. --Trans. 

 ** That is 600, 000 pounds. 

Whilst Narcisse was giving this account he and Pierre had despatchedtheir cutlets and tomatoes, and the waiter was now serving them somefried chicken. "At the present time, " said Narcisse by way of conclusion, "the gap has been filled up; I told you of the large sums yielded by thePeter's Pence Fund, the amount of which is only known by the Pope, whoalone fixes its employment. And, by the way, he isn't cured ofspeculating: I know from a good source that he still gambles, though withmore prudence. Moreover, his confidential assistant is still a prelate. And, when all is said, my dear Abbe, he's in the right: a man must belongto his times--dash it all!"

Pierre had listened with growing surprise, in which terror and sadnessmingled. Doubtless such things were natural, even legitimate; yet he, inhis dream of a pastor of souls free from all terrestrial cares, had neverimagined that they existed. What! the Pope--the spiritual father of thelowly and the suffering--had speculated in land and in stocks and shares!He had gambled, placed funds in the hands of Jew bankers, practisedusury, extracted hard interest from money--he, the successor of theApostle, the Pontiff of Christ, the representative of Jesus, of theGospel, that divine friend of the poor! And, besides, what a painfulcontrast: so many millions stored away in those rooms of the Vatican, andso many millions working and fructifying, constantly being diverted fromone speculation to another in order that they might yield the more gain;and then down below, near at hand, so much want and misery in thoseabominable unfinished buildings of the new districts, so many poor folksdying of hunger amidst filth, mothers without milk for their babes, menreduced to idleness by lack of work, old ones at the last gasp likebeasts of burden who are pole-axed when they are of no more use! Ah! Godof Charity, God of Love, was it possible! The Church doubtless hadmaterial wants; she could not live without money; prudence and policy haddictated the thought of gaining for her such a treasure as would enableher to fight her adversaries victoriously. But how grievously thiswounded one's feelings, how it soiled the Church, how she descended fromher divine throne to become nothing but a party, a vast internationalassociation organised for the purpose of conquering and possessing theworld!

And the more Pierre thought of the extraordinary adventure the greaterwas his astonishment. Could a more unexpected, startling drama beimagined? That Pope shutting himself up in his palace--a prison, nodoubt, but one whose hundred windows overlooked immensity; that Pope who, at all hours of the day and night, in every season, could from his windowsee his capital, the city which had been stolen from him, and therestitution of which he never ceased to demand; that Pope who, day byday, beheld the changes effected in the city--the opening of new streets, the demolition of ancient districts, the sale of land, and the gradualerection of new buildings which ended by forming a white girdle aroundthe old ruddy roofs; that Pope who, in presence of this daily spectacle, this building frenzy, which he could follow from morn till eve, washimself finally overcome by the gambling passion, and, secluded in hisclosed chamber, began to speculate on the embellishments of his oldcapital, seeking wealth in the spurt of work and trade brought about bythat very Italian Government which he reproached with spoliation; andfinally that Pope losing millions in a catastrophe which he ought to havedesired, but had been unable to foresee! No, never had dethroned monarchyielded to a stranger idea, compromised himself in a more tragicalventure, the result of which fell upon him like divine punishment. And itwas no mere king who had done this, but the delegate of God, the man who, in the eyes of idolatrous Christendom, was the living manifestation ofthe Deity!

Dessert had now been served--a goat's cheese and some fruit--and Narcissewas just finishing some grapes when, on raising his eyes, he in turnexclaimed: "Well, you are quite right, my dear Abbe, I myself can see apale figure at the window of the Holy Father's room. "

Pierre, who scarcely took his eyes from the window, answered slowly:"Yes, yes, it went away, but has just come back, and stands there whiteand motionless. "

"Well, after all, what would you have the Pope do?" resumed Narcisse withhis languid air. "He's like everybody else; he looks out of the windowwhen he wants a little distraction, and certainly there's plenty for himto look at. "

The same idea had occurred to Pierre, and was filling him with emotion. People talked of the Vatican being closed, and pictured a dark, gloomypalace, encompassed by high walls, whereas this palace overlooked allRome, and the Pope from his window could see the world. Pierre himselfhad viewed the panorama from the summit of the Janiculum, the _loggie_ ofRaffaelle, and the dome of St. Peter's, and so he well knew what it wasthat Leo XIII was able to behold. In the centre of the vast desert of theCampagna, bounded by the Sabine and Alban mountains, the sevenillustrious hills appeared to him with their trees and edifices. His eyesranged also over all the basilicas, Santa Maria Maggiore, San Giovanni inLaterano, the cradle of the papacy, San Paolo-fuori-le-Mura, Santa Crocein Gerusalemme, Sant' Agnese, and the others; they beheld, too, the domesof the Gesu of Sant' Andrea della Valle, San Carlo and San Giovanni deiFiorentini, and indeed all those four hundred churches of Rome which makethe city like a _campo santo_ studded with crosses. And Leo XIII couldmoreover see the famous monuments testifying to the pride of successivecenturies--the Castle of Sant' Angelo, that imperial mausoleum which wastransformed into a papal fortress, the distant white line of the tombs ofthe Appian Way, the scattered ruins of the baths of Caracalla and theabode of Septimius Severus; and then, after the innumerable columns, porticoes, and triumphal arches, there were the palaces and villas of thesumptuous cardinals of the Renascence, the Palazzo Farnese, the PalazzoBorghese, the Villa Medici, and others, amidst a swarming of facades androofs. But, in particular, just under his window, on the left, the Popewas able to see the abominations of the unfinished district of the castlefields. In the afternoon, when he strolled through his gardens, bastionedby the wall of the fourth Leo like the plateau of a citadel, his viewstretched over the ravaged valley at the foot of Monte Mario, where somany brick-works were established during the building frenzy. The greenslopes are still ripped up, yellow trenches intersect them in alldirections, and the closed works and factories have become wretched ruinswith lofty, black, and smokeless chimneys. And at any other hour of theday Leo XIII could not approach his window without beholding theabandoned houses for which all those brick-fields had worked, thosehouses which had died before they even lived, and where there was nownought but the swarming misery of Rome, rotting there like somedecomposition of olden society. 

However, Pierre more particularly thought of Leo XIII, forgetting therest of the city to let his thoughts dwell on the Palatine, now bereft ofits crown of palaces and rearing only its black cypresses towards theblue heavens. Doubtless in his mind he rebuilt the palaces of theCaesars, whilst before him rose great shadowy forms arrayed in purple, visions of his real ancestors, those emperors and Supreme Pontiffs whoalone could tell him how one might reign over every nation and be theabsolute master of the world. Then, however, his glances strayed to theQuirinal, and there he could contemplate the new and neighbouringroyalty. How strange the meeting of those two palaces, the Quirinal andthe Vatican, which rise up and gaze at one another across the Rome of themiddle ages and the Renascence, whose roofs, baked and gilded by theburning sun, are jumbled in confusion alongside the Tiber. When the Popeand the King go to their windows they can with a mere opera-glass seeeach other quite distinctly. True, they are but specks in the boundlessimmensity, and what a gulf there is between them--how many centuries ofhistory, how many generations that battled and suffered, how muchdeparted greatness, and how much new seed for the mysterious future!Still, they can see one another, and they are yet waging the eternalfight, the fight as to which of them--the pontiff and shepherd of thesoul or the monarch and master of the body--shall possess the peoplewhose stream rolls beneath them, and in the result remain the absolutesovereign. And Pierre wondered also what might be the thoughts and dreamsof Leo XIII behind those window-panes where he still fancied he coulddistinguish his pale, ghostly figure. On surveying new Rome, the ravagedolden districts and the new ones laid waste by the blast of disaster, thePope must certainly rejoice at the colossal failure of the ItalianGovernment. His city had been stolen from him; the newcomers hadvirtually declared that they would show him how a great capital wascreated, and their boast had ended in that catastrophe--a multitude ofhideous and useless buildings which they did not even know how to finish!He, the Pope, could moreover only be delighted with the terrible worriesinto which the usurping _regime_ had fallen, the political crisis, andthe financial crisis, the whole growing national unrest amidst which that_regime_ seemed likely to sink some day; and yet did not he himselfpossess a patriotic soul? was he not a loving son of that Italy whosegenius and ancient ambition coursed in the blood of his veins? Ah! no, nothing against Italy; rather everything that would enable her to becomeonce more the mistress of the world. And so, even amidst the joy of hope, he must have been grieved to see her thus ruined, threatened withbankruptcy, displaying like a sore that overturned, unfinished Rome whichwas a confession of her impotency. But, on the other hand, if the Houseof Savoy were to be swept away, would he not be there to take its place, and at last resume possession of his capital, which, from his window, forfifteen years past, he had beheld in the grip of masons and demolishers?And then he would again be the master and reign over the world, enthronedin the predestined city to which prophecy has ensured eternity anduniversal dominion. 

But the horizon spread out, and Pierre wondered what Leo XIII beheldbeyond Rome, beyond the Campagna and the Sabine and Alban mountains. Whathad he seen for eighteen years past from that window whence he obtainedhis only view of the world? What echoes of modern society, its truths andcertainties, had reached his ears? From the heights of the Viminal, wherethe railway terminus stands, the prolonged whistling of engines must haveoccasionally been carried towards him, suggesting our scientificcivilisation, the nations brought nearer together, free humanity marchingon towards the future. Did he himself ever dream of liberty when, onturning to the right, he pictured the sea over yonder, past the tombs ofthe Appian Way? Had he ever desired to go off, quit Rome and hertraditions, and found the Papacy of the new democracies elsewhere? As hewas said to possess so clear and penetrating a mind he ought to haveunderstood and trembled at the far-away stir and noise that came fromcertain lands of battle, from those United States of America, forinstance, where revolutionary bishops were conquering, winning over thepeople. Were they working for him or for themselves? If he could notfollow them, if he remained stubborn within his Vatican, bound on everyside by dogma and tradition, might not rupture some day becomeunavoidable? And, indeed, the fear of a blast of schism, coming fromafar, must have filled him with growing anguish. It was assuredly on thataccount that he had practised the diplomacy of conciliation, seeking tounite in his hands all the scattered forces of the Church, overlookingthe audacious proceedings of certain bishops as far as possible, andhimself striving to gain the support of the people by putting himself onits side against the fallen monarchies. But would he ever go any farther?Shut up in that Vatican, behind that bronze portal, was he not bound tothe strict formulas of Catholicism, chained to them by the force ofcenturies? There obstinacy was fated; it was impossible for him to resignhimself to that which was his real and surpassing power, the purelyspiritual power, the moral authority which brought mankind to his feet, made thousands of pilgrims kneel and women swoon. Departure from Rome andthe renunciation of the temporal power would not displace the centre ofthe Catholic world, but would transform him, the head of the CatholicChurch, into the head of something else. And how anxious must have beenhis thoughts if the evening breeze ever brought him a vague presentimentof that something else, a fear of the new religion which was yet dimly, confusedly dawning amidst the tramp of the nations on the march, and thesound of which must have reached him at one and the same time from everypoint of the compass. 

At this precise moment, however, Pierre felt that the white andmotionless shadow behind those windowpanes was held erect by pride, bythe ever present conviction of victory. If man could not achieve it, amiracle would intervene. He, the Pope, was absolutely convinced that heor some successor would recover possession of Rome. Had not the Churchall eternity before it? And, moreover, why should not the victor behimself? Could not God accomplish the impossible? Why, if it so pleasedGod, on the very morrow his city would be restored to him, in spite ofall the objections of human reason, all the apparent logic of facts. Ah!how he would welcome the return of that prodigal daughter whose equivocaladventures he had ever watched with tears bedewing his paternal eyes! Hewould soon forget the excesses which he had beheld during eighteen yearsat all hours and in all seasons. Perhaps he dreamt of what he would dowith those new districts with which the city had been soiled. Should theybe razed, or left as evidence of the insanity of the usurpers? At allevents, Rome would again become the august and lifeless city, disdainfulof such vain matters as material cleanliness and comfort, and shiningforth upon the world like a pure soul encompassed by the traditionalglory of the centuries. And his dream continued, picturing the coursewhich events would take on the very morrow, no doubt. Anything, even arepublic was preferable to that House of Savoy. Why not a federalrepublic, reviving the old political divisions of Italy, restoring Rometo the Church, and choosing him, the Pope, as the natural protector ofthe country thus reorganised? But his eyes travelled beyond Rome andItaly, and his dream expanded, embracing republican France, Spain whichmight become republican again, Austria which would some day be won, andindeed all the Catholic nations welded into the United States of Europe, and fraternising in peace under his high presidency as Sovereign Pontiff. And then would follow the supreme triumph, all the other churches at lastvanishing, and all the dissident communities coming to him as to the oneand only pastor, who would reign in the name of Jesus over the universaldemocracy. 

However, whilst Pierre was immersed in this dream which he attributed toLeo XIII, he was all at once interrupted by Narcisse, who exclaimed: "Oh!my dear Abbe, just look at those statues on the colonnade. " The youngfellow had ordered a cup of coffee and was languidly smoking a cigar, deep once more in the subtle aesthetics which were his onlypreoccupation. "They are rosy, are they not?" he continued; "rosy, with atouch of mauve, as if the blue blood of angels circulated in their stoneveins. It is the sun of Rome which gives them that supra-terrestriallife; for they live, my friend; I have seen them smile and hold out theirarms to me during certain fine sunsets. Ah! Rome, marvellous, deliciousRome! One could live here as poor as Job, content with the veryatmosphere, and in everlasting delight at breathing it!"

This time Pierre could not help feeling surprised at Narcisse's language, for he remembered his incisive voice and clear, precise, financial acumenwhen speaking of money matters. And, at this recollection, the youngpriest's mind reverted to the castle fields, and intense sadness filledhis heart as for the last time all the want and suffering rose beforehim. Again he beheld the horrible filth which was tainting so many humanbeings, that shocking proof of the abominable social injustice whichcondemns the greater number to lead the joyless, breadless lives ofaccursed beasts. And as his glance returned yet once more to the windowof the Vatican, and he fancied he could see a pale hand uplifted behindthe glass panes, he thought of that papal benediction which Leo XIII gavefrom that height, over Rome, and over the plain and the hills, to thefaithful of all Christendom. And that papal benediction suddenly seemedto him a mockery, destitute of all power, since throughout such amultitude of centuries it had not once been able to stay a single one ofthe sufferings of mankind, and could not even bring a little justice forthose poor wretches who were agonising yonder beneath the very window. 

IX. 

THAT evening at dusk, as Benedetta had sent Pierre word that she desiredto see him, he went down to her little _salon_, and there found herchatting with Celia. 

"I've seen your Pierina, you know, " exclaimed the latter, just as theyoung priest came in. "And with Dario, too. Or rather, she must have beenwatching for him; he found her waiting in a path on the Pincio and smiledat her. I understood at once. What a beauty she is!"

Benedetta smiled at her friend's enthusiasm; but her lips twitchedsomewhat painfully, for, however sensible she might be, this passion, which she realised to be so naive and so strong, was beginning to makeher suffer. She certainly made allowances for Dario, but the girl was toomuch in love with him, and she feared the consequences. Even in turningthe conversation she allowed the secret of her heart to escape her. "Praysit down, Monsieur l'Abbe, " she said, "we are talking scandal, you see. My poor Dario is accused of making love to every pretty woman in Rome. People say that it's he who gives La Tonietta those white roses which shehas been exhibiting at the Corso every afternoon for a fortnight past. "

"That's certain, my dear, " retorted Celia impetuously. "At first peoplewere in doubt, and talked of little Pontecorvo and Lieutenant Moretta. But every one now knows that La Tonietta's caprice is Dario. Besides, hejoined her in her box at the Costanzi the other evening. "

Pierre remembered that the young Prince had pointed out La Tonietta atthe Pincio one afternoon. She was one of the few _demi-mondaines_ thatthe higher-class society of Rome took an interest in. For a month or sothe rich Englishman to whom she owed her means had been absent, travelling. 

"Ah!" resumed Benedetta, whose budding jealousy was entirely confined toLa Pierina, "so my poor Dario is ruining himself in white roses! Well, Ishall have to twit him about it. But one or another of these beautieswill end by robbing me of him if our affairs are not soon settled. Fortunately, I have had some better news. Yes, my suit is to be taken inhand again, and my aunt has gone out to-day on that very account. "

Then, as Victorine came in with a lamp, and Celia rose to depart, Benedetta turned towards Pierre, who also was rising from his chair:"Please stay, " said she; "I wish to speak to you. "

However, Celia still lingered, interested by the mention of the divorcesuit, and eager to know if the cousins would soon be able to marry. Andat last throwing her arms round Benedetta, she kissed her passionately. "So you are hopeful, my dear, " she exclaimed. "You think that the HolyFather will give you back your liberty? Oh! I am so pleased; it will beso nice for you to marry Dario! And I'm well pleased on my own account, for my father and mother are beginning to yield. Only yesterday I said tothem with that quiet little air of mine, 'I want Attilio, and you mustgive him me. ' And then my father flew into a furious passion andupbraided me, and shook his fist at me, saying that if he'd made my headas hard as his own he would know how to break it. My mother was therequite silent and vexed, and all at once he turned to her and said: 'Here, give her that Attilio she wants, and then perhaps we shall have somepeace!' Oh yes! I'm well pleased, very well pleased indeed!"

As she spoke her pure virginal face beamed with so much innocent, celestial joy that Pierre and Benedetta could not help laughing. And atlast she went off attended by a maid who had waited for her in the first_salon_. 

When they were alone Benedetta made the priest sit down again: "I havebeen asked to give you some important advice, my friend, " she said. "Itseems that the news of your presence in Rome is spreading, and that badreports of you are circulated. Your book is said to be a fierce appeal toschism, and you are spoken of as a mere ambitious, turbulent schismatic. After publishing your book in Paris you have come to Rome, it is said, toraise a fearful scandal over it in order to make it sell. Now, if youstill desire to see his Holiness, so as to plead your cause before him, you are advised to make people forget you, to disappear altogether for afortnight or three weeks. "

Pierre was stupefied. Why, they would end by maddening him with all theobstacles they raised to exhaust his patience; they would actuallyimplant in him an idea of schism, of an avenging, liberating scandal! Hewished to protest and refuse the advice, but all at once he made agesture of weariness. What would be the good of it, especially with thatyoung woman, who was certainly sincere and affectionate. "Who asked youto give me this advice?" he inquired. She did not answer, but smiled, andwith sudden intuition he resumed: "It was Monsignor Nani, was it not?"

Thereupon, still unwilling to give a direct reply, she began to praisethe prelate. He had at last consented to guide her in her divorce affair;and Donna Serafina had gone to the Palace of the Inquisition that veryafternoon in order to acquaint him with the result of certain steps shehad taken. Father Lorenza, the confessor of both the Boccanera ladies, was to be present at the interview, for the idea of the divorce was inreality his own. He had urged the two women to it in his eagerness tosever the bond which the patriotic priest Pisoni had tied full of suchfine illusions. Benedetta became quite animated as she explained thereasons of her hopefulness. "Monsignor Nani can do everything, " she said, "and I am very happy that my affair should be in his hands. You must bereasonable also, my friend; do as you are requested. I'm sure you willsome day be well pleased at having taken this advice. "

Pierre had bowed his head and remained thoughtful. There was nothingunpleasant in the idea of remaining for a few more weeks in Rome, whereday by day his curiosity found so much fresh food. Of course, all thesedelays were calculated to discourage him and bend his will. Yet what didhe fear, since he was still determined to relinquish nothing of his book, and to see the Holy Father for the sole purpose of proclaiming his newfaith? Once more, in silence, he took that oath, then yielded toBenedetta's entreaties. And as he apologised for being a source ofembarrassment in the house she exclaimed: "No, no, I am delighted to haveyou here. I fancy that your presence will bring us good fortune now thatluck seems to be changing in our favour. "

It was then agreed that he would no longer prowl around St. Peter's andthe Vatican, where his constant presence must have attracted attention. He even promised that he would virtually spend a week indoors, desirousas he was of reperusing certain books, certain pages of Rome's history. Then he went on chatting for a moment, lulled by the peacefulness whichreigned around him, since the lamp had illumined the _salon_ with itssleepy radiance. Six o'clock had just struck, and outside all was dark. 

"Wasn't his Eminence indisposed to-day?" the young man asked. 

"Yes, " replied the Contessina. "But we are not anxious: it is only alittle fatigue. He sent Don Vigilio to tell me that he intended to shuthimself up in his room and dictate some letters. So there can be nothingmuch the matter, you see. "

Silence fell again. For a while not a sound came from the deserted streetor the old empty mansion, mute and dreamy like a tomb. But all at oncethe soft somnolence, instinct with all the sweetness of a dream of hope, was disturbed by a tempestuous entry, a whirl of skirts, a gasp ofterror. It was Victorine, who had gone off after bringing the lamp, butnow returned, scared and breathless: "Contessina! Contessina!"

Benedetta had risen, suddenly quite white and cold, as at the advent of ablast of misfortune. "What, what is it? Why do you run and tremble?" sheasked. 

"Dario, Monsieur Dario--down below. I went down to see if the lantern inthe porch were alight, as it is so often forgotten. And in the dark, inthe porch, I stumbled against Monsieur Dario. He is on the ground; he hasa knife-thrust somewhere. "

A cry leapt from the _amorosa's_ heart: "Dead!"

"No, no, wounded. "

But Benedetta did not hear; in a louder and louder voice she cried:"Dead! dead!"

"No, no, I tell you, he spoke to me. And for Heaven's sake, be quiet. Hesilenced me because he did not want any one to know; he told me to comeand fetch you--only you. However, as Monsieur l'Abbe is here, he hadbetter help us. We shall be none too many. "

Pierre listened, also quite aghast. And when Victorine wished to take thelamp her trembling hand, with which she had no doubt felt the prostratebody, was seen to be quite bloody. The sight filled Benedetta with somuch horror that she again began to moan wildly. 

"Be quiet, be quiet!" repeated Victorine. "We ought not to make any noisein going down. I shall take the lamp, because we must at all events beable to see. Now, quick, quick!"

Across the porch, just at the entrance of the vestibule, Dario lay proneupon the slabs, as if, after being stabbed in the street, he had only hadsufficient strength to take a few steps before falling. And he had justfainted, and lay there with his face very pale, his lips compressed, andhis eyes closed. Benedetta, recovering the energy of her race amidst herexcessive grief, no longer lamented or cried out, but gazed at him withwild, tearless, dilated eyes, as though unable to understand. The horrorof it all was the suddenness and mysteriousness of the catastrophe, thewhy and wherefore of this murderous attempt amidst the silence of the olddeserted palace, black with the shades of night. The wound had as yetbled but little, for only the Prince's clothes were stained. 

"Quick, quick!" repeated Victorine in an undertone after lowering thelamp and moving it around. "The porter isn't there--he's always at thecarpenter's next door--and you see that he hasn't yet lighted thelantern. Still he may come back at any moment. So the Abbe and I willcarry the Prince into his room at once. " She alone retained her head, like a woman of well-balanced mind and quiet activity. The two others, whose stupor continued, listened to her and obeyed her with the docilityof children. "Contessina, " she continued, "you must light us. Here, takethe lamp and lower it a little so that we may see the steps. You, Abbe, take the feet; I'll take hold of him under the armpits. And don't bealarmed, the poor dear fellow isn't heavy. "

Ah! that ascent of the monumental staircase with its low steps and itslandings as spacious as guardrooms. They facilitated the cruel journey, but how lugubrious looked the little _cortege_ under the flickeringglimmer of the lamp which Benedetta held with arm outstretched, stiffenedby determination! And still not a sound came from the old lifelessdwelling, nothing but the silent crumbling of the walls, the slow decaywhich was making the ceilings crack. Victorine continued to whisper wordsof advice whilst Pierre, afraid of slipping on the shiny slabs, put forthan excess of strength which made his breath come short. Huge, wildshadows danced over the big expanse of bare wall up to the very vaultsdecorated with sunken panels. So endless seemed the ascent that at last ahalt became necessary; but the slow march was soon resumed. FortunatelyDario's apartments--bed-chamber, dressing-room, and sitting-room--were onthe first floor adjoining those of the Cardinal in the wing facing theTiber; so, on reaching the landing, they only had to walk softly alongthe corridor, and at last, to their great relief, laid the wounded manupon his bed. 

Victorine vented her satisfaction in a light laugh. "That's done, " saidshe; "put the lamp on that table, Contessina. I'm sure nobody heard us. It's lucky that Donna Serafina should have gone out, and that hisEminence should have shut himself up with Don Vigilio. I wrapped my skirtround Monsieur Dario's shoulders, you know, so I don't think any bloodfell on the stairs. By and by, too, I'll go down with a sponge and wipethe slabs in the porch--" She stopped short, looked at Dario, and thenquickly added: "He's breathing--now I'll leave you both to watch over himwhile I go for good Doctor Giordano, who saw you come into the world, Contessina. He's a man to be trusted. "

Alone with the unconscious sufferer in that dim chamber, which seemed toquiver with the frightful horror that filled their hearts, Benedetta andPierre remained on either side of the bed, as yet unable to exchange aword. The young woman first opened her arms and wrung her hands whilstgiving vent to a hollow moan, as if to relieve and exhale her grief; andthen, leaning forward, she watched for some sign of life on that paleface whose eyes were closed. Dario was certainly breathing, but hisrespiration was slow and very faint, and some time went by before a touchof colour returned to his cheeks. At last, however, he opened his eyes, and then she at once took hold of his hand and pressed it, instillinginto the pressure all the anguish of her heart. Great was her happinesson feeling that he feebly returned the clasp. 

"Tell me, " she said, "you can see me and hear me, can't you? What hashappened, good God?"

He did not at first answer, being worried by the presence of Pierre. Onrecognising the young priest, however, he seemed content that he shouldbe there, and then glanced apprehensively round the room to see if therewere anybody else. And at last he murmured: "No one saw me, no oneknows?"

"No, no; be easy. We carried you up with Victorine without meeting asoul. Aunt has just gone out, uncle is shut up in his rooms. "

At this Dario seemed relieved, and he even smiled. "I don't want anybodyto know, it is so stupid, " he murmured. 

"But in God's name what has happened?" she again asked him. 

"Ah! I don't know, I don't know, " was his response, as he lowered hiseyelids with a weary air as if to escape the question. But he must haverealised that it was best for him to confess some portion of the truth atonce, for he resumed: "A man was hidden in the shadow of the porch--hemust have been waiting for me. And so, when I came in, he dug his knifeinto my shoulder, there. "

Forthwith she again leant over him, quivering, and gazing into the depthsof his eyes: "But who was the man, who was he?" she asked. Then, as he, in a yet more weary way, began to stammer that he didn't know, that theman had fled into the darkness before he could recognise him, she raiseda terrible cry: "It was Prada! it was Prada, confess it, I know italready!" And, quite delirious, she went on: "I tell you that I know it!Ah! I would not be his, and he is determined that we shall never belongto one another. Rather than have that he will kill you on the day when Iam free to be your wife! Oh! I know him well; I shall never, never behappy. Yes, I know it well, it was Prada, Prada!"

But sudden energy upbuoyed the wounded man, and he loyally protested:"No, no, it was not Prada, nor was it any one working for him. That Iswear to you. I did not recognise the man, but it wasn't Prada--no, no!"

There was such a ring of truth in Dario's words that Benedetta must havebeen convinced by them. But terror once more overpowered her, for thehand she held was suddenly growing soft, moist, and powerless. Exhaustedby his effort, Dario had fallen back, again fainting, his face quitewhite and his eyes closed. And it seemed to her that he was dying. Distracted by her anguish, she felt him with trembling, groping hands:"Look, look, Monsieur l'Abbe!" she exclaimed. "But he is dying, he isdying; he is already quite cold. Ah! God of heaven, he is dying!"

Pierre, terribly upset by her cries, sought to reassure her, saying: "Hespoke too much; he has lost consciousness, as he did before. But I assureyou that I can feel his heart beating. Here, put your hand here, Contessina. For mercy's sake don't distress yourself like that; thedoctor will soon be here, and everything will be all right. "

But she did not listen to him, and all at once he was lost in amazement, for she flung herself upon the body of the man she adored, caught it in afrantic embrace, bathed it with tears and covered it with kisses whilststammering words of fire: "Ah! if I were to lose you, if I were to loseyou! And to think that I repulsed you, that I would not accept happinesswhen it was yet possible! Yes, that idea of mine, that vow I made to theMadonna! Yet how could she be offended by our happiness? And then, andthen, if she has deceived me, if she takes you from me, ah! then I canhave but one regret--that I did not damn myself with you--yes, yes, damnation rather than that we should never, never be each other's!"

Was this the woman who had shown herself so calm, so sensible, so patientthe better to ensure her happiness? Pierre was terrified, and no longerrecognised her. He had hitherto seen her so reserved, so modest, with achildish charm that seemed to come from her very nature! But under thethreatening blow she feared, the terrible blood of the Boccaneras hadawoke within her with a long heredity of violence, pride, frantic andexasperated longings. She wished for her share of life, her share oflove! And she moaned and she clamoured, as if death, in taking her loverfrom her, were tearing away some of her own flesh. 

"Calm yourself, I entreat you, madame, " repeated the priest. "He isalive, his heart beats. You are doing yourself great harm. "

But she wished to die with her lover: "O my darling! if you must go, takeme, take me with you. I will lay myself on your heart, I will clasp youso tightly with my arms that they shall be joined to yours, and then wemust needs be buried together. Yes, yes, we shall be dead, and we shallbe wedded all the same--wedded in death! I promised that I would belongto none but you, and I will be yours in spite of everything, even in thegrave. O my darling, open your eyes, open your mouth, kiss me if youdon't want me to die as soon as you are dead!"

A blaze of wild passion, full of blood and fire, had passed through thatmournful chamber with old, sleepy walls. But tears were now overcomingBenedetta, and big gasping sobs at last threw her, blinded andstrengthless, on the edge of the bed. And fortunately an end was put tothe terrible scene by the arrival of the doctor whom Victorine hadfetched. 

Doctor Giordano was a little old man of over sixty, with white curlyhair, and fresh-looking, clean-shaven countenance. By long practice amongChurchmen he had acquired the paternal appearance and manner of anamiable prelate. And he was said to be a very worthy man, tending thepoor for nothing, and displaying ecclesiastical reserve and discretion inall delicate cases. For thirty years past the whole Boccanera family, children, women, and even the most eminent Cardinal himself, had in allcases of sickness been placed in the hands of this prudent practitioner. Lighted by Victorine and helped by Pierre, he undressed Dario, who wasroused from his swoon by pain; and after examining the wound he declaredwith a smile that it was not at all dangerous. The young Prince would atthe utmost have to spend three weeks in bed, and no complications were tobe feared. Then, like all the doctors of Rome, enamoured of the finethrusts and cuts which day by day they have to dress among chancepatients of the lower classes, he complacently lingered over the wound, doubtless regarding it as a clever piece of work, for he ended by sayingto the Prince in an undertone: "That's what we call a warning. The mandidn't want to kill, the blow was dealt downwards so that the knife mightslip through the flesh without touching the bone. Ah! a man really needsto be skilful to deal such a stab; it was very neatly done. "

"Yes, yes, " murmured Dario, "he spared me; had he chosen he could havepierced me through. "

Benedetta did not hear. Since the doctor had declared the case to be freefrom danger, and had explained that the fainting fits were due to nervousshock, she had fallen in a chair, quite prostrated. Gradually, however, some gentle tears coursed from her eyes, bringing relief after herfrightful despair, and then, rising to her feet, she came and kissedDario with mute and passionate delight. 

"I say, my dear doctor, " resumed the Prince, "it's useless for people toknow of this. It's so ridiculous. Nobody has seen anything, it seems, excepting Monsieur l'Abbe, whom I ask to keep the matter secret. And inparticular I don't want anybody to alarm the Cardinal or my aunt, orindeed any of our friends. "

Doctor Giordano indulged in one of his placid smiles. "_Bene, bene_, "said he, "that's natural; don't worry yourself. We will say that you havehad a fall on the stairs and have dislocated your shoulder. And now thatthe wound is dressed you must try to sleep, and don't get feverish. Iwill come back to-morrow morning. "

That evening of excitement was followed by some very tranquil days, and anew life began for Pierre, who at first remained indoors, reading andwriting, with no other recreation than that of spending his afternoons inDario's room, where he was certain to find Benedetta. After a somewhatintense fever lasting for eight and forty hours, cure took its usualcourse, and the story of the dislocated shoulder was so generallybelieved, that the Cardinal insisted on Donna Serafina departing from herhabits of strict economy, to have a second lantern lighted on the landingin order that no such accident might occur again. And then the monotonouspeacefulness was only disturbed by a final incident, a threat of trouble, as it were, with which Pierre found himself mixed up one evening when hewas lingering beside the convalescent patient. 

Benedetta had absented herself for a few minutes, and as Victorine, whohad brought up some broth, was leaning towards the Prince to take theempty cup from him, she said in a low voice: "There's a girl, Monsieur, La Pierina, who comes here every day, crying and asking for news of you. I can't get rid of her, she's always prowling about the place, so Ithought it best to tell you of it. "

Unintentionally, Pierre heard her and understood everything. Dario, whowas looking at him, at once guessed his thoughts, and without answeringVictorine exclaimed: "Yes, Abbe, it was that brute Tito! How idiotic, eh?" At the same time, although the young man protested that he had donenothing whatever for the girl's brother to give him such a "warning, " hesmiled in an embarrassed way, as if vexed and even somewhat ashamed ofbeing mixed up in an affair of the kind. And he was evidently relievedwhen the priest promised that he would see the girl, should she comeback, and make her understand that she ought to remain at home. 

"It was such a stupid affair!" the Prince repeated, with an exaggeratedshow of anger. "Such things are not of our times. "

But all at once he ceased speaking, for Benedetta entered the room. Shesat down again beside her dear patient, and the sweet, peaceful eveningthen took its course in the old sleepy chamber, the old, lifeless palace, whence never a sound arose. 

When Pierre began to go out again he at first merely took a brief airingin the district. The Via Giulia interested him, for he knew how splendidit had been in the time of Julius II, who had dreamt of lining it withsumptuous palaces. Horse and foot races then took place there during thecarnival, the Palazzo Farnese being the starting-point, and the Piazza ofSt. Peter's the goal. Pierre had also lately read that a Frenchambassador, D'Estree, Marquis de Coure, had resided at the PalazzoSacchetti, and in 1638 had given some magnificent entertainments inhonour of the birth of the Dauphin, * when on three successive days therehad been racing from the Ponte Sisto to San Giovanni dei Fiorentiniamidst an extraordinary display of sumptuosity: the street being strewnwith flowers, and rich hangings adorning every window. On the secondevening there had been fireworks on the Tiber, with a machinerepresenting the ship Argo carrying Jason and his companions to therecovery of the Golden Fleece; and, on another occasion, the Farnesefountain, the Mascherone, had flowed with wine. Nowadays, however, allwas changed. The street, bright with sunshine or steeped in shadowaccording to the hour, was ever silent and deserted. The heavy, ancientpalatial houses, their old doors studded with plates and nails, theirwindows barred with huge iron gratings, always seemed to be asleep, wholestoreys showing nothing but closed shutters as if to keep out thedaylight for evermore. Now and again, when a door was open, you espieddeep vaults, damp, cold courts, green with mildew, and encompassed bycolonnades like cloisters. Then, in the outbuildings of the mansions, thelow structures which had collected more particularly on the side of theTiber, various small silent shops had installed themselves. There was abaker's, a tailor's, and a bookbinder's, some fruiterers' shops with afew tomatoes and salad plants set out on boards, and some wine-shopswhich claimed to sell the vintages of Frascati and Genzano, but whosecustomers seemed to be dead. Midway along the street was a modern prison, whose horrid yellow wall in no wise enlivened the scene, whilst, overhead, a flight of telegraph wires stretched from the arcades of theFarnese palace to the distant vista of trees beyond the river. With itsinfrequent traffic the street, even in the daytime, was like somesepulchral corridor where the past was crumbling into dust, and whennight fell its desolation quite appalled Pierre. You did not meet a soul, you did not see a light in any window, and the glimmering gas lamps, fewand far between, seemed powerless to pierce the gloom. On either hand thedoors were barred and bolted, and not a sound, not a breath came fromwithin. Even when, after a long interval, you passed a lighted wine-shop, behind whose panes of frosted glass a lamp gleamed dim and motionless, not an exclamation, not a suspicion of a laugh ever reached your ear. There was nothing alive save the two sentries placed outside the prison, one before the entrance and the other at the corner of the right-handlane, and they remained erect and still, coagulated, as it were, in thatdead street. 

 * Afterwards Louis XIV. --Trans. 

Pierre's interest, however, was not merely confined to the Via Giulia; itextended to the whole district, once so fine and fashionable, but nowfallen into sad decay, far removed from modern life, and exhaling a faintmusty odour of monasticism. Towards San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, wherethe new Corso Vittorio Emanuele has ripped up every olden district, thelofty five-storeyed houses with their dazzling sculptured frontscontrasted violently with the black sunken dwellings of the neighbouringlanes. In the evening the globes of the electric lamps on the Corso shoneout with such dazzling whiteness that the gas lamps of the Via Giulia andother streets looked like smoky lanterns. There were several old andfamous thoroughfares, the Via Banchi Vecchi, the Via del Pellegrino, theVia di Monserrato, and an infinity of cross-streets which intersected andconnected the others, all going towards the Tiber, and for the most partso narrow that vehicles scarcely had room to pass. And each street hadits church, a multitude of churches all more or less alike, highlydecorated, gilded, and painted, and open only at service time when theywere full of sunlight and incense. In the Via Giulia, in addition to SanGiovanni dei Fiorentini, San Biagio della Pagnotta, San Eligio degliOrefici, and three or four others, there was the so-called Church of theDead, Santa Maria dell' Orazione; and this church, which is at the lowerend behind the Farnese palace, was often visited by Pierre, who liked todream there of the wild life of Rome, and of the pious brothers of theConfraternita della Morte, who officiate there, and whose mission is tosearch for and bury such poor outcasts as die in the Campagna. Oneevening he was present at the funeral of two unknown men, whose bodies, after remaining unburied for quite a fortnight, had been discovered in afield near the Appian Way. 

However, Pierre's favourite promenade soon became the new quay of theTiber beyond the Palazzo Boccanera. He had merely to take the narrow laneskirting the mansion to reach a spot where he found much food forreflection. Although the quay was not yet finished, the work seemed to bequite abandoned. There were heaps of rubbish, blocks of stone, brokenfences, and dilapidated tool-sheds all around. To such a height had itbeen necessary to carry the quay walls--designed to protect the city fromfloods, for the river bed has been rising for centuries past--that theold terrace of the Boccanera gardens, with its double flight of steps towhich pleasure boats had once been moored, now lay in a hollow, threatened with annihilation whenever the works should be finished. Butnothing had yet been levelled; the soil, brought thither for making upthe bank, lay as it had fallen from the carts, and on all sides were pitsand mounds interspersed with the abandoned building materials. Wretchedurchins came to play there, workmen without work slept in the sunshine, and women after washing ragged linen spread it out to dry upon thestones. Nevertheless the spot proved a happy, peaceful refuge for Pierre, one fruitful in inexhaustible reveries when for hours at a time helingered gazing at the river, the quays, and the city, stretching infront of him and on either hand. 

At eight in the morning the sun already gilded the vast opening. Onturning to the left he perceived the roofs of the Trastevere, of a misty, bluish grey against the dazzling sky. Then, just beyond the apse of SanGiovanni, on the right, the river curved, and on its other bank thepoplars of the Ospedale di Santo Spirito formed a green curtain, whilethe castle of Sant' Angelo showed brightly in the distance. But Pierre'seyes dwelt more particularly on the bank just in front of him, for therehe found some lingering vestiges of old Rome. On that side indeed betweenthe Ponte Sisto and the Ponte Sant' Angelo, the quays, which were toimprison the river within high, white, fortress-like walls, had not yetbeen raised, and the bank with its remnants of the old papal cityconjured up an extraordinary vision of the middle ages. The houses, descending to the river brink, were cracked, scorched, rusted byinnumerable burning summers, like so many antique bronzes. Down belowthere were black vaults into which the water flowed, piles upholdingwalls, and fragments of Roman stone-work plunging into the river bed;then, rising from the shore, came steep, broken stairways, green withmoisture, tiers of terraces, storeys with tiny windows pierced here andtheir in hap-hazard fashion, houses perched atop of other houses, and thewhole jumbled together with a fantastic commingling of balconies andwooden galleries, footbridges spanning courtyards, clumps of treesgrowing apparently on the very roofs, and attics rising from amidst pinkytiles. The contents of a drain fell noisily into the river from a wornand soiled gorge of stone; and wherever the houses stood back and thebank appeared, it was covered with wild vegetation, weeds, shrubs, andmantling ivy, which trailed like a kingly robe of state. And in the gloryof the sun the wretchedness and dirt vanished, the crooked, jumbledhouses seemed to be of gold, draped with the purple of the red petticoatsand the dazzling white of the shifts which hung drying from theirwindows; while higher still, above the district, the Janiculum rose intoall the luminary's dazzlement, uprearing the slender profile of Sant'Onofrio amidst cypresses and pines. 

Leaning on the parapet of the quay wall, Pierre sadly gazed at the Tiberfor hours at a time. Nothing could convey an idea of the weariness ofthose old waters, the mournful slowness of their flow along thatBabylonian trench where they were confined within huge, bare, lividprison-like walls. In the sunlight their yellowness was gilded, and thefaint quiver of the current brought ripples of green and blue; but assoon as the shade spread over it the stream became opaque like mud, soturbid in its venerable old age that it no longer even gave back areflection of the houses lining it. And how desolate was its abandonment, what a stream of silence and solitude it was! After the winter rains itmight roll furiously and threateningly, but during the long months ofbright weather it traversed Rome without a sound, and Pierre could remainthere all day long without seeing either a skiff or a sail. The two orthree little steam-boats which arrived from the coast, the few tartaneswhich brought wine from Sicily, never came higher than the Aventine, beyond which there was only a watery desert in which here and there, atlong intervals, a motionless angler let his line dangle. All that Pierreever saw in the way of shipping was a sort of ancient, covered pinnace, arotting Noah's ark, moored on the right beside the old bank, and hefancied that it might be used as a washhouse, though on no occasion didhe see any one in it. And on a neck of mud there also lay a stranded boatwith one side broken in, a lamentable symbol of the impossibility and therelinquishment of navigation. Ah! that decay of the river, that decay offather Tiber, as dead as the famous ruins whose dust he is weary oflaving! And what an evocation! all the centuries of history, so manythings, so many men, that those yellow waters have reflected till, fullof lassitude and disgust, they have grown heavy, silent and deserted, longing only for annihilation. 

One morning on the river bank Pierre found La Pierina standing behind anabandoned tool-shed. With her neck extended, she was looking fixedly atthe window of Dario's room, at the corner of the quay and the lane. Doubtless she had been frightened by Victorine's severe reception, andhad not dared to return to the mansion; but some servant, possibly, hadtold her which was the young Prince's window, and so she now came to thisspot, where without wearying she waited for a glimpse of the man sheloved, for some sign of life and salvation, the mere hope of which madeher heart leap. Deeply touched by the way in which she hid herself, allhumility and quivering with adoration, the priest approached her, andinstead of scolding her and driving her away as he had been asked to do, spoke to her in a gentle, cheerful manner, asking her for news of herpeople as though nothing had happened, and at last contriving to mentionDario's name in order that she might understand that he would be up andabout again within a fortnight. On perceiving Pierre, La Pierina hadstarted with timidity and distrust as if anxious to flee; but when sheunderstood him, tears of happiness gushed from her eyes, and with abright smile she kissed her hand to him, calling: "_Grazie, grazie_, thanks, thanks!" And thereupon she darted away, and he never saw heragain. 

On another morning at an early hour, as Pierre was going to say mass atSanta Brigida on the Piazza Farnese, he was surprised to meet Benedettacoming out of the church and carrying a small phial of oil. She evincedno embarrassment, but frankly told him that every two or three days shewent thither to obtain from the beadle a few drops of the oil used forthe lamp that burnt before an antique wooden statue of the Madonna, inwhich she had perfect confidence. She even confessed that she had neverhad confidence in any other Madonna, having never obtained anything fromany other, though she had prayed to several of high repute, Madonnas ofmarble and even of silver. And so her heart was full of ardent devotionfor the holy image which refused her nothing. And she declared in allsimplicity, as though the matter were quite natural and above discussion, that the few drops of oil which she applied, morning and evening, toDario's wound, were alone working his cure, so speedy a cure as to bequite miraculous. Pierre, fairly aghast, distressed indeed to find suchchildish, superstitious notions in one so full of sense and grace andpassion, did not even venture to smile. 

In the evenings, when he came back from his strolls and spent an hour orso in Dario's room, he would for a time divert the patient by relatingwhat he had done and seen and thought of during the day. And when heagain ventured to stray beyond the district, and became enamoured of thelovely gardens of Rome, which he visited as soon as they opened in themorning in order that he might be virtually alone, he delighted the youngprince and Benedetta with his enthusiasm, his rapturous passion for thesplendid trees, the plashing water, and the spreading terraces whence theviews were so sublime. It was not the most extensive of these gardenswhich the more deeply impressed his heart. In the grounds of the VillaBorghese, the little Roman Bois de Boulogne, there were certainly somemajestic clumps of greenery, some regal avenues where carriages took aturn in the afternoon before the obligatory drive to the Pincio; butPierre was more touched by the reserved garden of the villa--that villadazzling with marble and now containing one of the finest museums in theworld. There was a simple lawn of fine grass with a vast central basinsurmounted by a figure of Venus, nude and white; and antique fragments, vases, statues, columns, and _sarcophagi_ were ranged symmetrically allaround the deserted, sunlit yet melancholy, sward. On returning on oneoccasion to the Pincio Pierre spent a delightful morning there, penetrated by the charm of this little nook with its scanty evergreens, and its admirable vista of all Rome and St. Peter's rising up afar off inthe soft limpid radiance. At the Villa Albani and the Villa Pamphili heagain came upon superb parasol pines, tall, stately, and graceful, andpowerful elm-trees with twisted limbs and dusky foliage. In the Pamphiligrounds, the elm-trees steeped the paths in a delicious half-light, thelake with its weeping willows and tufts of reeds had a dreamy aspect, while down below the _parterre_ displayed a fantastic floral mosaicbright with the various hues of flowers and foliage. That which mostparticularly struck Pierre, however, in this, the noblest, most spacious, and most carefully tended garden of Rome, was the novel and unexpectedview that he suddenly obtained of St. Peter's, whilst skirting a lowwall: a view whose symbolism for ever clung to him. Rome had completelyvanished, and between the slopes of Monte Mario and another wooded heightwhich hid the city, there only appeared the colossal dome which seemed tobe poised on an infinity of scattered blocks, now white, now red. Thesewere the houses of the Borgo, the jumbled piles of the Vatican and theBasilica which the huge dome surmounted and annihilated, showing greylyblue in the light blue of the heavens, whilst far away stretched adelicate, boundless vista of the Campagna, likewise of a bluish tint. 

It was, however, more particularly in the less sumptuous gardens, thoseof a more homely grace, that Pierre realised that even things have souls. Ah! that Villa Mattei on one side of the Coelius with its terracedgrounds, its sloping alleys edged with laurel, aloe, and spindle tree, its box-plants forming arbours, its oranges, its roses, and itsfountains! Pierre spent some delicious hours there, and only found asimilar charm on visiting the Aventine, where three churches areembowered in verdure. The little garden of Santa Sabina, the birthplaceof the Dominican order, is closed on all sides and affords no view: itslumbers in quiescence, warm and perfumed by its orange-trees, amongstwhich that planted by St. Dominic stands huge and gnarled but still ladenwith ripe fruit. At the adjoining Priorato, however, the garden, perchedhigh above the Tiber, overlooks a vast expanse, with the river and thebuildings on either bank as far as the summit of the Janiculum. And inthese gardens of Rome Pierre ever found the same clipped box-shrubs, thesame eucalypti with white trunks and pale leaves long like hair, the sameilex-trees squat and dusky, the same giant pines, the same blackcypresses, the same marbles whitening amidst tufts of roses, and the samefountains gurgling under mantling ivy. Never did he enjoy more gentle, sorrow-tinged delight than at the Villa of Pope Julius, where all thelife of a gay and sensual period is suggested by the semi-circularporticus opening on the gardens, a porticus decorated with paintings, golden trellis-work laden with flowers, amidst which flutter flights ofsmiling Cupids. Then, on the evening when he returned from the Farnesina, he declared that he had brought all the dead soul of ancient Rome awaywith him, and it was not the paintings executed after Raffaelle's designsthat had touched him, it was rather the pretty hall on the river sidedecorated in soft blue and pink and lilac, with an art devoid of geniusyet so charming and so Roman; and in particular it was the abandonedgarden once stretching down to the Tiber, and now shut off from it by thenew quay, and presenting an aspect of woeful desolation, ravaged, bossyand weedy like a cemetery, albeit the golden fruit of orange and citrontree still ripened there. 

And for the last time a shock came to Pierre's heart on the lovelyevening when he visited the Villa Medici. There he was on French soil. *And again what a marvellous garden he found with box-plants, and pines, and avenues full of magnificence and charm! What a refuge for antiquereverie was that wood of ilex-trees, so old and so sombre, where the sunin declining cast fiery gleams of red gold amidst the sheeny bronze ofthe foliage. You ascend by endless steps, and from the crowning belvedereon high you embrace all Rome at a glance as though by opening your armsyou could seize it in its entirety. From the villa's dining-room, decorated with portraits of all the artists who have successfullysojourned there, and from the spacious peaceful library one beholds thesame splendid, broad, all-conquering panorama, a panorama of unlimitedambition, whose infinite ought to set in the hearts of the young mendwelling there a determination to subjugate the world. Pierre, who camethither opposed to the principle of the "Prix de Rome, " that traditional, uniform education so dangerous for originality, was for a moment charmedby the warm peacefulness, the limpid solitude of the garden, and thesublime horizon where the wings of genius seemed to flutter. Ah! howdelightful, to be only twenty and to live for three years amidst suchinfinite sweetness, encompassed by the finest works of man; to say tooneself that one is as yet too young to produce, and to reflect, andseek, and learn how to enjoy, suffer, and love! But Pierre afterwardsreflected that this was not a fit task for youth, and that to appreciatethe divine enjoyment of such a retreat, all art and blue sky, ripe agewas needed, age with victories already gained and weariness followingupon the accomplishment of work. He chatted with some of the youngpensioners, and remarked that if those who were inclined to dreaminessand contemplation, like those who could merely claim mediocrity, accommodated themselves to this life cloistered in the art of the past, on the other hand artists of active bent and personal temperament pinedwith impatience, their eyes ever turned towards Paris, their souls eagerto plunge into the furnace of battle and production. 

 * Here is the French Academy, where winners of the "Prix de Rome" in painting, sculpture, architecture, engraving, and music are maintained by the French Government for three years. The creation dates from Louis XIV. --Trans. 

All those gardens of which Pierre spoke to Dario and Benedetta with somuch rapture, awoke within them the memory of the garden of the VillaMontefiori, now a waste, but once so green, planted with the finestorange-trees of Rome, a grove of centenarian orange-trees where they hadlearnt to love one another. And the memory of their early love broughtthoughts of their present situation and their future prospects. To thesethe conversation always reverted, and evening after evening Pierrewitnessed their delight, and heard them talk of coming happiness likelovers transported to the seventh heaven. The suit for the dissolution ofBenedetta's marriage was now assuming a more and more favourable aspect. Guided by a powerful hand, Donna Serafina was apparently acting veryvigorously, for almost every day she had some further good news toreport. She was indeed anxious to finish the affair both for thecontinuity and for the honour of the name, for on the one hand Dariorefused to marry any one but his cousin, and on the other this marriagewould explain everything and put an end to an intolerable situation. Thescandalous rumours which circulated both in the white and the black worldquite incensed her, and a victory was the more necessary as Leo XIII, already so aged, might be snatched away at any moment, and in theConclave which would follow she desired that her brother's name shouldshine forth with untarnished, sovereign radiance. Never had the secretambition of her life, the hope that her race might give a third pope tothe Church, filled her with so much passion. It was as if she thereinsought a consolation for the harsh abandonment of Advocate Morano. Invariably clad in sombre garb, ever active and slim, so tightly lacedthat from behind one might have taken her for a young girl, she was so tosay the black soul of that old palace; and Pierre, who met hereverywhere, prowling and inspecting like a careful house-keeper, andjealously watching over her brother the Cardinal, bowed to her insilence, chilled to the heart by the stern look of her withered wrinkledface in which was set the large, opiniative nose of her family. Howevershe barely returned his bows, for she still disdained that paltry foreignpriest, and only tolerated him in order to please Monsignor Nani andViscount Philibert de la Choue. 

A witness every evening of the anxious delight and impatience ofBenedetta and Dario, Pierre by degrees became almost as impassioned asthemselves, as desirous for an early solution. Benedetta's suit was aboutto come before the Congregation of the Council once more. MonsignorPalma, the defender of the marriage, had demanded a supplementary inquiryafter the favourable decision arrived at in the first instance by a baremajority of one vote--a majority which the Pope would certainly not havethought sufficient had he been asked for his ratification. So thequestion now was to gain votes among the ten cardinals who formed theCongregation, to persuade and convince them, and if possible ensure analmost unanimous pronouncement. The task was arduous, for, instead offacilitating matters, Benedetta's relationship to Cardinal Boccaneraraised many difficulties, owing to the intriguing spirit rife at theVatican, the spite of rivals who, by perpetuating the scandal, hoped todestroy Boccanera's chance of ever attaining to the papacy. Everyafternoon, however, Donna Serafina devoted herself to the task of winningvotes under the direction of her confessor, Father Lorenza, whom she sawdaily at the Collegio Germanico, now the last refuge of the Jesuits inRome, for they have ceased to be masters of the Gesu. The chief hope ofsuccess lay in Prada's formal declaration that he would not put in anappearance. The whole affair wearied and irritated him; the imputationslevelled against him as a man, seemed to him supremely odious andridiculous; and he no longer even took the trouble to reply to theassignations which were sent to him. He acted indeed as if he had neverbeen married, though deep in his heart the wound dealt to his passion andhis pride still lingered, bleeding afresh whenever one or another of thescandalous rumours in circulation reached his ears. However, as theiradversary desisted from all action, one can understand that the hopes ofBenedetta and Dario increased, the more so as hardly an evening passedwithout Donna Serafina telling them that she believed she had gained thesupport of another cardinal. 

But the man who terrified them all was Monsignor Palma, whom theCongregation had appointed to defend the sacred ties of matrimony. Hisrights and privileges were almost unlimited, he could appeal yet again, and in any case would make the affair drag on as long as it pleased him. His first report, in reply to Morano's memoir, had been a terrible blow, and it was now said that a second one which he was preparing would proveyet more pitiless, establishing as a fundamental principle of the Churchthat it could not annul a marriage whose nonconsummation was purely andsimply due to the action of the wife in refusing obedience to herhusband. In presence of such energy and logic, it was unlikely that thecardinals, even if sympathetic, would dare to advise the Holy Father todissolve the marriage. And so discouragement was once more overcomingBenedetta when Donna Serafina, on returning from a visit to MonsignorNani, calmed her somewhat by telling her that a mutual friend hadundertaken to deal with Monsignor Palma. However, said she, even if theysucceeded, it would doubtless cost them a large sum. 

Monsignor Palma, a theologist expert in all canonical affairs, and aperfectly honest man in pecuniary matters, had met with a greatmisfortune in his life. He had a niece, a poor and lovely girl, for whom, unhappily, in his declining years he conceived an insensate passion, withthe result that to avoid a scandal he was compelled to marry her to arascal who now preyed upon her and even beat her. And the prelate was nowpassing through a fearful crisis, weary of reducing himself to beggary, and indeed no longer having the money necessary to extricate his nephewby marriage from a very nasty predicament, the result of cheating atcards. So the idea was to save the young man by a considerable pecuniarypayment, and then to procure him employment without asking aught of hisuncle, who, as if offering complicity, came in tears one evening, whennight had fallen, to thank Donna Serafina for her exceeding goodness. 

Pierre was with Dario that evening when Benedetta entered the room, laughing and joyfully clapping her bands. "It's done, it's done!" shesaid, "he has just left aunt, and vowed eternal gratitude to her. He willnow be obliged to show himself amiable. "

However Dario distrustfully inquired: "But was he made to sign anything, did he enter into a formal engagement?"

"Oh! no; how could one do that? It's such a delicate matter, " repliedBenedetta. "But people say that he is a very honest man. " Nevertheless, in spite of these words, she herself became uneasy. What if MonsignorPalma should remain incorruptible in spite of the great service which hadbeen rendered him? Thenceforth this idea haunted them, and their suspensebegan once more. 

Dario, eager to divert his mind, was imprudent enough to get up before hewas perfectly cured, and, his wound reopening, he was obliged to take tohis bed again for a few days. Every evening, as previously, Pierre stroveto enliven him with an account of his strolls. The young priest was nowgetting bolder, rambling in turn through all the districts of Rome, anddiscovering the many "classical" curiosities catalogued in theguide-books. One evening he spoke with a kind of affection of theprincipal squares of the city which he had first thought commonplace, butwhich now seemed to him very varied, each with original features of itsown. There was the noble Piazza del Popolo of such monumental symmetryand so full of sunlight; there was the Piazza di Spagna, the livelymeeting-place of foreigners, with its double flight of a hundred andthirty steps gilded by the sun; there was the vast Piazza Colonna, alwaysswarming with people, and the most Italian of all the Roman squares fromthe presence of the idle, careless crowd which ever lounged round thecolumn of Marcus Aurelius as if waiting for fortune to fall from heaven;there was also the long and regular Piazza Navona, deserted since themarket was no longer held there, and retaining a melancholy recollectionof its former bustling life; and there was the Campo dei Fiori, which wasinvaded each morning by the tumultuous fruit and vegetable markets, quitea plantation of huge umbrellas sheltering heaps of tomatoes, pimentoes, and grapes amidst a noisy stream of dealers and housewives. Pierre'sgreat surprise, however, was the Piazza del Campidoglio--the "Square ofthe Capitol"--which to him suggested a summit, an open spot overlookingthe city and the world, but which he found to be small and square, and onthree sides enclosed by palaces, whilst on the fourth side the view wasof little extent. * There are no passers-by there; visitors usually comeup by a flight of steps bordered by a few palm-trees, only foreignersmaking use of the winding carriage-ascent. The vehicles wait, and thetourists loiter for a while with their eyes raised to the admirableequestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, in antique bronze, which occupiesthe centre of the piazza. Towards four o'clock, when the sun gilds theleft-hand palace, and the slender statues of its entablature show vividlyagainst the blue sky, you might think yourself in some warm cosy squareof a little provincial town, what with the women of the neighbourhood whosit knitting under the arcade, and the bands of ragged urchins whodisport themselves on all sides like school-boys in a playground. 

 * The Piazza del Campidoglio is really a depression between the Capitolium proper and the northern height called the Arx. It is supposed to have been the exact site of Romulus's traditional Asylum. --Trans. 

Then, on another evening Pierre told Benedetta and Dario of hisadmiration for the Roman fountains, for in no other city of the worlddoes water flow so abundantly and magnificently in fountains of bronzeand marble, from the boat-shaped Fontana della Barcaccia on the Piazza diSpagna, the Triton on the Piazza Barberini, and the Tortoises which givetheir name to the Piazza delle Tartarughe, to the three fountains of thePiazza Navona where Bernini's vast central composition of rock andriver-gods rises so triumphantly, and to the colossal and pompousfountain of Trevi, where King Neptune stands on high attended by loftyfigures of Health and Fruitfulness. And on yet another evening Pierrecame home quite pleased, relating that he had at last discovered why itwas that the old streets around the Capitol and along the Tiber seemed tohim so strange: it was because they had no footways, and pedestrians, instead of skirting the walls, invariably took the middle of the road, leisurely wending their way among the vehicles. Pierre was very fond ofthose old districts with their winding lanes, their tiny squares soirregular in shape, and their huge square mansions swamped by amultitudinous jumble of little houses. He found a charm, too, in thedistrict of the Esquiline, where, besides innumerable flights ofascending steps, each of grey pebbles edged with white stone, there weresudden sinuous slopes, tiers of terraces, seminaries and convents, lifeless, with their windows ever closed, and lofty, blank walls abovewhich a superb palm-tree would now and again soar into the spotless blueof the sky. And on yet another evening, having strolled into the Campagnabeside the Tiber and above the Ponte Molle, he came back full ofenthusiasm for a form of classical art which hitherto he had scarcelyappreciated. Along the river bank, however, he had found the very scenerythat Poussin so faithfully depicted: the sluggish, yellow stream fringedwith reeds; low riven cliffs, whose chalky whiteness showed against theruddy background of a far-stretching, undulating plain, bounded by bluehills; a few spare trees with a ruined porticus opening on to space atopof the bank, and a line of pale-hued sheep descending to drink, whilstthe shepherd, with an elbow resting on the trunk of an ilex-tree, stoodlooking on. It was a special kind of beauty, broad and ruddy, made up ofnothing, sometimes simplified into a series of low, horizontal lines, butever ennobled by the great memories it evoked: the Roman legions marchingalong the paved highways across the bare Campagna; the long slumber ofthe middle ages; and then the awakening of antique nature in the midst ofCatholicism, whereby, for the second time, Rome became ruler of theworld. 

One day when Pierre came back from seeing the great modern cemetery, theCampo Verano, he found Celia, as well as Benedetta, by the side ofDario's bed. "What, Monsieur l'Abbe!" exclaimed the little Princess whenshe learnt where he had been; "it amuses you to visit the dead?"

"Oh those Frenchmen, " remarked Dario, to whom the mere idea of a cemeterywas repulsive; "those Frenchmen seem to take a pleasure in making theirlives wretched with their partiality for gloomy scenes. "

"But there is no escaping the reality of death, " gently replied Pierre;"the best course is to look it in the face. "

This made the Prince quite angry. "Reality, reality, " said he, "whenreality isn't pleasant I don't look at it; I try never to think of iteven. "

In spite of this rejoinder, Pierre, with his smiling, placid air, went onenumerating the things which had struck him: first, the admirable mannerin which the cemetery was kept, then the festive appearance which itderived from the bright autumn sun, and the wonderful profusion in whichmarble was lavished in slabs, statues, and chapels. The ancient atavismhad surely been at work, the sumptuous mausoleums of the Appian Way hadhere sprung up afresh, making death a pretext for the display of pomp andpride. In the upper part of the cemetery the Roman nobility had adistrict of its own, crowded with veritable temples, colossal statues, groups of several figures; and if at times the taste shown in thesemonuments was deplorable, it was none the less certain that millions hadbeen expended on them. One charming feature of the place, said Pierre, was that the marbles, standing among yews and cypresses were remarkablywell preserved, white and spotless; for, if the summer sun slowly gildedthem, there were none of those stains of moss and rain which impart anaspect of melancholy decay to the statues of northern climes. 

Touched by the discomfort of Dario, Benedetta, hitherto silent, ended byinterrupting Pierre. "And was the hunt interesting?" she asked, turningto Celia. 

The little Princess had been taken by her mother to see a fox-hunt, andhad been speaking of it when the priest entered the room. 

"Yes, it was very interesting, my dear, " she replied; "the meet was atnoon near the tomb of Caecilia Metella, where a buffet had been arrangedunder a tent. And there was such a number of people--the foreign colony, the young men of the embassies, and some officers, not to mentionourselves--all the men in scarlet and a great many ladies in habits. The'throw-off' was at one o'clock, and the gallop lasted more than two hoursand a half, so that the fox had a very long run. I wasn't able to follow, but all the same I saw some extraordinary things--a great wall which thewhole hunt had to leap, and then ditches and hedges--a mad race indeed inthe rear of the hounds. There were two accidents, but nothing serious;one gentleman, who was unseated, sprained his wrist badly, and anotherbroke his leg. "*

 * The Roman Hunt, which counts about one hundred subscribers, has flourished since 1840. There is a kennel of English hounds, an English huntsman and whip, and a stable of English hunters. --Trans. 

Dario had listened to Celia with passionate interest, for fox-hunting isone of the great pleasures of Rome, and the Campagna, flat and yetbristling with obstacles, is certainly well adapted to the sport. "Ah!"said the young Prince in a despairing tone, "how idiotic it is to beriveted to this room! I shall end by dying of _ennui_!"

Benedetta contented herself with smiling; neither reproach nor expressionof sadness came from her at this candid display of egotism. Her ownhappiness at having him all to herself in the room where she nursed himwas great indeed; still her love, at once full of youth and good sense, included a maternal element, and she well understood that he hardlyamused himself, deprived as he was of his customary pleasures and severedfrom his friends, few of whom he was willing to receive, for he fearedthat they might think the story of the dislocated shoulder suspicious. Ofcourse there were no more _fetes_, no more evenings at the theatre, nomore flirtations. But above everything else Dario missed the Corso, andsuffered despairingly at no longer seeing or learning anything bywatching the procession of Roman society from four to five eachafternoon. Accordingly, as soon as an intimate called, there were endlessquestions: Had the visitor seen so and so? Had such a one reappeared? Howhad a certain friend's love affair ended? Was any new adventure settingthe city agog? And so forth; all the petty frivolities, nine days'wonders, and puerile intrigues in which the young Prince had hithertoexpended his manly energy. 

After a pause Celia, who was fond of coming to him with innocent gossip, fixed her candid eyes on him--the fathomless eyes of an enigmaticalvirgin, and resumed: "How long it takes to set a shoulder right!"

Had she, child as she was, with love her only business, divined thetruth? Dario in his embarrassment glanced at Benedetta, who still smiled. However, the little Princess was already darting to another subject: "Ah!you know, Dario, at the Corso yesterday I saw a lady--" Then she stoppedshort, surprised and embarrassed that these words should have escapedher. However, in all bravery she resumed like one who had been a friendsince childhood, sharing many a little love secret: "Yes, a very prettyperson whom you know. Well, she had a bouquet of white roses with her allthe same. "

At this Benedetta indulged in a burst of frank merriment, and Dario, still looking at her, also laughed. She had twitted him during the earlydays because no young woman ever sent to make inquiries about him. Forhis part, he was not displeased with the rupture, for the continuance ofthe connection might have proved embarrassing; and so, although hisvanity may have been slightly hurt, the news that he was already replacedin La Tonietta's affections was welcome rather than otherwise. "Ah!" hecontented himself with saying, "the absent are always in the wrong. "

"The man one loves is never absent, " declared Celia with her grave, candid air. 

However, Benedetta had stepped up to the bed to raise the young man'spillows: "Never mind, Dario _mio_, " said she, "all those things are over;I mean to keep you, and you will only have me to love. "

He gave her a passionate glance and kissed her hair. She spoke the truth:he had never loved any one but her, and she was not mistaken in heranticipation of keeping him always to herself alone, as soon as theyshould be wedded. To her great delight, since she had been nursing him hehad become quite childish again, such as he had been when she had learntto love him under the orange-trees of the Villa Montefiori. He retained asort of puerility, doubtless the outcome of impoverished blood, thatreturn to childhood which one remarks amongst very ancient races; and hetoyed on his bed with pictures, gazed for hours at photographs, whichmade him laugh. Moreover, his inability to endure suffering had yetincreased; he wished Benedetta to be gay and sing, and amused her withhis petty egotism which led him to dream of a life of continual joy withher. Ah! how pleasant it would be to live together and for ever in thesunlight, to do nothing and care for nothing, and even if the worldshould crumble somewhere to heed it not!

"One thing which greatly pleases me, " suddenly said the young Prince, "isthat Monsieur l'Abbe has ended by falling in love with Rome. "

Pierre admitted it with a good grace. 

"We told you so, " remarked Benedetta. "A great deal of time is needed forone to understand and love Rome. If you had only stayed here for afortnight you would have gone off with a deplorable idea of us, but nowthat you have been here for two full months we are quite at ease, for youwill never think of us without affection. "

She looked exceedingly charming as she spoke these words, and Pierreagain bowed. However, he had already given thought to the phenomenon, andfancied he could explain it. When a stranger comes to Rome he brings withhim a Rome of his own, a Rome such as he dreams of, so ennobled byimagination that the real Rome proves a terrible disenchantment. And soit is necessary to wait for habituation, for the mediocrity of thereality to soften, and for the imagination to have time to kindle again, and only behold things such as they are athwart the prodigious splendourof the past. 

However, Celia had risen and was taking leave. "Good-bye, dear, " shesaid; "I hope the wedding will soon take place. You know, Dario, that Imean to be betrothed before the end of the month. Oh yes, I intend tomake my father give a grand entertainment. And how nice it would be ifthe two weddings could take place at the same time!"

Two days later, after a long ramble through the Trastevere district, followed by a visit to the Palazzo Farnese, Pierre felt that he could atlast understand the terrible, melancholy truth about Rome. He had severaltimes already strolled through the Trastevere, attracted towards itswretched denizens by his compassion for all who suffered. Ah! thatquagmire of wretchedness and ignorance! He knew of abominable nooks inthe faubourgs of Paris, frightful "rents" and "courts" where peoplerotted in heaps, but there was nothing in France to equal the listless, filthy stagnation of the Trastevere. On the brightest days a dank gloomchilled the sinuous, cellar-like lanes, and the smell of rottingvegetables, rank oil, and human animality brought on fits of nausea. Jumbled together in a confusion which artists of romantic turn wouldadmire, the antique, irregular houses had black, gaping entrances divingbelow ground, outdoor stairways conducting to upper floors, and woodenbalconies which only a miracle upheld. There were crumbling fronts, shored up with beams; sordid lodgings whose filth and bareness could beseen through shattered windows; and numerous petty shops, all theopen-air cook-stalls of a lazy race which never lighted a fire at home:you saw frying-shops with heaps of polenta, and fish swimming in stinkingoil, and dealers in cooked vegetables displaying huge turnips, celery, cauliflowers, and spinach, all cold and sticky. The butcher's meat wasblack and clumsily cut up; the necks of the animals bristled with bloodyclots, as though the heads had simply been torn away. The baker's loaves, piled on planks, looked like little round paving stones; at the beggarlygreengrocers' merely a few pimentoes and fir-apples were shown under thestrings of dry tomatoes which festooned the doorways; and the only shopswhich were at all attractive were those of the pork butchers with theirsalted provisions and their cheese, whose pungent smell slightlyattenuated the pestilential reek of the gutters. Lottery offices, displaying lists of winning numbers, alternated with wine-shops, of whichlatter there was a fresh one every thirty yards with large inscriptionssetting forth that the best wines of Genzano, Marino, and Frascati wereto be found within. And the whole district teemed with ragged, grimydenizens, children half naked and devoured by vermin, bare-headed, gesticulating and shouting women, whose skirts were stiff with grease, old men who remained motionless on benches amidst swarms of hungry flies;idleness and agitation appearing on all sides, whilst cobblers sat on thesidewalks quietly plying their trade, and little donkeys pulled cartshither and thither, and men drove turkeys along, whip in hand, and handsof beggars rushed upon the few anxious tourists who had timorouslyventured into the district. At the door of a little tailor's shop an oldhouse-pail dangled full of earth, in which a succulent plant wasflowering. And from every window and balcony, as from the many cordswhich stretched across the street from house to house, all the householdwashing hung like bunting, nameless drooping rags, the symbolical bannersof abominable misery. 

Pierre's fraternal, soul filled with pity at the sight. Ah! yes, it wasnecessary to demolish all those pestilential districts where the populacehad wallowed for centuries as in a poisonous gaol! He was for demolitionand sanitary improvement, even if old Rome were killed and artistsscandalised. Doubtless the Trastevere was already greatly changed, pierced with several new thoroughfares which let the sun stream in. Andamidst the _abattis_ of rubbish and the spacious clearings, where nothingnew had yet been erected, the remaining portions of the old districtseemed even blacker and more loathsome. Some day, no doubt, it would allbe rebuilt, but how interesting was this phase of the city's evolution:old Rome expiring and new Rome just dawning amidst countlessdifficulties! To appreciate the change it was necessary to have known thefilthy Rome of the past, swamped by sewage in every form. The recentlylevelled Ghetto had, over a course of centuries, so rotted the soil onwhich it stood that an awful pestilential odour yet arose from its baresite. It was only fitting that it should long remain waste, so that itmight dry and become purified in the sun. In all the districts on eitherside of the Tiber where extensive improvements have been undertaken youfind the same scenes. You follow some narrow, damp, evil-smelling streetwith black house-fronts and overhanging roofs, and suddenly come upon aclearing as in a forest of ancient leprous hovels. There are squares, broad footways; lofty white carved buildings yet in the rough, litteredwith rubbish and fenced off. On every side you find as it were a hugebuilding yard, which the financial crisis perpetuates; the city ofto-morrow arrested in its growth, stranded there in its monstrous, precocious, surprising infancy. Nevertheless, therein lies good andhealthful work, such as was and is absolutely necessary if Rome is tobecome a great modern city, instead of being left to rot, to dwindle intoa mere ancient curiosity, a museum show-piece. 

That day, as Pierre went from the Trastevere to the Palazzo Farnese, where he was expected, he chose a roundabout route, following the Via diPettinari and the Via dei Giubbonari, the former so dark and narrow witha great hospital wall on one side and a row of wretched houses on theother, and the latter animated by a constant stream of people andenlivened by the jewellers' windows, full of big gold chains, and thedisplays of the drapers' shops, where stuffs hung in bright red, blue, green, and yellow lengths. And the popular district through which he hadroamed and the trading district which he was now crossing reminded him ofthe castle fields with their mass of workpeople reduced to mendicity bylack of employment and forced to camp in the superb, unfinished, abandoned mansions. Ah! the poor, sad people, who were yet so childish, kept in the ignorance and credulity of a savage race by centuries oftheocracy, so habituated to mental night and bodily suffering that evento-day they remained apart from the social awakening, simply desirous ofenjoying their pride, indolence, and sunlight in peace! They seemed bothblind and deaf in their decadence, and whilst Rome was being overturnedthey continued to lead the stagnant life of former times, realisingnought but the worries of the improvements, the demolition of the oldfavourite districts, the consequent change in habits, and the rise in thecost of food, as if indeed they would rather have gone without light, cleanliness, and health, since these could only be secured by a greatfinancial and labour crisis. And yet, at bottom, it was solely for thepeople, the populace, that Rome was being cleansed and rebuilt with theidea of making it a great modern capital, for democracy lies at the endof these present day transformations; it is the people who will inheritthe cities whence dirt and disease are being expelled, and where the lawof labour will end by prevailing and killing want. And so, though one maycurse the dusting and repairing of the ruins and the stripping of all thewild flora from the Colosseum, though one may wax indignant at sight ofthe hideous fortress like ramparts which imprison the Tiber, and bewailthe old romantic banks with their greenery and their antique dwellingsdipping into the stream, one must at the same time acknowledge that lifesprings from death, and that to-morrow must perforce blossom in the dustof the past. 

While thinking of all these things Pierre had reached the deserted, stern-looking Piazza Farnese, and for a moment he looked up at the baremonumental facade of the heavy square Palazzo, its lofty entrance wherehung the tricolour, its rows of windows and its famous cornice sculpturedwith such marvellous art. Then he went in. A friend of Narcisse Habert, one of the _attaches_ of the embassy to the King of Italy, was waitingfor him, having offered to show him over the huge pile, the finest palacein Rome, which France had leased as a lodging for her ambassador. * Ah!that colossal, sumptuous, deadly dwelling, with its vast court whoseporticus is so dark and damp, its giant staircase with low steps, itsendless corridors, its immense galleries and halls. All was sovereignpomp blended with death. An icy, penetrating chill fell from the walls. With a discreet smile the _attache_ owned that the embassy was frozen inwinter and baked in summer. The only part of the building which was atall lively and pleasant was the first storey, overlooking the Tiber, which the ambassador himself occupied. From the gallery there, containingthe famous frescoes of Annibale Caracci, one can see the Janiculum, theCorsini gardens, and the Acqua Paola above San Pietro in Montorio. Then, after a vast drawing-room comes the study, peaceful and pleasant, andenlivened by sunshine. But the dining-room, the bed-chambers, and otherapartments occupied by the _personnel_ look out on to the mournful gloomof a side street. All these vast rooms, twenty and four-and-twenty feethigh, have admirable carved or painted ceilings, bare walls, a few ofthem decorated with frescoes, and incongruous furniture, superb piertables mingling with modern _bric-a-brac_. And things become abominablewhen you enter the gala reception-rooms overlooking the piazza, for thereyou no longer find an article of furniture, no longer a hanging, nothingbut disaster, a series of magnificent deserted halls given over to ratsand spiders. The embassy occupies but one of them, where it heaps up itsdusty archives. Near by is a huge hall occupying the height of twofloors, and thus sixty feet in elevation. Reserved by the owner of thepalace, the ex-King of Naples, it has become a mere lumber-room where_maquettes_, unfinished statues, and a very fine sarcophagus are stowedaway amidst all kinds of remnants. And this is but a part of the palace. The ground floor is altogether uninhabited; the French "Ecole de Rome"occupies a corner of the second floor; while the embassy huddles inchilly fashion in the most habitable corner of the first floor, compelledto abandon everything else and lock the doors to spare itself the uselesstrouble of sweeping. No doubt it is grand to live in the Palazzo Farnese, built by Pope Paul III and for more than a century inhabited bycardinals; but how cruel the discomfort and how frightful the melancholyof this huge ruin, three-fourths of whose rooms are dead, useless, impossible, cut off from life. And the evenings, oh! the evenings, whenporch, court, stairs, and corridors are invaded by dense gloom, againstwhich a few smoky gas lamps struggle in vain, when a long, long journeylies before one through the lugubrious desert of stone, before onereaches the ambassador's warm and cheerful drawing-room!

 * The French have two embassies at Rome: one at the Palazzo Farnese, to the Italian Court, and the other at the Palazzo Rospigliosi, to the Vatican. --Trans. 

Pierre came away quite aghast. And, as he walked along, the many othergrand palaces which he had seen during his strolls rose before him, oneand all of them stripped of their splendour, shorn of their princelyestablishments, let out in uncomfortable flats! What could be done withthose grandiose galleries and halls now that no fortune could defray thecost of the pompous life for which they had been built, or even feed theretinue needed to keep them up? Few indeed were the nobles who, likePrince Aldobrandini, with his numerous progeny, still occupied theirentire mansions. Almost all of them let the antique dwellings of theirforefathers to companies or individual tenants, reserving only a storey, and at times a mere lodging in some dark corner, for themselves. ThePalazzo Chigi was let: the ground floor to bankers and the first floor tothe Austrian ambassador, while the Prince and his family divided thesecond floor with a cardinal. The Palazzo Sciarra was let: the firstfloor to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the second to a senator, while the Prince and his mother merely occupied the ground floor. ThePalazzo Barberini was let: its ground floor, first floor, and secondfloor to various families, whilst the Prince found a refuge on the thirdfloor in the rooms which had been occupied by his ancestors' lackeys. ThePalazzo Borghese was let: the ground floor to a dealer in antiquities, the first floor to a Lodge of Freemasons, and the rest to varioushouseholds, whilst the Prince only retained the use of a small suite ofapartments. And the Palazzo Odescalchi, the Palazzo Colonna, the PalazzoDoria were let: their Princes reduced to the position of needy landlordseager to derive as much profit as possible from their property in orderto make both ends meet. A blast of ruin was sweeping over the Romanpatriziato, the greatest fortunes had crumbled in the financial crisis, very few remained wealthy, and what a wealth it was, stagnant and dead, which neither commerce nor industry could renew. The numerous princes whohad tried speculation were stripped of their fortunes. The others, terrified, called upon to pay enormous taxes, amounting to nearlyone-third of their incomes, could henceforth only wait and behold theirlast stagnant millions dwindle away till they were exhausted ordistributed according to the succession laws. Such wealth as remained tothese nobles must perish, for, like everything else, wealth perishes whenit lacks a soil in which it may fructify. In all this there was solely aquestion of time: eventual ruin was a foregone and irremediableconclusion, of absolute, historical certainty. Those who resignedthemselves to the course of letting their deserted mansions stillstruggled for life, seeking to accommodate themselves to present-dayexigencies; whilst death already dwelt among the others, those stubborn, proud ones who immured themselves in the tombs of their race, like thatappalling Palazzo Boccanera, which was falling into dust amidst suchchilly gloom and silence, the latter only broken at long intervals whenthe Cardinal's old coach rumbled over the grassy court. 

The point which most struck Pierre, however, was that his visits to theTrastevere and the Palazzo Farnese shed light one on the other, and ledhim to a conclusion which had never previously seemed so manifest. As yetno "people, " and soon no aristocracy. He had found the people sowretched, ignorant, and resigned in its long infancy induced by historicand climatic causes that many years of instruction and culture werenecessary for it to become a strong, healthy, and laborious democracy, conscious of both its rights and its duties. As for the aristocracy, itwas dwindling to death in its crumbling palaces, no longer aught than afinished, degenerate race, with such an admixture also of American, Austrian, Polish, and Spanish blood that pure Roman blood became a rareexception; and, moreover, it had ceased to belong either to sword orgown, unwilling to serve constitutional Italy and forsaking the SacredCollege, where only _parvenus_ now donned the purple. And between thelowly and the aristocracy there was as yet no firmly seated middle class, with the vigour of fresh sap and sufficient knowledge, and good sense toact as the transitional educator of the nation. The middle class was madeup in part of the old servants and clients of the princes, the farmerswho rented their lands, the stewards, notaries, and solicitors whomanaged their fortunes; in part, too, of all the employees, thefunctionaries of every rank and class, the deputies and senators, whomthe new Government had brought from the provinces; and, in particular, ofthe voracious hawks who had swooped down upon Rome, the Pradas, the menof prey from all parts of the kingdom, who with beak and talon devouredboth people and aristocracy. For whom, then, had one laboured? For whomhad those gigantic works of new Rome been undertaken? A shudder of fearsped by, a crack as of doom was heard, arousing pitiful disquietude inevery fraternal heart. Yes, a threat of doom and annihilation: as yet nopeople, soon no aristocracy, and only a ravenous middle class, quarrying, vulture-like, among the ruins. 

On the evening of that day, when all was dark, Pierre went to spend anhour on the river quay beyond the Boccanera mansion. He was very fond ofmeditating on that deserted spot in spite of the warnings of Victorine, who asserted that it was not safe. And, indeed, on such inky nights asthat one, no cutthroat place ever presented a more tragic aspect. Not asoul, not a passer-by; a dense gloom, a void in front and on either hand. At a corner of the mansion, now steeped in darkness, there was a gas lampwhich stood in a hollow since the river margin had been banked up, andthis lamp cast an uncertain glimmer upon the quay, level with thelatter's bossy soil. Thus long vague shadows stretched from the variousmaterials, piles of bricks and piles of stone, which were strewn around. On the right a few lights shone upon the bridge near San Giovanni and inthe windows of the hospital of the Santo Spirito. On the left, amidst thedim recession of the river, the distant districts were blotted out. Thenyonder, across the stream, was the Trastevere, the houses on the banklooking like vague, pale phantoms, with infrequent window-panes showing ablurred yellow glimmer, whilst on high only a dark band shadowed theJaniculum, near whose summit the lamps of some promenade scintillatedlike a triangle of stars. But it was the Tiber which impassioned Pierre;such was its melancholy majesty during those nocturnal hours. Leaningover the parapet, he watched it gliding between the new walls, whichlooked like those of some black and monstrous prison built for a giant. So long as lights gleamed in the windows of the houses opposite he sawthe sluggish water flow by, showing slow, moire-like ripples there wherethe quivering reflections endowed it with a mysterious life. And he oftenmused on the river's famous past and evoked the legends which assert thatfabulous wealth lies buried in its muddy bed. At each fresh invasion ofthe barbarians, and particularly when Rome was sacked, the treasures ofpalaces and temples are said to have been cast into the water to preventthem from falling into the hands of the conquerors. Might not thosegolden bars trembling yonder in the glaucous stream be the branches ofthe famous candelabrum which Titus brought from Jerusalem? Might notthose pale patches whose shape remained uncertain amidst the frequenteddies indicate the white marble of statues and columns? And those deepmoires glittering with little flamelets, were they not promiscuous heapsof precious metal, cups, vases, ornaments enriched with gems? What adream was that of the swarming riches espied athwart the old river'sbosom, of the hidden life of the treasures which were said to haveslumbered there for centuries; and what a hope for the nation's pride andenrichment centred in the miraculous finds which might be made in theTiber if one could some day dry it up and search its bed, as had alreadybeen suggested! Therein, perchance, lay Rome's new fortune. 

However, on that black night, whilst Pierre leant over the parapet, itwas stern reality alone which occupied his mind. He was still pursuingthe train of thought suggested by his visits to the Trastevere and theFarnese palace, and in presence of that lifeless water was coming to theconclusion that the selection of Rome for transformation into a moderncapital was the great misfortune to which the sufferings of young Italywere due. He knew right well that the selection had been inevitable: Romebeing the queen of glory, the antique ruler of the world to whom eternityhad been promised, and without whom the national unity had always seemedan impossibility. And so the problem was a terrible one, since withoutRome Italy could not exist, and with Rome it seemed difficult for it toexist. Ah! that dead river, how it symbolised disaster! Not a boat uponits surface, not a quiver of the commercial and industrial activity ofthose waters which bear life to the very hearts of great modern cities!There had been fine schemes, no doubt--Rome a seaport, gigantic works, canalisation to enable vessels of heavy tonnage to come up to theAventine; but these were mere delusions; the authorities would scarcelybe able to clear the river mouth, which deposits were continuallychoking. And there was that other cause of mortal languishment, theCampagna--the desert of death which the dead river crossed and whichgirdled Rome with sterility. There was talk of draining and planting it;much futile discussion on the question whether it had been fertile in thedays of the old Romans; and even a few experiments were made; but, allthe same, Rome remained in the midst of a vast cemetery like a city ofother times, for ever separated from the modern world by that _lande_ ormoor where the dust of centuries had accumulated. The geographicalconsiderations which once gave the city the empire of the world no longerexist. The centre of civilisation has been displaced. The basin of theMediterranean has been divided among powerful nations. In Italy all roadsnow lead to Milan, the city of industry and commerce, and Rome is but atown of passage. And so the most valiant efforts have failed to rouse itfrom its invincible slumber. The capital which the newcomers sought toimprovise with such extreme haste has remained unfinished, and has almostruined the nation. The Government, legislators, and functionaries onlycamp there, fleeing directly the warm weather sets in so as to escape thepernicious climate. The hotels and shops even put up their shutters, andthe streets and promenades become deserts, the city having failed toacquire any life of its own, and relapsing into death as soon as theartificial life instilled into it is withdrawn. So all remains insuspense in this purely decorative capital, where only a fresh growth ofmen and money can finish and people the huge useless piles of the newdistricts. If it be true that to-morrow always blooms in the dust of thepast, one ought to force oneself to hope; but Pierre asked himself if thesoil were not exhausted, and since mere buildings could no longer grow onit, if it were not for ever drained of the sap which makes a racehealthy, a nation powerful. 

As the night advanced the lights in the houses of the Trastevere went outone by one: yet Pierre for a long time lingered on the quay, leaning overthe blackened river and yielding to hopelessness. There was now nodistance to the gloom; all had become dense; no longer did anyreflections set a moire-like, golden quiver in the water, or revealbeneath its mystery-concealing current a fantastic, dancing vision offabulous wealth. Gone was the legend, gone the seven-branched goldencandelabrum, gone the golden vases, gone the golden jewellery, the wholedream of antique treasure that had vanished into night, even like theantique glory of Rome. Not a glimmer, nothing but slumber, disturbedsolely by the heavy fall of sewage from the drain on the right-hand, which could not be seen. The very water had disappeared, and Pierre nolonger espied its leaden flow through the darkness, no longer had anyperception of the sluggish senility, the long-dating weariness, theintense sadness of that ancient and glorious Tiber, whose waters nowrolled nought but death. Only the vast, opulent sky, the eternal, pompoussky displayed the dazzling life of its milliards of planets above thatriver of darkness, bearing away the ruins of wellnigh three thousandyears. 

Before returning to his own chamber that evening Pierre entered Dario'sroom, and found Victorine there preparing things for the night. And assoon as she heard where he had been she raised her voice in protest:"What! you have again been to the quay at this time of night, Monsieurl'Abbe? You want to get a good knife thrust yourself, it seems. Well, formy part, I certainly wouldn't take the air at such a late hour in thisdangerous city. " Then, with her wonted familiarity, she turned and spoketo the Prince, who was lying back in an arm-chair and smiling: "Thatgirl, La Pierina, " she said, "hasn't been back here, but all the sameI've lately seen her prowling about among the building materials. "

Dario raised his hand to silence her, and, addressing Pierre, exclaimed:"But you spoke to her, didn't you? It's becoming idiotic! Just fancy thatbrute Tito coming back to dig his knife into my other shoulder--"

All at once he paused, for he had just perceived Benedetta standing thereand listening to him; she had slipped into the room a moment previouslyin order to wish him good-night. At sight of her his embarrassment wasgreat indeed; he wished to speak, explain his words, and swear that hewas wholly innocent in the affair. But she, with a smiling face, contented herself with saying, "I knew all about it, Dario _mio_. I amnot so foolish as not to have thought it all over and understood thetruth. If I ceased questioning you it was because I knew, and loved youall the same. "

The young woman looked very happy as she spoke, and for this she had goodcause, for that very evening she had learnt that Monsignor Palma hadshown himself grateful for the service rendered to his nephew by laying afresh and favourable memoir on the marriage affair before theCongregation of the Council. He had been unwilling to recall his previousopinions so far as to range himself completely on the Contessina's side, but the certificates of two doctors whom she had recently seen hadenabled him to conclude that her own declarations were accurate. Andgliding over the question of wifely obedience, on which he had previouslylaid stress, he had skilfully set forth the reasons which made adissolution of the marriage desirable. No hope of reconciliation could beentertained, so it was certain that both parties were constantly exposedto temptation and sin. He discreetly alluded to the fact that the husbandhad already succumbed to this danger, and praised the wife's loftymorality and piety, all the virtues which she displayed, and whichguaranteed her veracity. Then, without formulating any conclusion of hisown, he left the decision to the wisdom of the Congregation. And as hevirtually repeated Advocate Morano's arguments, and Prada stubbornlyrefused to enter an appearance, it now seemed certain that theCongregation would by a great majority pronounce itself in favour ofdissolution, a result which would enable the Holy Father to actbenevolently. 

"Ah! Dario _mio_!" said Benedetta, "we are at the end of our worries. Butwhat a lot of money, what a lot of money it all costs! Aunt says thatthey will scarcely leave us water to drink. "

So speaking she laughed with the happy heedlessness of an impassioned_amorosa_. It was not that the jurisdiction of the Congregations was initself ruinous; indeed, in principle, it was gratuitous. Still there werea multitude of petty expenses, payments to subaltern employees, paymentsfor medical consultations and certificates, copies of documents, and thememoirs and addresses of counsel. And although the votes of the cardinalswere certainly not bought direct, some of them ended by costingconsiderable sums, for it often became necessary to win over dependants, to induce quite a little world to bring influence to bear upon theirEminences; without mentioning that large pecuniary gifts, when made withtact, have a decisive effect in clearing away the greatest difficultiesin that sphere of the Vatican. And, briefly, Monsignor Palma's nephew bymarriage had cost the Boccaneras a large sum. 

"But it doesn't matter, does it, Dario _mio_?" continued Benedetta. "Since you are now cured, they must make haste to give us permission tomarry. That's all we ask of them. And if they want more, well, I'll givethem my pearls, which will be all I shall have left me. "

He also laughed, for money had never held any place in his life. He hadnever had it at his pleasure, and simply hoped that he would always livewith his uncle the cardinal, who would certainly not leave him and hisyoung wife in the streets. Ruined as the family was, one or two hundredthousand francs represented nothing to his mind, and he had heard thatcertain dissolutions of marriage had cost as much as half a million. So, by way of response, he could only find a jest: "Give them my ring aswell, " said he; "give them everything, my dear, and we shall still behappy in this old palace even if we have to sell the furniture!"

His words filled her with enthusiasm; she took his head between bothhands and kissed him madly on the eyes in an extraordinary transport ofpassion. Then, suddenly turning to Pierre, she said: "Oh! excuse me, Monsieur l'Abbe. I was forgetting that I have a commission for you. Yes, Monsignor Nani, who brought us that good news, bade me tell you that youare making people forget you too much, and that you ought to set to workto defend your book. "

The priest listened in astonishment; then replied: "But it was he whoadvised me to disappear. "

"No doubt--only it seems that the time has now come for you to see peopleand plead your cause. And Monsignor Nani has been able to learn that thereporter appointed to examine your book is Monsignor Fornaro, who liveson the Piazza Navona. "

Pierre's stupefaction was increasing, for a reporter's name is neverdivulged, but kept quite secret, in order to ensure a free exercise ofjudgment. Was a new phase of his sojourn in Rome about to begin then? Hismind was all wonderment. However, he simply answered: "Very good, I willset to work and see everybody. "

PART IV. 

X. 

IN his anxiety to bring things to a finish, Pierre wished to begin hiscampaign on the very next day. But on whom should he first call if hewere to steer clear of blunders in that intricate and conceitedecclesiastical world? The question greatly perplexed him; however, onopening his door that morning he luckily perceived Don Vigilio in thepassage, and with a sudden inspiration asked him to step inside. Herealised that this thin little man with the saffron face, who alwaystrembled with fever and displayed such exaggerated, timorous discretion, was in reality well informed, mixed up in everything. At one period ithad seemed to Pierre that the secretary purposely avoided him, doubtlessfor fear of compromising himself; but recently Don Vigilio had provedless unsociable, as though he were not far from sharing the impatiencewhich must be consuming the young Frenchman amidst his long enforcedinactivity. And so, on this occasion, he did not seek to avoid the chaton which Pierre was bent. 

"I must apologise, " said the latter, "for asking you in here when thingsare in such disorder. But I have just received some more linen and somewinter clothing from Paris. I came, you know, with just a little valise, meaning to stay for a fortnight, and yet I've now been here for nearlythree months, and am no more advanced than I was on the morning of myarrival. "

Don Vigilio nodded. "Yes, yes, I know, " said he. 

Thereupon Pierre explained to him that Monsignor Nani had informed him, through the Contessina, that he now ought to act and see everybody forthe defence of his book. But he was much embarrassed, as he did not knowin what order to make his visits so that they might benefit him. Forinstance, ought he to call in the first place on Monsignor Fornaro, the_consultore_ selected to report on his book, and whose name had beengiven him?

"Ah!" exclaimed Don Vigilio, quivering; "has Monsignor Nani gone as faras that--given you the reporter's name? That's even more than Iexpected. " Then, forgetting his prudence, yielding to his secret interestin the affair, he resumed: "No, no; don't begin with Monsignor Fornaro. Your first visit should be a very humble one to the Prefect of theCongregation of the Index--his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti; for hewould never forgive you for having offered your first homage to anothershould he some day hear of it. " And, after a pause, Don Vigilio added, ina low voice, amidst a faint, feverish shiver: "And he _would_ hear of it;everything becomes known. "

Again he hesitated, and then, as if yielding to sudden, sympatheticcourage, he took hold of the young Frenchman's hands. "I swear to you, mydear Monsieur Froment, " he said, "that I should be very happy to helpyou, for you are a man of simple soul, and I really begin to feel worriedfor you. But you must not ask me for impossibilities. Ah! if you onlyknew--if I could only tell you of all the perils which surround us!However, I think I can repeat to you that you must in no wise rely on mypatron, his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera. He has expressed absolutedisapproval of your book in my presence on several occasions. Only he isa saint, a most worthy, honourable man; and, though he won't defend you, he won't attack you--he will remain neutral out of regard for his niece, whom he loves so dearly, and who protects you. So, when you see him, don't plead your cause; it would be of no avail, and might even irritatehim. "

Pierre was not particularly distressed by this news, for at his firstinterview with the Cardinal, and on the few subsequent occasions when hehad respectfully visited him, he had fully understood that his Eminencewould never be other than an adversary. "Well, " said he, "I will wait onhim to thank him for his neutrality. "

But at this all Don Vigilio's terrors returned. "No, no, don't do that;he would perhaps realise that I have spoken to you, and then what adisaster--my position would be compromised. I've said nothing, nothing!See the cardinals to begin with, see all the cardinals. Let it beunderstood between us that I've said nothing more. " And, on that occasionat any rate, Don Vigilio would speak no further, but left the roomshuddering and darting fiery, suspicious glances on either side of thecorridor. 

Pierre at once went out to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti. It was teno'clock, and there was a chance that he might find him at home. Thiscardinal resided on the first floor of a little palazzo in a dark, narrowstreet near San Luigi dei Francesi. * There was here none of the giantruin full of princely and melancholy grandeur amidst which CardinalBoccanera so stubbornly remained. The old regulation gala suite of roomshad been cut down just like the number of servants. There was nothrone-room, no red hat hanging under a _baldacchino_, no arm-chairturned to the wall pending a visit from the Pope. A couple of apartmentsserved as ante-rooms, and then came a _salon_ where the Cardinalreceived; and there was no luxury, indeed scarcely any comfort; thefurniture was of mahogany, dating from the empire period, and thehangings and carpets were dusty and faded by long use. Moreover, Pierrehad to wait a long time for admittance, and when a servant, leisurelyputting on his jacket, at last set the door ajar, it was only to say thathis Eminence had been away at Frascati since the previous day. 

 * This is the French church of Rome, and is under the protection of the French Government. --Trans. 

Pierre then remembered that Cardinal Sanguinetti was one of the suburbanbishops. At his see of Frascati he had a villa where he occasionallyspent a few days whenever a desire for rest or some political motiveimpelled him to do so. 

"And will his Eminence soon return?" Pierre inquired. 

"Ah! we don't know. His Eminence is poorly, and expressly desired us tosend nobody to worry him. "

When Pierre reached the street again he felt quite bewildered by thisdisappointment. At first he wondered whether he had not better call onMonsignor Fornaro without more ado, but he recollected Don Vigilio'sadvice to see the cardinals first of all, and, an inspiration coming tohim, he resolved that his next visit should be for Cardinal Sarno, whoseacquaintance he had eventually made at Donna Serafina's Mondays. In spiteof Cardinal Sarno's voluntary self-effacement, people looked upon him asone of the most powerful and redoubtable members of the Sacred College, albeit his nephew Narcisse Habert declared that he knew no man who showedmore obtuseness in matters which did not pertain to his habitualoccupations. At all events, Pierre thought that the Cardinal, althoughnot a member of the Congregation of the Index, might well give him somegood advice, and possibly bring his great influence to bear on hiscolleagues. 

The young man straightway betook himself to the Palace of the Propaganda, where he knew he would find the Cardinal. This palace, which is seen fromthe Piazza di Spagna, is a bare, massive corner pile between two streets. And Pierre, hampered by his faulty Italian, quite lost himself in it, climbing to floors whence he had to descend again, and finding himself ina perfect labyrinth of stairs, passages, and halls. At last he luckilycame across the Cardinal's secretary, an amiable young priest, whom hehad already seen at the Boccanera mansion. "Why, yes, " said thesecretary, "I think that his Eminence will receive you. You did well tocome at this hour, for he is always here of a morning. Kindly follow me, if you please. "

Then came a fresh journey. Cardinal Sarno, long a Secretary of thePropaganda, now presided over the commission which controlled theorganisation of worship in those countries of Europe, Africa, America, and Oceanica where Catholicism had lately gained a footing; and he thushad a private room of his own with special officers and assistants, reigning there with the ultra-methodical habits of a functionary who hadgrown old in his arm-chair, closely surrounded by nests of drawers, andknowing nothing of the world save the usual sights of the street belowhis window. 

The secretary left Pierre on a bench at the end of a dark passage, whichwas lighted by gas even in full daylight. And quite a quarter of an hourwent by before he returned with his eager, affable air. "His Eminence isconferring with some missionaries who are about to leave Rome, " he said;"but it will soon be over, and he told me to take you to his room, whereyou can wait for him. "

As soon as Pierre was alone in the Cardinal's sanctum he examined it withcuriosity. Fairly spacious, but in no wise luxurious, it had green paperon its walls, and its furniture was of black wood and green damask. Fromtwo windows overlooking a narrow side street a mournful light reached thedark wall-paper and faded carpets. There were a couple of pier tables anda plain black writing-table, which stood near one window, its wornmole-skin covering littered with all sorts of papers. Pierre drew near toit for a moment, and glanced at the arm-chair with damaged, sunken seat, the screen which sheltered it from draughts, and the old inkstandsplotched with ink. And then, in the lifeless and oppressive atmosphere, the disquieting silence, which only the low rumbles from the streetdisturbed, he began to grow impatient. 

However, whilst he was softly walking up and down he suddenly espied amap affixed to one wall, and the sight of it filled him with suchabsorbing thoughts that he soon forgot everything else. It was a colouredmap of the world, the different tints indicating whether the territoriesbelonged to victorious Catholicism or whether Catholicism was stillwarring there against unbelief; these last countries being classified asvicariates or prefectures, according to the general principles oforganisation. And the whole was a graphic presentment of the long effortsof Catholicism in striving for the universal dominion which it has soughtso unremittingly since its earliest hour. God has given the world to HisChurch, but it is needful that she should secure possession of it sinceerror so stubbornly abides. From this has sprung the eternal battle, thefight which is carried on, even in our days, to win nations over fromother religions, as it was in the days when the Apostles quitted Judaeato spread abroad the tidings of the Gospel. During the middle ages thegreat task was to organise conquered Europe, and this was too absorbingan enterprise to allow of any attempt at reconciliation with thedissident churches of the East. Then the Reformation burst forth, schismwas added to schism, and the Protestant half of Europe had to bereconquered as well as all the orthodox East. 

War-like ardour, however, awoke at the discovery of the New World. Romewas ambitious of securing that other side of the earth, and missions wereorganised for the subjection of races of which nobody had known anythingthe day before, but which God had, nevertheless, given to His Church, like all the others. And by degrees the two great divisions ofChristianity were formed, on one hand the Catholic nations, those wherethe faith simply had to be kept up, and which the Secretariate of Stateinstalled at the Vatican guided with sovereign authority, and on theother the schismatical or pagan nations which were to be brought back tothe fold or converted, and over which the Congregation of the Propagandasought to reign. Then this Congregation had been obliged to divide itselfinto two branches in order to facilitate its work--the Oriental branch, which dealt with the dissident sects of the East, and the Latin branch, whose authority extended over all the other lands of mission: the twoforming a vast organisation--a huge, strong, closely meshed net cast overthe whole world in order that not a single soul might escape. 

It was in presence of that map that Pierre for the first time becameclearly conscious of the mechanism which for centuries had been workingto bring about the absorption of humanity. The Propaganda, richly doweredby the popes, and disposing of a considerable revenue, appeared to himlike a separate force, a papacy within the papacy, and he well understoodthat the Prefect of the Congregation should be called the "Red Pope, " forhow limitless were the powers of that man of conquest and domination, whose hands stretched from one to the other end of the earth. Allowingthat the Cardinal Secretary held Europe, that diminutive portion of theglobe, did not he, the Prefect, hold all the rest--the infinity of space, the distant countries as yet almost unknown? Besides, statistics showedthat Rome's uncontested dominion was limited to 200 millions of Apostolicand Roman Catholics; whereas the schismatics of the East and theReformation, if added together, already exceeded that number, and howsmall became the minority of the true believers when, besides theschismatics, one brought into line the 1000 millions of infidels who yetremained to be converted. The figures struck Pierre with a force whichmade him shudder. What! there were 5 million Jews, nearly 200 millionMahommedans, more than 700 million Brahmanists and Buddhists, withoutcounting another 100 million pagans of divers creeds, the whole making1000 millions, and against these the Christians could marshal barely morethan 400 millions, who were divided among themselves, ever in conflict, one half with Rome and the other half against her?* Was it possible thatin 1800 years Christianity had not proved victorious over even one-thirdof mankind, and that Rome, the eternal and all-powerful, only counted asixth part of the nations among her subjects? Only one soul saved out ofevery six--how fearful was the disproportion! However, the map spoke withbrutal eloquence: the red-tinted empire of Rome was but a speck whencompared with the yellow-hued empire of the other gods--the endlesscountries which the Propaganda still had to conquer. And the questionarose: How many centuries must elapse before the promises of the Christwere realised, before the whole world were gained to Christianity, beforereligious society spread over secular society, and there remained but onekingdom and one belief? And in presence of this question, in presence ofthe prodigious labour yet to be accomplished, how great was one'sastonishment when one thought of Rome's tranquil serenity, her patientstubbornness, which has never known doubt or weariness, her bishops andministers toiling without cessation in the conviction that she alone willsome day be the mistress of the world!

 * Some readers may question certain of the figures given by M. Zola, but it must be remembered that all such calculations (even those of the best "authorities") are largely guesswork. I myself think that there are more than 5 million Jews, and more than 200 millions of Mahommedans, but I regard the alleged number of Brahmanists and Buddhists as exaggerated. On the other hand, some statistical tables specify 80 millions of Confucianists, of whom M. Zola makes no separate mention. However, as regards the number of Christians in the world, the figures given above are, within a few millions, probably accurate. --Trans. 

Narcisse had told Pierre how carefully the embassies at Rome watched thedoings of the Propaganda, for the missions were often the instruments ofone or another nation, and exercised decisive influence in far-awaylands. And so there was a continual struggle, in which the Congregationdid all it could to favour the missionaries of Italy and her allies. Ithad always been jealous of its French rival, "L'Oeuvre de la Propagationde la Foi, " installed at Lyons, which is as wealthy in money as itself, and richer in men of energy and courage. However, not content withlevelling tribute on this French association, the Propaganda thwarted it, sacrificed it on every occasion when it had reason to think it mightachieve a victory. Not once or twice, but over and over again had theFrench missionaries, the French orders, been driven from the scenes oftheir labours to make way for Italians or Germans. And Pierre, standingin that mournful, dusty room, which the sunlight never brightened, pictured the secret hot-bed of political intrigue masked by thecivilising ardour of faith. Again he shuddered as one shudders whenmonstrous, terrifying things are brought home to one. And might not themost sensible be overcome? Might not the bravest be dismayed by thethought of that universal engine of conquest and domination, which workedwith the stubbornness of eternity, not merely content with the gain ofsouls, but ever seeking to ensure its future sovereignty over the wholeof corporeal humanity, and--pending the time when it might rule thenations itself--disposing of them, handing them over to the charge ofthis or that temporary master, in accordance with its good pleasure. Andthen, too, what a prodigious dream! Rome smiling and tranquilly awaitingthe day when she will have united Christians, Mahommedans, Brahmanists, and Buddhists into one sole nation, of whom she will be both thespiritual and the temporal queen!

However, a sound of coughing made Pierre turn, and he started onperceiving Cardinal Sarno, whom he had not heard enter. Standing in frontof that map, he felt like one caught in the act of prying into a secret, and a deep flush overspread his face. The Cardinal, however, afterlooking at him fixedly with his dim eyes, went to his writing-table, andlet himself drop into the arm-chair without saying a word. With a gesturehe dispensed Pierre of the duty of kissing his ring. 

"I desired to offer my homage to your Eminence, " said the young man. "Isyour Eminence unwell?"

"No, no, it's nothing but a dreadful cold which I can't get rid of. Andthen, too, I have so many things to attend to just now. "

Pierre looked at the Cardinal as he appeared in the livid light from thewindow, puny, lopsided, with the left shoulder higher than the right, andnot a sign of life on his worn and ashen countenance. The young priestwas reminded of one of his uncles, who, after thirty years spent in theoffices of a French public department, displayed the same lifelessglance, parchment-like skin, and weary hebetation. Was it possible thatthis withered old man, so lost in his black cassock with red edging, wasreally one of the masters of the world, with the map of Christendom sodeeply stamped on his mind, albeit he had never left Rome, that thePrefect of the Propaganda did not take a decision without asking hisopinion?

"Sit down, Monsieur l'Abbe, " said the Cardinal. "So you have come to seeme--you have something to ask of me!" And, whilst disposing himself tolisten, he stretched out his thin bony hands to finger the documentsheaped up before him, glancing at each of them like some general, somestrategist, profoundly versed in the science of his profession, who, although his army is far away, nevertheless directs it to victory fromhis private room, never for a moment allowing it to escape his mind. 

Pierre was somewhat embarrassed by such a plain enunciation of theinterested object of his visit; still, he decided to go to the point. "Yes, indeed, " he answered, "it is a liberty I have taken to come andappeal to your Eminence's wisdom for advice. Your Eminence is aware thatI am in Rome for the purpose of defending a book of mine, and I should begrateful if your Eminence would help and guide me. " Then he gave a briefaccount of the present position of the affair, and began to plead hiscause; but as he continued speaking he noticed that the Cardinal gave himvery little attention, as though indeed he were thinking of somethingelse, and failed to understand. 

"Ah! yes, " the great man at last muttered, "you have written a book. There was some question of it at Donna Serafina's one evening. But apriest ought not to write; it is a mistake for him to do so. What is thegood of it? And the Congregation of the Index must certainly be in theright if it is prosecuting your book. At all events, what can I do? Idon't belong to the Congregation, and I know nothing, nothing about thematter. "

Pierre, pained at finding him so listless and indifferent, went on tryingto enlighten and move him. But he realised that this man's mind, sofar-reaching and penetrating in the field in which it had worked forforty years, closed up as soon as one sought to divert it from itsspecialty. It was neither an inquisitive nor a supple mind. All trace oflife faded from the Cardinal's eyes, and his entire countenance assumedan expression of mournful imbecility. "I know nothing, nothing, " herepeated, "and I never recommend anybody. " However, at last he made aneffort: "But Nani is mixed up in this, " said he. "What does Nani adviseyou to do?"

"Monsignor Nani has been kind enough to reveal to me that the reporter isMonsignor Fornaro, and advises me to see him. "

At this Cardinal Sarno seemed surprised and somewhat roused. A littlelight returned to his eyes. "Ah! really, " he rejoined, "ah!really--Well, if Nani has done that he must have some idea. Go and seeMonsignor Fornaro. " Then, after rising and dismissing his visitor, whowas compelled to thank him, bowing deeply, he resumed his seat, and amoment later the only sound in the lifeless room was that of his bonyfingers turning over the documents before him. 

Pierre, in all docility, followed the advice given him, and immediatelybetook himself to the Piazza Navona, where, however, he learnt from oneof Monsignor Fornaro's servants that the prelate had just gone out, andthat to find him at home it was necessary to call in the morning at teno'clock. Accordingly it was only on the following day that Pierre wasable to obtain an interview. He had previously made inquiries and knewwhat was necessary concerning Monsignor Fornaro. Born at Naples, he hadthere begun his studies under the Barnabites, had finished them at theSeminario Romano, and had subsequently, for many years, been a professorat the University Gregoriana. Nowadays Consultor to several Congregationsand a Canon of Santa Maria Maggiore, he placed his immediate ambition ina Canonry at St. Peter's, and harboured the dream of some day becomingSecretary of the Consistorial Congregation, a post conducting to thecardinalate. A theologian of remarkable ability, Monsignor Fornaroincurred no other reproach than that of occasionally sacrificing toliterature by contributing articles, which he carefully abstained fromsigning, to certain religious reviews. He was also said to be veryworldly. 

Pierre was received as soon as he had sent in his card, and perhaps hewould have fancied that his visit was expected had not an appearance ofsincere surprise, blended with a little anxiety, marked his reception. 

"Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, " repeated the prelate, looking at the card which he still held. "Kindly step in--I was about toforbid my door, for I have some urgent work to attend to. But no matter, sit down. "

Pierre, however, remained standing, quite charmed by the bloomingappearance of this tall, strong, handsome man who, although five andforty years of age, was quite fresh and rosy, with moist lips, caressingeyes, and scarcely a grey hair among his curly locks. Nobody morefascinating and decorative could be found among the whole Roman prelacy. Careful of his person undoubtedly, and aiming at a simple elegance, helooked really superb in his black cassock with violet collar. And aroundhim the spacious room where he received his visitors, gaily lighted as itwas by two large windows facing the Piazza Navona, and furnished with ataste nowadays seldom met with among the Roman clergy, diffused apleasant odour and formed a setting instinct with kindly cheerfulness. 

"Pray sit down, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, " he resumed, "and tell me towhat I am indebted for the honour of your visit. "

He had already recovered his self-possession and assumed a _naif_, purelyobliging air; and Pierre, though the question was only natural, and heought to have foreseen it, suddenly felt greatly embarrassed, moreembarrassed indeed than in Cardinal Sarno's presence. Should he go to thepoint at once, confess the delicate motive of his visit? A moment'sreflection showed him that this would be the best and worthier course. "Dear me, Monseigneur, " he replied, "I know very well that the step Ihave taken in calling on you is not usually taken, but it has beenadvised me, and it has seemed to me that among honest folks there cannever be any harm in seeking in all good faith to elucidate the truth. "

"What is it, what is it, then?" asked the prelate with an expression ofperfect candour, and still continuing to smile. 

"Well, simply this. I have learnt that the Congregation of the Index hashanded you my book 'New Rome, ' and appointed you to examine it; and Ihave ventured to present myself before you in case you should have anyexplanations to ask of me. "

But Monsignor Fornaro seemed unwilling to hear any more. He had carriedboth hands to his head and drawn back, albeit still courteous. "No, no, "said he, "don't tell me that, don't continue, you would grieve medreadfully. Let us say, if you like, that you have been deceived, fornothing ought to be known, in fact nothing is known, either by others ormyself. I pray you, do not let us talk of such matters. "

Pierre, however, had fortunately remarked what a decisive effect wasproduced when he had occasion to mention the name of the Assessor of theHoly Office. So it occurred to him to reply: "I most certainly do notdesire to give you the slightest cause for embarrassment, Monseigneur, and I repeat to you that I would never have ventured to importune you ifMonsignor Nani himself had not acquainted me with your name and address. "

This time the effect was immediate, though Monsignor Fornaro, with thateasy grace which he introduced into all things, made some ceremony aboutsurrendering. He began by a demurrer, speaking archly with subtle shadesof expression. "What! is Monsignor Nani the tattler! But I shall scoldhim, I shall get angry with him! And what does he know? He doesn't belongto the Congregation; he may have been led into error. You must tell himthat he has made a mistake, and that I have nothing at all to do withyour affair. That will teach him not to reveal needful secrets whicheverybody respects!" Then, in a pleasant way, with winning glance andflowery lips, he went on: "Come, since Monsignor Nani desires it, I amwilling to chat with you for a moment, my dear Monsieur Froment, but oncondition that you shall know nothing of my report or of what may havebeen said or done at the Congregation. "

Pierre in his turn smiled, admiring how easy things became when formswere respected and appearances saved. And once again he began to explainhis case, the profound astonishment into which the prosecution of hisbook had thrown him, and his ignorance of the objections which were takento it, and for which he had vainly sought a cause. 

"Really, really, " repeated the prelate, quite amazed at so muchinnocence. "The Congregation is a tribunal, and can only act when a caseis brought before it. Proceedings have been taken against your booksimply because it has been denounced. "

"Yes, I know, denounced. "

"Of course. Complaint was laid by three French bishops, whose names youwill allow me to keep secret, and it consequently became necessary forthe Congregation to examine the incriminated work. "

Pierre looked at him quite scared. Denounced by three bishops? Why? Withwhat object? Then he thought of his protector. "But Cardinal Bergerot, "said he, "wrote me a letter of approval, which I placed at the beginningof my work as a preface. Ought not a guarantee like that to have beensufficient for the French episcopacy?"

Monsignor Fornaro wagged his head in a knowing way before making up hismind to reply: "Ah! yes, no doubt, his Eminence's letter, a verybeautiful letter. I think, however, that it would have been much betterif he had not written it, both for himself and for you especially. " Thenas the priest, whose surprise was increasing, opened his mouth to urgehim to explain himself, he went on: "No, no, I know nothing, I saynothing. His Eminence Cardinal Bergerot is a saintly man whom everybodyvenerates, and if it were possible for him to sin it would only bethrough pure goodness of heart. "

Silence fell. Pierre could divine that an abyss was opening, and darednot insist. However, he at last resumed with some violence: "But, afterall, why should my book be prosecuted, and the books of others be leftuntouched? I have no intention of acting as a denouncer myself, but howmany books there are to which Rome closes her eyes, and which are farmore dangerous than mine can be!"

This time Monsignor Fornaro seemed glad to be able to support Pierre'sviews. "You are right, " said he, "we cannot deal with every bad book, andit greatly distresses us. But you must remember what an incalculablenumber of works we should be compelled to read. And so we have to contentourselves with condemning the worst _en bloc_. "

Then he complacently entered into explanations. In principle, no printerought to send any work to press without having previously submitted themanuscript to the approval of the bishop of the diocese. Nowadays, however, with the enormous output of the printing trade, one couldunderstand how terribly embarrassed the bishops would be if the printerswere suddenly to conform to the Church's regulation. There was neitherthe time nor the money, nor were there the men necessary for suchcolossal labour. And so the Congregation of the Index condemned _enmasse_, without examination, all works of certain categories: first, books which were dangerous for morals, all erotic writings, and allnovels; next the various bibles in the vulgar tongue, for the perusal ofHoly Writ without discretion was not allowable; then the books on magicand sorcery, and all works on science, history, or philosophy that werein any way contrary to dogma, as well as the writings of heresiarchs ormere ecclesiastics discussing religion, which should never be discussed. All these were wise laws made by different popes, and were set forth inthe preface to the catalogue of forbidden books which the Congregationpublished, and without them this catalogue, to have been complete, wouldin itself have formed a large library. On turning it over one found thatthe works singled out for interdiction were chiefly those of priests, thetask being so vast and difficult that Rome's concern extended but littlebeyond the observance of good order within the Church. And Pierre and hisbook came within the limit. 

"You will understand, " continued Monsignor Fornaro, "that we have nodesire to advertise a heap of unwholesome writings by honouring them withspecial condemnation. Their name is legion in every country, and weshould have neither enough paper nor enough ink to deal with them all. Sowe content ourselves with condemning one from time to time, when it bearsa famous name and makes too much noise, or contains disquieting attackson the faith. This suffices to remind the world that we exist and defendourselves without abandoning aught of our rights or duties. "

"But my book, my book, " exclaimed Pierre, "why these proceedings againstmy book?"

"I am explaining that to you as far as it is allowable for me to do, mydear Monsieur Froment. You are a priest, your book is a success, you havepublished a cheap edition of it which sells very readily; and I don'tspeak of its literary merit, which is remarkable, for it contains abreath of real poetry which transported me, and on which I must reallycompliment you. However, under the circumstances which I have enumerated, how could we close our eyes to such a work as yours, in which theconclusion arrived at is the annihilation of our holy religion and thedestruction of Rome?"

Pierre remained open-mouthed, suffocating with surprise. "The destructionof Rome!" he at last exclaimed; "but I desire to see Rome rejuvenated, eternal, again the queen of the world. " And, once more mastered by hisglowing enthusiasm, he defended himself and confessed his faith:Catholicism reverting to the principles and practices of the primitiveChurch, drawing the blood of regeneration from the fraternal Christianityof Jesus; the Pope, freed from all terrestrial royalty, governing thewhole of humanity with charity and love, and saving the world from thefrightful social cataclysm that threatens it by leading it to the realKingdom of God: the Christian communion of all nations united in onenation only. "And can the Holy Father disavow me?" he continued. "Are notthese his secret ideas, which people are beginning to divine, and doesnot my only offence lie in having expressed them perhaps too soon and toofreely? And if I were allowed to see him should I not at once obtain fromhim an order to stop these proceedings?"

Monsignor Fornaro no longer spoke, but wagged his head without appearingoffended by the priest's juvenile ardour. On the contrary, he smiled withincreasing amiability, as though highly amused by so much innocence andimagination. At last he gaily responded, "Oh! speak on, speak on; itisn't I who will stop you. I'm forbidden to say anything. But thetemporal power, the temporal power. "

"Well, what of the temporal power?" asked Pierre. 

The prelate had again become silent, raising his amiable face to heavenand waving his white hands with a pretty gesture. And when he once moreopened his mouth it was to say: "Then there's your new religion--for theexpression occurs twice: the new religion, the new religion--ah, _Dio_!"

Again he became restless, going off into an ecstasy of wonderment, atsight of which Pierre impatiently exclaimed: "I do not know what yourreport will be, Monseigneur, but I declare to you that I have had nodesire to attack dogma. And, candidly now, my whole book shows that Ionly sought to write a work of pity and salvation. It is only justicethat some account should be taken of one's intentions. "

Monsignor Fornaro had become very calm and paternal again. "Oh!intentions! intentions!" he said as he rose to dismiss his visitor. "Youmay be sure, my dear Monsieur Froment, that I feel much honoured by yourvisit. Naturally I cannot tell you what my report will be; as it is, wehave talked too much about it, and, in fact, I ought to have refused tolisten to your defence. At the same time, you will always find me readyto be of service to you in anything that does not go against my duty. ButI greatly fear that your book will be condemned. " And then, as Pierreagain started, he added: "Well, yes. It is facts that are judged, youknow, not intentions. So all defence is useless; the book is there, andwe take it such as it is. However much you may try to explain it, youcannot alter it. And this is why the Congregation never calls the accusedparties before it, and never accepts from them aught but retraction pureand simple. And, indeed, the wisest course would be for you to withdrawyour book and make your submission. No? You won't? Ah! how young you are, my friend!"

He laughed yet more loudly at the gesture of revolt, of indomitable pridewhich had just escaped his young friend, as he called him. Then, onreaching the door, he again threw off some of his reserve, and said in alow voice, "Come, my dear Abbe, there is something I will do for you. Iwill give you some good advice. At bottom, I myself am nothing. I delivermy report, and it is printed, and the members of the Congregation readit, but are quite free to pay no attention to it. However, the Secretaryof the Congregation, Father Dangelis, can accomplish everything, evenimpossibilities. Go to see him; you will find him at the Dominicanconvent behind the Piazza di Spagna. Don't name me. And for the presentgood-bye, my dear fellow, good-bye. "

Pierre once more found himself on the Piazza Navona, quite dazed, nolonger knowing what to believe or hope. A cowardly idea was coming overhim; why should he continue this struggle, in which his adversariesremained unknown and indiscernible? Why carry obstinacy any further, whylinger any longer in that impassionating but deceptive Rome? He wouldflee that very evening, return to Paris, disappear there, and forget hisbitter disillusion in the practice of humble charity. He was traversingone of those hours of weakness when the long-dreamt-of task suddenlyseems to be an impossibility. However, amidst his great confusion he wasnevertheless walking on, going towards his destination. And when he foundhimself in the Corso, then in the Via dei Condotti, and finally in thePiazza di Spagna, he resolved that he would at any rate see FatherDangelis. The Dominican convent is there, just below the Trinity de'Monti. 

Ah! those Dominicans! Pierre had never thought of them without a feelingof respect with which mingled a little fear. What vigorous pillars of theprinciple of authority and theocracy they had for centuries provedthemselves to be! To them the Church had been indebted for its greatestmeasure of authority; they were the glorious soldiers of its triumph. Whilst St. Francis won the souls of the humble over to Rome, St. Dominic, on Rome's behalf, subjected all the superior souls--those of theintelligent and powerful. And this he did with passion, amidst a blaze offaith and determination, making use of all possible means, preachings, writings, and police and judicial pressure. Though he did not found theInquisition, its principles were his, and it was with fire and sword thathis fraternal, loving heart waged war on schism. Living like his monks, in poverty, chastity, and obedience--the great virtues of those times ofpride and licentiousness--he went from city to city, exhorting theimpious, striving to bring them back to the Church and arraigning thembefore the ecclesiastical courts when his preachings did not suffice. Healso laid siege to science, sought to make it his own, dreamt ofdefending God with the weapons of reason and human knowledge like a trueforerunner of the angelic St. Thomas, that light of the middle ages, whojoined the Dominican order and set everything in his "Summa Theologiae, "psychology, logic, policy, and morals. And thus it was that theDominicans filled the world, upholding the doctrines of Rome in the mostfamous pulpits of every nation, and contending almost everywhere againstthe free sprit of the Universities, like the vigilant guardians of dogmathat they were, the unwearying artisans of the fortunes of the popes, themost powerful amongst all the artistic, scientific, and literary workerswho raised the huge edifice of Catholicism such as it exists to-day. 

However, Pierre, who could feel that this edifice was even now tottering, though it had been built, people fancied, so substantially as to lastthrough all eternity, asked himself what could be the present use of theDominicans, those toilers of another age, whose police system and whosetribunals had perished beneath universal execration, whose voices were nolonger listened to, whose books were but seldom read, and whose _role_ as_savants_ and civilisers had come to an end in presence of latter-dayscience, the truths of which were rending dogma on all sides. Certainlythe Dominicans still form an influential and prosperous order; but howfar one is from the times when their general reigned in Rome, Master ofthe Holy Palace, with convents and schools, and subjects throughoutEurope! Of all their vast inheritance, so far as the Roman curia isconcerned, only a few posts now remain to them, and among others theSecretaryship of the Congregation of the Index, a former dependency ofthe Holy Office where they once despotically ruled. 

Pierre was immediately ushered into the presence of Father Dangelis. Theconvent parlour was vast, bare, and white, flooded with bright sunshine. The only furniture was a table and some stools; and a large brasscrucifix hung from the wall. Near the table stood the Father, a very thinman of about fifty, severely draped in his ample white habit and blackmantle. From his long ascetic face, with thin lips, thin nose, andpointed, obstinate chin, his grey eyes shone out with a fixity thatembarrassed one. And, moreover, he showed himself very plain and simpleof speech, and frigidly polite in manner. 

"Monsieur l'Abbe Froment--the author of 'New Rome, ' I suppose?" Thenseating himself on one stool and pointing to another, he added: "Prayacquaint me with the object of your visit, Monsieur l'Abbe. "

Thereupon Pierre had to begin his explanation, his defence, all overagain; and the task soon became the more painful as his words fell fromhis lips amidst death-like silence and frigidity. Father Dangelis did notstir; with his hands crossed upon his knees he kept his sharp, penetrating eyes fixed upon those of the priest. And when the latter hadat last ceased speaking, he slowly said: "I did not like to interruptyou, Monsieur l'Abbe, but it was not for me to hear all this. Processagainst your book has begun, and no power in the world can stay or impedeits course. I do not therefore realise what it is that you apparentlyexpect of me. "

In a quivering voice Pierre was bold enough to answer: "I look for somekindness and justice. "

A pale smile, instinct with proud humility, arose to the Dominican'slips. "Be without fear, " he replied, "God has ever deigned to enlightenme in the discharge of my modest duties. Personally, be it said, I haveno justice to render; I am but an employee whose duty is to classifymatters and draw up documents concerning them. Their Eminences, themembers of the Congregation, will alone pronounce judgment on your book. And assuredly they will do so with the help of the Holy Spirit. You willonly have to bow to their sentence when it shall have been ratified byhis Holiness. "

Then he broke off the interview by rising, and Pierre was obliged to dothe same. The Dominican's words were virtually identical with those thathad fallen from Monsignor Fornaro, but they were spoken with cuttingfrankness, a sort of tranquil bravery. On all sides Pierre came intocollision with the same anonymous force, the same powerful engine whosecomponent parts sought to ignore one another. For a long time yet, nodoubt, he would be sent from one to the other, without ever finding thevolitional element which reasoned and acted. And the only thing that hecould do was to bow to it all. 

However, before going off, it occurred to him once more to mention thename of Monsignor Nani, the powerful effect of which he had begun torealise. "I ask your pardon, " he said, "for having disturbed you to nopurpose, but I simply deferred to the kind advice of Monsignor Nani, whohas condescended to show me some interest. "

The effect of these words was unexpected. Again did Father Dangelis'sthin face brighten into a smile, but with a twist of the lips, sharp withironical contempt. He had become yet paler, and his keen intelligent eyeswere flaming. "Ah! it was Monsignor Nani who sent you!" he said. "Well, if you think you need a protector, it is useless for you to apply to anyother than himself. He is all-powerful. Go to see him; go to see him!"

And that was the only encouragement Pierre derived from his visit: theadvice to go back to the man who had sent him. At this he felt that hewas losing ground, and he resolved to return home in order to reflect onthings and try to understand them before taking any further steps. Theidea of questioning Don Vigilio at once occurred to him, and that sameevening after supper he luckily met the secretary in the corridor, justas, candle in hand, he was on his way to bed. 

"I have so many things that I should like to say to you, " Pierre said tohim. "Can you kindly come to my rooms for a moment?"

But the other promptly silenced him with a gesture, and then whispered:"Didn't you see Abbe Paparelli on the first floor? He was following us, I'm sure. "

Pierre often saw the train-bearer roaming about the house, and greatlydisliked his stealthy, prying ways. However, he had hitherto attached noimportance to him, and was therefore much surprised by Don Vigilio'squestion. The other, without awaiting his reply, had returned to the endof the corridor, where for a long while he remained listening. Then hecame back on tip-toe, blew out his candle, and darted into Pierre'ssitting-room. "There--that's done, " he murmured directly the door wasshut. "But if it is all the same to you, we won't stop in thissitting-room. Let us go into your bed-room. Two walls are better thanone. "

When the lamp had been placed on the table and they found themselvesseated face to face in that bare, faded bed-chamber, Pierre noticed thatthe secretary was suffering from a more violent attack of fever thanusual. His thin puny figure was shivering from head to foot, and hisardent eyes had never before blazed so blackly in his ravaged, yellowface. "Are you poorly?" asked Pierre. "I don't want to tire you. "

"Poorly, yes, I am on fire--but I want to talk. I can't bear it anylonger. One always has to relieve oneself some day or other. "

Was it his complaint that he desired to relieve; or was he anxious tobreak his long silence in order that it might not stifle him? This atfirst remained uncertain. He immediately asked for an account of thesteps that Pierre had lately taken, and became yet more restless when heheard how the other had been received by Cardinal Sarno, MonsignorFornaro, and Father Dangelis. "Yes, that's quite it, " he repeated, "nothing astonishes me nowadays, and yet I feel indignant on youraccount. Yes, it doesn't concern me, but all the same it makes me ill, for it reminds me of all my own troubles. You must not rely on CardinalSarno, remember, for he is always elsewhere, with his mind far away, andhas never helped anybody. But that Fornaro, that Fornaro!"

"He seemed to me very amiable, even kindly disposed, " replied Pierre;"and I really think that after our interview, he will considerably softenhis report. "

"He! Why, the gentler he was with you the more grievously he will saddleyou! He will devour you, fatten himself with such easy prey. Ah! youdon't know him, _dilizioso_ that he is, ever on the watch to rear his ownfortune on the troubles of poor devils whose defeat is bound to pleasethe powerful. I prefer the other one, Father Dangelis, a terrible man, nodoubt, but frank and brave and of superior mind. I must admit, however, that he would burn you like a handful of straw if he were the master. Andah! if I could tell you everything, if I could show you the frightfulunder-side of this world of ours, the monstrous, ravenous ambition, theabominable network of intrigues, venality, cowardice, treachery, and evencrime!"

On seeing Don Vigilio so excited, in such a blaze of spite, Pierrethought of extracting from him some of the many items of informationwhich he had hitherto sought in vain. "Well, tell me merely what is theposition of my affair, " he responded. "When I questioned you on myarrival here you said that nothing had yet reached Cardinal Boccanera. But all information must now have been collected, and you must know ofit. And, by the way, Monsignor Fornaro told me that three French bishopshad asked that my book should be prosecuted. Three bishops, is itpossible?"

Don Vigilio shrugged his shoulders. "Ah!" said he, "yours is an innocentsoul! I'm surprised that there were _only_ three! Yes, several documentsrelating to your affair are in our hands; and, moreover, things haveturned out much as I suspected. The three bishops are first the Bishop ofTarbes, who evidently carries out the vengeance of the Fathers ofLourdes; and then the Bishops of Poitiers and Evreux, who are both knownas uncompromising Ultramontanists and passionate adversaries of CardinalBergerot. The Cardinal, you know, is regarded with disfavour at theVatican, where his Gallican ideas and broad liberal mind provoke perfectanger. And don't seek for anything else. The whole affair lies in that:an execution which the powerful Fathers of Lourdes demand of hisHoliness, and a desire to reach and strike Cardinal Bergerot through yourbook, by means of the letter of approval which he imprudently wrote toyou and which you published by way of preface. For a long time past thecondemnations of the Index have largely been secret knock-down blowslevelled at Churchmen. Denunciation reigns supreme, and the law appliedis that of good pleasure. I could tell you some almost incredible things, how perfectly innocent books have been selected among a hundred for thesole object of killing an idea or a man; for the blow is almost alwayslevelled at some one behind the author, some one higher than he is. Andthere is such a hot-bed of intrigue, such a source of abuses in thisinstitution of the Index, that it is tottering, and even among those whosurround the Pope it is felt that it must soon be freshly regulated if itis not to fall into complete discredit. I well understand that the Churchshould endeavour to retain universal power, and govern by every fitweapon, but the weapons must be such as one can use without theirinjustice leading to revolt, or their antique childishness provokingmerriment!"

Pierre listened with dolorous astonishment in his heart. Since he hadbeen at Rome and had seen the Fathers of the Grotto saluted and fearedthere, holding an authoritative position, thanks to the large alms whichthey contributed to the Peter's Pence, he had felt that they were behindthe proceedings instituted against him, and realised that he would haveto pay for a certain page of his book in which he had called attention toan iniquitous displacement of fortune at Lourdes, a frightful spectaclewhich made one doubt the very existence of the Divinity, a continualcause of battle and conflict which would disappear in the truly Christiansociety of to-morrow. And he could also now understand that his delightat the loss of the temporal power must have caused a scandal, andespecially that the unfortunate expression "a new religion" had alonebeen sufficient to arm _delatores_ against him. But that which amazed andgrieved him was to learn that Cardinal Bergerot's letter was looked uponas a crime, and that his (Pierre's) book was denounced and condemned inorder that adversaries who dared not attack the venerable pastor face toface might, deal him a cowardly blow from behind. The thought ofafflicting that saintly man, of serving as the implement to strike him inhis ardent charity, cruelly grieved Pierre. And how bitter anddisheartening it was to find the most hideous questions of pride andmoney, ambition and appetite, running riot with the most ferociousegotism, beneath the quarrels of those leaders of the Church who oughtonly to have contended together in love for the poor!

And then Pierre's mind revolted against that supremely odious and idioticIndex. He now understood how it worked, from the arrival of thedenunciations to the public posting of the titles of the condemned works. He had just seen the Secretary of the Congregation, Father Dangelis, towhom the denunciations came, and who then investigated the affair, collecting all documents and information concerning it with the passionof a cultivated authoritarian monk, who dreamt of ruling minds andconsciences as in the heroic days of the Inquisition. Then, too, Pierrehad visited one of the consultive prelates, Monsignor Fornaro, who was soambitious and affable, and so subtle a theologian that he would havediscovered attacks against the faith in a treatise on algebra, had hisinterests required it. Next there were the infrequent meetings of thecardinals, who at long intervals voted for the interdiction of somehostile book, deeply regretting that they could not suppress them all;and finally came the Pope, approving and signing the decrees, which was amere formality, for were not all books guilty? But what an extraordinarywretched Bastille of the past was that aged Index, that senileinstitution now sunk into second childhood. One realised that it musthave been a formidable power when books were rare and the Church hadtribunals of blood and fire to enforce her edicts. But books had sogreatly multiplied, the written, printed thoughts of mankind had swolleninto such a deep broad river, that they had swept all opposition away, and now the Index was swamped and reduced to powerlessness, compelledmore and more to limit its field of action, to confine itself to theexamination of the writings of ecclesiastics, and even in this respect itwas becoming corrupt, fouled by the worst passions and changed into aninstrument of intrigue, hatred, and vengeance. Ah! that confession ofdecay, of paralysis which grew more and more complete amidst the scornfulindifference of the nations. To think that Catholicism, the once gloriousagent of civilisation, had come to such a pass that it cast books intohell-fire by the heap; and what books they were, almost the entireliterature, history, philosophy, and science of the past and the present!Few works, indeed, are published nowadays that would not fall under theban of the Church. If she seems to close her eyes, it is in order toavoid the impossible task of hunting out and destroying everything. Yetshe stubbornly insists on retaining a semblance of sovereign authorityover human intelligence, just as some very aged queen, dispossessed ofher states and henceforth without judges or executioners, might continueto deliver vain sentences to which only an infinitesimal minority wouldpay heed. But imagine the Church momentarily victorious, miraculouslymastering the modern world, and ask yourself what she, with her tribunalsto condemn and her gendarmes to enforce, would do with human thought. Imagine a strict application of the Index regulations: no printer able toput anything whatever to press without the approval of his bishop, andeven then every book laid before the Congregation, the past expunged, thepresent throttled, subjected to an intellectual Reign of Terror! Wouldnot the closing of every library perforce ensue, would not the longheritage of written thought be cast into prison, would not the future bebarred, would not all progress, all conquest of knowledge, be totallyarrested? Rome herself is nowadays a terrible example of such adisastrous experiment--Rome with her congealed soil, her dead sap, killedby centuries of papal government, Rome which has become so barren thatnot a man, not a work has sprung from her midst even after five andtwenty years of awakening and liberty! And who would accept such a stateof things, not among people of revolutionary mind, but among those ofreligious mind that might possess any culture and breadth of view?Plainly enough it was all mere childishness and absurdity. 

Deep silence reigned, and Pierre, quite upset by his reflections, made agesture of despair whilst glancing at Don Vigilio, who sat speechless infront of him. For a moment longer, amidst the death-like quiescence ofthat old sleeping mansion, both continued silent, seated face to face inthe closed chamber which the lamp illumined with a peaceful glow. But atlast Don Vigilio leant forward, his eyes sparkling, and with a feverishshiver murmured: "It is they, you know, always they, at the bottom ofeverything. "

Pierre, who did not understand, felt astonished, indeed somewhat anxiousat such a strange remark coming without any apparent transition. "Who are_they_?" he asked. 

"The Jesuits!"

In this reply the little, withered, yellow priest had set all theconcentrated rage of his exploding passion. Ah! so much the worse if hehad perpetrated a fresh act of folly. The cat was out of the bag at last!Nevertheless, he cast a final suspicious glance around the walls. Andthen he relieved his mind at length, with a flow of words which gushedforth the more irresistibly since he had so long held them in check. "Ah!the Jesuits, the Jesuits! You fancy that you know them, but you haven'teven an idea of their abominable actions and incalculable power. They itis whom one always comes upon, everywhere, in every circumstance. Remember _that_ whenever you fail to understand anything, if you wish tounderstand it. Whenever grief or trouble comes upon you, whenever yousuffer, whenever you weep, say to yourself at once: 'It is they; they arethere!' Why, for all I know, there may be one of them under that bed, inside that cupboard. Ah! the Jesuits, the Jesuits! They have devouredme, they are devouring me still, they will leave nothing of me at last, neither flesh nor bone. "

Then, in a halting voice, he related the story of his life, beginningwith his youth, which had opened so hopefully. He belonged to the pettyprovincial nobility, and had been dowered with a fairly large income, besides a keen, supple intelligence, which looked smilingly towards thefuture. Nowadays, he would assuredly have been a prelate, on the road tohigh dignities, but he had been foolish enough to speak ill of theJesuits and to thwart them in two or three circumstances. And from thatmoment, if he were to be believed, they had caused every imaginablemisfortune to rain upon him: his father and mother had died, his bankerhad robbed him and fled, good positions had escaped him at the verymoment when he was about to occupy them, the most awful misadventures hadpursued him amidst the duties of his ministry to such a point indeed, that he had narrowly escaped interdiction. It was only since CardinalBoccanera, compassionating his bad luck, had taken him into his house andattached him to his person, that he had enjoyed a little repose. "Here Ihave a refuge, an asylum, " he continued. "They execrate his Eminence, whohas never been on their side, but they haven't yet dared to attack him orhis servants. Oh! I have no illusions, they will end by catching meagain, all the same. Perhaps they will even hear of our conversation thisevening, and make me pay dearly for it; for I do wrong to speak, I speakin spite of myself. They have stolen all my happiness, and brought allpossible misfortune on me, everything that was possible, everything--youhear me!"

Increasing discomfort was taking possession of Pierre, who, seeking torelieve himself by a jest, exclaimed: "Come, come, at any rate it wasn'tthe Jesuits who gave you the fever. "

"Yes, yes, it was!" Don Vigilio violently declared. "I caught it on thebank of the Tiber one evening, when I went to weep there in my grief athaving been driven from the little church where I officiated. "

Pierre, hitherto, had never believed in the terrible legend of theJesuits. He belonged to a generation which laughed at the idea ofwehr-wolves, and considered the _bourgeois_ fear of the famous black men, who hid themselves in walls and terrorised families, to be a trifleridiculous. To him all such things seemed to be nursery tales, exaggerated by religious and political passion. And so it was withamazement that he examined Don Vigilio, suddenly fearing that he mighthave to deal with a maniac. 

Nevertheless he could not help recalling the extraordinary story of theJesuits. If St. Francis of Assisi and St. Dominic are the very soul andspirit of the middle ages, its masters and teachers, the former a livingexpression of all the ardent, charitable faith of the humble, and theother defending dogma and fixing doctrines for the intelligent and thepowerful, on the other hand Ignatius de Loyola appeared on the thresholdof modern times to save the tottering heritage by accommodating religionto the new developments of society, thereby ensuring it the empire of theworld which was about to appear. 

At the advent of the modern era it seemed as if the Deity were to bevanquished in the uncompromising struggle with sin, for it was certainthat the old determination to suppress Nature, to kill the man withinman, with his appetites, passions, heart, and blood, could only result ina disastrous defeat, in which, indeed, the Church found herself on thevery eve of sinking; and it was the Jesuits who came to extricate herfrom this peril and reinvigorate her by deciding that it was she who nowought to go to the world, since the world seemed unwilling to go anylonger to her. All lay in that; you find the Jesuits declaring that onecan enter into arrangements with heaven; they bend and adjust themselvesto the customs, prejudices, and even vices of the times; they smile, allcondescension, cast rigourism aside, and practice the diplomacy ofamiability, ever ready to turn the most awful abominations "to thegreater glory of God. " That is their motto, their battle-cry, and thencesprings the moral principle which many regard as their crime: that allmeans are good to attain one's end, especially when that end is thefurtherance of the Deity's interests as represented by those of theChurch. And what overwhelming success attends the efforts of the Jesuits!they swarm and before long cover the earth, on all sides becominguncontested masters. They shrive kings, they acquire immense wealth, theydisplay such victorious power of invasion that, however humbly they mayset foot in any country, they soon wholly possess it: souls, bodies, power, and fortune alike falling to them. And they are particularlyzealous in founding schools, they show themselves to be incomparablemoulders of the human brain, well understanding that power always belongsto the morrow, to the generations which are growing up and whose masterone must be if one desire to reign eternally. So great is their power, based on the necessity of compromise with sin, that, on the morrow of theCouncil of Trent, they transform the very spirit of Catholicism, penetrate it, identify it with themselves and become the indispensablesoldiers of the papacy which lives by them and for them. And from thatmoment Rome is theirs, Rome where their general so long commands, whenceso long go forth the directions for the obscure tactics which are blindlyfollowed by their innumerable army, whose skilful organisation covers theglobe as with an iron network hidden by the velvet of hands expert indealing gently with poor suffering humanity. But, after all, the mostprodigious feature is the stupefying vitality of the Jesuits who areincessantly tracked, condemned, executed, and yet still and ever erect. As soon as their power asserts itself, their unpopularity begins andgradually becomes universal. Hoots of execration arise around them, abominable accusations, scandalous law cases in which they appear ascorruptors and felons. Pascal devotes them to public contempt, parliaments condemn their books to be burnt, universities denounce theirsystem of morals and their teaching as poisonous. They foment suchdisturbances, such struggles in every kingdom, that organised persecutionsets in, and they are soon driven from everywhere. During more than acentury they become wanderers, expelled, then recalled, passing andrepassing frontiers, leaving a country amidst cries of hatred to returnto it as soon as quiet has been restored. Finally, for supreme disaster, they are suppressed by one pope, but another re-establishes them, andsince then they have been virtually tolerated everywhere. And in thediplomatic self-effacement, the shade in which they have the prudence tosequester themselves, they are none the less triumphant, quietlyconfident of their victory like soldiers who have once and for eversubdued the earth. 

Pierre was aware that, judging by mere appearances, the Jesuits werenowadays dispossessed of all influence in Rome. They no longer officiatedat the Gesu, they no longer directed the Collegio Romano, where theyformerly fashioned so many souls; and with no abode of their own, reducedto accept foreign hospitality, they had modestly sought a refuge at theCollegio Germanico, where there is a little chapel. There they taught andthere they still confessed, but without the slightest bustle or display. Was one to believe, however, that this effacement was but masterlycunning, a feigned disappearance in order that they might really remainsecret, all-powerful masters, the hidden hand which directs and guideseverything? People certainly said that the proclamation of papalInfallibility had been their work, a weapon with which they had armedthemselves whilst feigning to bestow it on the papacy, in readiness forthe coming decisive task which their genius foresaw in the approachingsocial upheavals. And thus there might perhaps be some truth in what DonVigilio, with a shiver of mystery, related about their occultsovereignty, a seizin, as it were, of the government of the Church, aroyalty ignored but nevertheless complete. 

As this idea occurred to Pierre, a dim connection between certain of hisexperiences arose in his mind and he all at once inquired: "Is MonsignorNani a Jesuit, then?"

These words seemed to revive all Don Vigilio's anxious passion. He wavedhis trembling hand, and replied: "He? Oh, he's too clever, too skilful byfar to have taken the robe. But he comes from that Collegio Romano wherehis generation grew up, and he there imbibed that Jesuit genius whichadapted itself so well to his own. Whilst fully realising the danger ofwearing an unpopular and embarrassing livery, and wishing to be free, heis none the less a Jesuit in his flesh, in his bones, in his very soul. He is evidently convinced that the Church can only triumph by utilisingthe passions of mankind, and withal he is very fond of the Church, verypious at bottom, a very good priest, serving God without weakness ingratitude for the absolute power which God gives to His ministers. Andbesides, he is so charming, incapable of any brutal action, full of thegood breeding of his noble Venetian ancestors, and deeply versed inknowledge of the world, thanks to his experiences at the nunciatures ofParis, Vienna, and other places, without mentioning that he knowseverything that goes on by reason of the delicate functions which he hasdischarged for ten years past as Assessor of the Holy Office. Yes, he ispowerful, all-powerful, and in him you do not have the furtive Jesuitwhose robe glides past amidst suspicion, but the head, the brain, theleader whom no uniform designates. "

This reply made Pierre grave, for he was quite willing to admit that anopportunist code of morals, like that of the Jesuits, was inoculable andnow predominated throughout the Church. Indeed, the Jesuits mightdisappear, but their doctrine would survive them, since it was the oneweapon of combat, the one system of strategy which might again place thenations under the dominion of Rome. And in reality the struggle whichcontinued lay precisely in the attempts to accommodate religion to thecentury, and the century to religion. Such being the case, Pierrerealised that such men as Monsignor Nani might acquire vast and evendecisive importance. 

"Ah! if you knew, if you knew, " continued Don Vigilio, "he's everywhere, he has his hand in everything. For instance, nothing has ever happenedhere, among the Boccaneras, but I've found him at the bottom of it, tangling or untangling the threads according to necessities with which healone is acquainted. "

Then, in the unquenchable fever for confiding things which was nowconsuming him, the secretary related how Monsignor Nani had mostcertainly brought on Benedetta's divorce case. The Jesuits, in spite oftheir conciliatory spirit, have always taken up a hostile position withregard to Italy, either because they do not despair of reconquering Rome, or because they wait to treat in due season with the ultimate and realvictor, whether King or Pope. And so Nani, who had long been one of DonnaSerafina's intimates, had helped to precipitate the rupture with Prada assoon as Benedetta's mother was dead. Again, it was he who, to prevent anyinterference on the part of the patriotic Abbe Pisoni, the young woman'sconfessor and the artisan of her marriage, had urged her to take the samespiritual director as her aunt, Father Lorenza, a handsome Jesuit withclear and kindly eyes, whose confessional in the chapel of the CollegioGermanico was incessantly besieged by penitents. And it seemed certainthat this manoeuvre had brought about everything; what one cleric workingfor Italy had done, was to be undone by another working against Italy. Why was it, however, that Nani, after bringing about the rupture, hadmomentarily ceased to show all interest in the affair to the point evenof jeopardising the suit for the dissolution of the marriage? And why washe now again busying himself with it, setting Donna Serafina in action, prompting her to buy Monsignor Palma's support, and bringing his owninfluence to bear on the cardinals of the Congregation? There was mysteryin all this, as there was in everything he did, for his schemes werealways complicated and distant in their effects. However, one mightsuppose that he now wished to hasten the marriage of Benedetta and Dario, in order to stop all the abominable rumours which were circulating in thewhite world; unless, indeed, this divorce secured by pecuniary paymentsand the pressure of notorious influences were an intentional scandal atfirst spun out and now hastened, in order to harm Cardinal Boccanera, whom the Jesuits might desire to brush aside in certain eventualitieswhich were possibly near at hand. 

"To tell the truth, I rather incline to the latter view, " said DonVigilio, "the more so indeed as I learnt this evening that the Pope isnot well. With an old man of eighty-four the end may come at any moment, and so the Pope can never catch cold but what the Sacred College and theprelacies are all agog, stirred by sudden ambitious rivalries. Now, theJesuits have always opposed Cardinal Boccanera's candidature. They oughtto be on his side, on account of his rank, and his uncompromisingattitude towards Italy, but the idea of giving themselves such a masterdisquiets them, for they consider him unseasonably rough and stern, tooviolent in his faith, which unbending as it is would prove dangerous inthese diplomatic times through which the Church is passing. And so Ishould in no wise be astonished if there were an attempt to discredit himand render his candidature impossible, by employing the most underhandand shameful means. "

A little quiver of fear was coming over Pierre. The contagion of theunknown, of the black intrigues plotted in the dark, was spreading amidstthe silence of the night in the depths of that palace, near that Tiber, in that Rome so full of legendary tragedies. But all at once the youngman's mind reverted to himself, to his own affair. "But what is my partin all this?" he asked: "why does Monsignor Nani seem to take an interestin me? Why is he mixed up in the proceedings against my book?"

"Oh! one never knows, one never knows exactly!" replied Don Vigilio, waving his arms. "One thing I can say, that he only knew of the affairwhen the denunciations of the three bishops were already in the hands ofFather Dangelis; and I have also learnt that he then tried to stop theproceedings, which he no doubt thought both useless and impolitic. Butwhen a matter is once before the Congregation it is almost impossible forit to be withdrawn, and Monsignor Nani must also have come into collisionwith Father Dangelis who, like a faithful Dominican, is the passionateadversary of the Jesuits. It was then that he caused the Contessina towrite to Monsieur de la Choue, requesting him to tell you to hasten herein order to defend yourself, and to arrange for your acceptance ofhospitality in this mansion, during your stay. "

This revelation brought Pierre's emotion to a climax. "You are sure ofthat?" he asked. 

"Oh! quite sure. I heard Nani speak of you one Monday, and some time agoI told you that he seemed to know all about you, as if he had made mostminute inquiries. My belief is that he had already read your book, andwas extremely preoccupied about it. "

"Do you think that he shares my ideas, then? Is he sincere, is hedefending himself while striving to defend me?"

"Oh! no, no, not at all. Your ideas, why he certainly hates them, andyour book and yourself as well. You have no idea what contempt for theweak, what hatred of the poor, and love of authority and domination heconceals under his caressing amiability. Lourdes he might abandon to you, though it embodies a marvellous weapon of government; but he will neverforgive you for being on the side of the little ones of the world, andfor pronouncing against the temporal power. If you only heard with whatgentle ferocity he derides Monsieur de la Choue, whom he calls theweeping willow of Neo-Catholicism!"

Pierre carried his hands to his temples and pressed his headdespairingly. "Then why, why, tell me I beg of you, why has he brought mehere and kept me here in this house at his disposal? Why has hepromenaded me up and down Rome for three long months, throwing me againstobstacles and wearying me, when it was so easy for him to let the Indexcondemn my book if it embarrassed him? It's true, of course, that thingswould not have gone quietly, for I was disposed to refuse submission andopenly confess my new faith, even against the decisions of Rome. "

Don Vigilio's black eyes flared in his yellow face: "Perhaps it was thatwhich he wished to prevent. He knows you to be very intelligent andenthusiastic, and I have often heard him say that intelligence andenthusiasm should not be fought openly. "

Pierre, however, had risen to his feet, and instead of listening, wasstriding up and down the room as though carried away by the whirlwind ofhis thoughts. "Come, come, " he said at last, "it is necessary that Ishould know and understand things if I am to continue the struggle. Youmust be kind enough to give me some detailed particulars about each ofthe persons mixed up in my affair. Jesuits, Jesuits everywhere? _MonDieu_, it may be so, you are perhaps right! But all the same you mustpoint out the different shades to me. Now, for instance, what of thatFornaro?"

"Monsignor Fornaro, oh! he's whatever you like. Still he also was broughtup at the Collegio Romano, so you may be certain that he is a Jesuit, aJesuit by education, position, and ambition. He is longing to become acardinal, and if he some day becomes one, he'll long to be the next pope. Besides, you know, every one here is a candidate to the papacy as soon ashe enters the seminary. "

"And Cardinal Sanguinetti?"

"A Jesuit, a Jesuit! To speak plainly, he was one, then ceased to be one, and is now undoubtedly one again. Sanguinetti has flirted with everyinfluence. It was long thought that he was in favour of conciliationbetween the Holy See and Italy; but things drifted into a bad way, and heviolently took part against the usurpers. In the same style he hasfrequently fallen out with Leo XIII and then made his peace. To-day atthe Vatican, he keeps on a footing of diplomatic reserve. Briefly he onlyhas one object, the tiara, and even shows it too plainly, which is amistake, for it uses up a candidate. Still, just at present the struggleseems to be between him and Cardinal Boccanera. And that's why he hasgone over to the Jesuits again, utilising their hatred of his rival, andanticipating that they will be forced to support _him_ in order to defeatthe other. But I doubt it, they are too shrewd, they will hesitate topatronise a candidate who is already so compromised. He, blunder-head, passionate and proud as he is, doubts nothing, and since you say that heis now at Frascati, I'm certain that he made all haste to shut himself upthere with some grand strategical object in view, as soon as he heard ofthe Pope's illness. "

"Well, and the Pope himself, Leo XIII?" asked Pierre. 

This time Don Vigilio slightly hesitated, his eyes blinking. Then hesaid: "Leo XIII? He is a Jesuit, a Jesuit! Oh! I know it is said that hesides with the Dominicans, and this is in a measure true, for he fanciesthat he is animated with their spirit and he has brought St. Thomas intofavour again, and has restored all the ecclesiastical teaching ofdoctrine. But there is also the Jesuit, remember, who is oneinvoluntarily and without knowing it, and of this category the presentPope will prove the most famous example. Study his acts, investigate hispolicy, and you will find that everything in it emanates from the Jesuitspirit. The fact is that he has unwittingly become impregnated with thatspirit, and that all the influence, directly or indirectly brought tobear on him comes from a Jesuit centre. Ah! why don't you believe me? Irepeat that the Jesuits have conquered and absorbed everything, that allRome belongs to them from the most insignificant cleric to his Holinessin person. "

Then he continued, replying to each fresh name that Pierre gave with thesame obstinate, maniacal cry: "Jesuit, Jesuit!" It seemed as if aChurchman could be nothing else, as if each answer were a confirmation ofthe proposition that the clergy must compound with the modern world if itdesired to preserve its Deity. The heroic age of Catholicism wasaccomplished, henceforth it could only live by dint of diplomacy andruses, concessions and arrangements. "And that Paparelli, he's a Jesuittoo, a Jesuit!" Don Vigilio went on, instinctively lowering his voice. "Yes, the humble but terrible Jesuit, the Jesuit in his most abominable_role_ as a spy and a perverter! I could swear that he has merely beenplaced here in order to keep watch on his Eminence! And you should seewith what supple talent and craft he has performed his task, to such apoint indeed that it is now he alone who wills and orders things. Heopens the door to whomsoever he pleases, uses his master like somethingbelonging to him, weighs on each of his resolutions, and holds him in hispower by dint of his stealthy unremitting efforts. Yes! it's the lionconquered by the insect; the infinitesimally small disposing of theinfinitely great; the train-bearer--whose proper part is to sit at hiscardinal's feet like a faithful hound--in reality reigning over him, andimpelling him in whatsoever direction he chooses. Ah! the Jesuit! theJesuit! Mistrust him when you see him gliding by in his shabby oldcassock, with the flabby wrinkled face of a devout old maid. And makesure that he isn't behind the doors, or in the cupboards, or under thebeds. Ah! I tell you that they'll devour you as they've devoured me; andthey'll give you the fever too, perhaps even the plague if you are notcareful!"

Pierre suddenly halted in front of his companion. He was losing allassurance, both fear and rage were penetrating him. And, after all, whynot? These extraordinary stories must be true. "But in that case give mesome advice, " he exclaimed, "I asked you to come in here this eveningprecisely because I no longer know what to do, and need to be set in theright path--" Then he broke off and again paced to and fro, as if urgedinto motion by his exploding passion. "Or rather no, tell me nothing!" heabruptly resumed. "It's all over; I prefer to go away. The thoughtoccurred to me before, but it was in a moment of cowardice and with theidea of disappearing and of returning to live in peace in my little nook:whereas now, if I go off, it will be as an avenger, a judge, to cry aloudto all the world from Paris, to proclaim what I have seen in Rome, whatmen have done there with the Christianity of Jesus, the Vatican fallinginto dust, the corpse-like odour which comes from it, the idioticillusions of those who hope that they will one day see a renascence ofthe modern soul arise from a sepulchre where the remnants of deadcenturies rot and slumber. Oh! I will not yield, I will not make mysubmission, I will defend my book by a fresh one. And that book, Ipromise you, will make some noise in the world, for it will sound thelast agony of a dying religion, which one must make all haste to burylest its remains should poison the nations!"

All this was beyond Don Vigilio's mind. The Italian priest, with narrowbelief and ignorant terror of the new ideas, awoke within him. He claspedhis hands, affrighted. "Be quiet, be quiet! You are blaspheming! And, besides, you cannot go off like that without again trying to see hisHoliness. He alone is sovereign. And I know that I shall surprise you;but Father Dangelis has given you in jest the only good advice that canbe given: Go back to see Monsignor Nani, for he alone will open the doorof the Vatican for you. "

Again did Pierre give a start of anger: "What! It was with Monsignor Nanithat I began, from him that I set out; and I am to go back to him? Whatgame is that? Can I consent to be a shuttlecock sent flying hither andthither by every battledore? People are having a game with me!"

Then, harassed and distracted, the young man fell on his chair in frontof Don Vigilio, who with his face drawn by his prolonged vigil, and hishands still and ever faintly trembling, remained for some time silent. Atlast he explained that he had another idea. He was slightly acquaintedwith the Pope's confessor, a Franciscan father, a man of greatsimplicity, to whom he might recommend Pierre. This Franciscan, despitehis self-effacement, would perhaps prove of service to him. At all eventshe might be tried. Then, once more, silence fell, and Pierre, whosedreamy eyes were turned towards the wall, ended by distinguishing the oldpicture which had touched him so deeply on the day of his arrival. In thepale glow of the lamp it gradually showed forth and lived, like anincarnation of his own case, his own futile despair before the sternlyclosed portal of truth and justice. Ah! that outcast woman, that stubbornvictim of love, weeping amidst her streaming hair, her visage hiddenwhilst with pain and grief she sank upon the steps of that palace whosedoor was so pitilessly shut--how she resembled him! Draped with a merestrip of linen, she was shivering, and amidst the overpowering distressof her abandonment she did not reveal her secret, misfortune, ortransgression, whichever it might be. But he, behind her close-pressedhands, endowed her with a face akin to his own: she became his sister, aswere all the poor creatures without roof or certainty who weep becausethey are naked and alone, and wear out their strength in seeking to forcethe wicked thresholds of men. He could never gaze at her without pityingher, and it stirred him so much that evening to find her ever so unknown, nameless and visageless, yet steeped in the most bitter tears, that hesuddenly began to question his companion. 

"Tell me, " said he, "do you know who painted that old picture? It stirsme to the soul like a masterpiece. "

Stupefied by this unexpected question, the secretary raised his head andlooked, feeling yet more astonished when he had examined the blackened, forsaken panel in its sorry frame. 

"Where did it come from?" resumed Pierre; "why has it been stowed away inthis room?"

"Oh!" replied Don Vigilio, with a gesture of indifference, "it's nothing. There are heaps of valueless old paintings everywhere. That one, nodoubt, has always been here. But I don't know; I never noticed itbefore. "

Whilst speaking he had at last risen to his feet, and this simple actionhad brought on such a fit of shivering that he could scarcely take leave, so violently did his teeth chatter with fever. "No, no, don't show meout, " he stammered, "keep the lamp here. And to conclude: the best courseis for you to leave yourself in the hands of Monsignor Nani, for he, atall events, is a superior man. I told you on your arrival that, whetheryou would or not, you would end by doing as he desired. And so what's theuse of struggling? And mind, not a word of our conversation to-night; itwould mean my death. "

Then he noiselessly opened the doors, glanced distrustfully into thedarkness of the passage, and at last ventured out and disappeared, regaining his own room with such soft steps that not the faintestfootfall was heard amidst the tomb-like slumber of the old mansion. 

On the morrow, Pierre, again mastered by a desire to fight on to the veryend, got Don Vigilio to recommend him to the Pope's confessor, theFranciscan friar with whom the secretary was slightly acquainted. However, this friar proved to be an extremely timid if worthy man, selected precisely on account of his great modesty, simplicity, andabsolute lack of influence in order that he might not abuse his positionwith respect to the Holy Father. And doubtless there was an affectationof humility on the latter's part in taking for confessor a member of thehumblest of the regular orders, a friend of the poor, a holy beggar ofthe roads. At the same time the friar certainly enjoyed a reputation fororatory; and hidden by a veil the Pope at times listened to his sermons;for although as infallible Sovereign Pontiff Leo XIII could not receivelessons from any priest, it was admitted that as a man he might reapprofit by listening to good discourse. Nevertheless apart from hisnatural eloquence, the worthy friar was really a mere washer of souls, aconfessor who listens and absolves without even remembering theimpurities which he removes in the waters of penitence. And Pierre, finding him really so poor and such a cipher, did not insist on anintervention which he realised would be futile. 

All that day the young priest was haunted by the figure of that ingenuouslover of poverty, that delicious St. Francis, as Narcisse Habert was wontto say. Pierre had often wondered how such an apostle, so gentle towardsboth animate and inanimate creation, and so full of ardent charity forthe wretched, could have arisen in a country of egotism and enjoymentlike Italy, where the love of beauty alone has remained queen. Doubtlessthe times have changed; yet what a strong sap of love must have beenneeded in the old days, during the great sufferings of the middle ages, for such a consoler of the humble to spring from the popular soil andpreach the gift of self to others, the renunciation of wealth, the horrorof brutal force, the equality and obedience which would ensure the peaceof the world. St. Francis trod the roads clad as one of the poorest, arope girdling his grey gown and his bare feet shod with sandals, and hecarried with him neither purse nor staff. And he and his brethren spokealoud and freely, with sovereign florescence of poetry and boldness oftruth, attacking the rich and the powerful, and daring even to denouncethe priests of evil life, the debauched, simoniacal, and perjuredbishops. A long cry of relief greeted the Franciscans, the peoplefollowed them in crowds--they were the friends, the liberators of all thehumble ones who suffered. And thus, like revolutionaries, they at firstso alarmed Rome, that the popes hesitated to authorise their Order. Whenthey at last gave way it was assuredly with the hope of using this newforce for their own profit, by conquering the whole vague mass of thelowly whose covert threats have ever growled through the ages, even inthe most despotic times. And thenceforward in the sons of St. Francis theChurch possessed an ever victorious army--a wandering army which spreadover the roads, in the villages and through the towns, penetrating to thefiresides of artisan and peasant, and gaining possession of all simplehearts. How great the democratic power of such an Order which had sprungfrom the very entrails of the people! And thence its rapid prosperity, its teeming growth in a few years, friaries arising upon all sides, andthe third Order* so invading the secular population as to impregnate andabsorb it. And that there was here a genuine growth of the soil, avigorous vegetation of the plebeian stock was shown by an entire nationalart arising from it--the precursors of the Renascence in painting andeven Dante himself, the soul of Italia's genius. 

 * The Franciscans, like the Dominicans and others, admit, in addition to the two Orders of friars and nuns, a third Order comprising devout persons of either sex who have neither the vocation nor the opportunity for cloistered life, but live in the world, privately observing the chief principles of the fraternity with which they are connected. In central and southern Europe members of these third Orders are still numerous. --Trans. 

For some days now, in the Rome of the present time, Pierre had beencoming into contact with those great Orders of the past. The Franciscansand the Dominicans were there face to face in their vast convents ofprosperous aspect. But it seemed as if the humility of the Franciscanshad in the long run deprived them of influence. Perhaps, too, their_role_ as friends and liberators of the people was ended since the peoplenow undertook to liberate itself. And so the only real remaining battlewas between the Dominicans and the Jesuits, both of whom still claimed tomould the world according to their particular views. Warfare between themwas incessant, and Rome--the supreme power at the Vatican--was ever theprize for which they contended. But, although the Dominicans had St. Thomas on their side, they must have felt that their old dogmatic sciencewas crumbling, compelled as they were each day to surrender a littleground to the Jesuits whose principles accorded better with the spirit ofthe century. And, in addition to these, there were the white-robedCarthusians, those very holy, pure, and silent meditators who fled fromthe world into quiet cells and cloisters, those despairing and consoledones whose numbers may decrease but whose Order will live for ever, evenas grief and desire for solitude will live. And then there were theBenedictines whose admirable rules have sanctified labour, passionatetoilers in literature and science, once powerful instruments ofcivilisation, enlarging universal knowledge by their immense historicaland critical works. These Pierre loved, and with them would have sought arefuge two centuries earlier, yet he was astonished to find them buildingon the Aventine a huge dwelling, for which Leo XIII has already givenmillions, as if the science of to-day and to-morrow were yet a fieldwhere they might garner harvests. But _cui bono_, when the workmen havechanged, and dogmas are there to bar the road--dogmas which totter, nodoubt, but which believers may not fling aside in order to pass onward?And finally came the swarm of less important Orders, hundreds in number;there were the Carmelites, the Trappists, the Minims, the Barnabites, theLazzarists, the Eudists, the Mission Fathers, the Servites, the Brothersof the Christian Doctrine; there were the Bernadines, the Augustinians, the Theatines, the Observants, the Passionists, the Celestines, and theCapuchins, without counting the corresponding Orders of women or the PoorClares, or the innumerable nuns like those of the Visitation and theCalvary. Each community had its modest or sumptuous dwelling, certaindistricts of Rome were entirely composed of convents, and behind thesilent lifeless facades all those people buzzed, intrigued, and waged theeverlasting warfare of rival interests and passions. The social evolutionwhich produced them had long since ceased, still they obstinately soughtto prolong their life, growing weaker and more useless day by day, destined to a slow agony until the time shall come when the newdevelopment of society will leave them neither foothold nor breathingspace. 

And it was not only with the regulars that Pierre came in contact duringhis peregrinations through Rome; indeed, he more particularly had to dealwith the secular clergy, and learnt to know them well. A hierarchicalsystem which was still vigorously enforced maintained them in variousranks and classes. Up above, around the Pope, reigned the pontificalfamily, the high and noble cardinals and prelates whose conceit was greatin spite of their apparent familiarity. Below them the parish clergyformed a very worthy middle class of wise and moderate minds; and herepatriot priests were not rare. Moreover, the Italian occupation of aquarter of a century, by installing in the city a world of functionarieswho saw everything that went on, had, curiously enough, greatly purifiedthe private life of the Roman priesthood, in which under the popes women, beyond all question, played a supreme part. And finally one came to theplebeian clergy whom Pierre studied with curiosity, a collection ofwretched, grimy, half-naked priests who like famished animals prowledaround in search of masses, and drifted into disreputable taverns in thecompany of beggars and thieves. However, he was more interested by thefloating population of foreign priests from all parts of Christendom--theadventurers, the ambitious ones, the believers, the madmen whom Romeattracted just as a lamp at night time attracts the insects of the gloom. Among these were men of every nationality, position, and age, all lashedon by their appetites and scrambling from morn till eve around theVatican, in order to snap at the prey which they hoped to secure. Hefound them everywhere, and told himself with some shame that he was oneof them, that the unit of his own personality served to increase theincredible number of cassocks that one encountered in the streets. Ah!that ebb and flow, that ceaseless tide of black gowns and frocks of everyhue! With their processions of students ever walking abroad, theseminaries of the different nations would alone have sufficed to drapeand decorate the streets, for there were the French and the English allin black, the South Americans in black with blue sashes, the NorthAmericans in black with red sashes, the Poles in black with green sashes, the Greeks in blue, the Germans in red, the Scots in violet, the Romansin black or violet or purple, the Bohemians with chocolate sashes, theIrish with red lappets, the Spaniards with blue cords, to say nothing ofall the others with broidery and bindings and buttons in a hundreddifferent styles. And in addition there were the confraternities, thepenitents, white, black, blue, and grey, with sleeveless frocks and capesof different hue, grey, blue, black, or white. And thus even nowadaysPapal Rome at times seemed to resuscitate, and one could realise howtenaciously and vivaciously she struggled on in order that she might notdisappear in the cosmopolitan Rome of the new era. However, Pierre, whilst running about from one prelate to another, frequenting priests andcrossing churches, could not accustom himself to the worship, the Romanpiety which astonished him when it did not wound him. One rainy Sundaymorning, on entering Santa Maria Maggiore, he fancied himself in somewaiting-room, a very splendid one, no doubt, but where God seemed to haveno habitation. There was not a bench, not a chair in the nave, acrosswhich people passed, as they might pass through a railway station, wetting and soiling the precious mosaic pavement with their muddy shoes;and tired women and children sat round the bases of the columns, even asin railway stations one sees people sitting and waiting for their trainsduring the great crushes of the holiday season. And for this trampingthrong of folks of small degree, who had looked in _en passant_, a priestwas saying a low mass in a side chapel, before which a narrow file ofstanding people had gathered, extending across the nave, and recallingthe crowds which wait in front of theatres for the opening of the doors. At the elevation of the host one and all inclined themselves devoutly, but almost immediately afterwards the gathering dispersed. And indeed whylinger? The mass was said. Pierre everywhere found the same form ofattendance, peculiar to the countries of the sun; the worshippers were ina hurry and only favoured the Deity with short familiar visits, unless itwere a question of some gala scene at San Paolo or San Giovanni inLaterano or some other of the old basilicas. It was only at the Gesu, onanother Sunday morning, that the young priest came upon a high-masscongregation, which reminded him of the devout throngs of the North. Herethere were benches and women seated, a worldly warmth and cosiness underthe luxurious, gilded, carved, and painted roof, whose tawny splendour isvery fine now that time has toned down the eccentricities of thedecoration. But how many of the churches were empty, among them some ofthe most ancient and venerable, San Clemente, Sant' Agnese, Santa Crocein Gerusalemme, where during the offices one saw but a few believers ofthe neighbourhood. Four hundred churches were a good many for even Rometo people; and, indeed, some were merely attended on fixed ceremonialoccasions, and a good many merely opened their doors once every year--onthe feast day, that is, of their patron saint. Some also subsisted on thelucky possession of a fetish, an idol compassionate to human sufferings. Santa Maria in Ara Coeli possessed the miraculous little Jesus, the"Bambino, " who healed sick children, and Sant' Agostino had the "Madonnadel Parto, " who grants a happy delivery to mothers. Then others wererenowned for the holy water of their fonts, the oil of their lamps, thepower of some wooden saint or marble virgin. Others again seemedforsaken, given up to tourists and the perquisites of beadles, like meremuseums peopled with dead gods: Finally others disturbed one's faith bythe suggestiveness of their aspects, as, for instance, that Santa MariaRotonda, which is located in the Pantheon, a circular hall recalling acircus, where the Virgin remains the evident tenant of the Olympiandeities. 

Pierre took no little interest in the churches of the poor districts, butdid not find there the keen faith and the throngs he had hoped for. Oneafternoon, at Santa Maria in Trastevere, he heard the choir in full song, but the church was quite empty, and the chant had a most lugubrious soundin such a desert. Then, another day, on entering San Crisogono, he foundit draped, probably in readiness for some festival on the morrow. Thecolumns were cased with red damask, and between them were hangings andcurtains alternately yellow and blue, white and red; and the young manfled from such a fearful decoration as gaudy as that of a fair booth. Ah!how far he was from the cathedrals where in childhood he had believed andprayed! On all sides he found the same type of church, the antiquebasilica accommodated to the taste of eighteenth-century Rome. Though thestyle of San Luigi dei Francesi is better, more soberly elegant, the onlything that touched him even there was the thought of the heroic orsaintly Frenchmen, who sleep in foreign soil beneath the flags. And as hesought for something Gothic, he ended by going to see Santa Maria sopraMinerva, * which, he was told, was the only example of the Gothic style inRome. Here his stupefaction attained a climax at sight of the clusteringcolumns cased in stucco imitating marble, the ogives which dared notsoar, the rounded vaults condemned to the heavy majesty of the domestyle. No, no, thought he, the faith whose cooling cinders lingered therewas no longer that whose brazier had invaded and set all Christendomaglow! However, Monsignor Fornaro whom he chanced to meet as he wasleaving the church, inveighed against the Gothic style as rank heresy. The first Christian church, said the prelate, had been the basilica, which had sprung from the temple, and it was blasphemy to assert that theGothic cathedral was the real Christian house of prayer, for Gothicembodied the hateful Anglo-Saxon spirit, the rebellious genius of Luther. At this a passionate reply rose to Pierre's lips, but he said nothing forfear that he might say too much. However, he asked himself whether in allthis there was not a decisive proof that Catholicism was the veryvegetation of Rome, Paganism modified by Christianity. ElsewhereChristianity has grown up in quite a different spirit, to such a pointthat it has risen in rebellion and schismatically turned against themother-city. And the breach has ever gone on widening, the dissemblancehas become more and more marked; and amidst the evolution of newsocieties, yet a fresh schism appears inevitable and proximate in spiteof all the despairing efforts to maintain union. 

 * So called because it occupies the site of a temple to Minerva. --Trans. 

While Pierre thus visited the Roman churches, he also continued hisefforts to gain support in the matter of his book, his irritation tendingto such stubbornness, that if in the first instance he failed to obtainan interview, he went back again and again to secure one, steadfastlykeeping his promise to call in turn upon each cardinal of theCongregation of the Index. And as a cardinal may belong to severalCongregations, it resulted that he gradually found himself roamingthrough those former ministries of the old pontifical government which, if less numerous than formerly, are still very intricate institutions, each with its cardinal-prefect, its cardinal-members, its consultativeprelates, and its numerous employees. Pierre repeatedly had to return tothe Cancelleria, where the Congregation of the Index meets, and losthimself in its world of staircases, corridors, and halls. From the momenthe passed under the porticus he was overcome by the icy shiver which fellfrom the old walls, and was quite unable to appreciate the bare, frigidbeauty of the palace, Bramante's masterpiece though it be, so purelytypical of the Roman Renascence. He also knew the Propaganda where he hadseen Cardinal Sarno; and, sent as he was hither and thither, in hisefforts to gain over influential prelates, chance made him acquaintedwith the other Congregations, that of the Bishops and Regulars, that ofthe Rites and that of the Council. He even obtained a glimpse of theConsistorial, the Dataria, * and the sacred Penitentiary. All these formedpart of the administrative mechanism of the Church under its severalaspects--the government of the Catholic world, the enlargement of theChurch's conquests, the administration of its affairs in conqueredcountries, the decision of all questions touching faith, morals, andindividuals, the investigation and punishment of offences, the grant ofdispensations and the sale of favours. One can scarcely imagine what afearful number of affairs are each morning submitted to the Vatican, questions of the greatest gravity, delicacy, and intricacy, the solutionof which gives rise to endless study and research. It is necessary toreply to the innumerable visitors who flock to Rome from all parts, andto the letters, the petitions, and the batches of documents which aresubmitted and require to be distributed among the various offices. AndPierre was struck by the deep and discreet silence in which all thiscolossal labour was accomplished; not a sound reaching the streets fromthe tribunals, parliaments, and factories for the manufacture of saintsand nobles, whose mechanism was so well greased, that in spite of therust of centuries and the deep and irremediable wear and tear, the wholecontinued working without clank or creak to denote its presence behindthe walls. And did not that silence embody the whole policy of theChurch, which is to remain mute and await developments? Nevertheless whata prodigious mechanism it was, antiquated no doubt, but still sopowerful! And amidst those Congregations how keenly Pierre felt himselfto be in the grip of the most absolute power ever devised for thedomination of mankind. However much he might notice signs of decay andcoming ruin he was none the less seized, crushed, and carried off by thathuge engine made up of vanity and venality, corruption and ambition, meanness and greatness. And how far, too, he now was from the Rome thathe had dreamt of, and what anger at times filled him amidst hisweariness, as he persevered in his resolve to defend himself!

 * It is from the Dataria that bulls, rescripts, letters of appointment to benefices, and dispensations of marriage, are issued, after the affixture of the date and formula _Datum Romae_, "Given at Rome. "--Trans. 

All at once certain things which he had never understood were explainedto him. One day, when he returned to the Propaganda, Cardinal Sarno spoketo him of Freemasonry with such icy rage that he was abruptlyenlightened. Freemasonry had hitherto made him smile; he had believed init no more than he had believed in the Jesuits. Indeed, he had lookedupon the ridiculous stories which were current--the stories ofmysterious, shadowy men who governed the world with secret incalculablepower--as mere childish legends. In particular he had been amazed by theblind hatred which maddened certain people as soon as Freemasonry wasmentioned. However, a very distinguished and intelligent prelate haddeclared to him, with an air of profound conviction, that at least on oneoccasion every year each masonic Lodge was presided over by the Devil inperson, incarnate in a visible shape! And now, by Cardinal Sarno'sremarks, he understood the rivalry, the furious struggle of the RomanCatholic Church against that other Church, the Church of over the way. *Although the former counted on her own triumph, she none the less feltthat the other, the Church of Freemasonry, was a competitor, a veryancient enemy, who indeed claimed to be more ancient than herself, andwhose victory always remained a possibility. And the friction betweenthem was largely due to the circumstance that they both aimed atuniversal sovereignty, and had a similar international organisation, asimilar net thrown over the nations, and in a like way mysteries, dogmas, and rites. It was deity against deity, faith against faith, conquestagainst conquest: and so, like competing tradesmen in the same street, they were a source of mutual embarrassment, and one of them was bound tokill the other. But if Roman Catholicism seemed to Pierre to be worn outand threatened with ruin, he remained quite as sceptical with regard tothe power of Freemasonry. He had made inquiries as to the reality of thatpower in Rome, where both Grand Master and Pope were enthroned, one infront of the other. He was certainly told that the last Roman princes hadthought themselves compelled to become Freemasons in order to rendertheir own difficult position somewhat easier and facilitate the future oftheir sons. But was this true? had they not simply yielded to the forceof the present social evolution? And would not Freemasonry eventually besubmerged by its own triumph--that of the ideas of justice, reason, andtruth, which it had defended through the dark and violent ages ofhistory? It is a thing which constantly happens; the victory of an ideakills the sect which has propagated it, and renders the apparatus withwhich the members of the sect surrounded themselves, in order to fireimaginations, both useless and somewhat ridiculous. Carbonarism did notsurvive the conquest of the political liberties which it demanded; and onthe day when the Catholic Church crumbles, having accomplished its workof civilisation, the other Church, the Freemasons' Church of across theroad, will in a like way disappear, its task of liberation ended. Nowadays the famous power of the Lodges, hampered by traditions, weakenedby a ceremonial which provokes laughter, and reduced to a simple bond ofbrotherly agreement and mutual assistance, would be but a sorry weapon ofconquest for humanity, were it not that the vigorous breath of scienceimpels the nations onwards and helps to destroy the old religions. 

 * Some readers may think the above passages an exaggeration, but such is not the case. The hatred with which the Catholic priesthood, especially in Italy, Spain, and France, regards Freemasonry is remarkable. At the moment of writing these lines I have before me several French clerical newspapers, which contain the most abusive articles levelled against President Faure solely because he is a Freemason. One of these prints, a leading journal of Lyons, tells the French President that he cannot serve both God and the Devil; and that if he cannot give up Freemasonry he would do well to cease desecrating the abode of the Deity by his attendance at divine service. --Trans. 

However, all Pierre's journeyings and applications brought him nocertainty; and, while stubbornly clinging to Rome, intent on fighting tothe very end, like a soldier who will not believe in the possibility ofdefeat, he remained as anxious as ever. He had seen all the cardinalswhose influence could be of use to him. He had seen the Cardinal Vicar, entrusted with the diocese of Rome, who, like the man of letters he was, had spoken to him of Horace, and, like a somewhat blundering politician, had questioned him about France, the Republic, the Army, and the NavyEstimates, without dealing in the slightest degree with the incriminatedbook. He had also seen the Grand Penitentiary, that tall old man, withfleshless, ascetic face, of whom he had previously caught a glimpse atthe Boccanera mansion, and from whom he now only drew a long and severesermon on the wickedness of young priests, whom the century had pervertedand who wrote most abominable books. Finally, at the Vatican, he had seenthe Cardinal Secretary, in some wise his Holiness's Minister of ForeignAffairs, the great power of the Holy See, whom he had hitherto beenprevented from approaching by terrifying warnings as to the possibleresult of an unfavourable reception. However, whilst apologising forcalling at such a late stage, he had found himself in presence of a mostamiable man, whose somewhat rough appearance was softened by diplomaticaffability, and who, after making him sit down, questioned him with anair of interest, listened to him, and even spoke some words of comfort. Nevertheless, on again reaching the Piazza of St. Peter's, Pierre wellunderstood that his affair had not made the slightest progress, and thatif he ever managed to force the Pope's door, it would not be by way ofthe Secretariate of State. And that evening he returned home quiteexhausted by so many visits, in such distraction at feeling that littleby little he had been wholly caught in that huge mechanism with itshundred wheels, that he asked himself in terror what he should do on themorrow now that there remained nothing for him to do--unless, indeed, itwere to go mad. 

However, meeting Don Vigilio in a passage of the house, he again wishedto ask him for some good advice. But the secretary, who had a gleam ofterror in his eyes, silenced him, he knew not why, with an anxiousgesture. And then in a whisper, in Pierre's ear, he said: "Have you seenMonsignor Nani? No! Well, go to see him, go to see him. I repeat that youhave nothing else to do!"

Pierre yielded. And indeed why should he have resisted? Apart from themotives of ardent charity which had brought him to Rome to defend hisbook, was he not there for a self-educating, experimental purpose? It wasnecessary that he should carry his attempts to the very end. 

On the morrow, when he reached the colonnade of St. Peter's, the hour wasso early that he had to wait there awhile. He had never better realisedthe enormity of those four curving rows of columns, forming a forest ofgigantic stone trunks among which nobody ever promenades. In fact, thespot is a grandiose and dreary desert, and one asks oneself the why andwherefore of such a majestic porticus. Doubtless, however, it was for itssole majesty, for the mere pomp of decoration, that this colonnade wasreared; and therein, again, one finds the whole Roman spirit. However, Pierre at last turned into the Via di Sant' Offizio, and passing thesacristy of St. Peter's, found himself before the Palace of the HolyOffice in a solitary silent district, which the footfall of pedestriansor the rumble of wheels but seldom disturbs. The sun alone lives there, in sheets of light which spread slowly over the small, white paving. Youdivine the vicinity of the Basilica, for there is a smell as of incense, a cloisteral quiescence as of the slumber of centuries. And at one cornerthe Palace of the Holy Office rises up with heavy, disquieting bareness, only a single row of windows piercing its lofty, yellow front. The wallwhich skirts a side street looks yet more suspicious with its row of evensmaller casements, mere peep-holes with glaucous panes. In the brightsunlight this huge cube of mud-coloured masonry ever seems asleep, mysterious, and closed like a prison, with scarcely an aperture forcommunication with the outer world. 

Pierre shivered, but then smiled as at an act of childishness, for hereflected that the Holy Roman and Universal Inquisition, nowadays theSacred Congregation of the Holy Office, was no longer the institution ithad been, the purveyor of heretics for the stake, the occult tribunalbeyond appeal which had right of life and death over all mankind. True, it still laboured in secrecy, meeting every Wednesday, and judging andcondemning without a sound issuing from within its walls. But on theother hand if it still continued to strike at the crime of heresy, if itsmote men as well as their works, it no longer possessed either weaponsor dungeons, steel or fire to do its bidding, but was reduced to a mere_role_ of protest, unable to inflict aught but disciplinary penaltieseven upon the ecclesiastics of its own Church. 

When Pierre on entering was ushered into the reception-room of MonsignorNani who, as assessor, lived in the palace, he experienced an agreeablesurprise. The apartment faced the south, and was spacious and floodedwith sunshine. And stiff as was the furniture, dark as were the hangings, an exquisite sweetness pervaded the room, as though a woman had lived init and accomplished the prodigy of imparting some of her own grace to allthose stern-looking things. There were no flowers, yet there was apleasant smell. A charm expanded and conquered every heart from the verythreshold. 

Monsignor Nani at once came forward, with a smile on his rosy face, hisblue eyes keenly glittering, and his fine light hair powdered by age. With hands outstretched, he exclaimed: "Ah! how kind of you to have cometo see me, my dear son! Come, sit down, let us have a friendly chat. "Then with an extraordinary display of affection, he began to questionPierre: "How are you getting on? Tell me all about it, exactly what youhave done. "

Touched in spite of Don Vigilio's revelations, won over by the sympathywhich he fancied he could detect, Pierre thereupon confessed himself, relating his visits to Cardinal Sarno, Monsignor Fornaro and FatherDangelis, his applications to all the influential cardinals, those of theIndex, the Grand Penitentiary, the Cardinal Vicar, and the CardinalSecretary; and dwelling on his endless journeys from door to door throughall the Congregations and all the clergy, that huge, active, silentbee-hive amidst which he had wearied his feet, exhausted his limbs, andbewildered his poor brain. And at each successive Station of this Calvaryof entreaty, Monsignor Nani, who seemed to listen with an air of rapture, exclaimed: "But that's very good, that's capital! Oh! your affair isprogressing. Yes, yes, it's progressing marvellously well. "

He was exultant, though he allowed no unseemly irony to appear, while hispleasant, penetrating eyes fathomed the young priest, to ascertain if hehad been brought to the requisite degree of obedience. Had he beensufficiently wearied, disillusioned and instructed in the reality ofthings, for one to finish with him? Had three months' sojourn in Romesufficed to turn the somewhat mad enthusiast of the first days into anunimpassioned or at least resigned being?

However, all at once Monsignor Nani remarked: "But, my dear son, you tellme nothing of his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. "

"The fact is, Monseigneur, that his Eminence is at Frascati, so I havebeen unable to see him. "

Thereupon the prelate, as if once more postponing the _denouement_ withthe secret enjoyment of an artistic _diplomate_, began to protest, raising his little plump hands with the anxious air of a man whoconsiders everything lost: "Oh! but you must see his Eminence; it isabsolutely necessary! Think of it! The Prefect of the Index! We can onlyact after your visit to him, for as you have not seen _him_ it is as ifyou had seen nobody. Go, go to Frascati, my dear son. "

And thereupon Pierre could only bow and reply: "I will go, Monseigneur. "

XI. 

ALTHOUGH Pierre knew that he would be unable to see Cardinal Sanguinettibefore eleven o'clock, he nevertheless availed himself of an early train, so that it was barely nine when he alighted at the little station ofFrascati. He had already visited the place during his enforced idleness, when he had made the classical excursion to the Roman castles whichextend from Frascati to Rocco di Papa, and from Rocco di Papa to MonteCavo, and he was now delighted with the prospect of strolling for acouple of hours along those first slopes of the Alban hills, where, amidst rushes, olives, and vines, Frascati, like a promontory, overlooksthe immense ruddy sea of the Campagna even as far as Rome, which, sixfull leagues away, wears the whitish aspect of a marble isle. 

Ah! that charming Frascati, on its greeny knoll at the foot of the woodedTusculan heights, with its famous terrace whence one enjoys the finestview in the world, its old patrician villas with proud and elegantRenascence facades and magnificent parks, which, planted with cypress, pine, and ilex, are for ever green! There was a sweetness, a delight, afascination about the spot, of which Pierre would have never wearied. Andfor more than an hour he had wandered blissfully along roads edged withancient, knotty olive-trees, along dingle ways shaded by the spreadingfoliage of neighbouring estates, and along perfumed paths, at each turnof which the Campagna was seen stretching far away, when all at once hewas accosted by a person whom he was both surprised and annoyed to meet. He had strolled down to some low ground near the railway station, someold vineyards where a number of new houses had been built of recentyears, and suddenly saw a stylish pair-horse victoria, coming from thedirection of Rome, draw up close by, whilst its occupant called to him:"What! Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, are you taking a walk here, at this earlyhour?"

Thereupon Pierre recognised Count Luigi Prada, who alighted, shook handswith him and began to walk beside him, whilst the empty carriage went onin advance. And forthwith the Count explained his tastes: "I seldom takethe train, " he said, "I drive over. It gives my horses an outing. I haveinterests over here as you may know, a big building enterprise which isunfortunately not progressing very well. And so, although the season isadvanced, I'm obliged to come rather more frequently than I care to do. "

As Prada suggested, Pierre was acquainted with the story. The Boccanerashad been obliged to sell a sumptuous villa which a cardinal of theirfamily had built at Frascati in accordance with the plans of Giacomodella Porta, during the latter part of the sixteenth century: a regalsummer-residence it had been, finely wooded, with groves and basins andcascades, and in particular a famous terrace projecting like a cape abovethe Roman Campagna whose expanse stretches from the Sabine mountains tothe Mediterranean sands. Through the division of the property, Benedettahad inherited from her mother some very extensive vineyards belowFrascati, and these she had brought as dowry to Prada at the very momentwhen the building mania was extending from Rome into the provinces. Andthereupon Prada had conceived the idea of erecting on the spot a numberof middle-class villas like those which litter the suburbs of Paris. Fewpurchasers, however, had come forward, the financial crash hadsupervened, and he was now with difficulty liquidating this unluckybusiness, having indemnified his wife at the time of their separation. 

"And then, " he continued, addressing Pierre, "one can come and go as onelikes with a carriage, whereas, on taking the train, one is at the mercyof the time table. This morning, for instance, I have appointments withcontractors, experts, and lawyers, and I have no notion how long theywill keep me. It's a wonderful country, isn't it? And we are quite rightto be proud of it in Rome. Although I may have some worries just now, Ican never set foot here without my heart beating with delight. "

A circumstance which he did not mention, was that his _amica_, LisbethKauffmann, had spent the summer in one of the newly erected villas, whereshe had installed her studio and had been visited by all the foreigncolony, which tolerated her irregular position on account of her gayspirits and artistic talent. Indeed, people had even ended by acceptingthe outcome of her connection with Prada, and a fortnight previously shehad returned to Rome, and there given birth to a son--an event which hadagain revived all the scandalous tittle-tattle respecting Benedetta'sdivorce suit. And Prada's attachment to Frascati doubtless sprang fromthe recollection of the happy hours he had spent there, and the joyfulpride with which the birth of the boy inspired him. 

Pierre, for his part, felt ill at ease in the young Count's presence, forhe had an instinctive hatred of money-mongers and men of prey. Nevertheless, he desired to respond to his amiability, and so inquiredafter his father, old Orlando, the hero of the Liberation. 

"Oh!" replied Prada, "excepting for his legs he's in wonderfully goodhealth. He'll live a hundred years. Poor father! I should so much haveliked to install him in one of these little houses, last summer. But Icould not get him to consent; he's determined not to leave Rome; he'safraid, perhaps, that it might be taken away from him during hisabsence. " Then the young Count burst into a laugh, quite merry at thethought of jeering at the heroic but no longer fashionable age ofindependence. And afterwards he said, "My father was speaking of youagain only yesterday, Monsieur l'Abbe. He is astonished that he has notseen you lately. "

This distressed Pierre, for he had begun to regard Orlando withrespectful affection. Since his first visit, he had twice called on theold hero, but the latter had refused to broach the subject of Rome solong as his young friend should not have seen, felt, and understoodeverything. There would be time for a talk later on, said he, when theywere both in a position to formulate their conclusions. 

"Pray tell Count Orlando, " responded Pierre, "that I have not forgottenhim, and that, if I have deferred a fresh visit, it is because I desireto satisfy him. However, I certainly will not leave Rome without going totell him how deeply his kind greeting has touched me. "

Whilst talking, the two men slowly followed the ascending road past thenewly erected villas, several of which were not yet finished. And whenPrada learned that the priest had come to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti, he again laughed, with the laugh of a good-natured wolf, showing hiswhite fangs. "True, " he exclaimed, "the Cardinal has been here since thePope has been laid up. Ah! you'll find him in a pretty fever. "

"Why?"

"Why, because there's bad news about the Holy Father this morning. When Ileft Rome it was rumoured that he had spent a fearful night. "

So speaking, Prada halted at a bend of the road, not far from an antiquechapel, a little church of solitary, mournful grace of aspect, on theverge of an olive grove. Beside it stood a ruinous building, the oldparsonage, no doubt, whence there suddenly emerged a tall, knotty priestwith coarse and earthy face, who, after roughly locking the door, wentoff in the direction of the town. 

"Ah!" resumed the Count in a tone of raillery, "that fellow's heart alsomust be beating violently; he's surely gone to your Cardinal in search ofnews. "

Pierre had looked at the priest. "I know him, " he replied; "I saw him, Iremember, on the day after my arrival at Cardinal Boccanera's. He broughtthe Cardinal a basket of figs and asked him for a certificate in favourof his young brother, who had been sent to prison for some deed ofviolence--a knife thrust if I recollect rightly. However, the Cardinalabsolutely refused him the certificate. "

"It's the same man, " said Prada, "you may depend on it. He was often atthe Villa Boccanera formerly; for his young brother was gardener there. But he's now the client, the creature of Cardinal Sanguinetti. Santobonohis name is, and he's a curious character, such as you wouldn't find inFrance, I fancy. He lives all alone in that falling hovel, and officiatesat that old chapel of St. Mary in the Fields, where people don't go tohear mass three times in a year. Yes, it's a perfect sinecure, which withits stipend of a thousand francs enables him to live there like a peasantphilosopher, cultivating the somewhat extensive garden whose big wallsyou see yonder. "

The close to which he called attention stretched down the slope behindthe parsonage, without an aperture, like some savage place of refuge intowhich not even the eye could penetrate. And all that could be seen abovethe left-hand wall was a superb, gigantic fig-tree, whose big leavesshowed blackly against the clear sky. Prada had moved on again, andcontinued to speak of Santobono, who evidently interested him. Fancy, apatriot priest, a Garibaldian! Born at Nemi, in that yet savage nookamong the Alban hills, he belonged to the people and was still near tothe soil. However, he had studied, and knew sufficient history to realisethe past greatness of Rome, and dream of the re-establishment of Romandominion as represented by young Italy. And he had come to believe, withpassionate fervour, that only a great pope could realise his dream byseizing upon power, and then conquering all the other nations. And whatcould be easier, since the Pope commanded millions of Catholics? Did nothalf Europe belong to him? France, Spain, and Austria would give way assoon as they should see him powerful, dictating laws to the world. Germany and Great Britain, indeed all the Protestant countries, wouldalso inevitably be conquered, for the papacy was the only dike that couldbe opposed to error, which must some day fatally succumb in its effortsagainst such a barrier. Politically, however, Santobono had declaredhimself for Germany, for he considered that France needed to be crushedbefore she would throw herself into the arms of the Holy Father. And thuscontradictions and fancies clashed in his foggy brain, whose burningideas swiftly turned to violence under the influence of primitive, racialfierceness. Briefly, the priest was a barbarian upholder of the Gospel, afriend of the humble and woeful, a sectarian of that school which iscapable alike of great virtues and great crimes. 

"Yes, " concluded Prada, "he is now devoted to Cardinal Sanguinettibecause he believes that the latter will prove the great pope ofto-morrow, who is to make Rome the one capital of the nations. At thesame time he doubtless harbours a lower personal ambition, that ofattaining to a canonry or of gaining assistance in the little worries oflife, as when he wished to extricate his brother from trouble. Here, youknow, people stake their luck on a cardinal just as they nurse a 'trey'in the lottery, and if their cardinal proves the winning number andbecomes pope they gain a fortune. And that's why you now see Santobonostriding along yonder, all anxiety to know if Leo XIII will die andSanguinetti don the tiara. "

"Do you think the Pope so very ill, then?" asked Pierre, both anxious andinterested. 

The Count smiled and raised both arms: "Ah!" said he, "can one ever tell?They all get ill when their interest lies that way. However, I believethat the Pope is this time really indisposed; a complaint of the bowels, it is said; and at his age, you know, the slightest indisposition mayprove fatal. "

The two men took a few steps in silence, then the priest again asked aquestion: "Would Cardinal Sanguinetti have a great chance if the Holy Seewere vacant?"

"A great chance! Ah! that's another of those things which one neverknows. The truth is people class Sanguinetti among the acceptablecandidates, and if personal desire sufficed he would certainly be thenext pope, for ambition consumes him to the marrow, and he displaysextraordinary passion and determination in his efforts to succeed. Buttherein lies his very weakness; he is using himself up, and he knows it. And so he must be resolved to every step during the last days of battle. You may be quite sure that if he has shut himself up here at thiscritical time, it is in order that he may the better direct hisoperations from a distance, whilst at the same time feigning a retreat, adisinterestedness which is bound to have a good effect. "

Then Prada began to expatiate on Sanguinetti with no little complacency, for he liked the man's spirit of intrigue, his keen, conquering appetite, his excessive, and even somewhat blundering activity. He had becomeacquainted with him on his return from the nunciature at Vienna, when hehad already resolved to win the tiara. That ambition explainedeverything, his quarrels and reconciliations with the reigning pope, hisaffection for Germany, followed by a sudden evolution in the direction ofFrance, his varying attitude with regard to Italy, at first a desire foragreement, and then absolute rejection of all compromises, a refusal togrant any concession, so long as Rome should not be evacuated. This, indeed, seemed to be Sanguinetti's definite position; he made a show ofdisliking the wavering sway of Leo XIII, and of retaining a ferventadmiration for Pius IX, the great, heroic pope of the days of resistance, whose goodness of heart had proved no impediment to unshakable firmness. And all this was equivalent to a promise that he, Sanguinetti, wouldagain make kindliness exempt from weakness, the rule of the Church, andwould steer clear of the dangerous compounding of politics. At bottom, however, politics were his only dream, and he had even formulated acomplete programme of intentional vagueness, which his clients andcreatures spread abroad with an air of rapturous mystery. However, sincea previous indisposition of the Pope's, during the spring, he had beenliving in mortal disquietude, for it had then been rumoured that theJesuits would resign themselves to support Cardinal Pio Boccanera, although the latter scarcely favoured them. He was rough and stern, nodoubt, and his extreme bigotry might be a source of danger in thistolerant age; but, on the other hand, was he not a patrician, and wouldnot his election imply that the papacy would never cease to claim thetemporal power? From that moment Boccanera had been the one man whomSanguinetti feared, for he beheld himself despoiled of his prize, andspent his time in devising plans to rid himself of such a powerful rival, repeating abominable stories of Cardinal Pio's alleged complaisance withregard to Benedetta and Dario, and incessantly representing him asAntichrist, the man of sin, whose reign would consummate the ruin of thepapacy. Finally, to regain the support of the Jesuits, Sanguinetti's lastidea was to repeat through his familiars that for his part he would notmerely maintain the principle of the temporal power intact, but wouldeven undertake to regain that power. And he had a full plan on thesubject, which folks confided to one another in whispers, a plan which, in spite of its apparent concessions, would lead to the overwhelmingvictory of the Church. It was to raise the prohibition which preventedCatholics from voting or becoming candidates at the Italian elections; tosend a hundred, then two hundred, and then three hundred deputies to theChamber, and in that wise to overthrow the House of Savoy, and establisha Federation of the Italian provinces, whereof the Holy Father, once moreplaced in possession of Rome, would become the august and sovereignPresident. 

As Prada finished he again laughed, showing his white teeth--teeth whichwould never readily relinquish the prey they held. "So you see, " headded, "we need to defend ourselves, since it's a question of turning usout. Fortunately, there are some little obstacles in the way of that. Nevertheless, such dreams naturally have great influence on excitedminds, such as that of Santobono, for instance. He's a man whom one wordfrom Sanguinetti would lead far indeed. Ah! he has good legs. Look at himup yonder, he has already reached the Cardinal's little palace--thatwhite villa with the sculptured balconies. "

Pierre raised his eyes and perceived the episcopal residence, which wasone of the first houses of Frascati. Of modern construction andRenascence style, it overlooked the immensity of the Roman Campagna. 

It was now eleven o'clock, and as the young priest, before going up topay his own visit, bade the Count good-bye, the latter for a moment kepthold of his hand. "Do you know, " said he, "it would be very kind of youto lunch with me--will you? Come and join me at that restaurant yonderwith the pink front as soon as you are at liberty. I shall have settledmy own business in an hour's time, and I shall be delighted to have yourcompany at table. "

Pierre began by declining, but he could offer no possible excuse, and atlast surrendered, won over, despite himself, by Prada's real charm ofmanner. When they had parted, the young priest only had to climb a streetin order to reach the Cardinal's door. With his natural expansiveness andcraving for popularity, Sanguinetti was easy of access, and at Frascatiin particular his doors were flung open even to the most humble cassocks. So Pierre was at once ushered in, a circumstance which somewhat surprisedhim, for he remembered the bad humour of the servant whom he had seen oncalling at the Cardinal's residence in Rome, when he had been advised toforego the journey, as his Eminence did not like to be disturbed when hewas ill. However, nothing spoke of illness in that pleasant villa, flooded with sunshine. True, the waiting-room, where he was momentarilyleft alone, displayed neither luxury nor comfort; but it was brightenedby the finest light in the world, and overlooked that extraordinaryCampagna, so flat, so bare, and so unique in its beauty, for in front ofit one ever dreams and sees the past arise. And so, whilst waiting, Pierre stationed himself at an open window, conducting on to a balcony, and his eyes roamed over the endless sea of herbage to the far-awaywhiteness of Rome, above which rose the dome of St. Peter's, at thatdistance a mere sparkling speck, barely as large as the nail of one'slittle finger. 

However, the young man had scarcely taken up this position when he wassurprised to hear some people talking, their words reaching him withgreat distinctness. And on leaning forward he realised that his Eminencein person was standing on another balcony close by, and conversing with apriest, only a portion of whose cassock could be seen. Still, thissufficed for Pierre to recognise Santobono. His first impulse, dictatedby natural discretion, was to withdraw from the window, but the words henext heard riveted him to the spot. 

"We shall know in a moment, " his Eminence was saying in his full voice. "I sent Eufemio to Rome, for he is the only person in whom I've anyconfidence. And see, there is the train bringing him back. "

A train, still as small as a plaything, could in fact be seen approachingover the vast plain, and doubtless it was to watch for its arrival thatSanguinetti had stationed himself on the balcony. And there he lingered, with his eyes fixed on distant Rome. Then Santobono, in a passionatevoice, spoke some words which Pierre imperfectly understood, but theCardinal with clear articulation rejoined, "Yes, yes, my dear fellow, acatastrophe would be a great misfortune. Ah! may his Holiness long bepreserved to us. " Then he paused, and as he was no hypocrite, gave fullexpression to the thoughts which were in his mind: "At least, I hope thathe will be preserved just now, for the times are bad, and I am infrightful anguish. The partisans of Antichrist have lately gained muchground. "

A cry escaped Santobono: "Oh! your Eminence will act and triumph. "

"I, my dear fellow? What would you have me do? I am simply at thedisposal of my friends, those who are willing to believe in me, with thesole object of ensuring the victory of the Holy See. It is they who oughtto act, it is they--each according to the measure of his means--who oughtto bar the road to the wicked in order that the righteous may succeed. Ah! if Antichrist should reign--"

The recurrence of this word Antichrist greatly disturbed Pierre; but hesuddenly remembered what the Count had told him: Antichrist was CardinalBoccanera. 

"Think of that, my dear fellow, " continued Sanguinetti. "PictureAntichrist at the Vatican, consummating the ruin of religion by hisimplacable pride, his iron will, his gloomy passion for nihility; forthere can be no doubt of it, he is the Beast of Death announced by theprophecies, the Beast who will expose one and all to the danger of beingswallowed up with him in his furious rush into abysmal darkness. I knowhim; he only dreams of obstinacy and destruction, he will seize thepillars of the temple and shake them in order that he may sink beneaththe ruins, he and the whole Catholic world! In less than six months hewill be driven from Rome, at strife with all the nations, execrated byItaly, and roaming the world like the phantom of the last pope!"

It was with a low growl, suggestive of a stifled oath, that Santobonoresponded to this frightful prediction. But the train had now reached thestation, and among the few passengers who had alighted, Pierre coulddistinguish a little Abbe, who was walking so fast that his cassockflapped against his hips. It was Abbe Eufemio, the Cardinal's secretary, and when he had perceived his Eminence on the balcony he lost allself-respect, and broke into a run, in order that he might the soonerascend the sloping street. "Ah! here's Eufemio, " exclaimed the Cardinal, quivering with anxiety. "We shall know now, we shall know now. "

The secretary had plunged into the doorway below, and he climbed thestairs with such rapidity that almost immediately afterwards Pierre sawhim rush breathlessly across the waiting-room, and vanish into theCardinal's sanctum. Sanguinetti had quitted the balcony to meet hismessenger, but soon afterwards he returned to it asking questions, venting exclamations, raising, in fact, quite a tumult over the newswhich he had received. "And so it's really true, the night was a bad one. His Holiness scarcely slept! Colic, you were told? But nothing could beworse at his age; it might carry him off in a couple of hours. And thedoctors, what do they say?"

The answer did not reach Pierre, but he understood its purport as theCardinal in his naturally loud voice resumed: "Oh! the doctors neverknow. Besides, when they refuse to speak death is never far off. _Dio_!what a misfortune if the catastrophe cannot be deferred for a few days!"

Then he became silent, and Pierre realised that his eyes were once moretravelling towards Rome, gazing with ambitious anguish at the dome of St. Peter's, that little, sparkling speck above the vast, ruddy plain. What acommotion, what agitation if the Pope were dead! And he wished that ithad merely been necessary for him to stretch forth his arm in order totake and hold the Eternal City, the Holy City, which, yonder on thehorizon, occupied no more space than a heap of gravel cast there by achild's spade. And he was already dreaming of the coming Conclave, whenthe canopy of each other cardinal would fall, and his own, motionless andsovereign, would crown him with purple. 

"But you are right, my friend!" he suddenly exclaimed, addressingSantobono, "one must act, the salvation of the Church is at stake. And, besides, it is impossible that Heaven should not be with us, since oursole desire is its triumph. If necessary, at the supreme moment, Heavenwill know how to crush Antichrist. "

Then, for the first time, Pierre distinctly heard the voice of Santobono, who, gruffly, with a sort of savage decision, responded: "Oh! if Heavenis tardy it shall be helped. "

That was all; the young man heard nothing further save a confused murmurof voices. The speakers quitted the balcony, and his spell of waitingbegan afresh in the sunlit _salon_ so peaceful and delightful in itsbrightness. But all at once the door of his Eminence's private room wasthrown wide open and a servant ushered him in; and he was surprised tofind the Cardinal alone, for he had not witnessed the departure of thetwo priests, who had gone off by another door. The Cardinal, with hishighly coloured face, big nose, thick lips, square-set, vigorous figure, which still looked young despite his sixty years, was standing near awindow in the bright golden light. He had put on the paternal smile withwhich he greeted even the humblest from motives of good policy, and assoon as Pierre had knelt and kissed his ring, he motioned him to a chair. "Sit down, dear son, sit down. You have come of course about thatunfortunate affair of your book. I am very pleased indeed to be able tospeak with you about it. "

He himself then took a chair in front of that window overlooking Romewhence he seemed unable to drag himself. And the young priest, whilstapologising for coming to disturb his rest, perceived that he scarcelylistened, for his eyes again sought the prey which he so ardentlycoveted. Yet the semblance of good-natured attention was perfect, andPierre marvelled at the force of will which this man must possess toappear so calm, so interested in the affairs of others, when such atempest was raging in him. 

"Your Eminence will, I hope, kindly forgive me, " continued the youngpriest. 

"But you have done right to come, since I am kept here by my failinghealth, " said the Cardinal. "Besides, I am somewhat better, and it isonly natural that you should wish to give me some explanations and defendyour work and enlighten my judgment. In fact, I was astonished at not yethaving seen you, for I know that your faith in your cause is great andthat you spare no steps to convert your judges. So speak, my dear son, Iam listening and shall be pleased indeed if I can absolve you. "

Pierre was caught by these kind words, and a hope returned to him, thatof winning the support of the all-powerful Prefect of the Index. Healready regarded this ex-nuncio--who at Brussels and Vienna had acquiredthe worldly art of sending people away satisfied with indefinite promisesthough he meant to grant them nothing--as a man of rare intelligence andexquisite cordiality. And so once more he regained the fervour of hisapostolate to express his views respecting the future Rome, the Rome hedreamt of, which was destined yet again to become the mistress of theworld if she would return to the Christianity of Jesus, to an ardent lovefor the weak and the humble. 

Sanguinetti smiled, wagged his head, and raised exclamations of rapture:"Very good, very good indeed, perfect! Oh! I agree with you, dear son. One cannot put things better. It is quite evident; all good minds mustagree with you. " And then, said he, the poetic side deeply touched him. Like Leo XIII--and doubtless in a spirit of rivalry--he courted thereputation of being a very distinguished Latinist, and professed aspecial and boundless affection for Virgil. "I know, I know, " heexclaimed, "I remember your page on the return of spring, which consolesthe poor whom winter has frozen. Oh! I read it three times over! And areyou aware that your writing is full of Latin turns of style. I noticedmore than fifty expressions which could be found in the 'Bucolics. ' Yourbook is a charm, a perfect charm!"

As he was no fool, and realised that the little priest before him was aman of high intelligence, he ended by interesting himself, not in Pierrepersonally, but in the profit which he might possibly derive from him. Amidst his feverish intrigues, he unceasingly sought to utilise all thequalities possessed by those whom God sent to him that might in any waybe conducive to his own triumph. So, for a moment, he turned away fromRome and looked his companion in the face, listening to him and askinghimself in what way he might employ him--either at once in the crisisthrough which he was passing, or later on when he should be pope. But theyoung priest again made the mistake of attacking the temporal power, andof employing that unfortunate expression, "a new religion. " Thereupon theCardinal stopped him with a gesture, still smiling, still retaining allhis amiability, although the resolution which he had long since formedbecame from that moment definitive. "You are certainly in the right onmany points, my dear son, " he said, "and I often share your views--sharethem completely. But come, you are doubtless not aware that I am theprotector of Lourdes here at Rome. And so, after the page which you havewritten about the Grotto, how can I possibly pronounce in your favour andagainst the Fathers?"

Pierre was utterly overcome by this announcement, for he was indeedunaware of the Cardinal's position with respect to Lourdes, nobody havingtaken the precaution to warn him. However, each of the Catholicenterprises distributed throughout the world has a protector at Rome, acardinal who is designated by the Pope to represent it and, if need be, to defend it. 

"Those good Fathers!" Sanguinetti continued in a gentle voice, "you havecaused them great grief, and really our hands are tied, we cannot add totheir sorrow. If you only knew what a number of masses they send us! Iknow more than one of our poor priests who would die of hunger if it werenot for them. "

Pierre could only bow beneath the blow. Once more he found himself inpresence of the pecuniary question, the necessity in which the Holy Seeis placed to secure the revenue it requires one year with another. Andthus the Pope was ever in servitude, for if the loss of Rome had freedhim of the cares of state, his enforced gratitude for the alms hereceived still riveted him to earth. So great, indeed, were therequirements, that money was the ruler, the sovereign power, before whichall bowed at the Court of Rome. 

And now Sanguinetti rose to dismiss his visitor. "You must not despair, dear son, " he said effusively. "I have only my own vote, you know, and Ipromise you that I will take into account the excellent explanationswhich you have just given me. And who can tell? If God be with you, Hewill save you even in spite of all!" This speech formed part of theCardinal's usual tactics; for one of his principles was never to drivepeople to extremes by sending them away hopeless. What good, indeed, would it do to tell this one that the condemnation of his book was aforegone conclusion, and that his only prudent course would be to disavowit? Only a savage like Boccanera breathed anger upon fiery souls andplunged them into rebellion. "You must hope, hope!" repeated Sanguinettiwith a smile, as if implying a multitude of fortunate things which hecould not plainly express. 

Thereupon Pierre, who was deeply touched, felt born anew. He even forgotthe conversation he had surprised, the Cardinal's keen ambition andcovert rage with his redoubtable rival. Besides, might not intelligencetake the place of heart among the powerful? If this man should some daybecome pope, and had understood him, might he not prove the pope who wasawaited, the pope who would accept the task of reorganising the Church ofthe United States of Europe, and making it the spiritual sovereign of theworld? So he thanked him with emotion, bowed, and left him to his dream, standing before that widely open window whence Rome appeared to him, glittering like a jewel, even indeed as the tiara of gold and gems, inthe splendour of the autumn sun. 

It was nearly one o'clock when Pierre and Count Prada were at last ableto sit down to _dejeuner_ in the little restaurant where they had agreedto meet. They had both been delayed by their affairs. However, the Count, having settled some worrying matters to his own advantage, was verylively, whilst the priest on his side was again hopeful, and yielded tothe delightful charm of that last fine day. And so the meal proved a verypleasant one in the large, bright room, which, as usual at that season ofthe year, was quite deserted. Pink and blue predominated in thedecoration, but Cupids fluttered on the ceiling, and landscapes, vaguelyrecalling the Roman castles, adorned the walls. The things they ate werefresh, and they drank the wine of Frascati, to which the soil imparts akind of burnt flavour as if the old volcanoes of the region had left somelittle of their fire behind. 

For a long while the conversation ranged over those wild and gracefulAlban hills, which, fortunately for the pleasure of the eye, overlook theflat Roman Campagna. Pierre, who had made the customary carriageexcursion from Frascati to Nemi, still felt its charm and spoke of it inglowing language. First came the lovely road from Frascati to Albano, ascending and descending hillsides planted with reeds, vines, andolive-trees, amongst which one obtained frequent glimpses of theCampagna's wavy immensity. On the right-hand the village of Rocca di Papaarose in amphitheatrical fashion, showing whitely on a knoll below MonteCavo, which was crowned by lofty and ancient trees. And from this pointof the road, on looking back towards Frascati, one saw high up, on theverge of a pine wood the ruins of Tusculum, large ruddy ruins, baked bycenturies of sunshine, and whence the boundless panorama must have beensuperb. Next one passed through Marino, with its sloping streets, itslarge cathedral, and its black decaying palace belonging to the Colonnas. Then, beyond a wood of ilex-trees, the lake of Albano was skirted withscenery which has no parallel in the world. In front, beyond the clearmirror of motionless water, were the ruins of Alba Longa; on the leftrose Monte Cavo with Rocca di Papa and Palazzuolo; whilst on the rightCastel Gandolfo overlooked the lake as from the summit of a cliff. Downbelow in the extinct crater, as in the depths of a gigantic cup ofverdure, the lake slept heavy and lifeless: a sheet of molten metal, which the sun on one side streaked with gold, whilst the other was blackwith shade. And the road then ascended all the way to Castel Gandolfo, which was perched on its rock, like a white bird betwixt the lake and thesea. Ever refreshed by breezes, even in the most burning hours of summer, the little place was once famous for its papal villa, where Pius IX lovedto spend hours of indolence, and whither Leo XIII has never come. Andnext the road dipped down, and the ilex-trees appeared again, ilex-treesfamous for their size, a double row of monsters with twisted limbs, twoand three hundred years old. Then one at last reached Albano, a smalltown less modernised and less cleansed than Frascati, a patch of the oldland which has retained some of its ancient wildness; and afterwardsthere was Ariccia with the Palazzo Chigi, and hills covered with forestsand viaducts spanning ravines which overflowed with foliage; and therewas yet Genzano, and yet Nemi, growing still wilder and more remote, lostin the midst of rocks and trees. 

Ah! how ineffaceable was the recollection which Pierre had retained ofNemi, Nemi on the shore of its lake, Nemi so delicious and fascinatingfrom afar, conjuring up all the ancient legends of fairy towns springingfrom amidst the greenery of mysterious waters, but so repulsively filthywhen one at last reaches it, crumbling on all sides but yet dominated bythe Orsini tower, as by the evil genius of the middle ages, which thereseems to perpetuate the ferocious habits, the violent passions, the knifethrusts of the past! Thence came that Santobono whose brother had killed, and who himself, with his eyes of crime glittering like live embers, seemed to be consumed by a murderous flame. And the lake, that lake roundlike an extinguished moon fallen into the depths of a former crater, adeeper and less open cup than that of the lake of Albano, a cup rimmedwith trees of wondrous vigour and density! Pines, elms, and willowsdescend to the very margin, with a green mass of tangled branches whichweigh each other down. This formidable fecundity springs from the vapourwhich constantly arises from the water under the parching action of thesun, whose rays accumulate in this hollow till it becomes like a furnace. There is a warm, heavy dampness, the paths of the adjacent gardens growgreen with moss, and in the morning dense mists often fill the large cupwith white vapour, as with the steaming milk of some sorceress ofmalevolent craft. And Pierre well remembered how uncomfortable he hadfelt before that lake where ancient atrocities, a mysterious religionwith abominable rites, seemed to slumber amidst the superb scenery. Hehad seen it at the approach of evening, looking, in the shade of itsforest girdle, like a plate of dull metal, black and silver, motionlessby reason of its weight. And that water, clear and yet so deep, thatwater deserted, without a bark upon its surface, that water august, lifeless, and sepulchral, had left him a feeling of inexpressiblesadness, of mortal melancholy, the hopelessness of great solitarypassion, earth and water alike swollen by the mute spasms of germs, troublous in their fecundity. Ah! those black and plunging banks, andthat black mournful lake prone at the bottom!*

 * Some literary interest attaches to M. Zola's account of Nemi, whose praises have been sung by a hundred poets. It will be observed that he makes no mention of Egeria. The religion distinguished by abominable practices to which he alludes, may perhaps be the worship of the Egyptian Diana, who had a famous temple near Nemi, which was excavated by Lord Savile some ten years ago, when all the smaller objects discovered were presented to the town of Nottingham. At this temple, according to some classical writers, the chief priest was required to murder his predecessor, and there were other abominable usages. --Trans. 

Count Prada began to laugh when Pierre told him of these impressions. "Yes, yes, " said he, "it's true, Nemi isn't always gay. In dull weather Ihave seen the lake looking like lead, and even the full sunshine scarcelyanimates it. For my part, I know I should die of _ennui_ if I had to liveface to face with that bare water. But it is admired by poets andromantic women, those who adore great tragedies of passion. "

Then, as he and Pierre rose from the table to go and take coffee on theterrace of the restaurant, the conversation changed: "Do you mean toattend Prince Buongiovanni's reception this evening?" the Count inquired. "It will be a curious sight, especially for a foreigner, and I advise younot to miss it. "

"Yes, I have an invitation, " Pierre replied. "A friend of mine, MonsieurNarcisse Habert, an _attache_ at our embassy, procured it for me, and Iam going with him. "

That evening, indeed, there was to be a _fete_ at the PalazzoBuongiovanni on the Corso, one of the few galas that take place in Romeeach winter. People said that this one would surpass all others inmagnificence, for it was to be given in honour of the betrothal of littlePrincess Celia. The Prince, her father, after boxing her ears, it wasrumoured, and narrowly escaping an attack of apoplexy as the result of afrightful fit of anger, had, all at once, yielded to her quiet, gentlestubbornness, and consented to her marriage with Lieutenant Attilio, theson of Minister Sacco. And all the drawing-rooms of Rome, those of thewhite world quite as much as those of the black, were thoroughly upset bythe tidings. 

Count Prada made merry over the affair. "Ah! you'll see a fine sight!" heexclaimed. "Personally, I'm delighted with it all for the sake of my goodcousin Attilio, who is really a very nice and worthy fellow. And nothingin the world would keep me from going to see my dear uncle Sacco make hisentry into the ancient _salons_ of the Buongiovanni. It will be somethingextraordinary and superb. He has at last become Minister of Agriculture, you know. My father, who always takes things so seriously, told me thismorning that the affair so worried him he hadn't closed his eyes allnight. "

The Count paused, but almost immediately added: "I say, it is half-pasttwo and you won't have a train before five o'clock. Do you know what youought to do? Why, drive back to Rome with me in my carriage. "

"No, no, " rejoined Pierre, "I'm deeply obliged to you but I'm to dinewith my friend Narcisse this evening, and I mustn't be late. "

"But you won't be late--on the contrary! We shall start at three andreach Rome before five o'clock. There can't be a more pleasant promenadewhen the light falls; and, come, I promise you a splendid sunset. "

He was so pressing that the young priest had to accept, quite subjugatedby so much amiability and good humour. They spent another half-hour verypleasantly in chatting about Rome, Italy, and France. Then, for a moment, they went up into Frascati where the Count wished to say a few words to acontractor, and just as three o'clock was striking they started off, seated side by side on the soft cushions and gently rocked by the motionof the victoria as the two horses broke into a light trot. As Prada hadpredicted, that return to Rome across the bare Campagna under the vastlimpid heavens at the close of such a mild autumn day proved mostdelightful. First of all, however, the victoria had to descend the slopesof Frascati between vineyards and olive-trees. The paved road snaked, andwas but little frequented; they merely saw a few peasants in old felthats, a white mule, and a cart drawn by a donkey, for it is only uponSundays that the _osterie_ or wine-shops are filled and that artisans ineasy circumstances come to eat a dish of kid at the surrounding_bastides_. However, at one turn of the road they passed a monumentalfountain. Then a flock of sheep momentarily barred the way beforedefiling past. And beyond the gentle undulations of the ruddy CampagnaRome appeared amidst the violet vapours of evening, sinking by degrees asthe carriage itself descended to a lower and lower level. There came amoment when the city was a mere thin grey streak, speckled whitely hereand there by a few sunlit house-fronts. And then it seemed to plungebelow the ground--to be submerged by the swell of the far-spreadingfields. 

The victoria was now rolling over the plain, leaving the Alban hillsbehind, whilst before it and on either hand came the expanse of meadowsand stubbles. And then it was that the Count, after leaning forward, exclaimed: "Just look ahead, yonder, there's our man of this morning, Santobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast hewalks! My horses can scarcely overtake him. "

Pierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St. Mary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with abill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigoroussplotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and hewas walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggestedDestiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished, was hanging from his right arm. 

When the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman toslacken speed, and then entered into conversation. 

"Good-day, Abbe; you are well, I hope?" he asked. 

"Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you. "

"And where are you going so bravely?"

"Signor Conte, I am going to Rome. "

"What! to Rome, at this late hour?"

"Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn'tfrighten me, and money's quickly earned by walking. "

Scarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels, Santobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting, whispered to Pierre: "Wait a bit, he'll amuse us. " Then he added aloud:"Since you are going to Rome, Abbe, you had better get in here; there'sroom for you. "

Santobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer. "Willingly; a thousand thanks, " he said. "It's still better to save one'sshoe leather. "

Then he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining withabrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside theCount. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he wascarrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and coveredwith leaves. 

The horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on andon over the superb, flat plain. "So you are going to Rome?" the Countresumed in order to make Santobono talk. 

"Yes, " the other replied, "I am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanerathese few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I hadpromised him. " He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding itbetween his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile. 

"Ah! some of the famous figs of your garden, " said Prada. "It's quitetrue, they are like honey. But why don't you rid yourself of them. Yousurely don't mean to keep them on your knees all the way to Rome. Givethem to me, I'll put them in the hood. "

However, Santobono became quite agitated, and vigorously declined theoffer. "No, no, a thousand thanks! They don't embarrass me in the least;they are very well here; and in this way I shall be sure that no accidentwill befall them. "

His passion for the fruit he grew quite amused Prada, who nudged Pierre, and then inquired: "Is the Cardinal fond of your figs?"

"Oh! his Eminence condescends to adore them. In former years, when hespent the summer at the villa, he would never touch the figs from othertrees. And so, you see, knowing his tastes, it costs me very little togratify him. "

Whilst making this reply Santobono had shot such a keen glance in thedirection of Pierre that the Count felt it necessary to introduce them toone another. This he did saying: "As it happens, Monsieur l'Abbe Fromentis stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three monthsor so. "

"Yes, I'm aware of it, " Santobono quietly replied; "I found Monsieurl'Abbe with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo. Those were less ripe, but these are perfect. " So speaking he gave thelittle basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet moreclosely between his huge and hairy fingers. 

Then came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spreadout as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;there was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expansewhose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginningto turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came intosight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat, boundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance. Then, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses wereseen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen, still yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer, cantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a finallook round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A_biroccino_, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a smallseat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From timeto time also the victoria passed a _carrotino_, one of the low carts inwhich peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine, vegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling ofhorses' bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-knownroad of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being soundasleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirtscaught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then theroad again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete, without a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilstyonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful inits monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault ofheaven. 

"And the Pope, Abbe, is he dead?" Prada suddenly inquired. 

Santobono did not even start. "I trust, " he replied in all simplicity, "that his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph ofthe Church. "

"So you had good news this morning when you called on your bishop, Cardinal Sanguinetti?"

This time the priest was unable to restrain a slight start. Had he beenseen, then? In his haste he had failed to notice the two men followingthe road behind him. However, he at once regained self-possession, andreplied: "Oh! one can never tell exactly whether news is good or bad. Itseems that his Holiness passed a somewhat painful night, but I devoutlyhope that the next will be a better one. " Then he seemed to meditate fora moment, and added: "Moreover, if God should have deemed it time to callhis Holiness to Himself, He would not leave His flock without a shepherd. He would have already chosen and designated the Sovereign Pontiff ofto-morrow. "

This superb answer increased Prada's gaiety. "You are reallyextraordinary, Abbe, " he said. "So you think that popes are solelycreated by the grace of the Divinity! The pope of to-morrow is chosen upin heaven, eh, and simply waits? Well, I fancied that men had somethingto do with the matter. But perhaps you already know which cardinal it isthat the divine favour has thus elected in advance?"

Then, like the unbeliever he was, he went on with his facile jests, whichleft the priest unruffled. In fact, the latter also ended by laughingwhen the Count, after alluding to the gambling passion which at eachfresh Conclave sets wellnigh the whole population of Rome betting for oragainst this or that candidate, told him that he might easily make hisfortune if he were in the divine secret. Next the talk turned on thethree white cassocks of different sizes which are always kept inreadiness in a cupboard at the Vatican. Which of them would be requiredon this occasion?--the short one, the long one, or the one of mediumsize? Each time that the reigning pope falls somewhat seriously ill thereis in this wise an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a keen awakening ofall ambitions and intrigues, to such a point that not merely in the blackworld, but throughout the city, people have no other subject ofcuriosity, conversation, and occupation than that of discussing therelative claims of the cardinals and predicting which of them will beelected. 

"Come, come, " Prada resumed, "since you know the truth, I'm determinedthat you shall tell me. Will it be Cardinal Moretta?"

Santobono, in spite of his evident desire to remain dignified anddisinterested, like a good, pious priest, was gradually growingimpassioned, yielding to the hidden fire which consumed him. And thisinterrogatory finished him off; he could no longer restrain himself, butreplied: "Moretta! What an idea! Why, he is sold to all Europe!"

"Well, will it be Cardinal Bartolini?"

"Oh! you can't think that. Bartolini has used himself up in striving foreverything and getting nothing. "

"Will it be Cardinal Dozio, then?"

"Dozio, Dozio! Why, if Dozio were to win one might altogether despair ofour Holy Church, for no man can have a baser mind than he!"

Prada raised his hands, as if he had exhausted the serious candidates. Inorder to increase the priest's exasperation he maliciously refrained fromnaming Cardinal Sanguinetti, who was certainly Santobono's nominee. Allat once, however, he pretended to make a good guess, and gaily exclaimed:"Ah! I have it; I know your man--Cardinal Boccanera!"

The blow struck Santobono full in the heart, wounding him both in hisrancour and his patriotic faith. His terrible mouth was already opening, and he was about to shout "No! no!" with all his strength, but he managedto restrain the cry, compelled as he was to silence by the present on hisknees--that little basket of figs which he pressed so convulsively withboth hands; and the effort which he was obliged to make left himquivering to such a point that he had to wait some time before he couldreply in a calm voice: "His most reverend Eminence Cardinal Boccanera isa saintly man, well worthy of the throne, and my only fear is that, withhis hatred of new Italy, he might bring us warfare. "

Prada, however, desired to enlarge the wound. "At all events, " said he, "you accept him and love him too much not to rejoice over his chances ofsuccess. And I really think that we have arrived at the truth, foreverybody is convinced that the Conclave's choice cannot fall elsewhere. Come, come; Boccanera is a very tall man, so it's the long white cassockwhich will be required. "

"The long cassock, the long cassock, " growled Santobono, despite himself;"that's all very well, but--"

Then he stopped short, and, again overcoming his passion, left hissentence unfinished. Pierre, listening in silence, marvelled at the man'sself-restraint, for he remembered the conversation which he had overheardat Cardinal Sanguinetti's. Those figs were evidently a mere pretext forgaining admission to the Boccanera mansion, where some friend--AbbePaparelli, no doubt--could alone supply certain positive informationwhich was needed. But how great was the command which the hot-bloodedpriest exercised over himself amidst the riotous impulses of his soul!

On either side of the road the Campagna still and ever spread its expanseof verdure, and Prada, who had become grave and dreamy, gazed before himwithout seeing anything. At last, however, he gave expression to histhoughts. "You know, Abbe, what will be said if the Pope should die thistime. That sudden illness, those colics, those refusals to make anyinformation public, mean nothing good--Yes, yes, poison, just as for theothers!"

Pierre gave a start of stupefaction. The Pope poisoned! "What! Poison?Again?" he exclaimed as he gazed at his companions with dilated eyes. Poison at the end of the nineteenth century, as in the days of theBorgias, as on the stage in a romanticist melodrama! To him the ideaappeared both monstrous and ridiculous. 

Santobono, whose features had become motionless and impenetrable, made noreply. But Prada nodded, and the conversation was henceforth confined tohim and the young priest. "Why, yes, poison, " he replied. "The fear of ithas remained very great in Rome. Whenever a death seems inexplicable, either by reason of its suddenness or the tragic circumstances whichattend it, the unanimous thought is poison. And remark this: in no city, I believe, are sudden deaths so frequent. The causes I don't exactlyknow, but some doctors put everything down to the fevers. Among thepeople, however, the one thought is poison, poison with all its legends, poison which kills like lightning and leaves no trace, the famous recipebequeathed from age to age, through the emperors and the popes, down tothese present times of middle-class democracy. "

As he spoke he ended by smiling, for he was inclined to be somewhatsceptical on the point, despite the covert terror with which he wasinspired by racial and educational causes. However, he quoted instances. The Roman matrons had rid themselves of their husbands and lovers byemploying the venom of red toads. Locusta, in a more practical spirit, sought poison in plants, one of which, probably aconite, she was wont toboil. Then, long afterwards, came the age of the Borgias, andsubsequently, at Naples, La Toffana sold a famous water, doubtless somepreparation of arsenic, in phials decorated with a representation of St. Nicholas of Bari. There were also extraordinary stories of pins, a prickfrom which killed one like lightning, of cups of wine poisoned by theinfusion of rose petals, of woodcocks cut in half with prepared knives, which poisoned but one-half of the bird, so that he who partook of thathalf was killed. "I myself, in my younger days, " continued Prada, "had afriend whose bride fell dead in church during the marriage servicethrough simply inhaling a bouquet of flowers. And so isn't it possiblethat the famous recipe may really have been handed down, and haveremained known to a few adepts?"

"But chemistry has made too much progress, " Pierre replied. "Ifmysterious poisons were believed in by the ancients and remainedundetected in their time it was because there were no means of analysis. But the drug of the Borgias would now lead the simpleton who might employit straight to the Assizes. Such stories are mere nonsense, and at thepresent day people scarcely tolerate them in newspaper serials andshockers. "

"Perhaps so, " resumed the Count with his uneasy smile. "You are right, nodoubt--only go and tell that to your host, for instance, CardinalBoccanera, who last summer held in his arms an old and deeply-lovedfriend, Monsignor Gallo, who died after a seizure of a couple of hours. "

"But apoplexy may kill one in two hours, and aneurism only takes twominutes. "

"True, but ask the Cardinal what he thought of his friend's prolongedshudders, the leaden hue which overcame his face, the sinking of hiseyes, and the expression of terror which made him quite unrecognisable. The Cardinal is convinced that Monsignor Gallo was poisoned, because hewas his dearest confidant, the counsellor to whom he always listened, andwhose wise advice was a guarantee of success. "

Pierre's bewilderment was increasing, and, irritated by the impassibilityof Santobono, he addressed him direct. "It's idiotic, it's awful! Doesyour reverence also believe in these frightful stories?"

But the priest of Frascati gave no sign. His thick, passionate lipsremained closed while his black glowing eyes never ceased to gaze atPrada. The latter, moreover, was quoting other instances. There was thecase of Monsignor Nazzarelli, who had been found in bed, shrunken andcalcined like carbon. And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck downin his sacerdotal vestments at St. Peter's itself, in the very sacristy, during vespers!

"Ah! _Mon Dieu_!" sighed Pierre, "you will tell me so much that I myselfshall end by trembling, and sha'n't dare to eat anything but boiled eggsas long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours. "

For a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre. But it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under aterrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the cityof poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, eversince the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, thefrantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men's hands, ensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and theground. Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings andassassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominationsstrew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun. 

"All the same, " said the Count, "those who take precautions are perhapsnot ill advised. It is said that more than one cardinal shudders andmistrusts people. One whom I know will never eat anything that has notbeen bought and prepared by his own cook. And as for the Pope, if he isanxious--"

Pierre again raised a cry of stupefaction. "What, the Pope himself! ThePope afraid of being poisoned!"

"Well, my dear Abbe, people commonly assert it. There are certainly dayswhen he considers himself more menaced than anybody else. And are you notaware of the old Roman view that a pope ought never to live till toogreat an age, and that when he is so obstinate as not to die at the righttime he ought to be assisted? As soon as a pope begins to fall intosecond childhood, and by reason of his senility becomes a source ofembarrassment, and possibly even danger, to the Church, his right placeis heaven. Moreover, matters are managed in a discreet manner; a slightcold becomes a decent pretext to prevent him from tarrying any longer onthe throne of St. Peter. "

Prada then gave some curious details. One prelate, it was said, wishingto dispel his Holiness's fears, had devised an elaborate precautionarysystem which, among other things, was to comprise a little padlockedvehicle, in which the food destined for the frugal pontifical table wasto be securely placed before leaving the kitchen, so that it might not betampered with on its way to the Pope's apartments. However, this projecthad not yet been carried into effect. 

"After all, " the Count concluded with a laugh, "every pope has to diesome day, especially when his death is needful for the welfare of theChurch. Isn't that so, Abbe?"

Santobono, whom he addressed, had a moment previously lowered his eyes asif to contemplate the little basket of figs which he held on his lap withas much care as if it had been the Blessed Sacrament. On being questionedin such a direct, sharp fashion he could not do otherwise than look up. However, he did not depart from his prolonged silence, but limited hisanswer to a slow nod. 

"And it is God alone, and not poison, who causes one to die. Is that notso, Abbe?" repeated Prada. "It is said that those were the last words ofpoor Monsignor Gallo before he expired in the arms of his friend CardinalBoccanera. "

For the second time Santobono nodded without speaking. And then silencefell, all three sinking into a dreamy mood. 

Meantime, without a pause, the carriage rolled on across the immensity ofthe Campagna. The road, straight as an arrow, seemed to extend into theinfinite. As the sun descended towards the horizon the play of light andshade became more marked on the broad undulations of the ground whichstretched away, alternately of a pinky green and a violet grey, till theyreached the distant fringe of the sky. At the roadside on either handthere were still and ever tall withered thistles and giant fennel withyellow umbels. Then, after a time, came a team of four oxen, that hadbeen kept ploughing until late, and stood forth black and huge in thepale atmosphere and mournful solitude. Farther on some flocks of sheep, whence the breeze wafted a tallowy odour, set patches of brown amidst theherbage, which once more was becoming verdant; whilst at intervals a dogwas heard to bark, his voice the only distinct sound amidst the lowquivering of that silent desert where the sovereign peacefulness of deathseemed to reign. But all at once a light melody arose and some larks flewup, one of them soaring into the limpid golden heavens. And ahead, at thefar extremity of the pure sky, Rome, with her towers and domes, grewlarger and larger, like a city of white marble springing from a mirageamidst the greenery of some enchanted garden. 

"Matteo!" Prada called to his coachman, "pull up at the Osteria Romana. "And to his companions he added: "Pray excuse me, but I want to see if Ican get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them. "

A few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of theroad stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous nameof "Antica Osteria Romana. " It had now become a mere house of call forcarters and chance sportsmen, who ventured to drink a flagon of whitewine whilst eating an omelet and a slice of ham. Occasionally, onSundays, some of the humble classes would walk over from Rome and makemerry there; but the week days often went by without a soul entering theplace, such was its isolation amidst the bare Campagna. 

The Count was already springing from the carriage. "I shall only be aminute, " said he as he turned away. 

The _osteria_ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upperstorey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of largeblocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entireplace, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On theground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable withadjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the onlytrees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour ofreeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as abackground to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragmentof an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space, alone interrupted the flat line of the horizon. 

All at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressingSantobono, exclaimed: "I say, Abbe, you'll surely accept a glass of whitewine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a littlewhite wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with. "

Santobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. "Oh! I knowit, " said he; "it's a wine from Marino; it's grown in a lighter soil thanours at Frascati. "

Then, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even nowcarried it along with him, the Count lost patience. "Come, you don't wantthat basket, " said he; "leave it in the carriage. "

The priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made uphis mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban_osteria_ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman, tall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, hadat once presented herself. On the last occasion when the Count had calledshe had managed to find half a dozen eggs. This time she said she wouldgo to see, but could promise nothing, for the hens laid here and thereall over the place, and she could never tell what eggs there might be. 

"All right!" Prada answered, "go and look; and meantime we will have a_caraffa_ of white wine. "

The three men entered the common room, which was already quite dark. Although the hot weather was now over, one heard the buzzing ofinnumerable flies immediately one reached the threshold, and a pungentodour of acidulous wine and rancid oil caught one at the throat. As soonas their eyes became accustomed to the dimness they were able todistinguish the spacious, blackened, malodorous chamber, whose onlyfurniture consisted of some roughly made tables and benches. It seemed tobe quite empty, so complete was the silence, apart from the buzz of theflies. However, two men were seated there, two wayfarers who remainedmute and motionless before their untouched, brimming glasses. Moreover, on a low chair near the door, in the little light which penetrated fromwithout, a thin, sallow girl, the daughter of the house, sat idle, trembling with fever, her hands close pressed between her knees. 

Realising that Pierre felt uncomfortable there, the Count proposed thatthey should drink their wine outside. "We shall be better out of doors, "said he, "it's so very in mild this evening. "

Accordingly, whilst the mother looked for the eggs, and the father mendeda wheel in an adjacent shed, the daughter was obliged to get up shiveringto carry the flagon of wine and the three glasses to the arbour, whereshe placed them on one of the tables. And, having pocketed the price ofthe wine--threepence--in silence, she went back to her seat with a sullenlook, as if annoyed at having been compelled to make such a long journey. Meanwhile the three men had sat down, and Prada gaily filled each of theglasses, although Pierre declared that he was quite unable to drink winebetween his meals. "Pooh, pooh, " said the Count, "you can always clinkglasses with us. And now, Abbe, isn't this little wine droll? Come, here's to the Pope's better health, since he's unwell!"

Santobono at one gulp emptied his glass and clacked his tongue. Withgentle, paternal care he had deposited his basket on the ground besidehim: and, taking off his hat, he drew a long breath. The evening wasreally delightful. A superb sky of a soft golden hue stretched over thatendless sea of the Campagna which was soon to fall asleep with sovereignquiescence. And the light breeze which went by amidst the deep silencebrought with it an exquisite odour of wild herbs and flowers. 

"How pleasant it is!" muttered Pierre, affected by the surrounding charm. "And what a desert for eternal rest, forgetfulness of all the world!"

Prada, who had emptied the flagon by filling Santobono's glass a secondtime, made no reply; he was silently amusing himself with an occurrencewhich at first he was the only one to observe. However, with a merryexpression of complicity, he gave the young priest a wink, and then theyboth watched the dramatic incidents of the affair. Some scraggy fowlswere wandering round them searching the yellow turf for grasshoppers; andone of these birds, a little shiny black hen with an impudent manner, hadcaught sight of the basket of figs and was boldly approaching it. Whenshe got near, however, she took fright, and retreated somewhat, with neckstiffened and head turned, so as to cast suspicious glances at the basketwith her round sparkling eye. But at last covetousness gained thevictory, for she could see one of the figs between the leaves, and so sheslowly advanced, lifting her feet very high at each step; and, all atonce, stretching out her neck, she gave the fig a formidable peck, whichripped it open and made the juice exude. 

Prada, who felt as happy as a child, was then able to give vent to thelaughter which he had scarcely been able to restrain: "Look out, Abbe, "he called, "mind your figs!"

At that very moment Santobono was finishing his second glass of wine withhis head thrown back and his eyes blissfully raised to heaven. He gave astart, looked round, and on seeing the hen at once understood theposition. And then came a terrible outburst of anger, with sweepinggestures and terrible invectives. But the hen, who was again pecking, would not be denied; she dug her beak into the fig and carried it off, flapping her wings, so quick and so comical that Prada, and Pierre aswell, laughed till tears came into their eyes, their merriment increasingat sight of the impotent fury of Santobono, who, for a moment, pursuedthe thief, threatening her with his fist. 

"Ah!" said the Count, "that's what comes of not leaving the basket in thecarriage. If I hadn't warned you the hen would have eaten all the figs. "

The priest did not reply, but, growling out vague imprecations, placedthe basket on the table, where he raised the leaves and artisticallyrearranged the fruit so as to fill up the void. Then, the harm havingbeen repaired as far as was possible, he at last calmed down. 

It was now time for them to resume their journey, for the sun was sinkingtowards the horizon, and night would soon fall. Thus the Count ended bygetting impatient. "Well, and those eggs?" he called. 

Then, as the woman did not return, he went to seek her. He entered thestable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here northere. Next he went towards the rear of the _osteria_ in order to look inthe sheds. But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short. The little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as bylightning. She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a littlestreamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak. Prada was atfirst merely astonished. He stooped and touched the hen. She was stillwarm and soft like a rag. Doubtless some apoplectic stroke had killedher. But immediately afterwards he became fearfully pale; the truthappeared to him, and turned him as cold as ice. In a moment he conjuredup everything: Leo XIII attacked by illness, Santobono hurrying toCardinal Sanguinetti for tidings, and then starting for Rome to present abasket of figs to Cardinal Boccanera. And Prada also remembered theconversation in the carriage: the possibility of the Pope's demise, thecandidates for the tiara, the legendary stories of poison which stillfostered terror in and around the Vatican; and he once more saw thepriest, with his little basket on his knees, lavishing paternal attentionon it, and he saw the little black hen pecking at the fruit and fleeingwith a fig on her beak. And now that little black hen lay there, suddenlystruck down, dead!

His conviction was immediate and absolute. But he did not have time todecide what course he should take, for a voice behind him exclaimed:"Why, it's the little hen; what's the matter with her?"

The voice was that of Pierre, who, letting Santobono climb into thecarriage alone, had in his turn come round to the rear of the house inorder to obtain a better view of the ruined aqueduct among the parasolpines. 

Prada, who shuddered as if he himself were the culprit, answered him witha lie, a lie which he did not premeditate, but to which he was impelledby a sort of instinct. "But she's dead, " he said.... "Just fancy, there was a fight. At the moment when I got here that other hen, whichyou see yonder, sprang upon this one to get the fig, which she was stillholding, and with a thrust of the beak split her head open.... Theblood's flowing, as you can see yourself. "

Why did he say these things? He himself was astonished at them whilst hewent on inventing them. Was it then that he wished to remain master ofthe situation, keep the abominable secret entirely to himself, in orderthat he might afterwards act in accordance with his own desires?Certainly his feelings partook of shame and embarrassment in presence ofthat foreigner, whilst his personal inclination for violence set someadmiration amidst the revolt of his conscience, and a covert desire arosewithin him to examine the matter from the standpoint of his interestsbefore he came to a decision. But, on the other hand, he claimed to be aman of integrity, and would assuredly not allow people to be poisoned. 

Pierre, who was compassionately inclined towards all creation, looked atthe hen with the emotion which he always felt at the sudden severance oflife. However, he at once accepted Prada's story. "Ah! those fowls!" saidhe. "They treat one another with an idiotic ferocity which even men canscarcely equal. I kept fowls at home at one time, and one of the hens nosooner hurt her leg than all the others, on seeing the blood oozing, would flock round and peck at the limb till they stripped it to thebone. "

Prada, however, did not listen, but at once went off; and it so happenedthat the woman was, on her side, looking for him in order to hand himfour eggs which, after a deal of searching, she had discovered in oddcorners about the house. The Count made haste to pay for them, and calledto Pierre, who was lingering behind: "We must look sharp! We sha'n'treach Rome now until it is quite dark. "

They found Santobono quietly waiting in the carriage, where he had againinstalled himself on the bracket with his spine resting against thebox-seat and his long legs drawn back under him, and he again had thelittle basket of figs on his knees, and clasped it with his big knottyhands as though it were something fragile and rare which the slightestjolting might damage. His cassock showed like a huge blot, and in hiscoarse ashen face, that of a peasant yet near to the wild soil and butslightly polished by a few years of theological studies, his eyes aloneseemed to live, glowing with the dark flame of a devouring passion. Onseeing him seated there in such composure Prada could not restrain aslight shudder. Then, as soon as the victoria was again rolling along theroad, he exclaimed: "Well, Abbe, that glass of wine will guarantee usagainst the malaria. The Pope would soon be cured if he could imitate ourexample. "

Santobono's only reply was a growl. He was in no mood for conversation, but wrapped himself in perfect silence, as in the night which was slowlyfalling. And Prada in his turn ceased to speak, and, with his eyes stillfixed upon the other, reflected on the course that he should follow. 

The road turned, and then the carriage rolled on and on over anotherinterminable straight highway with white paving, whose brilliancy madethe road look like a ribbon of snow stretching across the Campagna, wheredelicate shadows were slowly falling. Gloom gathered in the hollows ofthe broad undulations whence a tide of violet hue seemed to spread overthe short herbage until all mingled and the expanse became an indistinctswell of neutral hue from one to the other horizon. And the solitude wasnow yet more complete; a last indolent cart had gone by and a lasttinkling of horses' bells had subsided in the distance. There was nolonger a passer-by, no longer a beast of the fields to be seen, colourand sound died away, all forms of life sank into slumber, into the serenestillness of nihility. Some fragments of an aqueduct were still to beseen at intervals on the right hand, where they looked like portions ofgigantic millepeds severed by the scythe of time; next, on the left, cameanother tower, whose dark and ruined pile barred the sky as with a hugeblack stake; and then the remains of another aqueduct spanned the road, assuming yet greater dimensions against the sunset glow. Ah! that uniquehour, the hour of twilight in the Campagna, when all is blotted out andsimplified, the hour of bare immensity, of the infinite in its simplestexpression! There is nothing, nothing all around you, but the flat lineof the horizon with the one splotch of an isolated tower, and yet thatnothing is instinct with sovereign majesty. 

However, on the left, towards the sea, the sun was setting, descending inthe limpid sky like a globe of fire of blinding redness. It slowlyplunged beneath the horizon, and the only sign of cloud was some fieryvapour, as if indeed the distant sea had seethed at contact with thatroyal and flaming visit. And directly the sun had disappeared the heavensabove it purpled and became a lake of blood, whilst the Campagna turnedto grey. At the far end of the fading plain there remained only thatpurple lake whose brasier slowly died out behind the black arches of theaqueduct, while in the opposite direction the scattered arches remainedbright and rosy against a pewter-like sky. Then the fiery vapour wasdissipated, and the sunset ended by fading away. One by one the starscame out in the pacified vault, now of an ashen blue, while the lights ofRome, still far away on the verge of the horizon, scintillated like thelamps of light-houses. 

And Prada, amidst the dreamy silence of his companions and the infinitemelancholy of the evening and the inexpressible distress which even heexperienced, continued to ask himself what course he should adopt. Againand again he mentally repeated that he could not allow people to bepoisoned. The figs were certainly intended for Cardinal Boccanera, and onthe whole it mattered little to him whether there were a cardinal themore or the fewer in the world. Moreover, it had always seemed to himbest to let Destiny follow its course; and, infidel that he was, he sawno harm in one priest devouring another. Again, it might be dangerous forhim to intervene in that abominable affair, to mix himself up in thebase, fathomless intrigues of the black world. But on the other hand theCardinal was not the only person who lived in the Boccanera mansion, andmight not the figs go to others, might they not be eaten by people towhom no harm was intended? This idea of a treacherous chance haunted him, and in spite of every effort the figures of Benedetta and Dario rose upbefore him, returned and imposed themselves on him though he again andagain sought to banish them from his mind. What if Benedetta, what ifDario should partake of that fruit? For Benedetta he felt no fear, for heknew that she and her aunt ate their meals by themselves, and that theircuisine and the Cardinal's had nothing in common. But Dario sat at hisuncle's table every day, and for a moment Prada, pictured the youngPrince suddenly seized with a spasm, then falling, like poor MonsignorGallo, into the Cardinal's arms with livid face and receding eyes, anddying within two hours. 

But no, no! That would be frightful, he could not suffer such anabomination. And thereupon he made up his mind. He would wait till thenight had completely gathered round and would then simply take the basketfrom Santobono's lap and fling it into some dark hollow without saying aword. The priest would understand him. The other one, the youngFrenchman, would perhaps not even notice the incident. Besides, thatmattered little, for he would not even attempt to explain his action. Andhe felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw thebasket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a coupleof miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in thedarkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen. 

"We stopped too long at that _osteria_, " he suddenly exclaimed aloud, turning towards Pierre. "We sha'n't reach Rome much before six o'clock. Still you will have time to dress and join your friend. " And then withoutawaiting the young man's reply he said to Santobono: "Your figs willarrive very late, Abbe. "

"Oh!" answered the priest, "his Eminence receives until eight o'clock. And, besides, the figs are not for this evening. People don't eat figs inthe evening. They will be for to-morrow morning. " And thereupon he againrelapsed into silence. 

"For to-morrow morning--yes, yes, no doubt, " repeated Prada. "And theCardinal will be able to thoroughly regale himself if nobody helps him toeat the fruit. "

Thereupon Pierre, without pausing to reflect, exclaimed: "He will nodoubt eat it by himself, for his nephew, Prince Dario, must have startedto-day for Naples on a little convalescence trip to rid himself of theeffects of the accident which laid him up during the last month. " Then, having got so far, the young priest remembered to whom he was speaking, and abruptly stopped short. 

The Count noticed his embarrassment. "Oh! speak on, my dear MonsieurFroment, " said he, "you don't offend me. It's an old affair now. So thatyoung man has left, you say?"

"Yes, unless he has postponed his departure. However, I don't expect tofind him at the palazzo when I get there. "

For a moment the only sound was that of the continuous rumble of thewheels. Prada again felt worried, a prey to the discomfort ofuncertainty. Why should he mix himself up in the affair if Dario werereally absent? All the ideas which came to him tired his brain, and heended by thinking aloud: "If he has gone away it must be for propriety'ssake, so as to avoid attending the Buongiovanni reception, for theCongregation of the Council met this morning to give its decision in thesuit which the Countess has brought against me. Yes, I shall know by andby whether our marriage is to be dissolved. "

It was in a somewhat hoarse voice that he spoke these words, and onecould realise that the old wound was again bleeding within him. AlthoughLisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in hiswife's petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each timethat he thought of it. And all at once he shuddered violently, as if anicy blast had darted through his frame. Then, turning the conversation, he added: "It's not at all warm this evening. This is the dangerous hourof the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it's easy to catch aterrible fever if one isn't prudent. Here, pull the rug over your legs, wrap it round you as carefully as you can. "

Then, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, moreprofound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over theCampagna, now steeped in night. And at last, in the bright starlight, appeared the gate, an arch of the Acqua Felice, under which the roadpassed. From a distance, this fragment seemed to bar the way with itsmass of ancient half-fallen walls. But afterwards the gigantic arch whereall was black opened like a gaping porch. And the carriage passed underit in darkness whilst the wheels rumbled with increased sonority. 

When the victoria emerged on the other side, Santobono still had thelittle basket of figs upon his knees and Prada looked at it, quiteovercome, asking himself what sudden paralysis of the hands had preventedhim from seizing it and throwing it into the darkness. Such had stillbeen his intention but a few seconds before they passed under the arch. He had even given the basket a final glance in order that he might thebetter realise what movements he should make. What had taken place withinhim then? At present he was yielding to increasing irresolution, henceforth incapable of decisive action, feeling a need of delay in orderthat he might, before everything else, fully satisfy himself as to whatwas likely to happen. And as Dario had doubtless gone away and the figswould certainly not be eaten until the following morning, what reason wasthere for him to hurry? He would know that evening if the Congregation ofthe Council had annulled his marriage, he would know how far theso-called "Justice of God" was venal and mendacious! Certainly he wouldsuffer nobody to be poisoned, not even Cardinal Boccanera, though thelatter's life was of little account to him personally. But had not thatlittle basket, ever since leaving Frascati, been like Destiny on themarch? And was it not enjoyment, the enjoyment of omnipotence, to be ableto say to himself that he was the master who could stay that basket'scourse, or allow it to go onward and accomplish its deadly purpose?Moreover, he yielded to the dimmest of mental struggles, ceasing toreason, unable to raise his hand, and yet convinced that he would drop awarning note into the letter-box at the palazzo before he went to bed, though at the same time he felt happy in the thought that if his interestdirected otherwise he would not do so. 

And the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silent weariness, amidst the shiver of evening which seemed to have chilled all three men. In vain did the Count endeavour to escape from the battle of histhoughts, by reverting to the Buongiovanni reception, and givingparticulars of the splendours which would be witnessed at it: his wordsfell sparsely in an embarrassed and absent-minded way. Then he sought toinspirit Pierre by speaking to him of Cardinal Sanguinetti's amiablemanner and fair words, but although the young priest was returning homewell pleased with his journey, in the idea that with a little help hemight yet triumph, he scarcely answered the Count, so wrapt he was in hisreverie. And Santobono, on his side, neither spoke nor moved. Black likethe night itself, he seemed to have vanished. However, the lights of Romewere increasing in number, and houses again appeared on either hand, atfirst at long intervals, and then in close succession. They were suburbanhouses, and there were yet more fields of reeds, quickset hedges, olive-trees overtopping long walls, and big gateways with vase-surmountedpillars; but at last came the city with its rows of small grey houses, its petty shops and its dingy taverns, whence at times came shouts andrumours of battle. 

Prada insisted on setting his companions down in the Via Giulia, at fiftypaces from the palazzo. "It doesn't inconvenience me at all, " said he toPierre. "Besides, with the little time you have before you, it wouldnever do for you to go on foot. "

The Via Giulia was already steeped in slumber, and wore a melancholyaspect of abandonment in the dreary light of the gas lamps standing oneither hand. And as soon as Santobono had alighted from the carriage, hetook himself off without waiting for Pierre, who, moreover, always wentin by the little door in the side lane. 

"Good-bye, Abbe, " exclaimed Prada. 

"Good-bye, Count, a thousand thanks, " was Santobono's response. 

Then the two others stood watching him as he went towards the Boccaneramansion, whose old, monumental entrance, full of gloom, was still wideopen. For a moment they saw his tall, rugged figure erect against thatgloom. Then in he plunged, he and his little basket, bearing Destiny. 

XII. 

IT was ten o'clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe diRoma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down theCorso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficultyto reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, andthe inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway, in spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact thateven the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on thefirst floor of the long monumental facade shone with an intense whiteradiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street likesunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whosebillows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinarytumult. 

And in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniformsgo by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierresoon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness thearrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ballgiven by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of hisdaughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of hisMajesty's ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage, the happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: tobegin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of alightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over allobstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip tolip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart. 

It was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, whoalready knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince hadended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear ofseeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threatento do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contemptfor everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to becapable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Onlyindifference was manifested by the Prince's wife, a phlegmatic and stillbeautiful Englishwoman, who considered that she had done quite enough forthe household by bringing her husband a dowry of five millions, andbearing him five children. The Prince, anxious and weak despite hisviolence, in which one found a trace of the old Roman blood, alreadyspoilt by mixture with that of a foreign race, was nowadays everinfluenced in his actions by the fear that his house and fortune--whichhitherto had remained intact amidst the accumulated ruins of the_patriziato_--might suddenly collapse. And in finally yielding to Celia, he must have been guided by the idea of rallying to the new _regime_through his daughter, so as to have one foot firmly set at the Quirinal, without withdrawing the other from the Vatican. It was galling, no doubt;his pride must have bled at the idea of allying his name with that ofsuch low folks as the Saccos. But then Sacco was a minister, and had spedso quickly from success to success that it seemed likely he would riseyet higher, and, after the portfolio of Agriculture, secure that ofFinances, which he had long coveted. And an alliance with Sacco meant thecertain favour of the King, an assured retreat in that direction shouldthe papacy some day collapse. Then, too, the Prince had made inquiriesrespecting the son, and was somewhat disarmed by the good looks, bravery, and rectitude of young Attilio, who represented the future, and possiblythe glorious Italy of to-morrow. He was a soldier, and could be helpedforward to the highest rank. And people spitefully added that the lastreason which had influenced the Prince, who was very avaricious, andgreatly worried by the thought that his fortune must be divided among hisfive children, * was that an opportunity presented itself for him tobestow a ridiculously small dowry on Celia. However, having consented tothe marriage, he resolved to give a splendid _fete_, such as was nowseldom witnessed in Rome, throwing his doors open to all the rivalsections of society, inviting the sovereigns, and setting the palazzoablaze as in the grand days of old. In doing this he would necessarilyhave to expend some of the money to which he clung, but a boastful spiritincited him to show the world that he at any rate had not been vanquishedby the financial crisis, and that the Buongiovannis had nothing to hideand nothing to blush for. To tell the truth, some people asserted thatthis bravado had not originated with himself, but had been instilled intohim without his knowledge by the quiet and innocent Celia, who wished toexhibit her happiness to all applauding Rome. 

 * The Italian succession law is similar to the French. Children cannot be disinherited. All property is divided among them, and thus the piling up of large hereditary fortunes is prevented. --Trans. 

"Dear me!" said Narcisse, whom the throng prevented from advancing. "Weshall never get in. Why, they seem to have invited the whole city. " Andthen, as Pierre seemed surprised to see a prelate drive up in hiscarriage, the _attache_ added: "Oh! you will elbow more than one of themupstairs. The cardinals won't like to come on account of the presence ofthe King and Queen, but the prelates are sure to be here. This, you know, is a neutral drawing-room where the black and the white worlds canfraternise. And then too, there are so few _fetes_ that people rush onthem. "

He went on to explain that there were two grand balls at Court everywinter, but that it was only under exceptional circumstances that the_patriziato_ gave similar _galas_. Two or three of the black _salons_were opened once in a way towards the close of the Carnival, but littledances among intimates replaced the pompous entertainments of formertimes. Some princesses moreover merely had their day. And as for the fewwhite _salons_ that existed, these likewise retained the same characterof intimacy, more or less mixed, for no lady had yet become theundisputed queen of the new society. 

"Well, here we are at last, " resumed Narcisse as they eventually climbedthe stairs. 

"Let us keep together, " Pierre somewhat anxiously replied. "My onlyacquaintance is with the _fiancee_, and I want you to introduce me. "

However, a considerable effort was needed even to climb the monumentalstaircase, so great was the crush of arriving guests. Never, in the olddays of wax candles and oil lamps, had this staircase offered such ablaze of light. Electric lamps, burning in clusters in superb bronzecandelabra on the landings, steeped everything in a white radiance. Thecold stucco of the walls was hidden by a series of lofty tapestriesdepicting the story of Cupid and Psyche, marvels which had remained inthe family since the days of the Renascence. And a thick carpet coveredthe worn marble steps, whilst clumps of evergreens and tall spreadingpalms decorated every corner. An affluence of new blood warmed theantique mansion that evening; there was a resurrection of life, so tosay, as the women surged up the staircase, smiling and perfumed, bare-shouldered, and sparkling with diamonds. 

At the entrance of the first reception-room Pierre at once perceivedPrince and Princess Buongiovanni, standing side by side and receivingtheir guests. The Prince, a tall, slim man with fair complexion and hairturning grey, had the pale northern eyes of his American mother in anenergetic face such as became a former captain of the popes. ThePrincess, with small, delicate, and rounded features, looked barelythirty, though she had really passed her fortieth year. And still pretty, displaying a smiling serenity which nothing could disconcert, she purelyand simply basked in self-adoration. Her gown was of pink satin, and amarvellous parure of large rubies set flamelets about her dainty neck andin her fine, fair hair. Of her five children, her son, the eldest, wastravelling, and three of the girls, mere children, were still at school, so that only Celia was present, Celia in a modest gown of white muslin, fair like her mother, quite bewitching with her large innocent eyes andher candid lips, and retaining to the very end of her love story thesemblance of a closed lily of impenetrable, virginal mysteriousness. TheSaccos had but just arrived, and Attilio, in his simple lieutenant'suniform, had remained near his betrothed, so naively and openly delightedwith his great happiness that his handsome face, with its caressing mouthand brave eyes, was quite resplendent with youth and strength. Standingthere, near one another, in the triumph of their passion they appearedlike life's very joy and health, like the personification of hope in themorrow's promises; and the entering guests who saw them could not refrainfrom smiling and feeling moved, momentarily forgetting their loquaciousand malicious curiosity to give their hearts to those chosen ones of lovewho looked so handsome and so enraptured. 

Narcisse stepped forward in order to present Pierre, but Celiaanticipated him. Going to meet the young priest she led him to her fatherand mother, saying: "Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre Froment, a friend of my dearBenedetta. " Ceremonious salutations followed. Then the young girl, whosegraciousness greatly touched Pierre, said to him: "Benedetta is comingwith her aunt and Dario. She must be very happy this evening! And youwill also see how beautiful she will be. "

Pierre and Narcisse next began to congratulate her, but they could notremain there, the throng was ever jostling them; and the Prince andPrincess, quite lost in the crush, had barely time to answer the manysalutations with amiable, continuous nods. And Celia, after conductingthe two friends to Attilio, was obliged to return to her parents so as totake her place beside them as the little queen of the _fete_. 

Narcisse was already slightly acquainted with Attilio, and so freshcongratulations ensued. Then the two friends manoeuvred to find a spotwhere they might momentarily tarry and contemplate the spectacle whichthis first _salon_ presented. It was a vast hall, hung with green velvetbroidered with golden flowers, and contained a very remarkable collectionof weapons and armour, breast-plates, battle-axes, and swords, almost allof which had belonged to the Buongiovannis of the fifteenth and sixteenthcenturies. And amidst those stern implements of war there was a lovelysedan-chair of the last century, gilded and decorated with delicatepaintings. It was in this chair that the Prince's great-grandmother, thecelebrated Bettina, whose beauty was historical, had usually been carriedto mass. On the walls, moreover, there were numerous historicalpaintings: battles, peace congresses, and royal receptions in which theBuongiovannis had taken part, without counting the many family portraits, tall and proud figures of sea-captains, commanders in the field, greatdignitaries of the Church, prelates and cardinals, amongst whom, in theplace of honour, appeared the family pope, the white-robed Buongiovanniwhose accession to the pontifical throne had enriched a long line ofdescendants. And it was among those armours, near that coquettish sedan, and below those antique portraits, that the Saccos, husband and wife, hadin their turn just halted, at a few steps from the master and mistress ofthe house, in order to secure their share of congratulations and bows. 

"Look over there!" Narcisse whispered to Pierre, "those are the Saccos infront of us, that dark little fellow and the lady in mauve silk. "

Pierre promptly recognised the bright face and pleasant smile of Stefana, whom he had already met at old Orlando's. But he was more interested inher husband, a dark dry man, with big eyes, sallow complexion, prominentchin, and vulturine nose. Like some gay Neapolitan "Pulcinello, " he wasdancing, shouting, and displaying such infectious good humour that itspread to all around him. He possessed a wonderful gift of speech, with avoice that was unrivalled as an instrument of fascination and conquest;and on seeing how easily he ingratiated himself with the people in thatdrawing-room, one could understand his lightning-like successes in thepolitical world. He had manoeuvered with rare skill in the matter of hisson's marriage, affecting such exaggerated delicacy of feeling as to sethimself against the lovers, and declare that he would never consent totheir union, as he had no desire to be accused of stealing a dowry and atitle. As a matter of fact, he had only yielded after the Buongiovannishad given their consent, and even then he had desired to take the opinionof old Orlando, whose lofty integrity was proverbial. However, he knewright well that he would secure the old hero's approval in thisparticular affair, for Orlando made no secret of his opinion that theBuongiovannis ought to be glad to admit his grand-nephew into theirfamily, as that handsome young fellow, with brave and healthy heart, would help to regenerate their impoverished blood. And throughout thewhole affair, Sacco had shrewdly availed himself of Orlando's famousname, for ever talking of the relationship between them, and displayingfilial veneration for this glorious founder of the country, as if indeedhe had no suspicion that the latter despised and execrated him andmourned his accession to power in the conviction that he would lead Italyto shame and ruin. 

"Ah!" resumed Narcisse addressing Pierre, "he's one of those supple, practical men who care nothing for a smack in the face. It seems thatunscrupulous individuals like himself become necessary when states getinto trouble and have to pass through political, financial, and moralcrises. It is said that Sacco with his imperturbable assurance andingenious and resourceful mind has quite won the King's favour. Just lookat him! Why, with that crowd of courtiers round him, one might think himthe master of this palace!"

And indeed the guests, after passing the Prince and Princess with a bow, at once congregated around Sacco, for he represented power, emoluments, pensions, and crosses; and if folks still smiled at seeing his dark, turbulent, and scraggy figure amidst that framework of family portraitswhich proclaimed the mighty ancestry of the Buongiovannis, they none theless worshipped him as the personification of the new power, thedemocratic force which was confusedly rising even from the old Roman soilwhere the _patriziato_ lay in ruins. 

"What a crowd!" muttered Pierre. "Who are all these people?"

"Oh!" replied Narcisse, "it is a regular mixture. These people belongneither to the black nor the white world; they form a grey world as itwere. The evolution was certain; a man like Cardinal Boccanera may retainan uncompromising attitude, but a whole city, a nation can't. The Popealone will always say no and remain immutable. But everything around himprogresses and undergoes transformation, so that in spite of allresistance, Rome will become Italian in a few years' time. Even now, whenever a prince has two sons only one of them remains on the side ofthe Vatican, the other goes over to the Quirinal. People must live, yousee; and the great families threatened with annihilation have notsufficient heroism to carry obstinacy to the point of suicide. And I havealready told you that we are here on neutral ground, for PrinceBuongiovanni was one of the first to realise the necessity ofconciliation. He feels that his fortune is perishing, he does not care torisk it either in industry or in speculation, and already sees itportioned out among his five children, by whose descendants it will beyet further divided; and this is why he prudently makes advances to theKing without, however, breaking with the Pope. In this _salon_, therefore, you see a perfect picture of the _debacle_, the confusionwhich reigns in the Prince's ideas and opinions. " Narcisse paused, andthen began to name some of the persons who were coming in. "There's ageneral, " said he, "who has become very popular since his last campaignin Africa. There will be a great many military men here this evening, forall Attilio's superiors have been invited, so as to give the young man an_entourage_ of glory. Ah! and there's the German ambassador. I fancy thatnearly all the Corps Diplomatique will come on account of theirMajesties' presence. But, by way of contrast, just look at that stoutfellow yonder. He's a very influential deputy, a _parvenu_ of the newmiddle class. Thirty years ago he was merely one of Prince Albertini'sfarmers, one of those _mercanti di campagna_ who go about the environs ofRome in stout boots and a soft felt hat. And now look at that prelatecoming in--"

"Oh! I know him, " Pierre interrupted. "He's Monsignor Fornaro. "

"Exactly, Monsignor Fornaro, a personage of some importance. You told me, I remember, that he is the reporter of the Congregation in that affair ofyour book. A most delightful man! Did you see how he bowed to thePrincess? And what a noble and graceful bearing he has in his littlemantle of violet silk!"

Then Narcisse went on enumerating the princes and princesses, the dukesand duchesses, the politicians and functionaries, the diplomatists andministers, and the officers and well-to-do middle-class people, who ofthemselves made up a most wonderful medley of guests, to say nothing ofthe representatives of the various foreign colonies, English people, Americans, Germans, Spaniards, and Russians, in a word, all ancientEurope, and both Americas. And afterwards the young man reverted to theSaccos, to the little Signora Sacco in particular, in order to tellPierre of the heroic efforts which she had made to open a _salon_ for thepurpose of assisting her husband's ambition. Gentle and modest as sheseemed, she was also very shrewd, endowed with genuine qualities, Piedmontese patience and strength of resistance, orderly habits andthriftiness. And thus it was she who re-established the equilibrium inhousehold affairs which her husband by his exuberance so often disturbed. He was indeed greatly indebted to her, though nobody suspected it. At thesame time, however, she had so far failed in her attempts to establish awhite _salon_ which should take the lead in influencing opinion. Only thepeople of her own set visited her, not a single prince ever came, and herMonday dances were the same as in a score of other middle-class homes, having no brilliancy and no importance. In fact, the real white _salon_, which should guide men and things and sway all Rome was still indreamland. 

"Just notice her keen smile as she examines everything here, " resumedNarcisse. "She's teaching herself and forming plans, I'm sure of it. Nowthat she is about to be connected with a princely family she probablyhopes to receive some of the best society. "

Large as was the room, the crowd in it had by this time grown so densethat the two friends were pressed back to a wall, and felt almoststifled. The _attache_ therefore decided to lead the priest elsewhere, and as they walked along he gave him some particulars concerning thepalace, which was one of the most sumptuous in Rome, and renowned for themagnificence of its reception-rooms. Dancing took place in the picturegallery, a superb apartment more than sixty feet long, with eight windowsoverlooking the Corso; while the buffet was installed in the Hall of theAntiques, a marble hall, which among other precious things contained astatue of Venus, rivalling the one at the Capitol. Then there was a suiteof marvellous _salons_, still resplendent with ancient luxury, hung withthe rarest stuffs, and retaining some unique specimens of old-timefurniture, on which covetous antiquaries kept their eyes fixed, whilstwaiting and hoping for the inevitable future ruin. And one of theseapartments, the little Saloon of the Mirrors, was particularly famous. Ofcircular shape and Louis XV style, it was surrounded by mirrors in_rococo_ frames, extremely rich, and most exquisitely carved. 

"You will see all that by and by, " continued Narcisse. "At present we hadbetter go in here if we want to breathe a little. It is here that thearm-chairs from the adjacent gallery have been brought for theaccommodation of the ladies who desire to sit down and be seen andadmired. "

The apartment they entered was a spacious one, draped with the mostsuperb Genoese velvet, that antique _jardiniere_ velvet with pale satinground, and flowers once of dazzling brightness, whose greens and bluesand reds had now become exquisitely soft, with the subdued, faded tonesof old floral love-tokens. On the pier tables and in the cabinets allaround were some of the most precious curios in the palace, ivorycaskets, gilt and painted wood carvings, pieces of antiqueplate--briefly, a collection of marvels. And several ladies, fleeing thecrush, had already taken refuge on the numerous seats, clustering inlittle groups, and laughing and chatting with the few gentlemen who haddiscovered this retreat of grace and _galanterie_. In the bright glow ofthe lamps nothing could be more delightful than the sight of all thosebare, sheeny shoulders, and those supple necks, above whose napes werecoiled tresses of fair or raven hair. Bare arms emerged like livingflowers of flesh from amidst the mingling lace and silk of soft-huedbodices. The fans played slowly, as if to heighten the fires of theprecious stones, and at each beat wafted around an _odore di femina_blended with a predominating perfume of violets. 

"Hallo!" exclaimed Narcisse, "there's our good friend Monsignor Nanibowing to the Austrian ambassadress. "

As soon as Nani perceived the young priest and his companion he cametowards them, and the trio then withdrew into the embrasure of a windowin order that they might chat for a moment at their ease. The prelate wassmiling like one enchanted with the beauty of the _fete_, but at the sametime he retained all the serenity of innocence, as if he had not evennoticed the exhibition of bare shoulders by which he was surrounded. "Ah, my dear son!" he said to Pierre, "I am very pleased to see you! Well, andwhat do you think of our Rome when she makes up her mind to give_fetes_?"

"Why, it is superb, Monseigneur. "

Then, in an emotional manner, Nani spoke of Celia's lofty piety; and, inorder to give the Vatican the credit of this sumptuous _gala_, affectedto regard the Prince and Princess as staunch adherents of the Church, asif he were altogether unaware that the King and Queen were presentlycoming. And afterwards he abruptly exclaimed: "I have been thinking ofyou all day, my dear son. Yes, I heard that you had gone to see hisEminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. Well, and how did he receive you?"

"Oh! in a most paternal manner, " Pierre replied. "At first he made meunderstand the embarrassment in which he was placed by his position asprotector of Lourdes; but just as I was going off he showed himselfcharming, and promised me his help with a delicacy which deeply touchedme. "

"Did he indeed, my dear son? But it doesn't surprise me, his Eminence isso good-hearted!"

"And I must add, Monseigneur, that I came back with a light and hopefulheart. It now seems to me as if my suit were half gained. "

"Naturally, I understand it, " replied Nani, who was still smiling withthat keen, intelligent smile of his, sharpened by a touch of almostimperceptible irony. And after a short pause he added in a very simpleway: "The misfortune is that on the day before yesterday your book wascondemned by the Congregation of the Index, which was convoked by itsSecretary expressly for that purpose. And the judgment will be laidbefore his Holiness, for him to sign it, on the day after to-morrow. "

Pierre looked at the prelate in bewilderment. Had the old mansion fallenon his head he would not have felt more overcome. What! was it all over?His journey to Rome, the experiment he had come to attempt there, hadresulted in that defeat, of which he was thus suddenly apprised amidstthat betrothal _fete_. And he had not even been able to defend himself, he had sacrificed his time without finding any one to whom he mightspeak, before whom he might plead his cause! Anger was rising within him, and he could not prevent himself from muttering bitterly: "Ah! how I havebeen duped! And that Cardinal who said to me only this morning: 'If Godbe with you he will save you in spite of everything. ' Yes, yes, I nowunderstand him; he was juggling with words, he only desired a disaster inorder that submission might lead me to Heaven! Submit, indeed, ah! Icannot, I cannot yet! My heart is too full of indignation and grief. "

Nani examined and studied him with curiosity. "But my dear son, " he said, "nothing is final so long as the Holy Father has not signed the judgment. You have all to-morrow and even the morning of the day after before you. A miracle is always possible. " Then, lowering his voice and drawingPierre on one side whilst Narcisse in an aesthetical spirit examined theladies, he added: "Listen, I have a communication to make to you in greatsecrecy. Come and join me in the little Saloon of the Mirrors by and by, during the Cotillon. We shall be able to talk there at our ease. "

Pierre nodded, and thereupon the prelate discreetly withdrew anddisappeared in the crowd. However, the young man's ears were buzzing; hecould no longer hope; what indeed could he accomplish in one day since hehad lost three months without even being able to secure an audience withthe Pope? And his bewilderment increased as he suddenly heard Narcissespeaking to him of art. "It's astonishing how the feminine figure hasdeteriorated in these dreadful democratic days. It's all fat and horriblycommon. Not one of those women yonder shows the Florentine contour, withsmall bosom and slender, elegant neck. Ah! that one yonder isn't so badperhaps, the fair one with her hair coiled up, whom Monsignor Fornaro hasjust approached. "

For a few minutes indeed Monsignor Fornaro had been fluttering frombeauty to beauty, with an amiable air of conquest. He looked superb thatevening with his lofty decorative figure, blooming cheeks, and victoriousaffability. No unpleasant scandal was associated with his name; he wassimply regarded as a prelate of gallant ways who took pleasure in thesociety of ladies. And he paused and chatted, and leant over their bareshoulders with laughing eyes and humid lips as if experiencing a sort ofdevout rapture. However, on perceiving Narcisse whom he occasionally met, he at once came forward and the _attache_ had to bow to him. "You havebeen in good health I hope, Monseigneur, since I had the honour of seeingyou at the embassy. "

"Oh! yes, I am very well, very well indeed. What a delightful _fete_, isit not?"

Pierre also had bowed. This was the man whose report had brought aboutthe condemnation of his book; and it was with resentment that he recalledhis caressing air and charming greeting, instinct with such lyingpromise. However, the prelate, who was very shrewd, must have guessedthat the young priest was already acquainted with the decision of theCongregation, and have thought it more dignified to abstain from openrecognition; for on his side he merely nodded and smiled at him. "What anumber of people!" he went on, "and how many charming persons there are!It will soon be impossible for one to move in this room. "

All the seats in fact were now occupied by ladies, and what with thestrong perfume of violets and the exhalations of warm necks and shouldersthe atmosphere was becoming most oppressive. The fans flapped morebriskly, and clear laughter rang out amidst a growing hubbub ofconversation in which the same words constantly recurred. Some news, doubtless, had just arrived, some rumour was being whispered from groupto group, throwing them all into feverish excitement. As it happened, Monsignor Fornaro, who was always well informed, desired to be theproclaimer of this news, which nobody as yet had ventured to announcealoud. 

"Do you know what is exciting them all?" he inquired. 

"Is it the Holy Father's illness?" asked Pierre in his anxiety. "Is heworse this evening?"

The prelate looked at him in astonishment, and then somewhat impatientlyreplied: "Oh, no, no. His Holiness is much better, thank Heaven. A personbelonging to the Vatican was telling me just now that he was able to getup this afternoon and receive his intimates as usual. "

"All the same, people have been alarmed, " interrupted Narcisse. "I mustconfess that we did not feel easy at the embassy, for a Conclave at thepresent time would be a great worry for France. She would exercise noinfluence at it. It is a great mistake on the part of our RepublicanGovernment to treat the Holy See as of no importance! However, can oneever tell whether the Pope is ill or not? I know for a certainty that hewas nearly carried off last winter when nobody breathed a word about anyillness, whereas on the last occasion when the newspapers killed him andtalked about a dreadful attack of bronchitis, I myself saw him quitestrong and in the best of spirits! His reported illnesses are merematters of policy, I fancy. "*

 * There is much truth in this; but the reader must not imagine that the Pope is never ill. At his great age, indispositions are only natural. --Trans. 

With a hasty gesture, however, Monsignor Fornaro brushed this importunatesubject aside. "No, no, " said he, "people are tranquillised and no longertalk of it. What excites all those ladies is that the Congregation of theCouncil to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a greatmajority. "

Again did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see anymembers of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he fearedthat the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave hisword of honour that things were as he stated. "The news is certain, " hedeclared. "I had it from a member of the Congregation. " And then, all atonce, he apologised and hurried off: "Excuse me but I see a lady whom Ihad not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her. "

He at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sitdown, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallantcourtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with apearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin. 

"You know that person, don't you?" Narcisse inquired of Pierre. "No!Really? Why, that is Count Prada's _inamorata_, the charming LisbethKauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It's her first appearance insociety since that event. She's a German, you know, and lost her husbandhere. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal isforgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one isparticularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which shereceives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As youmay imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuseher!"

She looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, withsatiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, whichwas renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silkspangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, sosecurely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and wasloved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarksexchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to herpersonal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talkedof the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood theChurch solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there camestifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolentserenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of MonsignorFornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily, which she had lately sent to a fine-art show. 

Ah! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Romewith scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of itstermination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds hadlong chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander, endless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;the Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage nulland void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome wouldlaugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed assoon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. Theincidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada's feelingsrevolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, theBoccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the moneywhich they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinalsin order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they hadindirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma. People said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs hadbeen expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known Frenchcountess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount tosecure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father's needwas so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; itmerely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued wavingin the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as thewhispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders. 

"Oh! how pleased the Contessina must be!" Pierre resumed. "I did notunderstand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying whenwe came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It isdoubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloisteringherself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning. "

However, Lisbeth's eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as shesmiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her, for, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her throughhaving visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a freshoutburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowersadorning the ladies' hair. People turned to see what was the matter, andagain did the hubbub increase. "Ah! it's Count Prada in person!" murmuredNarcisse, with an admiring glance. "He has a fine bearing, whatever folksmay say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid, unscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!"

Prada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant. And above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, hereally had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, sterneyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Neverhad a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth ofhis voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, divedinto their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, andfair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up toher, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent, inquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornarohad made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a lowtone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for ashe again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and madean involuntary gesture. 

However, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasureof the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he saidto the young priest with all his wonted _bravura_: "You recollect what Itold you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it's done, it seems, they've annulled my marriage. It's such an impudent, such an imbeciledecision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!"

"Oh! the news is certain, " Pierre made bold to reply. "It has just beenconfirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of theCongregation. And it is said that the majority was very large. "

Prada again shook with laughter. "No, no, " said he, "such a farce isbeyond belief! It's the finest smack given to justice and common-sensethat I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civilcourts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shallamuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I'd marry her at Santa MariaMaggiore with all possible pomp. And there's a dear little being in theworld who would take part in the _fete_ in his nurse's arms!"

He laughed too loud as he spoke, alluded in too brutal a fashion to hischild, that living proof of his manhood. Was it suffering that made hislips curve upwards and reveal his white teeth? It could be divined thathe was quivering, fighting against an awakening of covert, tumultuouspassion, which he would not acknowledge even to himself. 

"And you, my dear Abbe?" he hastily resumed. "Do you know the otherreport? Do you know that the Countess is coming here?" It was thus, byforce of habit, that he designated Benedetta, forgetting that she was nolonger his wife. 

"Yes, I have just been told so, " Pierre replied; and then he hesitatedfor a moment before adding, with a desire to prevent any disagreeablesurprise: "And we shall no doubt see Prince Dario also, for he has notstarted for Naples as I told you. Something prevented his departure atthe last moment, I believe. At least so I gathered from a servant. "

Prada no longer laughed. His face suddenly became grave, and he contentedhimself with murmuring: "Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well, we shall see them, we shall see them both!"

Then, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as ifserious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making agesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which hestood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf onwhich, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightlyenlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: "A legend avers that the figtree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for himwho may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give themeither to your servants or your fowls. " Then he folded the paper, fastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: "To hismost Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera. " Andwhen he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breathand once more called back his laugh. 

A kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozenhim. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had feltthe need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, anypossible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas hadinduced him to write those four lines without a moment's delay, on thevery spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a greatcatastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that onleaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note intothe letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was oncemore easy in mind. 

"Why, what is the matter with you, my dear Abbe?" he inquired on againjoining in the conversation of the two friends. "You are quite gloomy. "And on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, thecondemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him foraction if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, hebegan to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in orderto continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. "Never mind, never mind, don't worry yourself, " said he, "one loses all one's strength byworrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day. An hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat intovictory!" He grew feverish as he spoke, and all at once added, "Come, let's go to the ball-room. It seems that the scene there is somethingprodigious. "

Then he exchanged a last loving glance with Lisbeth whilst Pierre andNarcisse followed him, the three of them extricating themselves fromtheir corner with the greatest difficulty, and then wending their waytowards the adjoining gallery through a sea of serried skirts, a billowyexpanse of necks and shoulders whence ascended the passion which makeslife, the odour alike of love and of death. 

With its eight windows overlooking the Corso, their panes uncurtained andthrowing a blaze of light upon the houses across the road, the picturegallery, sixty-five feet in length and more than thirty in breadth, spread out with incomparable splendour. The illumination was dazzling. Clusters of electric lamps had changed seven pairs of huge marblecandelabra into gigantic _torcheres_, akin to constellations; and allalong the cornice up above, other lamps set in bright-hued floral glassesformed a marvellous garland of flaming flowers: tulips, paeonies, androses. The antique red velvet worked with gold, which draped the walls, glowed like a furnace fire. About the doors and windows there werehangings of old lace broidered with flowers in coloured silk whose hueshad the very intensity of life. But the sight of sights beneath thesumptuous panelled ceiling adorned with golden roses, the uniquespectacle of a richness not to be equalled, was the collection ofmasterpieces such as no museum could excel. There were works of Raffaelleand Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, Velasquez and Ribera, famous workswhich in this unexpected illumination suddenly showed forth, triumphantwith youth regained, as if awakened to the immortal life of genius. And, as their Majesties would not arrive before midnight, the ball had justbeen opened, and flights of soft-hued gowns were whirling in a waltz pastall the pompous throng, the glittering jewels and decorations, thegold-broidered uniforms and the pearl-broidered robes, whilst silk andsatin and velvet spread and overflowed upon every side. 

"It is prodigious, really!" declared Prada with his excited air; "let usgo this way and place ourselves in a window recess again. There is nobetter spot for getting a good view without being too much jostled. "

They lost Narcisse somehow or other, and on reaching the desired recessfound themselves but two, Pierre and the Count. The orchestra, installedon a little platform at the far end of the gallery, had just finished thewaltz, and the dancers, with an air of giddy rapture, were slowly walkingthrough the crowd when a fresh arrival caused every head to turn. DonnaSerafina, arrayed in a robe of purple silk as if she had worn the coloursof her brother the Cardinal, was making a royal entry on the arm ofConsistorial-Advocate Morano. And never before had she laced herself sotightly, never had her waist looked so slim and girlish; and never hadher stern, wrinkled face, which her white hair scarcely softened, expressed such stubborn and victorious domination. A discreet murmur ofapproval ran round, a murmur of public relief as it were, for all Romansociety had condemned the unworthy conduct of Morano in severing aconnection of thirty years to which the drawing-rooms had grown asaccustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted fortwo months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long andfaithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched everyheart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victorywhich the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta'smarriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm, nothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorumwas preserved and good order re-established. 

But there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seento enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference forthe ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage withPrada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebratedbefore one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of thebravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst amurmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio, all hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondroushappiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale afterhis long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with thefine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god, bore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood ofthe Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under hercasque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile, that smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistiblyfascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to hersomewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomlesseyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth andhappiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown, a plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that shehad remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of herchoice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom orshoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, thesovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled withwhite. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. Therewas simply a necklace falling about her _corsage_, but a necklace fit forroyalty, the famous pearl necklace of the Boccaneras, which she hadinherited from her mother, and which was known to all Rome--pearls offabulous size cast negligently about her neck, and sufficing, simply asshe was gowned, to make her queen of all. 

"Oh!" murmured Pierre in ecstasy, "how happy and how beautiful she is!"

But he at once regretted that he had expressed his thoughts aloud, forbeside him he heard a low plaint, an involuntary growl which reminded himof the Count's presence. However, Prada promptly stifled this cry ofreturning anguish, and found strength enough to affect a brutish gaiety:"The devil!" said he, "they have plenty of impudence. I hope we shall seethem married and bedded at once!" Then regretting this coarse jest whichhad been prompted by the revolt of passion, he sought to appearindifferent: "She looks very nice this evening, " he said; "she has thefinest shoulders in the world, you know, and its a real success for herto hide them and yet appear more beautiful than ever. "

He went on speaking, contriving to assume an easy tone, and givingvarious little particulars about the Countess as he still obstinatelycalled the young woman. However, he had drawn rather further into therecess, for fear, no doubt, that people might remark his pallor, and thepainful twitch which contracted his mouth. He was in no state to fight, to show himself gay and insolent in presence of the joy which the loversso openly and naively expressed. And he was glad of the respite which thearrival of the King and Queen at this moment offered him. "Ah! here aretheir Majesties!" he exclaimed, turning towards the window. "Look at thescramble in the street!"

Although the windows were closed, a tumult could be heard rising from thefootways. And Pierre on looking down saw, by the light of the electriclamps, a sea of human heads pour over the road and encompass thecarriages. He had several times already seen the King during the latter'sdaily drives to the grounds of the Villa Borghese, whither he came likeany private gentleman--unguarded, unescorted, with merely an aide-de-campaccompanying him in his victoria. At other times he drove a light phaetonwith only a footman in black livery to attend him. And on one occasionPierre had seen him with the Queen, the pair of them seated side by sidelike worthy middle-class folks driving abroad for pleasure. And, as theroyal couple went by, the busy people in the streets and the promenadersin the public gardens contented themselves with wafting them anaffectionate wave of the hand, the most expansive simply approaching tosmile at them, and no one importuning them with acclamations. Pierre, whoharboured the traditional idea of kings closely guarded and passingprocessionally with all the accompaniment of military pomp, was thereforegreatly surprised and touched by the amiable _bonhomie_ of this royalpair, who went wherever they listed in full security amidst the smilingaffection of their people. Everybody, moreover, had told him of theKing's kindliness and simplicity, his desire for peace, and his passionfor sport, solitude, and the open air, which, amidst the worries ofpower, must often have made him dream of a life of freedom far from theimperious duties of royalty for which he seemed unfitted. * But the Queenwas yet more tenderly loved. So naturally and serenely virtuous that shealone remained ignorant of the scandals of Rome, she was also a woman ofgreat culture and great refinement, conversant with every field ofliterature, and very happy in being so intelligent, so superior to thosearound her--a pre-eminence which she realised and which she was fond ofshowing, but in the most natural and most graceful of ways. 

 * King Humbert inherited these tastes from his father Victor Emanuel, who was likewise a great sportsman and had a perfect horror of court life, pageantry, and the exigencies of politics. --Trans. 

Like Pierre, Prada had remained with his face to the window, and suddenlypointing to the crowd he said: "Now that they have seen the Queen theywill go to bed well pleased. And there isn't a single police agent there, I'm sure. Ah! to be loved, to be loved!" Plainly enough his distress ofspirit was coming back, and so, turning towards the gallery again, hetried to play the jester. "Attention, my dear Abbe, we mustn't miss theirMajesties' entry. That will be the finest part of the _fete_!"

A few minutes went by, and then, in the very midst of a polka, theorchestra suddenly ceased playing. But a moment afterwards, with all theblare of its brass instruments, it struck up the Royal March. The dancersfled in confusion, the centre of the gallery was cleared, and the Kingand Queen entered, escorted by the Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, whohad received them at the foot of the staircase. The King was in ordinaryevening dress, while the Queen wore a robe of straw-coloured satin, covered with superb white lace; and under the diadem of brilliants whichencircled her beautiful fair hair, she looked still young, with a freshand rounded face, whose expression was all amiability, gentleness, andwit. The music was still sounding with the enthusiastic violence ofwelcome. Behind her father and mother, Celia appeared amidst the press ofpeople who were following to see the sight; and then came Attilio, theSaccos, and various relatives and official personages. And, pending thetermination of the Royal March, only salutations, glances, and smileswere exchanged amidst the sonorous music and dazzling light; whilst allthe guests crowded around on tip-toe, with outstretched necks andglittering eyes--a rising tide of heads and shoulders, flashing with thefires of precious stones. 

At last the march ended and the presentations began. Their Majesties werealready acquainted with Celia, and congratulated her with quiteaffectionate kindliness. However, Sacco, both as minister and father, wasparticularly desirous of presenting his son Attilio. He bent his supplespine, and summoned to his lips the fine words which were appropriate, insuch wise that he contrived to make the young man bow to the King in thecapacity of a lieutenant in his Majesty's army, whilst his homage as ahandsome young man, so passionately loved by his betrothed was reservedfor Queen Margherita. Again did their Majesties show themselves verygracious, even towards the Signora Sacco who, ever modest and prudent, had remained in the background. And then occurred an incident that wasdestined to give rise to endless gossip. Catching sight of Benedetta, whom Count Prada had presented to her after his marriage, the Queen, whogreatly admired her beauty and charm of manner, addressed her a smile insuch wise that the young woman was compelled to approach. A conversationof some minutes' duration ensued, and the Contessina was favoured withsome extremely amiable expressions which were perfectly audible to allaround. Most certainly the Queen was ignorant of the event of the day, the dissolution of Benedetta's marriage with Prada, and her coming unionwith Dario so publicly announced at this _gala_, which now seemed to havebeen given to celebrate a double betrothal. Nevertheless thatconversation caused a deep impression; the guests talked of nothing butthe compliments which Benedetta had received from the most virtuous andintelligent of queens, and her triumph was increased by it all, shebecame yet more beautiful and more victorious amidst the happiness shefelt at being at last able to bestow herself on the spouse of her choice, that happiness which made her look so radiant. 

But, on the other hand, the torture which Prada experienced now becameintense. Whilst the sovereigns continued conversing, the Queen with theladies who came to pay her their respects, the King with the officers, diplomatists, and other important personages who approached him, Pradasaw none but Benedetta--Benedetta congratulated, caressed, exalted byaffection and glory. Dario was near her, flushing with pleasure, radiantlike herself. It was for them that this ball had been given, for themthat the lamps shone out, for them that the music played, for them thatthe most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned themwith precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered tothe strains of the Royal March, for them that the _fete_ was becominglike an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling, appearing at that betrothal _gala_ like the good fairy of the nurserytales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, thiswondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained theirapogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that womanwho had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who nowwas about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insultingvictory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely didhis pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of theSaccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the roughconquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightfulclimate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such asensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati inconnection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised thathis millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things weregoing badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening, amidst that _fete_ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the daylike one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pouncedupon under the flaming sun. 

And the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King, allying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Romanaristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the nationalfunds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome andItaly--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey, for the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he werebeing pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled andescaped him, Sacco stole his millions, and Benedetta tortured his flesh, stirring up that awful wound of unsatisfied passion which never would behealed. 

Again did Pierre hear that dull plaint, that involuntary despairinggrowl, which had upset him once before. And he looked at the Count, andasked him: "Are you suffering?" But on seeing how livid was the face ofPrada, who only retained his calmness by a superhuman effort, heregretted his indiscreet question, which, moreover, remained unanswered. And then to put the other more at ease, the young priest went onspeaking, venting the thoughts which the sight before him inspired: "Yourfather was right, " said he, "we Frenchmen whose education is so full ofthe Catholic spirit, even in these days of universal doubt, we neverthink of Rome otherwise than as the old Rome of the popes. We scarcelyknow, we can scarcely understand the great changes which, year by year, have brought about the Italian Rome of the present day. Why, when Iarrived here, the King and his government and the young nation working tomake a great capital for itself, seemed to me of no account whatever!Yes, I dismissed all that, thought nothing of it, in my dream ofresuscitating a Christian and evangelical Rome, which should assure thehappiness of the world. "

He laughed as he spoke, pitying his own artlessness, and then pointedtowards the gallery where Prince Buongiovanni was bowing to the Kingwhilst the Princess listened to the gallant remarks of Sacco: a scenefull of symbolism, the old papal aristocracy struck down, the _parvenus_accepted, the black and white worlds so mixed together that one and allwere little else than subjects, on the eve of forming but one unitednation. That conciliation between the Quirinal and the Vatican which inprinciple was regarded as impossible, was it not in practice fatal, inface of the evolution which went on day by day? People must go on living, loving, and creating life throughout the ages. And the marriage ofAttilio and Celia would be the symbol of the needful union: youth andlove triumphing over ancient hatred, all quarrels forgotten as a handsomelad goes by, wins a lovely girl, and carries her off in his arms in orderthat the world may last. 

"Look at them!" resumed Pierre, "how handsome and young and gay both the_fiances_ are, all confidence in the future. Ah! I well understand thatyour King should have come here to please his minister and win one of theold Roman families over to his throne; it is good, brave, and fatherlypolicy. But I like to think that he has also realised the touchingsignificance of that marriage--old Rome, in the person of that candid, loving child giving herself to young Italy, that upright, enthusiasticyoung man who wears his uniform so jauntily. And may their nuptials bedefinitive and fruitful; from them and from all the others may therearise the great nation which, now that I begin to know you, I trust youwill soon become!"

Amidst the tottering of his former dream of an evangelical and universalRome, Pierre expressed these good wishes for the Eternal City's futurefortune with such keen and deep emotion that Prada could not helpreplying: "I thank you; that wish of yours is in the heart of every goodItalian. "

But his voice quavered, for even whilst he was looking at Celia andAttilio, who stood smiling and talking together, he saw Benedetta andDario approach them, wearing the same joyful expression of perfecthappiness. And when the two couples were united, so radiant and sotriumphant, so full of superb and happy life, he no longer had strengthto stay there, see them, and suffer. 

"I am frightfully thirsty, " he hoarsely exclaimed. "Let's go to thebuffet to drink something. " And, thereupon, in order to avoid notice, heso manoeuvred as to glide behind the throng, skirting the windows in thedirection of the entrance to the Hall of the Antiques, which was beyondthe gallery. 

Whilst Pierre was following him they were parted by an eddy of the crowd, and the young priest found himself carried towards the two loving coupleswho still stood chatting together. And Celia, on recognising him, beckoned to him in a friendly way. With her passionate cult for beauty, she was enraptured with the appearance of Benedetta, before whom shejoined her little lily hands as before the image of the Madonna. "Oh!Monsieur l'Abbe, " said she, "to please me now, do tell her how beautifulshe is, more beautiful than anything on earth, more beautiful than eventhe sun, and the moon and stars. If you only knew, my dear, it makes mequiver to see you so beautiful as that, as beautiful as happiness, asbeautiful as love itself!"

Benedetta began to laugh, while the two young men made merry. "But youare as beautiful as I am, darling, " said the Contessina. "And if we arebeautiful it is because we are happy. "

"Yes, yes, happy, " Celia gently responded. "Do you remember the eveningwhen you told me that one didn't succeed in marrying the Pope and theKing? But Attilio and I are marrying them, and yet we are very happy. "

"But we don't marry them, Dario and I! On the contrary!" said Benedettagaily. "No matter; as you answered me that same evening, it is sufficientthat we should love one another, love saves the world. "

When Pierre at last succeeded in reaching the door of the Hall of theAntiques, where the buffet was installed, he found Prada there, motionless, gazing despite himself on the galling spectacle which hedesired to flee. A power stronger than his will had kept him there, forcing him to turn round and look, and look again. And thus, with ableeding heart, he still lingered and witnessed the resumption of thedancing, the first figure of a quadrille which the orchestra began toplay with a lively flourish of its brass instruments. Benedetta andDario, Celia and Attilio were _vis-à-vis_. And so charming anddelightful was the sight which the two couples presented dancing in thewhite blaze, all youth and joy, that the King and Queen drew near to themand became interested. And soon bravos of admiration rang out, while fromevery heart spread a feeling of infinite tenderness. 

"I'm dying of thirst, let's go!" repeated Prada, at last managing towrench himself away from the torturing sight. 

He called for some iced lemonade and drank the glassful at one draught, gulping it down with the greedy eagerness of a man stricken with fever, who will never more be able to quench the burning fire within him. 

The Hall of the Antiques was a spacious room with mosaic pavement, anddecorations of stucco; and a famous collection of vases, bas-reliefs, andstatues, was disposed along its walls. The marbles predominated, butthere were a few bronzes, and among them a dying gladiator of extremebeauty. The marvel however was the famous statue of Venus, a companion tothat of the Capitol, but with a more elegant and supple figure and withthe left arm falling loosely in a gesture of voluptuous surrender. Thatevening a powerful electric reflector threw a dazzling light upon thestatue, which, in its divine and pure nudity, seemed to be endowed withsuperhuman, immortal life. Against the end-wall was the buffet, a longtable covered with an embroidered cloth and laden with fruit, pastry, andcold meats. Sheaves of flowers rose up amidst bottles of champagne, hotpunch, and iced _sorbetto_, and here and there were marshalled armies ofglasses, tea-cups, and broth-bowls, a perfect wealth of sparklingcrystal, porcelain, and silver. And a happy innovation had been to fillhalf of the hall with rows of little tables, at which the guests, in lieuof being obliged to refresh themselves standing, were able to sit downand order what they desired as in a cafe. 

At one of these little tables, Pierre perceived Narcisse seated near ayoung woman, whom Prada, on approaching, recognised to be Lisbeth. "Youfind me, you see, in delightful company, " gallantly exclaimed the_attache_. "As we lost one another, I could think of nothing better thanof offering madame my arm to bring her here. "

"It was, in fact, a good idea, " said Lisbeth with her pretty laugh, "forI was feeling very thirsty. "

They had ordered some iced coffee, which they were slowly sipping out oflittle silver-gilt spoons. 

"I have a terrible thirst, too, " declared the Count, "and I can't quenchit. You will allow us to join you, will you not, my dear sir? Some ofthat coffee will perhaps calm me. " And then to Lisbeth he added, "Ah! mydear, allow me to introduce to you Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, a youngFrench priest of great distinction. "

Then for a long time they all four remained seated at that table, chatting and making merry over certain of the guests who went by. Prada, however, in spite of his usual gallantry towards Lisbeth, frequentlybecame absent-minded; at times he quite forgot her, being again masteredby his anguish, and, in spite of all his efforts, his eyes ever turnedtowards the neighbouring gallery whence the sound of music and dancingreached him. 

"Why, what are you thinking of, _caro mio_?" Lisbeth asked in her prettyway, on seeing him at one moment so pale and lost. "Are you indisposed?"

He did not reply, however, but suddenly exclaimed, "Ah! look there, that's the real pair, there's real love and happiness for you!"

With a jerk of the hand he designated Dario's mother, the MarchionessMontefiori and her second husband, Jules Laporte--that ex-sergeant of thepapal Swiss Guard, her junior by fifteen years, whom she had one dayhooked at the Corso with her eyes of fire, which yet had remained superb, and whom she had afterwards triumphantly transformed into a MarquisMontefiori in order to have him entirely to herself. Such was her passionthat she never relaxed her hold on him whether at ball or reception, but, despite all usages, kept him beside her, and even made him escort her tothe buffet, so much did she delight in being able to exhibit him and saythat this handsome man was her own exclusive property. And standing thereside by side, the pair of them began to drink champagne and eatsandwiches, she yet a marvel of massive beauty although she was overfifty, and he with long wavy moustaches, and proud bearing, like afortunate adventurer whose jovial impudence pleased the ladies. 

"You know that she had to extricate him from a nasty affair, " resumed theCount in a lower tone. "Yes, he travelled in relics; he picked up aliving by supplying relics on commission to convents in France andSwitzerland; and he had launched quite a business in false relics withthe help of some Jews here who concocted little ancient reliquaries outof mutton bones, with everything sealed and signed by the most genuineauthorities. The affair was hushed up, as three prelates were alsocompromised in it! Ah! the happy man! Do you see how she devours him withher eyes? And he, doesn't he look quite a _grand seigneur_ by the mereway in which he holds that plate for her whilst she eats the breast of afowl out of it!"

Then, in a rough way and with biting irony, he went on to speak of the_amours_ of Rome. The Roman women, said he, were ignorant, obstinate, andjealous. When a woman had managed to win a man, she kept him for ever, hebecame her property, and she disposed of him as she pleased. By way ofproof, he cited many interminable _liaisons_, such as that of DonnaSerafina and Morano which, in time became virtual marriages; and hesneered at such a lack of fancy, such an excess of fidelity whose onlyending, when it did end, was some very disagreeable unpleasantness. 

At this, Lisbeth interrupted him. "But what is the matter with you thisevening, my dear?" she asked with a laugh. "What you speak of is on thecontrary very nice and pretty! When a man and a woman love one anotherthey ought to do so for ever!"

She looked delightful as she spoke, with her fine wavy blonde hair anddelicate fair complexion; and Narcisse with a languorous expression inhis half-closed eyes compared her to a Botticelli which he had seen atFlorence. However, the night was now far advanced, and Pierre had oncemore sunk into gloomy thoughtfulness when he heard a passing lady remarkthat they had already begun to dance the Cotillon in the gallery; andthereupon he suddenly remembered that Monsignor Nani had given him anappointment in the little Saloon of the Mirrors. 

"Are you leaving?" hastily inquired Prada on seeing him rise and bow toLisbeth. 

"No, no, not yet, " Pierre answered. 

"Oh! all right. Don't go away without me. I want to walk a little, andI'll see you home. It's agreed, eh? You will find me here. "

The young priest had to cross two rooms, one hung with yellow and theother with blue, before he at last reached the mirrored _salon_. This wasreally an exquisite example of the _rococo_ style, a rotunda as it wereof pale mirrors framed with superb gilded carvings. Even the ceiling wascovered with mirrors disposed slantwise so that on every side thingsmultiplied, mingled, and appeared under all possible aspects. Discreetlyenough no electric lights had been placed in the room, the onlyillumination being that of some pink tapers burning in a pair ofcandelabra. The hangings and upholstery were of soft blue silk, and theimpression on entering was very sweet and charming, as if one had foundoneself in the abode of some fairy queen of the rills, a palace of limpidwater, illumined to its farthest depths by clusters of stars. 

Pierre at once perceived Monsignor Nani, who was sitting on a low couch, and, as the prelate had hoped, he was quite alone, for the Cotillon hadattracted almost everybody to the picture gallery. And the silence in thelittle _salon_ was nearly perfect, for at that distance the blare of theorchestra subsided into a faint, flute-like murmur. The young priest atonce apologised to the prelate for having kept him waiting. 

"No, no, my dear son, " said Nani, with his inexhaustible amiability. "Iwas very comfortable in this retreat--when the press of the crowd becameover-threatening I took refuge here. " He did not speak of the King andQueen, but he allowed it to be understood that he had politely avoidedtheir company. If he had come to the _fete_ it was on account of hissincere affection for Celia and also with a very delicate diplomaticobject, for the Church wished to avoid any appearance of having entirelybroken with the Buongiovanni family, that ancient house which was sofamous in the annals of the papacy. Doubtless the Vatican was unable tosubscribe to this marriage which seemed to unite old Rome with the youngKingdom of Italy, but on the other hand it did not desire people to thinkthat it abandoned old and faithful supporters and took no interest inwhat befell them. 

"But come, my dear son, " the prelate resumed, "it is you who are now inquestion. I told you that although the Congregation of the Index hadpronounced itself for the condemnation of your book, the sentence wouldonly be submitted to the Holy Father and signed by him on the day afterto-morrow. So you still have a whole day before you. "

At this Pierre could not refrain from a dolorous and vivaciousinterruption. 

"Alas! Monseigneur, what can I do?" said he; "I have thought it all over, and I see no means, no opportunity of defending myself. How could I evensee his Holiness now that he is so ill?"

"Oh! ill, ill!" muttered Nani with his shrewd expression. "His Holinessis ever so much better, for this very day, like every other Wednesday, Ihad the honour to be received by him. When his Holiness is a little tiredand people say that he is very ill, he often lets them do so, for itgives him a rest and enables him to judge certain ambitions andmanifestations of impatience around him. "

Pierre, however, was too upset to listen attentively. "No, it's allover, " he continued, "I'm in despair. You spoke to me of the possibilityof a miracle, but I am no great believer in miracles. Since I am defeatedhere at Rome, I shall go away, I shall return to Paris, and continue thestruggle there. Oh! I cannot resign myself, my hope in salvation by thepractice of love cannot die, and I shall answer my denouncers in a newbook, in which I shall tell in what new soil the new religion will growup!"

Silence fell. Nani looked at him with his clear eyes in whichintelligence shone distinct and sharp like steel. And amidst the deepcalm, the warm heavy atmosphere of the little _salon_, whose mirrors werestarred with countless reflections of candles, a more sonorous burst ofmusic was suddenly wafted from the gallery, a rhythmical waltz melody, which slowly expanded, then died away. 

"My dear son, " said Nani, "anger is always harmful. You remember that onyour arrival here I promised that if your own efforts to obtain aninterview with the Holy Father should prove unavailing, I would myselfendeavour to secure an audience for you. " Then, seeing how agitated theyoung priest was getting, he went on: "Listen to me and don't exciteyourself. His Holiness, unfortunately, is not always prudently advised. Around him are persons whose devotion, however great, is at timesdeficient in intelligence. I told you that, and warned you againstinconsiderate applications. And this is why, already three weeks ago, Imyself handed your book to his Holiness in the hope that he would deignto glance at it. I rightly suspected that it had not been allowed toreach him. And this is what I am instructed to tell you: his Holiness, who has had the great kindness to read your book, expressly desires tosee you. "

A cry of joy and gratitude died away in Pierre's throat: "Ah!Monseigneur. Ah! Monseigneur!"

But Nani quickly silenced him and glanced around with an expression ofkeen anxiety as if he feared that some one might hear them. "Hush! Hush!"said he, "it is a secret. His Holiness wishes to see you privately, without taking anybody else into his confidence. Listen attentively. Itis now two o'clock in the morning. Well, this very day, at nine in theevening precisely, you must present yourself at the Vatican and at everydoor ask for Signor Squadra. You will invariably be allowed to pass. Signor Squadra will be waiting for you upstairs, and will introduce you. And not a word, mind; not a soul must have the faintest suspicion ofthese things. "

Pierre's happiness and gratitude at last flowed forth. He had caught holdof the prelate's soft, plump hands, and stammered, "Ah! Monseigneur, howcan I express my gratitude to you? If you only knew how full my soul wasof night and rebellion since I realised that I had been a mere playthingin the hands of those powerful cardinals. But you have saved me, andagain I feel sure that I shall win the victory, for I shall at last beable to fling myself at the feet of his Holiness the father of all truthand all justice. He can but absolve me, I who love him, I who admire him, I who have never battled for aught but his own policy and most cherishedideas. No, no, it is impossible; he will not sign that judgment; he willnot condemn my book!"

Releasing his hands, Nani sought to calm him with a fatherly gesture, whilst retaining a faint smile of contempt for such a useless expenditureof enthusiasm. At last he succeeded, and begged him to retire. Theorchestra was again playing more loudly in the distance. And when theyoung priest at last withdrew, thanking him once more, he said verysimply, "Remember, my dear son, that only obedience is great. "

Pierre, whose one desire now was to take himself off, found Prada almostimmediately afterwards in the first reception-room. Their Majesties hadjust left the ball in grand ceremony, escorted to the threshold by theBuongiovannis and the Saccos. And before departing the Queen hadmaternally kissed Celia, whilst the King shook hands withAttilio--honours instinct with a charming good nature which made themembers of both families quite radiant. However, a good many of theguests were following the example of the sovereigns and disappearing insmall batches. And the Count, who seemed strangely nervous, and showedmore sternness and bitterness than ever, was, on his side, also eager tobe gone. "Ah! it's you at last. I was waiting for you, " he said toPierre. "Well, let's get off at once, eh? Your compatriot MonsieurNarcisse Habert asked me to tell you not to look for him. The fact is, hehas gone to see my friend Lisbeth to her carriage. I myself want a breathof fresh air, a stroll, and so I'll go with you as far as the ViaGiulia. "

Then, as they took their things from the cloak-room, he could not helpsneering and saying in his brutal way: "I saw your good friends go off, all four together. It's lucky that you prefer to go home on foot, forthere was no room for you in the carriage. What superb impudence it wason the part of that Donna Serafina to drag herself here, at her age, withthat Morano of hers, so as to triumph over the return of the fickle one!And the two others, the two young ones--ah! I confess that I can hardlyspeak calmly of _them_, for in parading here together as they did thisevening, they have shown an impudence and a cruelty such as is rarelyseen!" Prada's hands trembled, and he murmured: "A good journey, a goodjourney to the young man, since he is going to Naples. Yes, I heard Celiasay that he was starting for Naples this evening at six o'clock. Well, mywishes go with him; a good journey!"

The two men found the change delightful when they at last emerged fromthe stifling heat of the reception-rooms into the lovely, cool, andlimpid night. It was a night illumined by a superb full moon, one ofthose matchless Roman nights when the city slumbers in Elysian radiance, steeped in a dream of the Infinite, under the vast vault of heaven. Andthey took the most agreeable route, going down the Corso proper and thenturning into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. 

Prada had grown somewhat calmer, but remained full of irony. To diverthis mind, no doubt, he talked on in the most voluble manner, reverting tothe women of Rome and to that _fete_ which he had at first foundsplendid, but at which he now began to rail. 

"Oh! of course they have very fine gowns, " said he, speaking of thewomen; "but gowns which don't fit them, gowns which are sent them fromParis, and which, of course, they can't try on. It's just the same withtheir jewels; they still have diamonds and pearls, in particular, whichare very fine, but they are so wretchedly, so heavily mounted that theylook frightful. And if you only knew how ignorant and frivolous thesewomen are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface withthem, even religion: there's nothing beneath. I looked at them eating atthe buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening somedecorum was observed, there wasn't too much gorging. But at one of theCourt balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, andeverything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!"

To all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He waswrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with thePope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrangeand picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantimethe footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear, broad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlinedby the moonlight. 

All at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious _bravura_ wasexhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessedand paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coatpocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:"A legend avers that the fig-tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, andthat its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become pope. Eat notthe poisoned figs, nor give them either to your servants or your fowls. "The note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompanyPierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at thePalazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that withinanother ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power inthe world could prevent it, since such was his express determination. Never would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned. 

But he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and thatDario had raised such a tempest of jealous hatred within him! For them heforgot Lisbeth whom he loved, and even that flesh of his flesh, the childof whom he was so proud. All sex as he was, eager to conquer and subdue, he had never cared for facile loves. His passion was to overcome. And nowthere was a woman in the world who defied him, a woman forsooth whom hehad bought, whom he had married, who had been handed over to him, but whowould never, never be his. Ah! in the old days, to subdue her, he wouldif needful have fired Rome like a Nero; but now he asked himself what hecould possibly do to prevent her from belonging to another. That gallingthought made the blood gush from his gaping wound. How that woman and herlover must deride him! And to think that they had sought to turn him toridicule by a baseless charge, an arrant lie which still and ever madehim smart, all proof of its falsity to the contrary. He, on his side, hadaccused them in the past without much belief in what he said, but now thecharges he had imputed to them must come true, for they were free, freedat all events of the religious bond, and that no doubt was their onlycare. And then visions of their happiness passed before his eyes, infuriating him. Ah! no, ah! no, it was impossible, he would ratherdestroy the world!

Then, as he and Pierre turned out of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele tothread the old narrow tortuous streets leading to the Via Giulia, hepictured himself dropping the note into the letter-box at the palazzo. And next he conjured up what would follow. The note would lie in theletter-box till morning. At an early hour Don Vigilio, the secretary, whoby the Cardinal's express orders kept the key of the box, would comedown, find the note, and hand it to his Eminence, who never allowedanother to open any communication addressed to him. And then the figswould be thrown away, there would be no further possibility of crime, theblack world would in all prudence keep silent. But if the note should notbe in the letter-box, what would happen then? And admitting thatsupposition he pictured the figs placed on the table at the one o'clockmeal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there asusual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples tillthe evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, orwould only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would thatbe? At this point Prada's clearness of vision failed him; again heconjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on theroad from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart allobstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figswent ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand inthe world had power enough to prevent. 

And at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretchedaway in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as iffrom a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under thesilver sky. Three o'clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felthimself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorousmoan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which theCount, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the thirdtime allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into asneering laugh, and pressing the priest's hands, exclaimed: "No, no, I amnot going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would thinkthat I had fallen in love with my wife again. "

And thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clearnight, without once looking round. 

XIII. 

WHEN Pierre awoke he was much surprised to hear eleven o'clock striking. Fatigued as he was by that ball where he had lingered so long, he hadslept like a child in delightful peacefulness, and as soon as he openedhis eyes the radiant sunshine filled him with hope. His first thought wasthat he would see the Pope that evening at nine o'clock. Ten more hoursto wait! What would he be able to do with himself during that lovely day, whose radiant sky seemed to him of such happy augury? He rose and openedthe windows to admit the warm air which, as he had noticed on the day ofhis arrival, had a savour of fruit and flowers, a blending, as it were, of the perfume of rose and orange. Could this possibly be December? Whata delightful land, that the spring should seem to flower on the verythreshold of winter! Then, having dressed, he was leaning out of thewindow to glance across the golden Tiber at the evergreen slopes of theJaniculum, when he espied Benedetta seated in the abandoned garden of themansion. And thereupon, unable to keep still, full of a desire for life, gaiety, and beauty, he went down to join her. 

With radiant visage and outstretched hands, she at once vented the cry hehad expected: "Ah! my dear Abbe, how happy I am!"

They had often spent their mornings in that quiet, forsaken nook; butwhat sad mornings those had been, hopeless as they both were! To-day, however, the weed-grown paths, the box-plants growing in the old basin, the orange-trees which alone marked the outline of the beds--all seemedfull of charm, instinct with a sweet and dreamy cosiness in which it wasvery pleasant to lull one's joy. And it was so warm, too, beside the biglaurel-bush, in the corner where the streamlet of water ever fell withflute-like music from the gaping, tragic mask. 

"Ah!" repeated Benedetta, "how happy I am! I was stifling upstairs, andmy heart felt such a need of space, and air, and sunlight, that I camedown here!"

She was seated on the fallen column beside the old marble sarcophagus, and desired the priest to place himself beside her. Never had he seen herlooking so beautiful, with her black hair encompassing her pure face, which in the sunshine appeared pinky and delicate as a flower. Her large, fathomless eyes showed in the light like braziers rolling gold, and herchildish mouth, all candour and good sense, laughed the laugh of one whowas at last free to love as her heart listed, without offending eitherGod or man. And, dreaming aloud, she built up plans for the future. "It'sall simple enough, " said she; "I have already obtained a separation, andshall easily get that changed into civil divorce now that the Church hasannulled my marriage. And I shall marry Dario next spring, perhapssooner, if the formalities can be hastened. He is going to Naples thisevening about the sale of some property which we still possess there, butwhich must now be sold, for all this business has cost us a lot of money. Still, that doesn't matter since we now belong to one another. And whenhe comes back in a few days, what a happy time we shall have! I could notsleep when I got back from that splendid ball last night, for my head wasso full of plans--oh! splendid plans, as you shall see, for I mean tokeep you in Rome until our marriage. "

Like herself, Pierre began to laugh, so gained upon by this explosion ofyouth and happiness that he had to make a great effort to refrain fromspeaking of his own delight, his hopefulness at the thought of his cominginterview with the Pope. Of that, however, he had sworn to speak tonobody. 

Every now and again, amidst the quivering silence of the sunlit garden, the cry of a bird persistently rang out; and Benedetta, raising her headand looking at a cage hanging beside one of the first-floor windows, jestingly exclaimed: "Yes, yes, Tata, make a good noise, show that youare pleased, my dear. Everybody in the house must be pleased now. " Then, turning towards Pierre, she added gaily: "You know Tata, don't you? What!No? Why, Tata is my uncle's parrot. I gave her to him last spring; he'svery fond of her, and lets her help herself out of his plate. And hehimself attends to her, puts her out and takes her in, and keeps her inhis dining-room, for fear lest she should take cold, as that is the onlyroom of his which is at all warm. "

Pierre in his turn looked up and saw the bird, one of those pretty littleparrots with soft, silky, dull-green plumage. It was hanging by the beakfrom a bar of its cage, swinging itself and flapping its wings, all mirthin the bright sunshine. 

"Does the bird talk?" he asked. 

"No, she only screams, " replied Benedetta, laughing. "Still my unclepretends that he understands her. " And then the young woman abruptlydarted to another subject, as if this mention of her uncle the Cardinalhad made her think of the uncle by marriage whom she had in Paris. "Isuppose you have heard from Viscount de la Choue, " said she. "I had aletter from him yesterday, in which he said how grieved he was that youwere unable to see the Holy Father, as he had counted on you for thetriumph of his ideas. "

Pierre indeed frequently heard from the Viscount, who was greatlydistressed by the importance which his adversary, Baron de Fouras, hadacquired since his success with the International Pilgrimage of thePeter's Pence. The old, uncompromising Catholic party would awaken, saidthe Viscount, and all the conquests of Neo-Catholicism would bethreatened, if one could not obtain the Holy Father's formal adhesion tothe proposed system of free guilds, in order to overcome the demand forclosed guilds which was brought forward by the Conservatives. And theViscount overwhelmed Pierre with injunctions, and sent him all sorts ofcomplicated plans in his eagerness to see him received at the Vatican. "Yes, yes, " muttered the young priest in reply to Benedetta. "I had aletter on Sunday, and found another waiting for me on my return fromFrascati yesterday. Ah! it would make me very happy to be able to sendthe Viscount some good news. " Then again Pierre's joy overflowed at thethought that he would that evening see the Pope, and, on opening hisloving heart to the Pontiff, receive the supreme encouragement whichwould strengthen him in his mission to work social salvation in the nameof the lowly and the poor. And he could not restrain himself any longer, but let his secret escape him: "It's settled, you know, " said he. "Myaudience is for this evening. "

Benedetta did not understand at first. "What audience?" she asked. 

"Oh! Monsignor Nani was good enough to tell me at the ball this morning, that the Holy Father has read my book and desires to see me. I shall bereceived this evening at nine o'clock. "

At this the Contessina flushed with pleasure, participating in thedelight of the young priest to whom she had grown much attached. And thissuccess of his, coming in the midst of her own felicity, acquiredextraordinary importance in her eyes as if it were an augury of completesuccess for one and all. Superstitious as she was, she raised a cry ofrapture and excitement: "Ah! _Dio_, that will bring us good luck. Howhappy I am, my friend, to see happiness coming to you at the same time asto me! You cannot think how pleased I am! And all will go well now, it'scertain, for a house where there is any one whom the Pope welcomes isblessed, the thunder of Heaven falls on it no more!"

She laughed yet more loudly as she spoke, and clapped her hands with suchexuberant gaiety that Pierre became anxious. "Hush! hush!" said he, "it'sa secret. Pray don't mention it to any one, either your aunt or even hisEminence. Monsignor Nani would be much annoyed. "

She thereupon promised to say nothing, and in a kindly voice spoke ofNani as a benefactor, for was she not indebted to him for the dissolutionof her marriage? Then, with a fresh explosion of gaiety, she went on:"But come, my friend, is not happiness the only good thing? You don't askme to weep over the suffering poor to-day! Ah! the happiness of life, that's everything. People don't suffer or feel cold or hungry when theyare happy. "

He looked at her in stupefaction at the idea of that strange solution ofthe terrible question of human misery. And suddenly he realised that, with that daughter of the sun who had inherited so many centuries ofsovereign aristocracy, all his endeavours at conversion were vain. He hadwished to bring her to a Christian love for the lowly and the wretched, win her over to the new, enlightened, and compassionate Italy that he haddreamt of; but if she had been moved by the sufferings of the multitudeat the time when she herself had suffered, when grievous wounds had madeher own heart bleed, she was no sooner healed than she proclaimed thedoctrine of universal felicity like a true daughter of a clime of burningsummers, and winters as mild as spring. "But everybody is not happy!"said he. 

"Yes, yes, they are!" she exclaimed. "You don't know the poor! Give agirl of the Trastevere the lad she loves, and she becomes as radiant as aqueen, and finds her dry bread quite sweet. The mothers who save a childfrom sickness, the men who conquer in a battle, or who win at thelottery, one and all in fact are like that, people only ask for goodfortune and pleasure. And despite all your striving to be just and toarrive at a more even distribution of fortune, the only satisfied oneswill be those whose hearts sing--often without their knowing thecause--on a fine sunny day like this. "

Pierre made a gesture of surrender, not wishing to sadden her by againpleading the cause of all the poor ones who at that very moment weresomewhere agonising with physical or mental pain. But, all at once, through the luminous mild atmosphere a shadow seemed to fall, tingeingjoy with sadness, the sunshine with despair. And the sight of the oldsarcophagus, with its bacchanal of satyrs and nymphs, brought back thememory that death lurks even amidst the bliss of passion, the unsatiatedkisses of love. For a moment the clear song of the water sounded inPierre's ears like a long-drawn sob, and all seemed to crumble in theterrible shadow which had fallen from the invisible. 

Benedetta, however, caught hold of his hands and roused him once more tothe delight of being there beside her. "Your pupil is rebellious, is shenot, my friend?" said she. "But what would you have? There are ideaswhich can't enter into our heads. No, you will never get those thingsinto the head of a Roman girl. So be content with loving us as we are, beautiful with all our strength, as beautiful as we can be. "

She herself, in her resplendent happiness, looked at that moment sobeautiful that he trembled as in presence of a divinity whoseall-powerfulness swayed the world. "Yes, yes, " he stammered, "beauty, beauty, still and ever sovereign. Ah! why can it not suffice to satisfythe eternal longings of poor suffering men?"

"Never mind!" she gaily responded. "Do not distress yourself; it ispleasant to live. And now let us go upstairs, my aunt must be waiting. "

The midday meal was served at one o'clock, and on the few occasions whenPierre did not eat at one or another restaurant a cover was laid for himat the ladies' table in the little dining-room of the second floor, overlooking the courtyard. At the same hour, in the sunlit dining-room ofthe first floor, whose windows faced the Tiber, the Cardinal likewise satdown to table, happy in the society of his nephew Dario, for hissecretary, Don Vigilio, who also was usually present, never opened hismouth unless to reply to some question. And the two services were quitedistinct, each having its own kitchen and servants, the only thing at allcommon to them both being a large room downstairs which served as apantry and store-place. 

Although the second-floor dining-room was so gloomy, saddened by thegreeny half-light of the courtyard, the meal shared that day by the twoladies and the young priest proved a very gay one. Even Donna Serafina, usually so rigid, seemed to relax under the influence of great internalfelicity. She was no doubt still enjoying her triumph of the previousevening, and it was she who first spoke of the ball and sung its praises, though the presence of the King and Queen had much embarrassed her, saidshe. According to her account, she had only avoided presentation byskilful strategy; however she hoped that her well-known affection forCelia, whose god-mother she was, would explain her presence in thatneutral mansion where Vatican and Quirinal had met. At the same time shemust have retained certain scruples, for she declared that directly afterdinner she was going to the Vatican to see the Cardinal Secretary, towhom she desired to speak about an enterprise of which she waslady-patroness. This visit would compensate for her attendance at theBuongiovanni entertainment. And on the other hand never had DonnaSerafina seemed so zealous and hopeful of her brother's speedy accessionto the throne of St. Peter: therein lay a supreme triumph, an elevationof her race, which her pride deemed both needful and inevitable; andindeed during Leo XIII's last indisposition she had actually concernedherself about the trousseau which would be needed and which would requireto be marked with the new Pontiff's arms. 

On her side, Benedetta was all gaiety during the repast, laughing ateverything, and speaking of Celia and Attilio with the passionateaffection of a woman whose own happiness delights in that of her friends. Then, just as the dessert had been served, she turned to the servant withan air of surprise: "Well, and the figs, Giacomo?" she asked. 

Giacomo, slow and sleepy of notion, looked at her without understanding. However, Victorine was crossing the room, and Benedetta's next questionwas for her: "Why are the figs not served, Victorine?" she inquired. 

"What figs, Contessina?"

"Why the figs I saw in the pantry as I passed through it this morning onmy way to the garden. They were in a little basket and looked superb. Iwas even astonished to see that there were still some fresh figs left atthis season. I'm very fond of them, and felt quite pleased at the thoughtthat I should eat some at dinner. "

Victorine began to laugh: "Ah! yes, Contessina, I understand, " shereplied. "They were some figs which that priest of Frascati, whom youknow very well, brought yesterday evening as a present for his Eminence. I was there, and I heard him repeat three or four times that they were apresent, and were to be put on his Eminence's table without a leaf beingtouched. And so one did as he said. "

"Well, that's nice, " retorted Benedetta with comical indignation. "What_gourmands_ my uncle and Dario are to regale themselves without us! Theymight have given us a share!"

Donna Serafina thereupon intervened, and asked Victorine: "You arespeaking, are you not, of that priest who used to come to the villa atFrascati?"

"Yes, yes, Abbe Santobono his name is, he officiates at the little churchof St. Mary in the Fields. He always asks for Abbe Paparelli when hecalls; I think they were at the seminary together. And it was AbbePaparelli who brought him to the pantry with his basket last night. Totell the truth, the basket was forgotten there in spite of all theinjunctions, so that nobody would have eaten the figs to-day if AbbePaparelli hadn't run down just now and carried them upstairs as piouslyas if they were the Blessed Sacrament. It's true though that his Eminenceis so fond of them. "

"My brother won't do them much honour to-day, " remarked the Princess. "Heis slightly indisposed. He passed a bad night. " The repeated mention ofAbbe Paparelli had made the old lady somewhat thoughtful. She hadregarded the train-bearer with displeasure ever since she had noticed theextraordinary influence he was gaining over the Cardinal, despite all hisapparent humility and self-effacement. He was but a servant andapparently a very insignificant one, yet he governed, and she could feelthat he combated her own influence, often undoing things which she haddone to further her brother's interests. Twice already, moreover, she hadsuspected him of having urged the Cardinal to courses which she lookedupon as absolute blunders. But perhaps she was wrong; she did thetrain-bearer the justice to admit that he had great merits and displayedexemplary piety. 

However, Benedetta went on laughing and jesting, and as Victorine had nowwithdrawn, she called the man-servant: "Listen, Giacomo, I have acommission for you. " Then she broke off to say to her aunt and Pierre:"Pray let us assert our rights. I can see them at table almost underneathus. Uncle is taking the leaves off the basket and serving himself with asmile; then he passes the basket to Dario, who passes it on to DonVigilio. And all three of them eat and enjoy the figs. You can see them, can't you?" She herself could see them well. And it was her desire to benear Dario, the constant flight of her thoughts to him that now made herpicture him at table with the others. Her heart was down below, and therewas nothing there that she could not see, and hear, and smell, with suchkeenness of the senses did her love endow her. "Giacomo, " she resumed, "you are to go down and tell his Eminence that we are longing to tastehis figs, and that it will be very kind of him if he will send us such ashe can spare. "

Again, however, did Donna Serafina intervene, recalling her wontedseverity of voice: "Giacomo, you will please stay here. " And to her nieceshe added: "That's enough childishness! I dislike such silly freaks. "

"Oh! aunt, " Benedetta murmured. "But I'm so happy, it's so long since Ilaughed so good-heartedly. "

Pierre had hitherto remained listening, enlivened by the sight of hergaiety. But now, as a little chill fell, he raised his voice to say thaton the previous day he himself had been astonished to see the famousfig-tree of Frascati still bearing fruit so late in the year. This wasdoubtless due, however, to the tree's position and the protection of ahigh wall. 

"Ah! so you saw the tree?" said Benedetta. 

"Yes, and I even travelled with those figs which you would so much liketo taste. "

"Why, how was that?"

The young man already regretted the reply which had escaped him. However, having gone so far, he preferred to say everything. "I met somebody atFrascati who had come there in a carriage and who insisted on driving meback to Rome, " said he. "On the way we picked up Abbe Santobono, who wasbravely making the journey on foot with his basket in his hand. Andafterwards we stopped at an _osteria_--" Then he went on to describe thedrive and relate his impressions whilst crossing the Campagna amidst thefalling twilight. But Benedetta gazed at him fixedly, aware as she was ofPrada's frequent visits to the land and houses which he owned atFrascati; and suddenly she murmured: "Somebody, somebody, it was theCount, was it not?"

"Yes, madame, the Count, " Pierre answered. "I saw him again last night;he was overcome, and really deserves to be pitied. "

The two women took no offence at this charitable remark which fell fromthe young priest with such deep and natural emotion, full as he was ofoverflowing love and compassion for one and all. Donna Serafina remainedmotionless as if she had not even heard him, and Benedetta made a gesturewhich seemed to imply that she had neither pity nor hatred to express fora man who had become a perfect stranger to her. However, she no longerlaughed, but, thinking of the little basket which had travelled inPrada's carriage, she said: "Ah! I don't care for those figs at all now, I am even glad that I haven't eaten any of them. "

Immediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she wasat once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves, lingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. Thepriest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audiencewhich he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o'clock, and hehad seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endlessafternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. "I'lltell you what, " said she, "as we are all in such good spirits we mustn'tleave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must havefinished lunch by now, and I'll ask him to take us for a long drive alongthe Tiber. "

This fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; butjust then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. "Isn't thePrincess here?" he inquired. 

"No, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?"

"His Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising fromtable. Oh! it's nothing--nothing serious, no doubt. "

Benedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: "What, Dario!Well, we'll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe. He mustn't getill if he is to take us for a drive!" Then, meeting Victorine on thestairs, she bade her follow. "Dario isn't well, " she said. "You may bewanted. "

They all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnishedbed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a wholemonth. It was reached by way of a small _salon_, and from an adjoiningdressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal's apartments, therelatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devisedby subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, thepassage gave access to his Eminence's private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted, chairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar, and the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray. 

On entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, stillfully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera, who, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and loftybearing--the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. "Why, what is thematter, Dario _mio_?" asked the young woman. 

He smiled, eager to reassure her. One only noticed that he was very pale, with a look as of intoxication on his face. 

"Oh! it's nothing, mere giddiness, " he replied. "It's just as if I haddrunk too much. All at once things swam before my eyes, and I thought Iwas going to fall. And then I only had time to come and fling myself onthe bed. "

Then he drew a long breath, as though talking exhausted him, and theCardinal in his turn gave some details. "We had just finished our meal, "said he, "I was giving Don Vigilio some orders for this afternoon, andwas about to rise when I saw Dario get up and reel. He wouldn't sit downagain, but came in here, staggering like a somnambulist, and fumbling atthe doors to open them. We followed him without understanding. And Iconfess that I don't yet comprehend it. "

So saying, the Cardinal punctuated his surprise by waving his arm towardsthe rooms, through which a gust of misfortune seemed to have suddenlyswept. All the doors had remained wide open: the dressing-room could beseen, and then the passage, at the end of which appeared the dining-room, in a disorderly state, like an apartment suddenly vacated; the tablestill laid, the napkins flung here and there, and the chairs pushed back. As yet, however, there was no alarm. 

Benedetta made the remark which is usually made in such cases: "I hopeyou haven't eaten anything which has disagreed with you. "

The Cardinal, smiling, again waved his hand as if to attest the frugalityof his table. "Oh!" said he, "there were only some eggs, some lambcutlets, and a dish of sorrel--they couldn't have overloaded his stomach. I myself only drink water; he takes just a sip of white wine. No, no, thefood has nothing to do with it. "

"Besides, in that case his Eminence and I would also have feltindisposed, " Don Vigilio made bold to remark. 

Dario, after momentarily closing his eyes, opened them again, and oncemore drew a long breath, whilst endeavouring to laugh. "Oh, it will benothing;" he said. "I feel more at ease already. I must get up and stirmyself. "

"In that case, " said Benedetta, "this is what I had thought of. You willtake Monsieur l'Abbe Froment and me for a long drive in the Campagna. "

"Willingly. It's a nice idea. Victorine, help me. "

Whilst speaking he had raised himself by means of one arm; but, beforethe servant could approach, a slight convulsion seized him, and he fellback again as if overcome by a fainting fit. It was the Cardinal, stillstanding by the bedside, who caught him in his arms, whilst theContessina this time lost her head: "_Dio, Dio_! It has come on himagain. Quick, quick, a doctor!"

"Shall I run for one?" asked Pierre, whom the scene was also beginning toupset. 

"No, no, not you; stay with me. Victorine will go at once. She knows theaddress. Doctor Giordano, Victorine. "

The servant hurried away, and a heavy silence fell on the room where theanxiety became more pronounced every moment. Benedetta, now quite pale, had again approached the bed, whilst the Cardinal looked down at Dario, whom he still held in his arms. And a terrible suspicion, vague, indeterminate as yet, had just awoke in the old man's mind: Dario's faceseemed to him to be ashen, to wear that mask of terrified anguish whichhe had already remarked on the countenance of his dearest friend, Monsignor Gallo, when he had held him in his arms, in like manner, twohours before his death. There was also the same swoon and the samesensation of clasping a cold form whose heart ceases to beat. And aboveeverything else there was in Boccanera's mind the same growing thought ofpoison, poison coming one knew not whence or how, but mysteriouslystriking down those around him with the suddenness of lightning. And fora long time he remained with his head bent over the face of his nephew, that last scion of his race, seeking, studying, and recognising the signsof the mysterious, implacable disorder which once already had rent hisheart atwain. 

But Benedetta addressed him in a low, entreating voice: "You will tireyourself, uncle. Let me take him a little, I beg you. Have no fear, I'llhold him very gently, he will feel that it is I, and perhaps that willrouse him. "

At last the Cardinal raised his head and looked at her, and allowed herto take his place after kissing her with distracted passion, his eyes thewhile full of tears--a sudden burst of emotion in which his great lovefor the young woman melted the stern frigidity which he usually affected. "Ah! my poor child, my poor child!" he stammered, trembling from head tofoot like an oak-tree about to fall. Immediately afterwards, however, hemastered himself, and whilst Pierre and Don Vigilio, mute and motionless, regretted that they could be of no help, he walked slowly to and fro. Soon, moreover, that bed-chamber became too small for all the thoughtsrevolving in his mind, and he strayed first into the dressing-room andthen down the passage as far as the dining-room. And again and again hewent to and fro, grave and impassible, his head low, ever lost in thesame gloomy reverie. What were the multitudinous thoughts stirring in thebrain of that believer, that haughty Prince who had given himself to Godand could do naught to stay inevitable Destiny? From time to time hereturned to the bedside, observed the progress of the disorder, and thenstarted off again at the same slow regular pace, disappearing andreappearing, carried along as it were by the monotonous alternations offorces which man cannot control. Possibly he was mistaken, possibly thiswas some mere indisposition at which the doctor would smile. One musthope and wait. And again he went off and again he came back; and amidstthe heavy silence nothing more clearly bespoke the torture of anxiousfear than the rhythmical footsteps of that tall old man who was thusawaiting Destiny. 

The door opened, and Victorine came in breathless. "I found the doctor, here he is, " she gasped. 

With his little pink face and white curls, his discreet paternal bearingwhich gave him the air of an amiable prelate, Doctor Giordano came insmiling; but on seeing that room and all the anxious people waiting init, he turned very grave, at once assuming the expression of profoundrespect for all ecclesiastical secrets which he had acquired by longpractice among the clergy. And when he had glanced at the sufferer he letbut a low murmur escape him: "What, again! Is it beginning again!"

He was probably alluding to the knife thrust for which he had recentlytended Dario. Who could be thus relentlessly pursuing that poor andinoffensive young prince? However no one heard the doctor unless it wereBenedetta, and she was so full of feverish impatience, so eager to betranquillised, that she did not listen but burst into fresh entreaties:"Oh! doctor, pray look at him, examine him, tell us that it is nothing. It can't be anything serious, since he was so well and gay but a littlewhile ago. It's nothing serious, is it?"

"You are right no doubt, Contessina, it can be nothing dangerous. We willsee. "

However, on turning round, Doctor Giordano perceived the Cardinal, whowith regular, thoughtful footsteps had come back from the dining-room toplace himself at the foot of the bed. And while bowing, the doctordoubtless detected a gleam of mortal anxiety in the dark eyes fixed uponhis own, for he added nothing but began to examine Dario like a man whorealises that time is precious. And as his examination progressed theaffable optimism which usually appeared upon his countenance gave placeto ashen gravity, a covert terror which made his lips slightly tremble. It was he who had attended Monsignor Gallo when the latter had beencarried off so mysteriously; it was he who for imperative reasons hadthen delivered a certificate stating the cause of death to be infectiousfever; and doubtless he now found the same terrible symptoms as in thatcase, a leaden hue overspreading the sufferer's features, a stupor as ofexcessive intoxication; and, old Roman practitioner that he was, accustomed to sudden deaths, he realised that the _malaria_ which killswas passing, that _malaria_ which science does not yet fully understand, which may come from the putrescent exhalations of the Tiber unless it bebut a name for the ancient poison of the legends. 

As the doctor raised his head his glance again encountered the black eyesof the Cardinal, which never left him. "Signor Giordano, " said hisEminence, "you are not over-anxious, I hope? It is only some case ofindigestion, is it not?"

The doctor again bowed. By the slight quiver of the Cardinal's voice heunderstood how acute was the anxiety of that powerful man, who once morewas stricken in his dearest affections. 

"Your Eminence must be right, " he said, "there's a bad digestioncertainly. Such accidents sometimes become dangerous when feversupervenes. I need not tell your Eminence how thoroughly you may rely onmy prudence and zeal. " Then he broke off and added in a clearprofessional voice: "We must lose no time; the Prince must be undressed. I should prefer to remain alone with him for a moment. "

Whilst speaking in this way, however, Doctor Giordano detained Victorine, who would be able to help him, said he; should he need any furtherassistance he would take Giacomo. His evident desire was to get rid ofthe members of the family in order that he might have more freedom ofaction. And the Cardinal, who understood him, gently led Benedetta intothe dining-room, whither Pierre and Don Vigilio followed. 

When the doors had been closed, the most mournful and oppressive silencereigned in that dining-room, which the bright sun of winter filled withsuch delightful warmth and radiance. The table was still laid, its clothstrewn here and there with bread-crumbs; and a coffee cup had remainedhalf full. In the centre stood the basket of figs, whose covering ofleaves had been removed. However, only two or three of the figs weremissing. And in front of the window was Tata, the female parrot, who hadflown out of her cage and perched herself on her stand, where sheremained, dazzled and enraptured, amidst the dancing dust of a broadyellow sunray. In her astonishment however, at seeing so many peopleenter, she had ceased to scream and smooth her feathers, and had turnedher head the better to examine the newcomers with her round andscrutinising eye. 

The minutes went by slowly amidst all the feverish anxiety as to whatmight be occurring in the neighbouring room. Don Vigilio had taken acorner seat in silence, whilst Benedetta and Pierre, who had remainedstanding, preserved similar muteness, and immobility. But the Cardinalhad reverted to that instinctive, lulling tramp by which he apparentlyhoped to quiet his impatience and arrive the sooner at the explanationfor which he was groping through a tumultuous maze of ideas. And whilsthis rhythmical footsteps resounded with mechanical regularity, dark furywas taking possession of his mind, exasperation at being unable tounderstand the why and wherefore of that sickness. As he passed the tablehe had twice glanced at the things lying on it in confusion, as ifseeking some explanation from them. Perhaps the harm had been done bythat unfinished coffee, or by that bread whose crumbs lay here and there, or by those cutlets, a bone of which remained? Then as for the third timehe passed by, again glancing, his eyes fell upon the basket of figs, andat once he stopped, as if beneath the shock of a revelation. An ideaseized upon him and mastered him, without any plan, however, occurring tohim by which he might change his sudden suspicion into certainty. For amoment he remained puzzled with his eyes fixed upon the basket. Then hetook a fig and examined it, but, noticing nothing strange, was about toput it back when Tata, the parrot, who was very fond of figs, raised astrident cry. And this was like a ray of light; the means of changingsuspicion into certainty was found. 

Slowly, with grave air and gloomy visage, the Cardinal carried the fig tothe parrot and gave it to her without hesitation or regret. She was avery pretty bird, the only being of the lower order of creation to whichhe had ever really been attached. Stretching out her supple, delicateform, whose silken feathers of dull green here and there assumed a pinkytinge in the sunlight, she took hold of the fig with her claws, thenripped it open with her beak. But when she had raked it she ate butlittle, and let all the rest fall upon the floor. Still grave andimpassible, the Cardinal looked at her and waited. Quite three minuteswent by, and then feeling reassured, he began to scratch the bird's poll, whilst she, taking pleasure in the caress, turned her neck and fixed herbright ruby eye upon her master. But all at once she sank back withouteven a flap of the wings, and fell like a bullet. She was dead, killed asby a thunderbolt. 

Boccanera made but a gesture, raising both hands to heaven as if inhorror at what he now knew. Great God! such a terrible crime, and such afearful mistake, such an abominable trick of Destiny! No cry of griefcame from him, but the gloom upon his face grew black and fierce. Yetthere was a cry, a piercing cry from Benedetta, who like Pierre and DonVigilio had watched the Cardinal with an astonishment which had changedinto terror: "Poison! poison! Ah! Dario, my heart, my soul!"

But the Cardinal violently caught his niece by the wrist, whilst dartinga suspicious glance at the two petty priests, the secretary and theforeigner, who were present: "Be quiet, be quiet!" said he. 

She shook herself free, rebelling, frantic with rage and hatred: "Whyshould I be quiet!" she cried. "It is Prada's work, I shall denounce him, he shall die as well! I tell you it is Prada, I know it, for yesterdayAbbe Froment came back with him from Frascati in his carriage with thatpriest Santobono and that basket of figs! Yes, yes, I have witnesses, itis Prada, Prada!"

"No, no, you are mad, be quiet!" said the Cardinal, who had again takenhold of the young woman's hands and sought to master her with all hissovereign authority. He, who knew the influence which CardinalSanguinetti exercised over Santobono's excitable mind, had justunderstood the whole affair; no direct complicity but covert propulsion, the animal excited and then let loose upon the troublesome rival at themoment when the pontifical throne seemed likely to be vacant. Theprobability, the certainty of all this flashed upon Boccanera who, thoughsome points remained obscure, did not seek to penetrate them. It was notnecessary indeed that he should know every particular: the thing was ashe said, since it was bound to be so. "No, no, it was not Prada, " heexclaimed, addressing Benedetta. "That man can bear me no personalgrudge, and I alone was aimed at, it was to me that those figs weregiven. Come, think it out! Only an unforeseen indisposition prevented mefrom eating the greater part of the fruit, for it is known that I am veryfond of figs, and while my poor Dario was tasting them, I jested and toldhim to leave the finer ones for me to-morrow. Yes, the abominable blowwas meant for me, and it is on him that it has fallen by the mostatrocious of chances, the most monstrous of the follies of fate. Ah! LordGod, Lord God, have you then forsaken us!"

Tears came into the old man's eyes, whilst she still quivered and seemedunconvinced: "But you have no enemies, uncle, " she said. "Why should thatSantobono try to take your life?"

For a moment he found no fitting reply. With supreme grandeur he hadalready resolved to keep the truth secret. Then a recollection came tohim, and he resigned himself to the telling of a lie: "Santobono's mindhas always been somewhat unhinged, " said he, "and I know that he hashated me ever since I refused to help him to get a brother of his, one ofour former gardeners, out of prison. Deadly spite often has no moreserious cause. He must have thought that he had reason to be revenged onme. "

Thereupon Benedetta, exhausted, unable to argue any further, sank upon achair with a despairing gesture: "Ah! God, God! I no longer know--andwhat matters it now that my Dario is in such danger? There's only onething to be done, he must be saved. How long they are over what they aredoing in that room--why does not Victorine come for us!"

The silence again fell, full of terror. Without speaking the Cardinaltook the basket of figs from the table and carried it to a cupboard inwhich he locked it. Then he put the key in his pocket. No doubt, whennight had fallen, he himself would throw the proofs of the crime into theTiber. However, on coming back from the cupboard he noticed the twopriests, who naturally had watched him; and with mingled grandeur andsimplicity he said to them: "Gentlemen, I need not ask you to bediscreet. There are scandals which we must spare the Church, which isnot, cannot be guilty. To deliver one of ourselves, even when he is acriminal, to the civil tribunals, often means a blow for the wholeChurch, for men of evil mind may lay hold of the affair and seek toimpute the responsibility of the crime even to the Church itself. Wetherefore have but to commit the murderer to the hands of God, who willknow more surely how to punish him. Ah! for my part, whether I be struckin my own person or whether the blow be directed against my family, mydearest affections, I declare in the name of the Christ who died upon thecross, that I feel neither anger, nor desire for vengeance, that I effacethe murderer's name from my memory and bury his abominable act in theeternal silence of the grave. "

Tall as he was, he seemed of yet loftier stature whilst with handupraised he took that oath to leave his enemies to the justice of Godalone; for he did not refer merely to Santobono, but to CardinalSanguinetti, whose evil influence he had divined. And amidst all theheroism of his pride, he was rent by tragic dolour at thought of the darkbattle which was waged around the tiara, all the evil hatred andvoracious appetite which stirred in the depths of the gloom. Then, asPierre and Don Vigilio bowed to him as a sign that they would preservesilence, he almost choked with invincible emotion, a sob of loving griefwhich he strove to keep down rising to his throat, whilst he stammered:"Ah! my poor child, my poor child, the only scion of our race, the onlylove and hope of my heart! Ah! to die, to die like this!"

But Benedetta, again all violence, sprang up: "Die! Who, Dario? I won'thave it! We'll nurse him, we'll go back to him. We will take him in ourarms and save him. Come, uncle, come at once! I won't, I won't, I won'thave him die!"

She was going towards the door, and nothing would have prevented her fromre-entering the bed-room, when, as it happened, Victorine appeared with awild look on her face, for, despite her wonted serenity, all her couragewas now exhausted. "The doctor begs madame and his Eminence to come atonce, at once, " said she. 

Stupefied by all these things, Pierre did not follow the others, butlingered for a moment in the sunlit dining-room with Don Vigilio. What!poison? Poison as in the time of the Borgias, elegantly hidden away, served up with luscious fruit by a crafty traitor, whom one dared noteven denounce! And he recalled the conversation on his way back fromFrascati, and his Parisian scepticism with respect to those legendarydrugs, which to his mind had no place save in the fifth acts ofmelodramas. Yet those abominable stories were true, those tales ofpoisoned knives and flowers, of prelates and even dilatory popes beingsuppressed by a drop or a grain of something administered to them intheir morning chocolate. That passionate tragical Santobono was really apoisoner, Pierre could no longer doubt it, for a lurid light nowillumined the whole of the previous day: there were the words of ambitionand menace which had been spoken by Cardinal Sanguinetti, the eagernessto act in presence of the probable death of the reigning pope, thesuggestion of a crime for the sake of the Church's salvation, then thatpriest with his little basket of figs encountered on the road, then thatbasket carried for hours so carefully, so devoutly, on the priest'sknees, that basket which now haunted Pierre like a nightmare, and whosecolour, and odour, and shape he would ever recall with a shudder. Aye, poison, poison, there was truth in it; it existed and still circulated inthe depths of the black world, amidst all the ravenous, rival longingsfor conquest and sovereignty. 

And all at once the figure of Prada likewise arose in Pierre's mind. Alittle while previously, when Benedetta had so violently accused theCount, he, Pierre, had stepped forward to defend him and cry aloud whathe knew, whence the poison had come, and what hand had offered it. But asudden thought had made him shiver: though Prada had not devised thecrime, he had allowed it to be perpetrated. Another memory darted keenlike steel through the young priest's mind--that of the little black henlying lifeless beside the shed, amidst the dismal surroundings of the_osteria_, with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak. And here again, Tata, the parrot, lay still soft and warm at the foot ofher stand, with her beak stained by oozing blood. Why had Prada told thatlie about a battle between two fowls? All the dim intricacy of passionand contention bewildered Pierre, he could not thread his way through it;nor was he better able to follow the frightful combat which must havebeen waged in that man's mind during the night of the ball. At the sametime he could not again picture him by his side during their nocturnalwalk towards the Boccanera mansion without shuddering, dimly diviningwhat a frightful decision had been taken before that mansion's door. Moreover, whatever the obscurities, whether Prada had expected that theCardinal alone would be killed, or had hoped that some chance stroke offate might avenge him on others, the terrible fact remained--he hadknown, he had been able to stay Destiny on the march, but had allowed itto go onward and blindly accomplish its work of death. 

Turning his head Pierre perceived Don Vigilio still seated on the cornerchair whence he had not stirred, and looking so pale and haggard thatperhaps he also had swallowed some of the poison. "Do you feel unwell?"the young priest asked. 

At first the secretary could not reply, for terror had gripped him at thethroat. Then in a low voice he said: "No, no, I didn't eat any. Ah, Heaven, when I think that I so much wanted to taste them, and that merelydeference kept me back on seeing that his Eminence did not take any!" DonVigilio's whole body shivered at the thought that his humility alone hadsaved him; and on his face and his hands there remained the icy chill ofdeath which had fallen so near and grazed him as it passed. 

Then twice he heaved a sigh, and with a gesture of affright sought tobrush the horrid thing away while murmuring: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!"

Pierre, deeply stirred, and knowing what he thought of the train-bearer, tried to extract some information from him: "What do you mean?" he asked. "Do you accuse him too? Do you think they urged him on, and that it wasthey at bottom?"

The word Jesuits was not even spoken, but a big black shadow passedathwart the gay sunlight of the dining-room, and for a moment seemed tofill it with darkness. "They! ah yes!" exclaimed Don Vigilio, "they areeverywhere; it is always they! As soon as one weeps, as soon as one dies, they are mixed up in it. And this is intended for me too; I am quitesurprised that I haven't been carried off. " Then again he raised a dullmoan of fear, hatred, and anger: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!" And herefused to reply any further, but darted scared glances at the walls asif from one or another of them he expected to see the train-beareremerge, with his wrinkled flabby face like that of an old maid, hisfurtive mouse-like trot, and his mysterious, invading hands which hadgone expressly to bring the forgotten figs from the pantry and depositthem on the table. 

At last the two priests decided to return to the bedroom, where perhapsthey might be required; and Pierre on entering was overcome by theheart-rending scene which the chamber now presented. Doctor Giordano, suspecting poison, had for half an hour been trying the usual remedies, an emetic and then magnesia. Just then, too, he had made Victorine whipsome whites of eggs in water. But the disorder was progressing with suchlightning-like rapidity that all succour was becoming futile. Undressedand lying on his back, his bust propped up by pillows and his arms lyingoutstretched over the sheets, Dario looked quite frightful in the sort ofpainful intoxication which characterised that redoubtable and mysteriousdisorder to which already Monsignor Gallo and others had succumbed. Theyoung man seemed to be stricken with a sort of dizzy stupor, his eyesreceded farther and farther into the depth of their dark sockets, whilsthis whole face became withered, aged as it were, and covered with anearthy pallor. A moment previously he had closed his eyes, and the onlysign that he still lived was the heaving of his chest induced by painfulrespiration. And leaning over his poor dying face stood Benedetta, sharing his sufferings, and mastered by such impotent grief that she alsowas unrecognisable, so white, so distracted by anguish, that it seemed asif death were gradually taking her at the same time as it was taking him. 

In the recess by the window whither Cardinal Boccanera had led DoctorGiordano, a few words were exchanged in low tones. "He is lost, is henot?"

The doctor made the despairing gesture of one who is vanquished: "Alas!yes. I must warn your Eminence that in an hour all will be over. "

A short interval of silence followed. "And the same malady as Gallo, isit not?" asked the Cardinal; and as the doctor trembling and averting hiseyes did not answer he added: "At all events of an infectious fever!"

Giordano well understood what the Cardinal thus asked of him: silence, the crime for ever hidden away for the sake of the good renown of hismother, the Church. And there could be no loftier, no more tragicalgrandeur than that of this old man of seventy, still so erect andsovereign, who would neither suffer a slur to be cast upon his spiritualfamily, nor consent to his human family being dragged into the inevitablemire of a sensational murder trial. No, no, there must be none of that, there must be silence, the eternal silence in which all becomesforgotten. 

At last the doctor bowed with his gentle air of discretion. "Evidently, of an infectious fever as your Eminence so well says, " he replied. 

Two big tears then again appeared in Boccanera's eyes. Now that he hadscreened the Deity from attack in the person of the Church, his heart asa man again bled. He begged the doctor to make a supreme effort, toattempt the impossible; but, pointing to the dying man with tremblinghands, Giordano shook his head. For his own father, his own mother hecould have done nothing. Death was there. So why weary, why torture adying man, whose sufferings he would only have increased? And then, asthe Cardinal, finding the end so near at hand, thought of his sisterSerafina, and lamented that she would not be able to kiss her nephew forthe last time if she lingered at the Vatican, the doctor offered to fetchher in his carriage which was waiting below. It would not take him morethan twenty minutes, said he, and he would be back in time for the end, should he then be needed. 

Left to himself in the window recess the Cardinal remained theremotionless for another moment. With eyes blurred by tears, he gazedtowards heaven. And his quivering arms were suddenly raised in a gestureof ardent entreaty. O God, since the science of man was so limited andvain, since that doctor had gone off happy to escape the embarrassment ofhis impotence, O God, why not a miracle which should proclaim thesplendour of Thy Almighty Power! A miracle, a miracle! that was what theCardinal asked from the depths of his believing soul, with theinsistence, the imperious entreaty of a Prince of the Earth, who deemedthat he had rendered considerable services to Heaven by dedicating hiswhole life to the Church. And he asked for that miracle in order that hisrace might be perpetuated, in order that its last male scion might notthus miserably perish, but be able to marry that fondly loved cousin, whonow stood there all woe and tears. A miracle, a miracle for the sake ofthose two dear children! A miracle which would endow the family withfresh life: a miracle which would eternise the glorious name of Boccaneraby enabling an innumerable posterity of valiant ones and faithful ones tospring from that young couple!

When the Cardinal returned to the centre of the room he seemedtransfigured. Faith had dried his eyes, his soul had become strong andsubmissive, exempt from all human weakness. He had placed himself in thehands of God, and had resolved that he himself would administer extremeunction to Dario. With a gesture he summoned Don Vigilio and led him intothe little room which served as a chapel, and the key of which he alwayscarried. A cupboard had been contrived behind the altar of painted wood, and the Cardinal went to it to take both stole and surplice. The coffercontaining the Holy Oils was likewise there, a very ancient silver cofferbearing the Boccanera arms. And on Don Vigilio following the Cardinalback into the bed-room they in turn pronounced the Latin words:

"_Pax huic domui_. "

"_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_. "*

 * "Peace unto this house and unto all who dwell in it. "--Trans. 

Death was coming so fast and threatening, that all the usual preparationswere perforce dispensed with. Neither the two lighted tapers, nor thelittle table covered with white cloth had been provided. And, in the sameway, Don Vigilio the assistant, having failed to bring the Holy Waterbasin and sprinkler, the Cardinal, as officiating priest, could merelymake the gesture of blessing the room and the dying man, whilstpronouncing the words of the ritual: "_Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, etmundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor. _"*

 * "Sprinkle me, Lord, with hyssop, and purify me; wash me, and make me whiter than snow. "--Trans. 

Benedetta on seeing the Cardinal appear carrying the Holy Oils, had witha long quiver fallen on her knees at the foot of the bed, whilst, somewhat farther away, Pierre and Victorine likewise knelt, overcome bythe dolorous grandeur of the scene. And the dilated eyes of theContessina, whose face was pale as snow, never quitted her Dario, whomshe no longer recognised, so earthy was his face, its skin tanned andwrinkled like that of an old man. And it was not for their marriage whichhe so much desired that their uncle, the all-powerful Prince of theChurch, was bringing the Sacrament, but for the supreme rupture, the endof all pride, Death which finishes off the haughtiest races, and sweepsthem away, even as the wind sweeps the dust of the roads. 

It was needful that there should be no delay, so the Cardinal promptlyrepeated the Credo in an undertone, "_Credo in unum Deum--_"

"_Amen_, " responded Don Vigilio, who, after the prayers of the ritual, stammered the Litanies in order that Heaven might take pity on thewretched man who was about to appear before God, if God by a prodigy didnot spare him. 

Then, without taking time to wash his fingers, the Cardinal opened thecase containing the Holy Oils, and limiting himself to one anointment, asis permissible in pressing cases, he deposited a single drop of the oilon Dario's parched mouth which was already withered by death. And indoing so he repeated the words of the formula, his heart all aglow withfaith as he asked that the divine mercy might efface each and every sinthat the young man had committed by either of his five senses, those fiveportals by which everlasting temptation assails the soul. And theCardinal's fervour was also instinct with the hope that if God hadsmitten the poor sufferer for his offences, perhaps He would make Hisindulgence entire and even restore him to life as soon as He should haveforgiven his sins. Life, O Lord, life in order that the ancient line ofthe Boccaneras might yet multiply and continue to serve Thee in battleand at the altar until the end of time!

For a moment the Cardinal remained with quivering hands, gazing at themute face, the closed eyes of the dying man, and waiting for the miracle. But no sign appeared, not the faintest glimmer brightened that haggardcountenance, nor did a sigh of relief come from the withered lips as DonVigilio wiped them with a little cotton wool. And the last prayer wassaid, and whilst the frightful silence fell once more the Cardinal, followed by his assistant, returned to the chapel. There they both knelt, the Cardinal plunging into ardent prayer upon the bare tiles. With hiseyes raised to the brass crucifix upon the altar he saw nothing, heardnothing, but gave himself wholly to his entreaties, supplicating God totake him in place of his nephew, if a sacrifice were necessary, and yetclinging to the hope that so long as Dario retained a breath of life andhe himself thus remained on his knees addressing the Deity, he mightsucceed in pacifying the wrath of Heaven. He was both so humble and sogreat. Would not accord surely be established between God and aBoccanera? The old palace might have fallen to the ground, he himselfwould not even have felt the toppling of its beams. 

In the bed-room, however, nothing had yet stirred beneath the weight oftragic majesty which the ceremony had left there. It was only now thatDario raised his eyelids, and when on looking at his hands he saw them soaged and wasted the depths of his eyes kindled with an expression ofimmense regretfulness that life should be departing. Doubtless it was atthis moment of lucidity amidst the kind of intoxication with which thepoison overwhelmed him, that he for the first time realised his perilouscondition. Ah! to die, amidst such pain, such physical degradation, whata revolting horror for that frivolous and egotistical man, that lover ofbeauty, joy, and light, who knew not how to suffer! In him ferocious fatechastised racial degeneracy with too heavy a hand. He became horrifiedwith himself, seized with childish despair and terror, which lent himstrength enough to sit up and gaze wildly about the room, in order to seeif every one had not abandoned him. And when his eyes lighted onBenedetta still kneeling at the foot of the bed, a supreme impulsecarried him towards her, he stretched forth both arms as passionately ashis strength allowed and stammered her name: "O Benedetta, Benedetta!"

She, motionless in the stupor of her anxiety, had not taken her eyes fromhis face. The horrible disorder which was carrying off her lover, seemedalso to possess and annihilate her more and more, even as he himself grewweaker and weaker. Her features were assuming an immaterial whiteness;and through the void of her clear eyeballs one began to espy her soul. However, when she perceived him thus resuscitating and calling her witharms outstretched, she in her turn arose and standing beside the bed madeanswer: "I am coming, my Dario, here I am. "

And then Pierre and Victorine, still on their knees, beheld a sublimedeed of such extraordinary grandeur that they remained rooted to thefloor, spell-bound as in the presence of some supra-terrestrial spectaclein which human beings may not intervene. Benedetta herself spoke andacted like one freed from all social and conventional ties, alreadybeyond life, only seeing and addressing beings and things from a greatdistance, from the depths of the unknown in which she was about todisappear. 

"Ah! my Dario, so an attempt has been made to part us! It was in orderthat I might never belong to you--that we might never be happy, that yourdeath was resolved upon, and it was known that with your life my own mustcease! And it is that man who is killing you! Yes, he is your murderer, even if the actual blow has been dealt by another. He is the firstcause--he who stole me from you when I was about to become yours, he whoravaged our lives, and who breathed around us the hateful poison which iskilling us. Ah! how I hate him, how I hate him; how I should like tocrush him with my hate before I die with you!"

She did not raise her voice, but spoke those terrible words in a deepmurmur, simply and passionately. Prada was not even named, and shescarcely turned towards Pierre--who knelt, paralysed, behind her--to addwith a commanding air: "You will see his father, I charge you to tell himthat I cursed his son! That kind-hearted hero loved me well--I love himeven now, and the words you will carry to him from me will rend hisheart. But I desire that he should know--he must know, for the sake oftruth and justice. "

Distracted by terror, sobbing amidst a last convulsion, Dario againstretched forth his arms, feeling that she was no longer looking at him, that her clear eyes were no longer fixed upon his own: "Benedetta, Benedetta!"

"I am coming, I am coming, my Dario--I am here!" she responded, drawingyet nearer to the bedside and almost touching him. "Ah!" she went on, "that vow which I made to the Madonna to belong to none, not even you, until God should allow it by the blessing of one of his priests! Ah! Iset a noble, a divine pride in remaining immaculate for him who should bethe one master of my soul and body. And that chastity which I was soproud of, I defended it against the other as one defends oneself againsta wolf, and I defended it against you with tears for fear of sacrilege. And if you only knew what terrible struggles I was forced to wage withmyself, for I loved you and longed to be yours, like a woman who acceptsthe whole of love, the love that makes wife and mother! Ah! my vow to theMadonna--with what difficulty did I keep it when the old blood of ourrace arose in me like a tempest; and now what a disaster!" She drew yetnearer, and her low voice became more ardent: "You remember that eveningwhen you came back with a knife-thrust in your shoulder. I thought youdead, and cried aloud with rage at the idea of losing you like that. Iinsulted the Madonna and regretted that I had not damned myself with youthat we might die together, so tightly clasped that we must needs beburied together also. And to think that such a terrible warning was of noavail! I was blind and foolish; and now you are again stricken, againbeing taken from my love. Ah! my wretched pride, my idiotic dream!"

That which now rang out in her stifled voice was the anger of thepractical woman that she had ever been, all superstition notwithstanding. Could the Madonna, who was so maternal, desire the woe of lovers? No, assuredly not. Nor did the angels make the mere absence of a priest acause for weeping over the transports of true and mutual love. Was notsuch love holy in itself, and did not the angels rather smile upon it andburst into gladsome song! And ah! how one cheated oneself by not lovingto heart's content under the sun, when the blood of life coursed throughone's veins!

"Benedetta! Benedetta!" repeated the dying man, full of child-like terrorat thus going off all alone into the depths of the black and everlastingnight. 

"Here I am, my Dario, I am coming!"

Then, as she fancied that the servant, albeit motionless, had stirred, asif to rise and interfere, she added: "Leave me, leave me, Victorine, nothing in the world can henceforth prevent it. A moment ago, when I wason my knees, something roused me and urged me on. I know whither I amgoing. And besides, did I not swear on the night of the knife thrust? DidI not promise to belong to him alone, even in the earth if it werenecessary? I must embrace him, and he will carry me away! We shall bedead, and we shall be wedded in spite of all, and for ever and for ever!"

She stepped back to the dying man, and touched him: "Here I am, my Dario, here I am!"

Then came the apogee. Amidst growing exaltation, buoyed up by a blaze oflove, careless of glances, candid like a lily, she divested herself ofher garments and stood forth so white, that neither marble statue, nordove, nor snow itself was ever whiter. "Here I am, my Dario, here I am!"

Recoiling almost to the ground as at sight of an apparition, the gloriousflash of a holy vision, Pierre and Victorine gazed at her with dazzledeyes. The servant had not stirred to prevent this extraordinary action, seized as she was with that shrinking reverential terror which comes uponone in presence of the wild, mad deeds of faith and passion. And thepriest, whose limbs were paralysed, felt that something so sublime waspassing that he could only quiver in distraction. And no thought ofimpurity came to him on beholding that lily, snowy whiteness. All candourand all nobility as she was, that virgin shocked him no more than somesculptured masterpiece of genius. 

"Here I am, my Dario, here I am. "

She had lain herself down beside the spouse whom she had chosen, she hadclasped the dying man whose arms only had enough strength left to foldthemselves around her. Death was stealing him from her, but she would gowith him; and again she murmured: "My Dario, here I am. "

And at that moment, against the wall at the head of the bed, Pierreperceived the escutcheon of the Boccaneras, embroidered in gold andcoloured silks on a groundwork of violet velvet. There was the wingeddragon belching flames, there was the fierce and glowing motto "_Boccanera, Alma rossa_" (black mouth, red soul), the mouth darkened by a roar, the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love. And behold! all thatold race of passion and violence with its tragic legends had reappeared, its blood bubbling up afresh to urge that last and adorable daughter ofthe line to those terrifying and prodigious nuptials in death. And toPierre that escutcheon recalled another memory, that of the portrait ofCassia Boccanera the _amorosa_ and avengeress who had flung herself intothe Tiber with her brother Ercole and the corpse of her lover Flavio. Wasthere not here even with Benedetta the same despairing clasp seeking tovanquish death, the same savagery in hurling oneself into the abyss withthe corpse of the one's only love? Benedetta and Cassia were as sisters, Cassia, who lived anew in the old painting in the _salon_ overhead, Benedetta who was here dying of her lover's death, as though she were butthe other's spirit. Both had the same delicate childish features, thesame mouth of passion, the same large dreamy eyes set in the same round, practical, and stubborn head. 

"My Dario, here I am!"

For a second, which seemed an eternity, they clasped one another, sheneither repelled nor terrified by the disorder which made him sounrecognisable, but displaying a delirious passion, a holy frenzy as ifto pass beyond life, to penetrate with him into the black Unknown. Andbeneath the shock of the felicity at last offered to him he expired, withhis arms yet convulsively wound around her as though indeed to carry heroff. Then, whether from grief or from bliss amidst that embrace of death, there came such a rush of blood to her heart that the organ burst: shedied on her lover's neck, both tightly and for ever clasped in oneanother's arms. 

There was a faint sigh. Victorine understood and drew near, while Pierre, also erect, remained quivering with the tearful admiration of one who hasbeheld the sublime. 

"Look, look!" whispered the servant, "she no longer moves, she no longerbreathes. Ah! my poor child, my poor child, she is dead!"

Then the priest murmured: "Oh! God, how beautiful they are. "

It was true, never had loftier and more resplendent beauty appeared onthe faces of the dead. Dario's countenance, so lately aged and earthen, had assumed the pallor and nobility of marble, its features lengthenedand simplified as by a transport of ineffable joy. Benedetta remainedvery grave, her lips curved by ardent determination, whilst her wholeface was expressive of dolorous yet infinite beatitude in a setting ofinfinite whiteness. Their hair mingled, and their eyes, which hadremained open, continued gazing as into one another's souls with eternal, caressing sweetness. They were for ever linked, soaring into immortalityamidst the enchantment of their union, vanquishers of death, radiant withthe rapturous beauty of love, the conqueror, the immortal. 

But Victorine's sobs at last burst forth, mingled with such lamentationsthat great confusion followed. Pierre, now quite beside himself, in somemeasure failed to understand how it was that the room suddenly becameinvaded by terrified people. The Cardinal and Don Vigilio, however, musthave hastened in from the chapel; and at the same moment, no doubt, Doctor Giordano must have returned with Donna Serafina, for both were nowthere, she stupefied by the blows which had thus fallen on the house inher absence, whilst he, the doctor, displayed the perturbation andastonishment which comes upon the oldest practitioners when facts seem togive the lie to their experience. However, he sought an explanation ofBenedetta's death, and hesitatingly ascribed it to aneurism, or possiblyembolism. 

Thereupon Victorine, like a servant whose grief makes her the equal ofher employers, boldly interrupted him: "Ah! Sir, " said she, "they lovedeach other too fondly; did not that suffice for them to die together?"

Meantime Donna Serafina, after kissing the poor children on the brow, desired to close their eyes; but she could not succeed in doing so, forthe lids lifted directly she removed her finger and once more the eyesbegan to smile at one another, to exchange in all fixity their loving andeternal glance. And then as she spoke of parting the bodies, Victorineagain protested: "Oh! madame, oh! madame, " she said, "you would have tobreak their arms. Cannot you see that their fingers are almost dug intoone another's shoulders? No, they can never be parted!"

Thereupon Cardinal Boccanera intervened. God had not granted the miracle;and he, His minister, was livid, tearless, and full of icy despair. Buthe waved his arm with a sovereign gesture of absolution andsanctification, as if, Prince of the Church that he was, disposing of thewill of Heaven, he consented that the lovers should appear in thatembrace before the supreme tribunal. In presence of such wondrous love, indeed, profoundly stirred by the sufferings of their lives and thebeauty of their death, he showed a broad and lofty contempt for mundaneproprieties. "Leave them, leave me, my sister, " said he, "do not disturbtheir slumber. Let their eyes remain open since they desire to gaze onone another till the end of time without ever wearying. And let themsleep in one another's arms since in their lives they did not sin, andonly locked themselves in that embrace in order that they might be laidtogether in the ground. "

And then, again becoming a Roman Prince whose proud blood was yet hotwith old-time deeds of battle and passion, he added: "Two Boccaneras maywell sleep like that; all Rome will admire them and weep for them. Leavethem, leave them together, my sister. God knows them and awaits them!"

All knelt, and the Cardinal himself repeated the prayers for the dead. Night was coming, increasing gloom stole into the chamber, where twoburning tapers soon shone out like stars. 

And then, without knowing how, Pierre again found himself in the littledeserted garden on the bank of the Tiber. Suffocating with fatigue andgrief, he must have come thither for fresh air. Darkness shrouded thecharming nook where the streamlet of water falling from the tragic maskinto the ancient sarcophagus ever sang its shrill and flute-like song;and the laurel-bush which shaded it, and the bitter box-plants and theorange-trees skirting the paths now formed but vague masses under theblue-black sky. Ah! how gay and sweet had that melancholy garden been inthe morning, and what a desolate echo it retained of Benedetta's winsomelaughter, all that fine delight in coming happiness which now lay proneupstairs, steeped in the nothingness of things and beings! So dolorouswas the pang which came to Pierre's heart that he burst into sobs, seatedon the same broken column where she had sat, and encompassed by the sameatmosphere that she had breathed, in which still lingered the perfume ofher presence. 

But all at once a distant clock struck six, and the young priest startedon remembering that he was to be received by the Pope that very eveningat nine. Yet three more hours! He had not thought of that interviewduring the terrifying catastrophe, and it seemed to him now as if monthsand months had gone by, as if the appointment were some very old onewhich a man is only able to keep after years of absence, when he hasgrown aged and had his heart and brain modified by innumerableexperiences. However, he made an effort and rose to his feet. In threehours' time he would go to the Vatican and at last he would see the Pope. 

PART V. 

XIV. 

THAT evening, when Pierre emerged from the Borgo in front of the Vatican, a sonorous stroke rang out from the clock amidst the deep silence of thedark and sleepy district. It was only half-past eight, and being inadvance the young priest resolved to wait some twenty minutes in order toreach the doors of the papal apartments precisely at nine, the hour fixedfor his audience. 

This respite brought him some relief amidst the infinite emotion andgrief which gripped his heart. That tragic afternoon which he had spentin the chamber of death, where Dario and Benedetta now slept the eternalsleep in one another's arms, had left him very weary. He was haunted by awild, dolorous vision of the two lovers, and involuntary sighs came fromhis lips whilst tears continually moistened his eyes. He had beenaltogether unable to eat that evening. Ah! how he would have liked tohide himself and weep at his ease! His heart melted at each freshthought. The pitiful death of the lovers intensified the grievous feelingwith which his book was instinct, and impelled him to yet greatercompassion, a perfect anguish of charity for all who suffered in theworld. And he was so distracted by the thought of the many physical andmoral sores of Paris and of Rome, where he had beheld so much unjust andabominable suffering, that at each step he took he feared lest he shouldburst into sobs with arms upstretched towards the blackness of heaven. 

In the hope of somewhat calming himself he began to walk slowly acrossthe Piazza of St. Peter's, now all darkness and solitude. On arriving hehad fancied that he was losing himself in a murky sea, but by degrees hiseyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The vast expanse was only lighted bythe four candelabra at the corners of the obelisk and by infrequent lampsskirting the buildings which run on either hand towards the Basilica. Under the colonnade, too, other lamps threw yellow gleams across theforest of pillars, showing up their stone trunks in fantastic fashion;while on the piazza only the pale, ghostly obelisk was at all distinctlyvisible. Pierre could scarcely perceive the dim, silent facade of St. Peter's; whilst of the dome he merely divined a gigantic, bluey roundnessfaintly shadowed against the sky. In the obscurity he at first heard theplashing of the fountains without being at all able to see them, but onapproaching he at last distinguished the slender phantoms of the everrising jets which fell again in spray. And above the vast squarestretched the vast and moonless sky of a deep velvety blue, where thestars were large and radiant like carbuncles; Charles's Wain, with goldenwheels and golden shaft tilted back as it were, over the roof of theVatican, and Orion, bedizened with the three bright stars of his belt, showing magnificently above Rome, in the direction of the Via Giulia. 

At last Pierre raised his eyes to the Vatican, but facing the piazzathere was here merely a confused jumble of walls, amidst which only twogleams of light appeared on the floor of the papal apartments. The Courtof San Damaso was, however, lighted, for the conservatory-like glass-workof two of its sides sparkled as with the reflection of gas lamps whichcould not be seen. For a time there was not a sound or sign of movement, but at last two persons crossed the expanse of the piazza, and then camea third who in his turn disappeared, nothing remaining but a rhythmicalfar-away echo of steps. The spot was indeed a perfect desert, there wereneither promenaders nor passers-by, nor was there even the shadow of aprowler in the pillared forest of the colonnade, which was as empty asthe wild primeval forests of the world's infancy. And what a solemndesert it was, full of the silence of haughty desolation. Never had sovast and black a presentment of slumber, so instinct with the sovereignnobility of death, appeared to Pierre. 

At ten minutes to nine he at last made up his mind and went towards thebronze portal. Only one of the folding doors was now open at the end ofthe right-hand porticus, where the increasing density of the gloomsteeped everything in night. Pierre remembered the instructions whichMonsignor Nani had given him; at each door that he reached he was to askfor Signor Squadra without adding a word, and thereupon each door wouldopen and he would have nothing to do but to let himself be guided on. Noone but the prelate now knew that he was there, since Benedetta, the onlybeing to whom he had confided the secret, was dead. When he had crossedthe threshold of the bronze doors and found himself in presence of themotionless, sleeping Swiss Guard, who was on duty there, he simply spokethe words agreed upon: "Signor Squadra. " And as the Guard did not stir, did not seek to bar his way, he passed on, turning into the vestibule ofthe Scala Pia, the stone stairway which ascends to the Court of SanDamaso. And not a soul was to be seen: there was but the faint sound ofhis own light footsteps and the sleepy glow of the gas jets whose lightwas softly whitened by globes of frosted glass. Up above, on reaching thecourtyard he found it a solitude, whose slumber seemed sepulchral amidstthe mournful gleams of the gas lamps which cast a pallid reflection onthe lofty glass-work of the facades. And feeling somewhat nervous, affected by the quiver which pervaded all that void and silence, Pierrehastened on, turning to the right, towards the low flight of steps whichleads to the staircase of the Pope's private apartments. 

Here stood a superb gendarme in full uniform. "Signor Squadra, " saidPierre, and without a word the gendarme pointed to the stairs. 

The young man went up. It was a broad stairway, with low steps, balustrade of white marble, and walls covered with yellowish stucco. Thegas, burning in globes of round glass, seemed to have been already turneddown in a spirit of prudent economy. And in the glimmering light nothingcould have been more mournfully solemn than that cold and pallidstaircase. On each landing there was a Swiss Guard, halbard in hand, andin the heavy slumber spreading through the palace one only heard theregular monotonous footsteps of these men, ever marching up and down, inorder no doubt that they might not succumb to the benumbing influence oftheir surroundings. 

Amidst the invading dimness and the quivering silence the ascent of thestairs seemed interminable to Pierre, who by the time he reached thesecond-floor landing imagined that he had been climbing for ages. There, outside the glass door of the Sala Clementina, only the right-hand halfof which was open, a last Swiss Guard stood watching. 

"Signor Squadra, " Pierre said again, and the Guard drew back to let himpass. 

The Sala Clementina, spacious enough by daylight, seemed immense at thatnocturnal hour, in the twilight glimmer of its lamps. All the opulentdecorative-work, sculpture, painting, and gilding became blended, thewalls assuming a tawny vagueness amidst which appeared bright patcheslike the sparkle of precious stones. There was not an article offurniture, nothing but the endless pavement stretching away into thesemi-darkness. At last, however, near a door at the far end Pierre espiedsome men dozing on a bench. They were three Swiss Guards. "SignorSquadra, " he said to them. 

One of the Guards thereupon slowly rose and left the hall, and Pierreunderstood that he was to wait. He did not dare to move, disturbed as hewas by the sound of his own footsteps on the paved floor, so he contentedhimself with gazing around and picturing the crowds which at timespeopled that vast apartment, the first of the many papal ante-chambers. But before long the Guard returned, and behind him, on the threshold ofthe adjoining room, appeared a man of forty or thereabouts, who was cladin black from head to foot and suggested a cross between a butler and abeadle. He had a good-looking, clean-shaven face, with somewhatpronounced nose and large, clear, fixed eyes. "Signor Squadra, " saidPierre for the last time. 

The man bowed as if to say that he was Signor Squadra, and then, with afresh reverence, he invited the priest to follow him. Thereupon at aleisurely step, one behind the other, they began to thread theinterminable suite of waiting-rooms. Pierre, who was acquainted with theceremonial, of which he had often spoken with Narcisse, recognised thedifferent apartments as he passed through them, recalling their names andpurpose, and peopling them in imagination with the various officials ofthe papal retinue who have the right to occupy them. These according totheir rank cannot go beyond certain doors, so that the persons who are tohave audience of the Pope are passed on from the servants to the NobleGuards, from the Noble Guards to the honorary _Camerieri_, and from thelatter to the _Camerieri segreti_, until they at last reach the presenceof the Holy Father. At eight o'clock, however, the ante-rooms empty andbecome both deserted and dim, only a few lamps being left alight upon thepier tables standing here and there against the walls. 

And first Pierre came to the ante-room of the _bussolanti_, mere ushersclad in red velvet broidered with the papal arms, who conduct visitors tothe door of the ante-room of honour. At that late hour only one of themwas left there, seated on a bench in such a dark corner that his purpletunic looked quite black. Then the Hall of the Gendarmes was crossed, where according to the regulations the secretaries of cardinals and otherhigh personages await their masters' return; and this was now completelyempty, void both of the handsome blue uniforms with white shoulder beltsand the cassocks of fine black cloth which mingled in it during thebrilliant reception hours. Empty also was the following room, a smallerone reserved to the Palatine Guards, who are recruited among the Romanmiddle class and wear black tunics with gold epaulets and shakoessurmounted by red plumes. Then Pierre and his guide turned into anotherseries of apartments, and again was the first one empty. This was theHall of the Arras, a superb waiting-room with lofty painted ceiling andadmirable Gobelins tapestry designed by Audran and representing themiracles of Jesus. And empty also was the ante-chamber of the NobleGuards which followed, with its wooden stools, its pier table on theright-hand surmounted by a large crucifix standing between two lamps, andits large door opening at the far end into another but smaller room, asort of alcove indeed, where there is an altar at which the Holy Fathersays mass by himself whilst those privileged to be present remainkneeling on the marble slabs of the outer apartment which is resplendentwith the dazzling uniforms of the Guards. And empty likewise was theensuing ante-room of honour, otherwise the grand throne-room, where thePope receives two or three hundred people at a time in public audience. The throne, an arm-chair of elaborate pattern, gilded, and upholsteredwith red velvet, stands under a velvet canopy of the same hue, in frontof the windows. Beside it is the cushion on which the Pope rests his footin order that it may be kissed. Then facing one another, right and leftof the room, there are two pier tables, on one of which is a clock and onthe other a crucifix between lofty candelabra with feet of gilded wood. The wall hangings, of red silk damask with a Louis XIV palm pattern, aretopped by a pompous frieze, framing a ceiling decorated with allegoricalfigures and attributes, and it is only just in front of the throne that aSmyrna carpet covers the magnificent marble pavement. On the days ofprivate audience, when the Pope remains in the little throne-room or attimes in his bed-chamber, the grand throne-room becomes simply theante-room of honour, where high dignitaries of the Church, ambassadors, and great civilian personages, wait their turns. Two _Camerieri_, one inviolet coat, the other of the Cape and the Sword, here do duty, receivingfrom the _bussolanti_ the persons who are to be honoured with audiencesand conducting them to the door of the next room, the secret or privateante-chamber, where they hand them over to the _Camerieri segreti_. 

Signor Squadra who, walking on with slow and silent steps, had not yetonce turned round, paused for a moment on reaching the door of the_anticamera segreta_ so as to give Pierre time to breathe and recoverhimself somewhat before crossing the threshold of the sanctuary. The_Camerieri segreti_ alone had the right to occupy that last ante-chamber, and none but the cardinals might wait there till the Pope shouldcondescend to receive them. And so when Signor Squadra made up his mindto admit Pierre, the latter could not restrain a slight nervous shiver asif he were passing into some redoubtable mysterious sphere beyond thelimits of the lower world. In the daytime a Noble Guard stood on sentryduty before the door, but the latter was now free of access, and the roomwithin proved as empty as all the others. It was rather narrow, almostlike a passage, with two windows overlooking the new district of thecastle fields and a third one facing the Piazza of St. Peter's. Near thelast was a door conducting to the little throne-room, and between thisdoor and the window stood a small table at which a secretary, now absent, usually sat. And here again, as in all the other rooms, one found agilded pier table surmounted by a crucifix flanked by a pair of lamps. Ina corner too there was a large clock, loudly ticking in its ebony caseincrusted with brass-work. Still there was nothing to awaken curiosityunder the panelled and gilded ceiling unless it were the wall-hangings ofred damask, on which yellow scutcheons displaying the Keys and the Tiaraalternated with armorial lions, each with a paw resting on a globe. 

Signor Squadra, however, now noticed that Pierre still carried his hat inhis hand, whereas according to etiquette he should have left it in thehall of the _bussolanti_, only cardinals being privileged to carry theirhats with them into the Pope's presence. Accordingly he discreetly tookthe young priest's from him, and deposited it on the pier table toindicate that it must at least remain there. Then, without a word, by asimple bow he gave Pierre to understand that he was about to announce himto his Holiness, and that he must be good enough to wait for a fewminutes in that room. 

On being left to himself Pierre drew a long breath. He was stifling; hisheart was beating as though it would burst. Nevertheless his mindremained clear, and in spite of the semi-obscurity he had been able toform some idea of the famous and magnificent apartments of the Pope, asuite of splendid _salons_ with tapestried or silken walls, gilded orpainted friezes, and frescoed ceilings. By way of furniture, however, there were only pier table, stools, * and thrones. And the lamps and theclocks, and the crucifixes, even the thrones, were all presents broughtfrom the four quarters of the world in the great fervent days of jubilee. There was no sign of comfort, everything was pompous, stiff, cold, andinconvenient. All olden Italy was there, with its perpetual display andlack of intimate, cosy life. It had been necessary to lay a few carpetsover the superb marble slabs which froze one's feet; and some_caloriferes_ had even lately been installed, but it was not thoughtprudent to light them lest the variations of temperature should give thePope a cold. However, that which more particularly struck Pierre now thathe stood there waiting was the extraordinary silence which prevailed allaround, silence so deep that it seemed as if all the dark quiescence ofthat huge, somniferous Vatican were concentrated in that one suite oflifeless, sumptuous rooms, which the motionless flamelets of the lamps asdimly illumined. 

 * M. Zola seems to have fallen into error here. Many of the seats, which are of peculiar antique design, do, in the lower part, resemble stools, but they have backs, whereas a stool proper has none. Briefly, these seats, which are entirely of wood, are not unlike certain old-fashioned hall chairs. --Trans. 

All at once the ebony clock struck nine and the young man feltastonished. What! had only ten minutes elapsed since he had crossed thethreshold of the bronze doors below? He felt as if he had been walking onfor days and days. Then, desiring to overcome the nervous feeling whichoppressed him--for he ever feared lest his enforced calmness shouldcollapse amidst a flood of tears--he began to walk up and down, passingin front of the clock, glancing at the crucifix on the pier table, andthe globe of the lamp on which had remained the mark of a servant'sgreasy fingers. And the light was so faint and yellow that he feltinclined to turn the lamp up, but did not dare. Then he found himselfwith his brow resting against one of the panes of the window facing thePiazza of St. Peter's, and for a moment he was thunderstruck, for betweenthe imperfectly closed shutters he could see all Rome, as he had seen itone day from the _loggie_ of Raffaelle, and as he had pictured Leo XIIIcontemplating it from the window of his bed-room. However, it was nowRome by night, Rome spreading out into the depths of the gloom, aslimitless as the starry sky. And in that sea of black waves one couldonly with certainty identify the larger thoroughfares which the whitebrightness of electric lights turned, as it were, into Milky Ways. Allthe rest showed but a swarming of little yellow sparks, the crumbs, as itwere, of a half-extinguished heaven swept down upon the earth. Occasionalconstellations of bright stars, tracing mysterious figures, vainlyendeavoured to show forth distinctly, but they were submerged, blottedout by the general chaos which suggested the dust of some old planet thathad crumbled there, losing its splendour and reduced to merephosphorescent sand. And how immense was the blackness thus sprinkledwith light, how huge the mass of obscurity and mystery into which theEternal City with its seven and twenty centuries, its ruins, itsmonuments, its people, its history seemed to have been merged. You couldno longer tell where it began or where it ended, whether it spread to thefarthest recesses of the gloom, or whether it were so reduced that thesun on rising would illumine but a little pile of ashes. 

However, in spite of all Pierre's efforts, his nervous anguish increasedeach moment, even in presence of that ocean of darkness which displayedsuch sovereign quiescence. He drew away from the window and quivered fromhead to foot on hearing a faint footfall and thinking it was that ofSignor Squadra approaching to fetch him. The sound came from an adjacentapartment, the little throne-room, whose door, he now perceived, hadremained ajar. And at last, as he heard nothing further, he yielded tohis feverish impatience and peeped into this room which he found to befairly spacious, again hung with red damask, and containing a gildedarm-chair, covered with red velvet under a canopy of the same material. And again there was the inevitable pier table, with a tall ivorycrucifix, a clock, a pair of lamps, a pair of candelabra, a pair of largevases on pedestals, and two smaller ones of Sevres manufacture decoratedwith the Holy Father's portrait. At the same time, however, the roomdisplayed rather more comfort, for a Smyrna carpet covered the whole ofthe marble floor, while a few arm-chairs stood against the walls, and animitation chimney-piece, draped with damask, served as counterpart to thepier table. As a rule the Pope, whose bed-chamber communicated with thislittle throne-room, received in the latter such persons as he desired tohonour. And Pierre's shiver became more pronounced at the idea that inall likelihood he would merely have the throne-room to cross and that LeoXIII was yonder behind its farther door. Why was he kept waiting, hewondered? He had been told of mysterious audiences granted at a similarhour to personages who had been received in similar silent fashion, greatpersonages whose names were only mentioned in the lowest whispers. Withregard to himself no doubt, it was because he was considered compromisingthat there was a desire to receive him in this manner unknown to thepersonages of the Court, and so as to speak with him at ease. Then, allat once, he understood the cause of the noise he had recently heard, forbeside the lamp on the pier table of the little throne-room he saw a kindof butler's tray containing some soiled plates, knives, forks, andspoons, with a bottle and a glass, which had evidently just been removedfrom a supper table. And he realised that Signor Squadra, having seenthese things in the Pope's room, had brought them there, and had thengone in again, perhaps to tidy up. He knew also of the Pope's frugality, how he took his meals all alone at a little round table, everything beingbrought to him in that tray, a plate of meat, a plate of vegetables, alittle Bordeaux claret as prescribed by his doctor, and a large allowanceof beef broth of which he was very fond. In the same way as others mightoffer a cup of tea, he was wont to offer cups of broth to the oldcardinals his friends and favourites, quite an invigorating little treatwhich these old bachelors much enjoyed. And, O ye orgies of Alexander VI, ye banquets and _galas_ of Julius II and Leo X, only eight _lire_ aday--six shillings and fourpence--were allowed to defray the cost of LeoXIII's table! However, just as that recollection occurred to Pierre, heagain heard a slight noise, this time in his Holiness's bed-chamber, andthereupon, terrified by his indiscretion, he hastened to withdraw fromthe entrance of the throne-room which, lifeless and quiescent though itwas, seemed in his agitation to flare as with sudden fire. 

Then, quivering too violently to be able to remain still, he began towalk up and down the ante-chamber. He remembered that Narcisse had spokento him of that Signor Squadra, his Holiness's cherished valet, whoseimportance and influence were so great. He alone, on reception days, wasable to prevail on the Pope to don a clean cassock if the one he waswearing happened to be soiled by snuff. And though his Holinessstubbornly shut himself up alone in his bed-room every night from aspirit of independence, which some called the anxiety of a miserdetermined to sleep alone with his treasure, Signor Squadra at all eventsoccupied an adjoining chamber, and was ever on the watch, ready torespond to the faintest call. Again, it was he who respectfullyintervened whenever his Holiness sat up too late or worked too long. Buton this point it was difficult to induce the Pope to listen to reason. During his hours of insomnia he would often rise and send Squadra tofetch a secretary in order that he might detail some memoranda or sketchout an encyclical letter. When the drafting of one of the latterimpassioned him he would have spent days and nights over it, just asformerly, when claiming proficiency in Latin verse, he had often let thedawn surprise him whilst he was polishing a line. But, indeed, he sleptvery little, his brain ever being at work, ever scheming out therealisation of some former ideas. His memory alone seemed to haveslightly weakened during recent times. 

Pierre, as he slowly paced to and fro, gradually became absorbed in histhoughts of that lofty and sovereign personality. From the petty detailsof the Pope's daily existence, he passed to his intellectual life, to the_role_ which he was certainly bent on playing as a great pontiff. AndPierre asked himself which of his two hundred and fifty-sevenpredecessors, the long line of saints and criminals, men of mediocrityand men of genius, he most desired to resemble. Was it one of the firsthumble popes, those who followed on during the first three centuries, mere heads of burial guilds, fraternal pastors of the Christiancommunity? Was it Pope Damasus, the first great builder, the man ofletters who took delight in intellectual matters, the ardent believer whois said to have opened the Catacombs to the piety of the faithful? Was itLeo III, who by crowning Charlemagne boldly consummated the rupture withthe schismatic East and conveyed the Empire to the West by theall-powerful will of God and His Church, which thenceforth disposed ofthe crowns of monarchs? Was it the terrible Gregory VII, the purifier ofthe temple, the sovereign of kings; was it Innocent III or Boniface VIII, those masters of souls, nations, and thrones, who, armed with the fierceweapon of excommunication, reigned with such despotism over the terrifiedmiddle ages that Catholicism was never nearer the attainment of its dreamof universal dominion? Was it Urban II or Gregory IX or another of thosepopes in whom flared the red Crusading passion which urged the nations onto the conquest of the unknown and the divine? Was it Alexander III, whodefended the Holy See against the Empire, and at last conquered and sethis foot on the neck of Frederick Barbarossa? Was it, long after thesorrows of Avignon, Julius II, who wore the cuirass and once morestrengthened the political power of the papacy? Was it Leo X, thepompous, glorious patron of the Renascence, of a whole great century ofart, whose mind, however, was possessed of so little penetration andforesight that he looked on Luther as a mere rebellious monk? Was it PiusV, who personified dark and avenging reaction, the fire of the stakesthat punished the heretic world? Was it some other of the popes whoreigned after the Council of Trent with faith absolute, beliefre-established in its full integrity, the Church saved by pride and thestubborn upholding of every dogma? Or was it a pope of the decline, suchas Benedict XIV, the man of vast intelligence, the learned theologianwho, as his hands were tied, and he could not dispose of the kingdoms ofthe world, spent a worthy life in regulating the affairs of heaven?

In this wise, in Pierre's mind there spread out the whole history of thepopes, the most prodigious of all histories, showing fortune in everyguise, the lowest, the most wretched, as well as the loftiest and mostdazzling; whilst an obstinate determination to live enabled the papacy tosurvive everything--conflagrations, massacres, and the downfall of manynations, for always did it remain militant and erect in the persons ofits popes, that most extraordinary of all lines of absolute, conquering, and domineering sovereigns, every one of them--even the puny andhumble--masters of the world, every one of them glorious with theimperishable glory of heaven when they were thus evoked in that ancientVatican, where their spirits assuredly awoke at night and prowled aboutthe endless galleries and spreading halls in that tomb-like silence whosequiver came no doubt from the light touch of their gliding steps over themarble slabs. 

However, Pierre was now thinking that he indeed knew which of the greatpopes Leo XIII most desired to resemble. It was first Gregory the Great, the conqueror and organiser of the early days of Catholic power. He hadcome of ancient Roman stock, and in his heart there was a little of theblood of the emperors. He administered Rome after it had been saved fromthe Goths, cultivated the ecclesiastical domains, and divided earthlywealth into thirds, one for the poor, one for the clergy, and one for theChurch. Then too he was the first to establish the Propaganda, sendinghis priests forth to civilise and pacify the nations, and carrying hisconquests so far as to win Great Britain over to the divine law ofChrist. And the second pope whom Leo XIII took as model was one who hadarisen after a long lapse of centuries, Sixtus V, the pope financier andpolitician, the vine-dresser's son, who, when he had donned the tiara, revealed one of the most extensive and supple minds of a period fertilein great diplomatists. He heaped up treasure and displayed stern avarice, in order that he might ever have in his coffers all the money needful forwar or for peace. He spent years and years in negotiations with kings, never despairing of his own triumph; and never did he display openhostility for his times, but took them as they were and then sought tomodify them in accordance with the interests of the Holy See, showinghimself conciliatory in all things and with every one, already dreamingof an European balance of power which he hoped to control. And withal avery saintly pope, a fervent mystic, yet a pope of the most absolute anddomineering mind blended with a politician ready for whatever coursesmight most conduce to the rule of God's Church on earth. 

And, after all, Pierre amidst his rising enthusiasm, which despite hisefforts at calmness was sweeping away all prudence and doubt, Pierreasked himself why he need question the past. Was not Leo XIII the popewhom he had depicted in his book, the great pontiff, who was desired andexpected? No doubt the portrait which he had sketched was not accurate inevery detail, but surely its main lines must be correct if mankind wereto retain a hope of salvation. Whole pages of that book of his arosebefore him, and he again beheld the Leo XIII that he had portrayed, thewise and conciliatory politician, labouring for the unity of the Churchand so anxious to make it strong and invincible against the day of theinevitable great struggle. He again beheld him freed from the cares ofthe temporal power, elevated, radiant with moral splendour, the onlyauthority left erect above the nations; he beheld him realising whatmortal danger would be incurred if the solution of the social questionwere left to the enemies of Christianity, and therefore resolving tointervene in contemporary quarrels for the defence of the poor and thelowly, even as Jesus had intervened once before. And he again beheld himputting himself on the side of the democracies, accepting the Republic inFrance, leaving the dethroned kings in exile, and verifying theprediction which promised the empire of the world to Rome once more whenthe papacy should have unified belief and have placed itself at the headof the people. The times indeed were near accomplishment, Caesar wasstruck down, the Pope alone remained, and would not the people, the greatsilent multitude, for whom the two powers had so long contended, giveitself to its Father now that it knew him to be both just and charitable, with heart aglow and hand outstretched to welcome all the pennilesstoilers and beggars of the roads! Given the catastrophe which threatenedour rotten modern societies, the frightful misery which ravaged everycity, there was surely no other solution possible: Leo XIII, thepredestined, necessary redeemer, the pastor sent to save the flock fromcoming disaster by re-establishing the true Christian community, theforgotten golden age of primitive Christianity. The reign of justicewould at last begin, all men would be reconciled, there would be but onenation living in peace and obeying the equalising law of work, under thehigh patronage of the Pope, sole bond of charity and love on earth!

And at this thought Pierre was upbuoyed by fiery enthusiasm. At last hewas about to see the Holy Father, empty his heart and open his soul tohim! He had so long and so passionately looked for the advent of thatmoment! To secure it he had fought with all his courage through everrecurring obstacles, and the length and difficulty of the struggle andthe success now at last achieved, increased his feverishness, his desirefor final victory. Yes, yes, he would conquer, he would confound hisenemies. As he had said to Monsignor Fornaro, could the Pope disavow him?Had he not expressed the Holy Father's secret ideas? Perhaps he mighthave done so somewhat prematurely, but was not that a fault to beforgiven? And then too, he remembered his declaration to Monsignor Nani, that he himself would never withdraw and suppress his book, for heneither regretted nor disowned anything that was in it. At this verymoment he again questioned himself, and felt that all his valour anddetermination to defend his book, all his desire to work the triumph ofhis belief, remained intact. Yet his mental perturbation was becominggreat, he had to seek for ideas, wondering how he should enter the Pope'spresence, what he should say, what precise terms he should employ. Something heavy and mysterious which he could hardly account for seemedto weigh him down. At bottom he was weary, already exhausted, only heldup by his dream, his compassion for human misery. However, he would enterin all haste, he would fall upon his knees and speak as he best could, letting his heart flow forth. And assuredly the Holy Father would smileon him, and dismiss him with a promise that he would not sign thecondemnation of a work in which he had found the expression of his ownmost cherished thoughts. 

Then, again, such an acute sensation as of fainting came over Pierre thathe went up to the window to press his burning brow against the coldglass. His ears were buzzing, his legs staggering, whilst his brainthrobbed violently. And he was striving to forget his thoughts by gazingupon the black immensity of Rome, longing to be steeped in night himself, total, healing night, the night in which one sleeps on for ever, knowingneither pain nor wretchedness, when all at once he became conscious thatsomebody was standing behind him; and thereupon, with a start, he turnedround. 

And there, indeed, stood Signor Squadra in his black livery. Again hemade one of his customary bows to invite the visitor to follow him, andagain he walked on in front, crossing the little throne-room, and slowlyopening the farther door. Then he drew aside, allowed Pierre to enter, and noiselessly closed the door behind him. 

Pierre was in his Holiness's bed-room. He had feared one of thoseoverwhelming attacks of emotion which madden or paralyse one. He had beentold of women reaching the Pope's presence in a fainting condition, staggering as if intoxicated, while others came with a rush, as thoughupheld and borne along by invisible pinions. And suddenly the anguish ofhis own spell of waiting, his intense feverishness, ceased in a sort ofastonishment, a reaction which rendered him very calm and so restored hisclearness of vision, that he could see everything. As he entered hedistinctly realised the decisive importance of such an audience, he, amere petty priest in presence of the Supreme Pontiff, the Head of theChurch. All his religious and moral life would depend on it; and possiblyit was this sudden thought that thus chilled him on the threshold of theredoubtable sanctuary, which he had approached with such quivering steps, and which he would not have thought to enter otherwise than withdistracted heart and loss of senses, unable to do more than stammer thesimple prayers of childhood. 

Later on, when he sought to classify his recollections he remembered thathis eyes had first lighted on Leo XIII, not, however, to the exclusion ofhis surroundings, but in conjunction with them, that spacious room hungwith yellow damask whose alcove, adorned with fluted marble columns, wasso deep that the bed was quite hidden away in it, as well as otherarticles of furniture, a couch, a wardrobe, and some trunks, those famoustrunks in which the treasure of the Peter's Pence was said to be securelylocked. A sort of Louis XIV writing-desk with ornaments of engraved brassstood face to face with a large gilded and painted Louis XV pier table onwhich a lamp was burning beside a lofty crucifix. The room was virtuallybare, only three arm-chairs and four or five other chairs, upholstered inlight silk, being disposed here and there over the well-worn carpet. Andon one of the arm-chairs sat Leo XIII, near a small table on whichanother lamp with a shade had been placed. Three newspapers, moreover, lay there, two of them French and one Italian, and the last was halfunfolded as if the Pope had momentarily turned from it to stir a glass ofsyrup, standing beside him, with a long silver-gilt spoon. 

In the same way as Pierre saw the Pope's room, he saw his costume, hiscassock of white cloth with white buttons, his white skull-cap, his whitecape and his white sash fringed with gold and broidered at either endwith golden keys. His stockings were white, his slippers were of redvelvet, and these again were broidered with golden keys. What surprisedthe young priest, however, was his Holiness's face and figure, which nowseemed so shrunken that he scarcely recognised them. This was his fourthmeeting with the Pope. He had seen him walking in the Vatican gardens, enthroned in the Hall of Beatifications, and pontifying at St. Peter's, and now he beheld him on that arm-chair, in privacy, and looking soslight and fragile that he could not restrain a feeling of affectionateanxiety. Leo's neck was particularly remarkable, slender beyond belief, suggesting the neck of some little, aged, white bird. And his face, ofthe pallor of alabaster, was characteristically transparent, to such adegree, indeed, that one could see the lamplight through his largecommanding nose, as if the blood had entirely withdrawn from that organ. A mouth of great length, with white bloodless lips, streaked the lowerpart of the papal countenance, and the eyes alone had remained young andhandsome. Superb eyes they were, brilliant like black diamonds, endowedwith sufficient penetration and strength to lay souls open and force themto confess the truth aloud. Some scanty white curls emerged from underthe white skull-cap, thus whitely crowning the thin white face, whoseugliness was softened by all this whiteness, this spiritual whiteness inwhich Leo XIII's flesh seemed as it were but pure lily-white florescence. 

At the first glance, however, Pierre noticed that if Signor Squadra hadkept him waiting, it had not been in order to compel the Holy Father todon a clean cassock, for the one he was wearing was badly soiled bysnuff. A number of brown stains had trickled down the front of thegarment beside the buttons, and just like any good _bourgeois_, hisHoliness had a handkerchief on his knees to wipe himself. Apart from allthis he seemed in good health, having recovered from his recentindisposition as easily as he usually recovered from such passingillnesses, sober, prudent old man that he was, quite free from organicdisease, and simply declining by reason of progressive naturalexhaustion. 

Immediately on entering Pierre had felt that the Pope's sparkling eyes, those two black diamonds, were fixed upon him. The silence was profound, and the lamps burned with motionless, pallid flames. He had to approach, and after making the three genuflections prescribed by etiquette, hestooped over one of the Pope's feet resting on a cushion in order to kissthe red velvet slipper. And on the Pope's side there was not a word, nota gesture, not a movement. When the young man drew himself up again hefound the two black diamonds, those two eyes which were all brightnessand intelligence, still riveted on him. 

But at last Leo XIII, who had been unwilling to spare the young priestthe humble duty of kissing his foot and who now left him standing, beganto speak, whilst still examining him, probing, as it were, his very soul. "My son, " he said, "you greatly desired to see me, and I consented toafford you that satisfaction. "

He spoke in French, somewhat uncertain French, pronounced after theItalian fashion, and so slowly did he articulate each sentence that onecould have written it down like so much dictation. And his voice, asPierre had previously noticed, was strong and nasal, one of those fullvoices which people are surprised to hear coming from debile andapparently bloodless and breathless frames. 

In response to the Holy Father's remark Pierre contented himself withbowing, knowing that respect required him to wait for a direct answerbefore speaking. However, this question promptly came. "You live inParis?" asked Leo XIII. 

"Yes, Holy Father. "

"Are you attached to one of the great parishes of the city?"

"No, Holy Father. I simply officiate at the little church of Neuilly. "

"Ah, yes, Neuilly, that is in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, isit not? And how old are you, my son?"

"Thirty-four, Holy Father. "

A short interval followed. Leo XIII had at last lowered his eyes. Withfrail, ivory hand he took up the glass beside him, again stirred thesyrup with the long spoon, and then drank a little of it. And all this hedid gently and slowly, with a prudent, judicious air, as was his wont nodoubt in everything. "I have read your book, my son, " he resumed. "Yes, the greater part of it. As a rule only fragments are submitted to me. Buta person who is interested in you handed me the volume, begging me toglance through it. And that is how I was able to look into it. "

As he spoke he made a slight gesture in which Pierre fancied he coulddetect a protest against the isolation in which he was kept by thosesurrounding him, who, as Monsignor Nani had said, maintained a strictwatch in order that nothing they objected to might reach him. Andthereupon the young priest ventured to say: "I thank your Holiness forhaving done me so much honour. No greater or more desired happiness couldhave befallen me. " He was indeed so happy! On seeing the Pope so calm, sofree from all signs of anger, and on hearing him speak in that way of hisbook, like one well acquainted with it, he imagined that his cause waswon. 

"You are in relations with Monsieur le Vicomte Philibert de la Choue, areyou not, my son?" continued Leo XIII. "I was struck by the resemblancebetween some of your ideas and those of that devoted servant of theChurch, who has in other ways given us previous testimony of his goodfeelings. "

"Yes, indeed, Holy Father, Monsieur de la Choue is kind enough to show mesome affection. We have often talked together, so it is not surprisingthat I should have given expression to some of his most cherished ideas. "

"No doubt, no doubt. For instance, there is that question of theworking-class guilds with which he largely occupies himself--with which, in fact, he occupies himself rather too much. At the time of his lastjourney to Rome he spoke to me of it in the most pressing manner. And inthe same way, quite recently, another of your compatriots, one of thebest and worthiest of men, Monsieur le Baron de Fouras, who brought usthat superb pilgrimage of the St. Peter's Pence Fund, never ceased hisefforts until I consented to receive him, when he spoke to me on the samesubject during nearly an hour. Only it must be said that they do notagree in the matter, for one begs me to do things which the other willnot have me do on any account. "

Pierre realised that the conversation was straying away from his book, but he remembered having promised the Viscount that if he should see thePope he would make an attempt to obtain from him a decisive expression ofopinion on the famous question as to whether the working-class guilds orcorporations should be free or obligatory, open or closed. And theunhappy Viscount, kept in Paris by the gout, had written the young priestletter after letter on the subject, whilst his rival the Baron, availinghimself of the opportunity offered by the international pilgrimage, endeavoured to wring from the Pope an approval of his own views, withwhich he would have returned in triumph to France. Pierre conscientiouslydesired to keep his promise, and so he answered: "Your Holiness knowsbetter than any of us in which direction true wisdom lies. Monsieur deFouras is of opinion that salvation, the solution of the labour question, lies simply in the re-establishment of the old free corporations, whilstMonsieur de la Choue desires the corporations to be obligatory, protectedby the state and governed by new regulations. This last conception iscertainly more in agreement with the social ideas now prevalent inFrance. Should your Holiness condescend to express a favourable opinionin that sense, the young French Catholic party would certainly know howto turn it to good result, by producing quite a movement of the workingclasses in favour of the Church. "

In his quiet way Leo XIII responded: "But I cannot. Frenchmen always askthings of me which I cannot, will not do. What I will allow you to say onmy behalf to Monsieur de la Choue is, that though I cannot content him Ihave not contented Monsieur de Fouras. He obtained from me nothing beyondthe expression of my sincere good-will for the French working classes, who are so dear to me and who can do so much for the restoration of thefaith. You must surely understand, however, that among you Frenchmenthere are questions of detail, of mere organisation, so to say, intowhich I cannot possibly enter without imparting to them an importancewhich they do not have, and at the same time greatly discontenting somepeople should I please others. "

As the Pope pronounced these last words he smiled a pale smile, in whichthe shrewd, conciliatory politician, who was determined not to allow hisinfallibility to be compromised in useless and risky ventures, was fullyrevealed. And then he drank a little more syrup and wiped his mouth withhis handkerchief, like a sovereign whose Court day is over and who takeshis ease, having chosen this hour of solitude and silence to chat as longas he may be so inclined. 

Pierre, however, sought to bring him back to the subject of his book. "Monsieur de la Choue, " said he, "has shown me so much kindness and is soanxious to know the fate reserved to my book--as if, indeed, it were hisown--that I should have been very happy to convey to him an expression ofyour Holiness's approval. "

However, the Pope continued wiping his mouth and did not reply. 

"I became acquainted with the Viscount, " continued Pierre, "at theresidence of his Eminence Cardinal Bergerot, another great heart whoseardent charity ought to suffice to restore the faith in France. "

This time the effect was immediate. "Ah! yes, Monsieur le CardinalBergerot!" said Leo XIII. "I read that letter of his which is printed atthe beginning of your book. He was very badly inspired in writing it toyou; and you, my son, acted very culpably on the day you published it. Icannot yet believe that Monsieur le Cardinal Bergerot had read some ofyour pages when he sent you an expression of his complete and fullapproval. I prefer to charge him with ignorance and thoughtlessness. Howcould he approve of your attacks on dogma, your revolutionary theorieswhich tend to the complete destruction of our holy religion? If it be afact that he had read your book, the only excuse he can invoke is suddenand inexplicable aberration. It is true that a very bad spirit prevailsamong a small portion of the French clergy. What are called Gallicanideas are ever sprouting up like noxious weeds; there is a malcontentLiberalism rebellious to our authority which continually hungers for freeexamination and sentimental adventures. "

The Pope grew animated as he spoke. Italian words mingled with hishesitating French, and every now and again his full nasal voice resoundedwith the sonority of a brass instrument. "Monsieur le Cardinal Bergerot, "he continued, "must be given to understand that we shall crush him on theday when we see in him nothing but a rebellious son. He owes the exampleof obedience; we shall acquaint him with our displeasure, and we hopethat he will submit. Humility and charity are great virtues doubtless, and we have always taken pleasure in recognising them in him. But theymust not be the refuge of a rebellious heart, for they are as nothingunless accompanied by obedience--obedience, obedience, the finestadornment of the great saints!"

Pierre listened thunderstruck, overcome. He forgot himself to think ofthe apostle of kindliness and tolerance upon whose head he had drawn thisall-powerful anger. So Don Vigilio had spoken the truth: over and abovehis--Pierre's--head the denunciations of the Bishops of Evreux andPoitiers were about to fall on the man who opposed their Ultramontanepolicy, that worthy and gentle Cardinal Bergerot, whose heart was open toall the woes of the lowly and the poor. This filled the young priest withdespair; he could accept the denunciation of the Bishop of Tarbes actingon behalf of the Fathers of the Grotto, for that only fell on himself, asa reprisal for what he had written about Lourdes; but the underhandwarfare of the others exasperated him, filled him with dolorousindignation. And from that puny old man before him with the slender, scraggy neck of an aged bird, he had suddenly seen such a wrathful, formidable Master arise that he trembled. How could he have allowedhimself to be deceived by appearances on entering? How could he haveimagined that he was simply in presence of a poor old man, worn out byage, desirous of peace, and ready for every concession? A blast had sweptthrough that sleepy chamber, and all his doubts and his anguish awokeonce more. Ah! that Pope, how thoroughly he answered to all the accountsthat he, Pierre, had heard but had refused to believe; so many people hadtold him in Rome that he would find Leo XIII a man of intellect ratherthan of sentiment, a man of the most unbounded pride, who from his veryyouth had nourished the supreme ambition, to such a point indeed that hehad promised eventual triumph to his relatives in order that they mightmake the necessary sacrifices for him, while since he had occupied thepontifical throne his one will and determination had been to reign, toreign in spite of all, to be the sole absolute and omnipotent master ofthe world! And now here was reality arising with irresistible force andconfirming everything. And yet Pierre struggled, stubbornly clutching athis dream once more. 

"Oh! Holy Father, " said he, "I should be grieved indeed if his Eminenceshould have a moment's worry on account of my unfortunate book. If I beguilty I can answer for my error, but his Eminence only obeyed thedictates of his heart and can only have transgressed by excess of lovefor the disinherited of the world!"

Leo XIII made no reply. He had again raised his superb eyes, those eyesof ardent life, set, as it were, in the motionless countenance of analabaster idol; and once more he was fixedly gazing at the young priest. 

And Pierre, amidst his returning feverishness, seemed to behold himgrowing in power and splendour, whilst behind him arose a vision of theages, a vision of that long line of popes whom the young priest hadpreviously evoked, the saintly and the proud ones, the warriors and theascetics, the theologians and the diplomatists, those who had wornarmour, those who had conquered by the Cross, those who had disposed ofempires as of mere provinces which God had committed to their charge. Andin particular Pierre beheld the great Gregory, the conqueror and founder, and Sixtus V, the negotiator and politician, who had first foreseen theeventual victory of the papacy over all the vanquished monarchies. Ah!what a throng of magnificent princes, of sovereign masters with powerfulbrains and arms, there was behind that pale, motionless, old man! What anaccumulation of inexhaustible determination, stubborn genius, andboundless domination! The whole history of human ambition, the wholeeffort of the ages to subject the nations to the pride of one man, thegreatest force that has ever conquered, exploited, and fashioned mankindin the name of its happiness! And even now, when territorial sovereigntyhad come to an end, how great was the spiritual sovereignty of that paleand slender old man, in whose presence women fainted, as if overcome bythe divine splendour radiating from his person. Not only did all theresounding glories, the masterful triumphs of history spread out behindhim, but heaven opened, the very spheres beyond life shone out in theirdazzling mystery. He--the Pope--stood at the portals of heaven, holdingthe keys and opening those portals to human souls; all the ancientsymbolism was revived, freed at last from the stains of royalty herebelow. 

"Oh! I beg you, Holy Father, " resumed Pierre, "if an example be neededstrike none other than myself. I have come, and am here; decide my fate, but do not aggravate my punishment by filling me with remorse at havingbrought condemnation on the innocent. "

Leo XIII still refrained from replying, though he continued to look atthe young priest with burning eyes. And he, Pierre, no longer beheld LeoXIII, the last of a long line of popes, the Vicar of Jesus Christ, theSuccessor of the Prince of the Apostles, the Supreme Pontiff of theUniversal Church, Patriarch of the East, Primate of Italy, Archbishop andMetropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Temporal Domains ofthe Holy Church; he saw the Leo XIII that he had dreamt of, the awaitedsaviour who would dispel the frightful cataclysm in which rotten societywas sinking. He beheld him with his supple, lofty intelligence andfraternal, conciliatory tactics, avoiding friction and labouring to bringabout unity whilst with his heart overflowing with love he went straightto the hearts of the multitude, again giving the best of his blood insign of the new alliance. He raised him aloft as the sole remaining moralauthority, the sole possible bond of charity and peace--as the Father, infact, who alone could stamp out injustice among his children, destroymisery, and re-establish the liberating Law of Work by bringing thenations back to the faith of the primitive Church, the gentleness and thewisdom of the true Christian community. And in the deep silence of thatroom the great figure which he thus set up assumed invincibleall-powerfulness, extraordinary majesty. 

"Oh, I beseech you, Holy Father, listen to me, " he said. "Do not evenstrike me, strike no one, neither a being nor a thing, anything that cansuffer under the sun. Show kindness and indulgence to all, show all thekindness and indulgence which the sight of the world's sufferings musthave set in you!"

And then, seeing that Leo XIII still remained silent and still left himstanding there, he sank down upon his knees, as if felled by the growingemotion which rendered his heart so heavy. And within him there was asort of _debacle_; all his doubts, all his anguish and sadness burstforth in an irresistible stream. There was the memory of the frightfulday that he had just spent, the tragic death of Dario and Benedetta, which weighed on him like lead; there were all the sufferings that he hadexperienced since his arrival in Rome, the destruction of his illusions, the wounds dealt to his delicacy, the buffets with which men and thingshad responded to his young enthusiasm; and, lying yet more deeply withinhis heart, there was the sum total of human wretchedness, the thought offamished ones howling for food, of mothers whose breasts were drained andwho sobbed whilst kissing their hungry babes, of fathers without work, who clenched their fists and revolted--indeed, the whole of that hatefulmisery which is as old as mankind itself, which has preyed upon mankindsince its earliest hour, and which he now had everywhere found increasingin horror and havoc, without a gleam of hope that it would ever behealed. And withal, yet more immense and more incurable, he felt withinhim a nameless sorrow to which he could assign no precise cause orname--an universal, an illimitable sorrow with which he melteddespairingly, and which was perhaps the very sorrow of life. 

"O Holy Father!" he exclaimed, "I myself have no existence and my bookhas no existence. I desired, passionately desired to see your Holinessthat I might explain and defend myself. But I no longer know, I can nolonger recall a single one of the things that I wished to say, I can onlyweep, weep the tears which are stifling me. Yes, I am but a poor man, andthe only need I feel is to speak to you of the poor. Oh! the poor ones, oh! the lowly ones, whom for two years past I have seen in our faubourgsof Paris, so wretched and so full of pain; the poor little children thatI have picked out of the snow, the poor little angels who had eatennothing for two days; the women too, consumed by consumption, withoutbread or fire, shivering in filthy hovels; and the men thrown on thestreet by slackness of trade, weary of begging for work as one begs foralms, sinking back into night, drunken with rage and harbouring the soleavenging thought of setting the whole city afire! And that night too, that terrible night, when in a room of horror I beheld a mother who hadjust killed herself with her five little ones, she lying on a palliassesuckling her last-born, and two little girls, two pretty little blondes, sleeping the last sleep beside her, while the two boys had succumbedfarther away, one of them crouching against a wall, and the other lyingupon the floor, distorted as though by a last effort to avoid death!... O Holy Father! I am but an ambassador, the messenger of those who sufferand who sob, the humble delegate of the humble ones who die of wantbeneath the hateful harshness, the frightful injustice of our present-daysocial system! And I bring your Holiness their tears, and I lay theirtortures at your Holiness's feet, I raise their cry of woe, like a cryfrom the abyss, that cry which demands justice unless indeed the veryheavens are to fall! Oh! show your loving kindness, Holy Father, showcompassion!"

The young man had stretched out his arms and implored Leo XIII with agesture as of supreme appeal to the divine compassion. Then he continued:"And here, Holy Father, in this splendid and eternal Rome, is not thewant and misery as frightful! During the weeks that I have roamed hitherand thither among the dust of famous ruins, I have never ceased to comein contact with evils which demand cure. Ah! to think of all that iscrumbling, all that is expiring, the agony of so much glory, the fearfulsadness of a world which is dying of exhaustion and hunger! Yonder, underyour Holiness's windows, have I not seen a district of horrors, adistrict of unfinished palaces stricken like rickety children who cannotattain to full growth, palaces which are already in ruins and have becomeplaces of refuge for all the woeful misery of Rome? And here, as inParis, what a suffering multitude, what a shameless exhibition too of thesocial sore, the devouring cancer openly tolerated and displayed in utterheedlessness! There are whole families leading idle and hungry lives inthe splendid sunlight; fathers waiting for work to fall to them fromheaven; sons listlessly spending their days asleep on the dry grass;mothers and daughters, withered before their time, shuffling about inloquacious idleness. O Holy Father, already to-morrow at dawn may yourHoliness open that window yonder and with your benediction awaken thatgreat childish people, which still slumbers in ignorance and poverty! Mayyour Holiness give it the soul it lacks, a soul with the consciousness ofhuman dignity, of the necessary law of work, of free and fraternal liferegulated by justice only! Yes, may your Holiness make a people out ofthat heap of wretches, whose excuse lies in all their bodily sufferingand mental night, who live like the beasts that go by and die, neverknowing nor understanding, yet ever lashed onward with the whip!"

Pierre's sobs were gradually choking him, and it was only the impulse ofhis passion which still enabled him to speak. "And, Holy Father, " hecontinued, "is it not to you that I ought to address myself in the nameof all these wretched ones? Are you not the Father, and is it not beforethe Father that the messenger of the poor and the lowly should kneel as Iam kneeling now? And is it not to the Father that he should bring thehuge burden of their sorrows and ask for pity and help and justice? Yes, particularly for justice! And since you are the Father throw the doorswide open so that all may enter, even the humblest of your children, thefaithful, the chance passers, even the rebellious ones and those who havegone astray but who will perhaps enter and whom you will save from theerrors of abandonment! Be as the house of refuge on the dangerous road, the loving greeter of the wayfarer, the lamp of hospitality which everburns, and is seen afar off and saves one in the storm! And since, OFather, you are power be salvation also! You can do all; you havecenturies of domination behind you; you have nowadays risen to a moralauthority which has rendered you the arbiter of the world; you are therebefore me like the very majesty of the sun which illumines andfructifies! Oh! be the star of kindness and charity, be the redeemer;take in hand once more the purpose of Jesus, which has been perverted bybeing left in the hands of the rich and the powerful who have ended bytransforming the work of the Gospel into the most hateful of allmonuments of pride and tyranny! And since the work has been spoilt, takeit in hand, begin it afresh, place yourself on the side of the littleones, the lowly ones, the poor ones, and bring them back to the peace, the fraternity, and the justice of the original Christian communion. Andsay, O Father, that I have understood you, that I have sincerelyexpressed in this respect your most cherished ideas, the sole livingdesire of your reign! The rest, oh! the rest, my book, myself, whatmatter they! I do not defend myself, I only seek your glory and thehappiness of mankind. Say that from the depths of this Vatican you haveheard the rending of our corrupt modern societies! Say that you havequivered with loving pity, say that you desire to prevent the awfulimpending catastrophe by recalling the Gospel to the hearts of yourchildren who are stricken with madness, and by bringing them back to theage of simplicity and purity when the first Christians lived together ininnocent brotherhood! Yes, it is for that reason, is it not, that youhave placed yourself, Father, on the side of the poor, and for thatreason I am here and entreat you for pity and kindness and justice withmy whole soul!"

Then the young man gave way beneath his emotion, and fell all of a heapupon the floor amidst a rush of sobs--loud, endless sobs, which flowedforth in billows, coming as it were not only from himself but from allthe wretched, from the whole world in whose veins sorrow coursed mingledwith the very blood of life. He was there as the ambassador of suffering, as he had said. And indeed, at the foot of that mute and motionless pope, he was like the personification of the whole of human woe. 

Leo XIII, who was extremely fond of talking and could only listen toothers with an effort, had twice raised one of his pallid hands tointerrupt the young priest. Then, gradually overcome by astonishment, touched by emotion himself, he had allowed him to continue, to go on tothe end of his outburst. A little blood even had suffused the snowywhiteness of the Pontiff's face whilst his eyes shone out yet morebrilliantly. And as soon as he saw the young man speechless at his feet, shaken by those sobs which seemed to be wrenching away his heart, hebecame anxious and leant forward: "Calm yourself, my son, raiseyourself, " he said. 

But the sobs still continued, still flowed forth, all reason and respectbeing swept away amidst that distracted plaint of a wounded soul, thatmoan of suffering, dying flesh. 

"Raise yourself, my son, it is not proper, " repeated Leo XIII. "There, take that chair. " And with a gesture of authority he at last invited theyoung man to sit down. 

Pierre rose with pain, and at once seated himself in order that he mightnot fall. He brushed his hair back from his forehead, and wiped hisscalding tears away with his hands, unable to understand what had justhappened, but striving to regain his self-possession. 

"You appeal to the Holy Father, " said Leo XIII. "Ah! rest assured thathis heart is full of pity and affection for those who are unfortunate. But that is not the point, it is our holy religion which is in question. I have read your book, a bad book, I tell you so at once, the mostdangerous and culpable of books, precisely on account of its qualities, the pages in which I myself felt interested. Yes, I was often fascinated, I should not have continued my perusal had I not felt carried away, transported by the ardent breath of your faith and enthusiasm. Thesubject 'New Rome' is such a beautiful one and impassions me so much! andcertainly there is a book to be written under that title, but in a verydifferent spirit to yours. You think that you have understood me, my son, that you have so penetrated yourself with my writings and actions thatyou simply express my most cherished ideas. But no, no, you have notunderstood me, and that is why I desired to see you, explain things toyou, and convince you. "

It was now Pierre who sat listening, mute and motionless. Yet he had onlycome thither to defend himself; for three months past he had beenfeverishly desiring this interview, preparing his arguments and feelingconfident of victory; and now although he heard his book spoken of asdangerous and culpable he did not protest, did not reply with any one ofthose good reasons which he had deemed so irresistible. But the fact wasthat intense weariness had come upon him, the appeal that he had made, the tears that he had shed had left him utterly exhausted. By and by, however, he would be brave and would say what he had resolved to say. 

"People do not understand me, do not understand me!" resumed Leo XIIIwith an air of impatient irritation. "It is incredible what trouble Ihave to make myself understood, in France especially! Take the temporalpower for instance; how can you have fancied that the Holy See would everenter into any compromise on that question? Such language is unworthy ofa priest, it is the chimerical dream of one who is ignorant of theconditions in which the papacy has hitherto lived and in which it muststill live if it does not desire to disappear. Cannot you see thesophistry of your argument that the Church becomes the loftier the moreit frees itself from the cares of terrestrial sovereignty? A purelyspiritual royalty, a sway of charity and love, indeed, 'tis a fineimaginative idea! But who will ensure us respect? Who will grant us thealms of a stone on which to rest our head if we are ever driven forth andforced to roam the highways? Who will guarantee our independence when weare at the mercy of every state?... No, no! this soil of Rome is ours, we have inherited it from the long line of our ancestors, and it is theindestructible, eternal soil on which the Church is built, so that anyrelinquishment would mean the downfall of the Holy Catholic Apostolic andRoman Church. And, moreover, we could not relinquish it; we are bound byour oath to God and man. "

He paused for a moment to allow Pierre to answer him. But the latter tohis stupefaction could say nothing, for he perceived that this pope spokeas he was bound to speak. All the heavy mysterious things which hadweighed the young priest down whilst he was waiting in the ante-room, nowbecame more and more clearly defined. They were, indeed, the things whichhe had seen and learnt since his arrival in Rome, the disillusions, therebuffs which he had experienced, all the many points of differencebetween existing reality and imagination, whereby his dream of a returnto primitive Christianity was already half shattered. And in particularhe remembered the hour which he had spent on the dome of St. Peter's, when, in presence of the old city of glory so stubbornly clinging to itspurple, he had realised that he was an imbecile with his idea of a purelyspiritual pope. He had that day fled from the furious shouts of thepilgrims acclaiming the Pope-King. He had only accepted the necessity formoney, that last form of servitude still binding the Pope to earth. Butall had crumbled afterwards, when he had beheld the real Rome, theancient city of pride and domination where the papacy can never becomplete without the temporal power. Too many bonds, dogma, tradition, environment, the very soil itself rendered the Church for ever immutable. It was only in appearances that she could make concessions, and a timewould even arrive when her concessions would cease, in presence of theimpossibility of going any further without committing suicide. If his, Pierre's, dream of a New Rome were ever to be realised, it would only befaraway from ancient Rome. Only in some distant region could the newChristianity arise, for Catholicism was bound to die on the spot when thelast of the popes, riveted to that land of ruins, should disappearbeneath the falling dome of St. Peter's, which would fall as surely asthe temple of Jupiter had fallen! And, as for that pope of the presentday, though he might have no kingdom, though age might have made him weakand fragile, though his bloodless pallor might be that of some ancientidol of wax, he none the less flared with the red passion for universalsovereignty, he was none the less the stubborn scion of his ancestry, thePontifex Maximus, the Caesar Imperator in whose veins flowed the blood ofAugustus, master of the world. 

"You must be fully aware, " resumed Leo XIII, "of the ardent desire forunity which has always possessed us. We were very happy on the day whenwe unified the rite, by imposing the Roman rite throughout the wholeCatholic world. This is one of our most cherished victories, for it cando much to uphold our authority. And I hope that our efforts in the Eastwill end by bringing our dear brethren of the dissident communions backto us, in the same way as I do not despair of convincing the Anglicansects, without speaking of the other so-called Protestant sects who willbe compelled to return to the bosom of the only Church, the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church, when the times predicted by the Christ shallbe accomplished. But a thing which you did not say in your book is thatthe Church can relinquish nothing whatever of dogma. On the contrary, youseem to fancy that an agreement might be effected, concessions made oneither side, and that, my son, is a culpable thought, such language as apriest cannot use without being guilty of a crime. No, the truth isabsolute, not a stone of the edifice shall be changed. Oh! in matters ofform, we will do whatever may be asked. We are ready to adopt the mostconciliatory courses if it be only a question of turning certaindifficulties and weighing expressions in order to facilitate agreement.... Again, there is the part we have taken in contemporary socialism, andhere too it is necessary that we should be understood. Those whom youhave so well called the disinherited of the world, are certainly theobject of our solicitude. If socialism be simply a desire for justice, and a constant determination to come to the help of the weak and thesuffering, who can claim to give more thought to the matter and work withmore energy than ourselves? Has not the Church always been the mother ofthe afflicted, the helper and benefactress of the poor? We are for allreasonable progress, we admit all new social forms which will promotepeace and fraternity.... Only we can but condemn that socialism whichbegins by driving away God as a means of ensuring the happiness ofmankind. Therein lies simple savagery, an abominable relapse into theprimitive state in which there can only be catastrophe, conflagration, and massacre. And that again is a point on which you have not laidsufficient stress, for you have not shown in your book that there can beno progress outside the pale of the Church, that she is really the onlyinitiatory and guiding power to whom one may surrender oneself withoutfear. Indeed, and in this again you have sinned, it seemed to me as ifyou set God on one side, as if for you religion lay solely in a certainbent of the soul, a florescence of love and charity, which sufficed oneto work one's salvation. But that is execrable heresy. God is everpresent, master of souls and bodies; and religion remains the bond, thelaw, the very governing power of mankind, apart from which there can onlybe barbarism in this world and damnation in the next. And, once again, forms are of no importance; it is sufficient that dogma should remain. Thus our adhesion to the French Republic proves that we in no wise meanto link the fate of religion to that of any form of government, howeveraugust and ancient the latter may be. Dynasties may have done their time, but God is eternal. Kings may perish, but God lives! And, moreover, thereis nothing anti-Christian in the republican form of government; indeed, on the contrary, it would seem like an awakening of that Christiancommonwealth to which you have referred in some really charming pages. The worst is that liberty at once becomes license, and that our desirefor conciliation is often very badly requited.... But ah! what awicked book you have written, my son, --with the best intentions, I amwilling to believe, --and how your silence shows that you are beginning torecognise the disastrous consequences of your error. "

Pierre still remained silent, overcome, feeling as if his arguments wouldfall against some deaf, blind, and impenetrable rock, which it wasuseless to assail since nothing could enter it. And only one thing nowpreoccupied him; he wondered how it was that a man of such intelligenceand such ambition had not formed a more distinct and exact idea of themodern world. He could divine that the Pope possessed much informationand carried the map of Christendom with many of the needs, deeds, andhopes of the nations, in his mind amidst his complicated diplomaticenterprises; but at the same time what gaps there were in his knowledge!The truth, no doubt, was that his personal acquaintance with the worldwas confined to his brief nunciature at Brussels. *

 * That too, was in 1843-44, and the world is now utterly unlike what it was then!--Trans. 

During his occupation of the see of Perugia, which had followed, he hadonly mingled with the dawning life of young Italy. And for eighteen yearsnow he had been shut up in the Vatican, isolated from the rest of mankindand communicating with the nations solely through his _entourage_, whichwas often most unintelligent, most mendacious, and most treacherous. Moreover, he was an Italian priest, a superstitious and despotic HighPontiff, bound by tradition, subjected to the influences of raceenvironment, pecuniary considerations, and political necessities, not tospeak of his great pride, the conviction that he ought to be implicitlyobeyed in all things as the one sole legitimate power upon earth. Thereinlay fatal causes of mental deformity, of errors and gaps in hisextraordinary brain, though the latter certainly possessed many admirablequalities, quickness of comprehension and patient stubbornness of willand strength to draw conclusions and act. Of all his powers, however, that of intuition was certainly the most wonderful, for was it not thisalone which, owing to his voluntary imprisonment, enabled him to divinethe vast evolution of humanity at the present day? He was thus keenlyconscious of the dangers surrounding him, of the rising tide of democracyand the boundless ocean of science which threatened to submerge thelittle islet where the dome of St. Peter's yet triumphed. And the objectof all his policy, of all his labour, was to conquer so that he mightreign. If he desired the unity of the Church it was in order that thelatter might become strong and inexpugnable in the contest which heforesaw. If he preached conciliation, granting concessions in matters ofform, tolerating audacious actions on the part of American bishops, itwas because he deeply and secretly feared the dislocation of the Church, some sudden schism which might hasten disaster. And this fear explainedhis returning affection for the people, the concern which he displayedrespecting socialism, and the Christian solution which he offered to thewoes of earthly life. As Caesar was stricken low, was not the longcontest for possession of the people over, and would not the people, thegreat silent multitude, speak out, and give itself to him, the Pope? Hehad begun experiments with France, forsaking the lost cause of themonarchy and recognising the Republic which he hoped might prove strongand victorious, for in spite of everything France remained the eldestdaughter of the Church, the only Catholic nation which yet possessedsufficient strength to restore the temporal power at some propitiousmoment. And briefly Leo's desire was to reign. To reign by the support ofFrance since it seemed impossible to do so by the support of Germany! Toreign by the support of the people, since the people was now becoming themaster, the bestower of thrones! To reign by means even of an ItalianRepublic, if only that Republic could wrest Rome from the House of Savoyand restore her to him, a federal Republic which would make him Presidentof the United States of Italy pending the time when he should bePresident of the United States of Europe! To reign in spite of everybodyand everything, such was his ambition, to reign over the world, even asAugustus had reigned, Augustus whose devouring blood alone upheld thisexpiring old man, yet so stubbornly clinging to power!

"And another crime of yours, my son, " resumed Leo XIII, "is that you havedared to ask for a new religion. That is impious, blasphemous, sacrilegious. There is but one religion in the world, our Holy CatholicApostolic and Roman Religion, apart from which there can be but darknessand damnation. I quite understand that what you mean to imply is a returnto early Christianity. But the error of so-called Protestantism, soculpable and so deplorable in its consequences, never had any otherpretext. As soon as one departs from the strict observance of dogma andabsolute respect for tradition one sinks into the most frightfulprecipices.... Ah! schism, schism, my son, is a crime beyondforgiveness, an assassination of the true God, a device of the loathsomeBeast of Temptation which Hell sends into the world to work the ruin ofthe faithful! If your book contained nothing beyond those words 'a newreligion, ' it would be necessary to destroy and burn it like so muchpoison fatal in its effects upon the human soul. "

He continued at length on this subject, while Pierre recalled what DonVigilio had told him of those all-powerful Jesuits who at the Vatican aselsewhere remained in the background, secretly but none the lessdecisively governing the Church. Was it true then that this pope, whoseopportunist tendencies were so freely displayed, was one of them, a meredocile instrument in their hands, though he fancied himself penetratedwith the doctrines of St. Thomas Aquinas? In any case, like them hecompounded with the century, made approaches to the world, and waswilling to flatter it in order that he might possess it. Never before hadPierre so cruelly realised that the Church was now so reduced that shecould only live by dint of concessions and diplomacy. And he could atlast distinctly picture that Roman clergy which at first is so difficultof comprehension to a French priest, that Government of the Church, represented by the pope, the cardinals, and the prelates, whom the Deityhas appointed to govern and administer His mundane possessions--mankindand the earth. They begin by setting that very Deity on one side, in thedepths of the tabernacle, and impose whatever dogmas they please as somany essential truths. That the Deity exists is evident, since theygovern in His name which is sufficient for everything. And being byvirtue of their charge the masters, if they consent to sign covenants, Concordats, it is only as matters of form; they do not observe them, andnever yield to anything but force, always reserving the principle oftheir absolute sovereignty which must some day finally triumph. Pendingthat day's arrival, they act as diplomatists, slowly carrying on theirwork of conquest as the Deity's functionaries; and religion is but thepublic homage which they pay to the Deity, and which they organise withall the pomp and magnificence that is likely to influence the multitude. Their only object is to enrapture and conquer mankind in order that thelatter may submit to the rule of the Deity, that is the rule ofthemselves, since they are the Deity's visible representatives, expresslydelegated to govern the world. In a word, they straightway descend fromRoman law, they are still but the offspring of the old pagan soul ofRome, and if they have lasted until now and if they rely on lasting forever, until the awaited hour when the empire of the world shall berestored to them, it is because they are the direct heirs of thepurple-robed Caesars, the uninterrupted and living progeny of the bloodof Augustus. 

And thereupon Pierre felt ashamed of his tears. Ah! those poor nerves ofhis, that outburst of sentiment and enthusiasm to which he had given way!His very modesty was appalled, for he felt as if he had exhibited hissoul in utter nakedness. And so uselessly too, in that room where nothingsimilar had ever been said before, and in presence of that Pontiff-Kingwho could not understand him. His plan of the popes reigning by means ofthe poor and lowly now horrified him. His idea of the papacy going to thepeople, at last rid of its former masters, seemed to him a suggestionworthy of a wolf, for if the papacy should go to the people it would onlybe to prey upon it as the others had done. And really he, Pierre, musthave been mad when he had imagined that a Roman prelate, a cardinal, apope, was capable of admitting a return to the Christian commonwealth, afresh florescence of primitive Christianity to pacify the aged nationswhom hatred consumed. Such a conception indeed was beyond thecomprehension of men who for centuries had regarded themselves as mastersof the world, so heedless and disdainful of the lowly and the suffering, that they had at last become altogether incapable of either love orcharity. *

 * The reader should bear in mind that these remarks apply to the Italian cardinals and prelates, whose vanity and egotism are remarkable. --Trans. 

Leo XIII, however, was still holding forth in his full, unwearying voice. And the young priest heard him saying: "Why did you write that page onLourdes which shows such a thoroughly bad spirit? Lourdes, my son, hasrendered great services to religion. To the persons who have come andtold me of the touching miracles which are witnessed at the Grotto almostdaily, I have often expressed my desire to see those miracles confirmed, proved by the most rigorous scientific tests. And, indeed, according towhat I have read, I do not think that the most evilly disposed minds canentertain any further doubt on the matter, for the miracles _are_ provedscientifically in the most irrefutable manner. Science, my son, must beGod's servant. It can do nothing against Him, it is only by His gracethat it arrives at the truth. All the solutions which people nowadayspretend to discover and which seemingly destroy dogma will some day berecognised as false, for God's truth will remain victorious when thetimes shall be accomplished. That is a very simple certainty, known evento little children, and it would suffice for the peace and salvation ofmankind, if mankind would content itself with it. And be convinced, myson, that faith and reason are not incompatible. Have we not got St. Thomas who foresaw everything, explained everything, regulatedeverything? Your faith has been shaken by the onslaught of the spirit ofexamination, you have known trouble and anguish which Heaven has beenpleased to spare our priests in this land of ancient belief, this city ofRome which the blood of so many martyrs has sanctified. However, we haveno fear of the spirit of examination, study St. Thomas, read himthoroughly and your faith will return, definitive and triumphant, firmerthan ever. "

These remarks caused Pierre as much dismay as if fragments of thecelestial vault were raining on his head. O God of truth, miracles--themiracles of Lourdes!--proved scientifically, faith in the dogmascompatible with reason, and the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas sufficientto instil certainty into the minds of this present generation! How couldone answer that, and indeed why answer it at all?

"Yes, yours is a most culpable and dangerous book, " concluded Leo XIII;"its very title 'New Rome' is mendacious and poisonous, and the work isthe more to be condemned as it offers every fascination of style, everyperversion of generous fancy. Briefly it is such a book that a priest, ifhe conceived it in an hour of error, can have no other duty than that ofburning it in public with the very hand which traced the pages of errorand scandal. "

All at once Pierre rose up erect. He was about to exclaim: "'Tis true, Ihad lost my faith, but I thought I had found it again in the compassionwhich the woes of the world set in my heart. You were my last hope, theawaited saviour. But, behold, that again is a dream, you cannot take thework of Jesus in hand once more and pacify mankind so as to avert thefrightful fratricidal war which is preparing. You cannot leave yourthrone and come along the roads with the poor and the humble to carry outthe supreme work of fraternity. Well, it is all over with you, yourVatican and your St. Peter's. All is falling before the onslaught of therising multitude and growing science. You no longer exist, there are onlyruins and remnants left here. "

However, he did not speak those words. He simply bowed and said: "HolyFather, I make my submission and reprobate my book. " And as he thusreplied his voice trembled with disgust, and his open hands made agesture of surrender as though he were yielding up his soul. The words hehad chosen were precisely those of the required formula: _Auctorlaudabiliter se subjecit et opus reprobavit_. "The author has laudablymade his submission and reprobated his work. " No error could have beenconfessed, no hope could have accomplished self-destruction with loftierdespair, more sovereign grandeur. But what frightful irony: that bookwhich he had sworn never to withdraw, and for whose triumph he had foughtso passionately, and which he himself now denied and suppressed, notbecause he deemed it guilty, but because he had just realised that it wasas futile, as chimerical as a lover's desire, a poet's dream. Ah! yes, since he had been mistaken, since he had merely dreamed, since he hadfound there neither the Deity nor the priest that he had desired for thehappiness of mankind, why should he obstinately cling to the illusion ofan awakening which was impossible! 'Twere better to fling his book on theground like a dead leaf, better to deny it, better to cut it away like adead limb that could serve no purpose whatever!

Somewhat surprised by such a prompt victory Leo XIII raised a slightexclamation of content. "That is well said, my son, that is well said!You have spoken the only words that can become a priest. "

And in his evident satisfaction, he who left nothing to chance, whocarefully prepared each of his audiences, deciding beforehand what wordshe would say, what gestures even he would make, unbent somewhat anddisplayed real _bonhomie_. Unable to understand, mistaking the realmotives of this rebellious priest's submission, he tasted positivedelight in having so easily reduced him to silence, the more so as reporthad stated the young man to be a terrible revolutionary. And thus hisHoliness felt quite proud of such a conversion. "Moreover, my son, " hesaid, "I did not expect less of one of your distinguished mind. There canbe no loftier enjoyment than that of owning one's error, doing penance, and submitting. "

He had again taken the glass off the little table beside him and wasstirring the last spoonful of syrup before drinking it. And Pierre wasamazed at again finding him as he had found him at the outset, shrunken, bereft of sovereign majesty, and simply suggestive of some aged_bourgeois_ drinking his glass of sugared water before getting into bed. It was as if after growing and radiating, like a planet ascending to thezenith, he had again sunk to the level of the soil in all humanmediocrity. Again did Pierre find him puny and fragile, with the slenderneck of a little sick bird, and all those marks of senile ugliness whichrendered him so exacting with regard to his portraits, whether they wereoil paintings or photographs, gold medals, or marble busts, for of oneand the other he would say that the artist must not portray "Papa Pecci"but Leo XIII, the great Pope, of whom he desired to leave such a loftyimage to posterity. And Pierre, after momentarily ceasing to see them, was again embarrassed by the handkerchief which lay on the Pope's lap, and the dirty cassock soiled by snuff. His only feelings now wereaffectionate pity for such white old age, deep admiration for thestubborn power of life which had found a refuge in those dark black eyes, and respectful deference, such as became a worker, for that large brainwhich harboured such vast projects and overflowed with such innumerableideas and actions. 

The audience was over, and the young man bowed low: "I thank yourHoliness for having deigned to give me such a fatherly reception, " hesaid. 

However, Leo XIII detained him for a moment longer, speaking to him ofFrance and expressing his sincere desire to see her prosperous, calm, andstrong for the greater advantage of the Church. And Pierre, during thatlast moment, had a singular vision, a strange haunting fancy. As he gazedat the Holy Father's ivory brow and thought of his great age and of hisliability to be carried off by the slightest chill, he involuntarilyrecalled the scene instinct with a fierce grandeur which is witnessedeach time a pope dies. He recalled Pius IX, Giovanni Mastai, two hoursafter death, his face covered by a white linen cloth, while thepontifical family surrounded him in dismay; and then Cardinal Pecci, the_Camerlingo_, approaching the bed, drawing aside the veil and dealingthree taps with his silver hammer on the forehead of the deceased, repeating at each tap the call, "Giovanni! Giovanni! Giovanni!" And asthe corpse made no response, turning, after an interval of a few seconds, and saying: "The Pope is dead!" And at the same time, yonder in the ViaGiulia Pierre pictured Cardinal Boccanera, the present _Camerlingo_, awaiting his turn with his silver hammer, and he imagined Leo XIII, otherwise Gioachino Pecci, dead, like his predecessor, his face coveredby a white linen cloth and his corpse surrounded by his prelates in thatvery room. And he saw the _Camerlingo_ approach, draw the veil aside andtap the ivory forehead, each time repeating the call: "Gioachino!Gioachino! Gioachino!" Then, as the corpse did not answer, he waited fora few seconds and turned and said "The Pope is dead!" Did Leo XIIIremember how he had thrice tapped the forehead of Pius IX, and did heever feel on the brow an icy dread of the silver hammer with which he hadarmed his own _Camerlingo_, the man whom he knew to be his implacableadversary, Cardinal Boccanera?

"Go in peace, my son, " at last said his Holiness by way of partingbenediction. "Your transgression will be forgiven you since you haveconfessed and testify your horror for it. "

With distressful spirit, accepting humiliation as well-deservedchastisement for his chimerical fancies, Pierre retired, steppingbackwards according to the customary ceremonial. He made three deep bowsand crossed the threshold without turning, followed by the black eyes ofLeo XIII, which never left him. Still he saw the Pope stretch his armtowards the table to take up the newspaper which he had been readingprior to the audience, for Leo retained a great fancy for newspapers, andwas very inquisitive as to news, though in the isolation in which helived he frequently made mistakes respecting the relative importance ofarticles. And once more the chamber sank into deep quietude, whilst thetwo lamps continued to diffuse a soft and steady light. 

In the centre of the _anticamera segreta_ Signor Squadra stood waitingblack and motionless. And on noticing that Pierre in his flurry forgot totake his hat from the pier table, he himself discreetly fetched it andhanded it to the young priest with a silent bow. Then without anyappearance of haste, he walked ahead to conduct the visitor back to theSala Clementina. The endless promenade through the interminableante-rooms began once more, and there was still not a soul, not a sound, not a breath. In each empty room stood the one solitary lamp, burning lowamidst a yet deeper silence than before. The wilderness seemed also tohave grown larger as the night advanced, casting its gloom over the fewarticles of furniture scattered under the lofty gilded ceilings, thethrones, the stools, the pier tables, the crucifixes, and the candelabrawhich recurred in each succeeding room. And at last the Sala Clementinawhich the Swiss Guards had just quitted was reached again, and SignorSquadra, who hitherto had not turned his head, thereupon drew asidewithout word or gesture, and, saluting Pierre with a last bow, allowedhim to pass on. Then he himself disappeared. 

And Pierre descended the two flights of the monumental staircase wherethe gas jets in their globes of ground glass glimmered like night lightsamidst a wondrously heavy silence now that the footsteps of the sentriesno longer resounded on the landings. And he crossed the Court of St. Damasus, empty and lifeless in the pale light of the lamps above thesteps, and descended the Scala Pia, that other great stairway as dim, deserted, and void of life as all the rest, and at last passed beyond thebronze door which a porter slowly shut behind him. And with what arumble, what a fierce roar did the hard metal close upon all that waswithin; all the accumulated darkness and silence; the dead, motionlesscenturies perpetuated by tradition; the indestructible idols, the dogmas, bound round for preservation like mummies; every chain which may weigh onone or hamper one, the whole apparatus of bondage and sovereigndomination, with whose formidable clang all the dark, deserted hallsre-echoed. 

Once more the young man found himself alone on the gloomy expanse of thePiazza of St. Peter's. Not a single belated pedestrian was to be seen. There was only the lofty, livid, ghost-like obelisk, emerging between itsfour candelabra, from the mosaic pavement of red and serpentine porphyry. The facade of the Basilica also showed vaguely, pale as a vision, whilstfrom it on either side like a pair of giant arms stretched the quadruplecolonnade, a thicket of stone, steeped in obscurity. The dome was but ahuge roundness scarcely discernible against the moonless sky; and onlythe jets of the fountains, which could at last be detected rising likeslim phantoms ever on the move, lent a voice to the silence, the endlessmurmur of a plaint of sorrow coming one knew not whence. Ah! how greatwas the melancholy grandeur of that slumber, that famous square, theVatican and St. Peter's, thus seen by night when wrapped in silence anddarkness! But suddenly the clock struck ten with so slow and loud a chimethat never, so it seemed, had more solemn and decisive an hour rung outamidst blacker and more unfathomable gloom. All Pierre's poor weary framequivered at the sound as he stood motionless in the centre of theexpanse. What! had he spent barely three-quarters of an hour, chatting upyonder with that white old man who had just wrenched all his soul awayfrom him! Yes, it was the final wrench; his last belief had been tornfrom his bleeding heart and brain. The supreme experiment had been made, a world had collapsed within him. And all at once he thought of MonsignorNani, and reflected that he alone had been right. He, Pierre, had beentold that in any case he would end by doing what Monsignor Nani mightdesire, and he was now stupefied to find that he had done so. 

But sudden despair seized upon him, such atrocious distress of spiritthat, from the depths of the abyss of darkness where he stood, he raisedhis quivering arms into space and spoke aloud: "No, no, Thou art nothere, O God of life and love, O God of Salvation! But come, appear sinceThy children are perishing because they know neither who Thou art, norwhere to find Thee amidst the Infinite of the worlds!"

Above the vast square spread the vast sky of dark-blue velvet, the silentdisturbing Infinite, where the constellations palpitated. Over the roofsof the Vatican, Charles's Wain seemed yet more tilted, its golden wheelsstraying from the right path, its golden shaft upreared in the air;whilst yonder, over Rome towards the Via Giulia, Orion was about todisappear and already showed but one of the three golden stars whichbedecked his belt. 

XV. 

IT was nearly daybreak when Pierre fell asleep, exhausted by emotion andhot with fever. And at nine o'clock, when he had risen and breakfasted, he at once wished to go down into Cardinal Boccanera's rooms where thebodies of Dario and Benedetta had been laid in state in order that themembers of the family, its friends and clients, might bring them theirtears and prayers. 

Whilst he breakfasted, Victorine who, showing an active bravery amidsther despair, had not been to bed at all, told him of what had taken placein the house during the night and early morning. Donna Serafina, prudethat she was, had again made an attempt to have the bodies separated; butthis had proved an impossibility, as _rigor mortis_ had set in, and topart the lovers it would have been necessary to break their limbs. Moreover, the Cardinal, who had interposed once before, almost quarrelledwith his sister on the subject, unwilling as he was that any one shoulddisturb the lovers' last slumber, their union of eternity. Beneath hispriestly garb there coursed the blood of his race, a pride in thepassions of former times; and he remarked that if the family counted twopopes among its forerunners, it had also been rendered illustrious bygreat captains and ardent lovers. Never would he allow any one to touchthose two children, whose dolorous lives had been so pure and whom thegrave alone had united. He was the master in his house, and they shouldbe sewn together in the same shroud, and nailed together in the samecoffin. Then too the religious service should take place at theneighbouring church of San Carlo, of which he was Cardinal-priest andwhere again he was the master. And if needful he would address himself tothe Pope. And such being his sovereign will, so authoritativelyexpressed, everybody in the house had to bow submissively. 

Donna Serafina at once occupied herself with the laying-out. According tothe Roman custom the servants were present, and Victorine as the oldestand most appreciated of them, assisted the relatives. All that could bedone in the first instance was to envelop both corpses in Benedetta'sunbound hair, thick and odorous hair, which spread out into a royalmantle; and they were then laid together in one shroud of white silk, fastened about their necks in such wise that they formed but one being indeath. And again the Cardinal imperatively ordered that they should bebrought into his apartments and placed on a state bed in the centre ofthe throne-room, so that a supreme homage might be rendered to them as tothe last scions of the name, the two tragic lovers with whom the onceresounding glory of the Boccaneras was about to return to earth. Thestory which had been arranged was already circulating through Rome; folksrelated how Dario had been carried off in a few hours by infectiousfever, and how Benedetta, maddened by grief, had expired whilst claspinghim in her arms to bid him a last farewell; and there was talk too of theroyal honours which the bodies were to receive, the superb funeralnuptials which were to be accorded them as they lay clasped on their bedof eternal rest. All Rome, quite overcome by this tragic story of loveand death, would talk of nothing else for several weeks. 

Pierre would have started for France that same night, eager as he was toquit the city of disaster where he had lost the last shreds of his faith, but he desired to attend the obsequies, and therefore postponed hisdeparture until the following evening. And thus he would spend one moreday in that old crumbling palace, near the corpse of that unhappy youngwoman to whom he had been so much attached and for whom he would try tofind some prayers in the depths of his empty and lacerated heart. 

When he reached the threshold of the Cardinal's reception-rooms, hesuddenly remembered his first visit to them. They still presented thesame aspect of ancient princely pomp falling into decay and dust. Thedoors of the three large ante-rooms were wide open, and the roomsthemselves were at that early hour still empty. In the first one, theservants' anteroom, there was nobody but Giacomo who stood motionless inhis black livery in front of the old red hat hanging under the_baldacchino_ where spiders spun their webs between the crumblingtassels. In the second room, which the secretary formerly had occupied, Abbe Paparelli, the train-bearer, was softly walking up and down whilstwaiting for visitors; and with his conquering humility, his all-powerfulobsequiousness, he had never before so closely resembled an old maid, whitened and wrinkled by excess of devout observances. Finally, in thethird ante-room, the _anticamera nobile_, where the red cap lay on acredence facing the large imperious portrait of the Cardinal inceremonial costume, there was Don Vigilio who had left his littlework-table to station himself at the door of the throne-room and therebow to those who crossed the threshold. And on that gloomy winter morningthe rooms appeared more mournful and dilapidated than ever, the hangingsfrayed and ragged, the few articles of furniture covered with dust, theold wood-work crumbling beneath the continuous onslaught of worms, andthe ceilings alone retaining their pompous show of gilding and painting. 

However, Pierre, to whom Abbe Paparelli addressed a profound bow, inwhich one divined the irony of a sort of dismissal given to one who wasvanquished, felt more impressed by the mournful grandeur which thosethree dilapidated rooms presented that day, conducting as they did to theold throne-room, now a chamber of death, where the two last children ofthe house slept their last sleep. What a superb and sorrowful _gala_ ofdeath! Every door wide open and all the emptiness of those over-spaciousrooms, void of the throngs of ancient days and leading to the supremeaffliction--the end of a race! The Cardinal had shut himself up in hislittle work-room where he received the relatives and intimates whodesired to present their condolences to him, whilst Donna Serafina hadchosen an adjoining apartment to await her lady friends who would come inprocession until evening. And Pierre, informed of the ceremonial byVictorine, had in the first place to enter the throne-room, greeted as hepassed by a deep bow from Don Vigilio who, pale and silent, did not seemto recognise him. 

A surprise awaited the young priest. He had expected such alying-in-state as is seen in France and elsewhere, all windows closed soas to steep the room in night, and hundreds of candles burning round a_catafalco_, whilst from ceiling to floor the walls were hung with blackdrapery. He had been told that the bodies would lie in the throne-roombecause the antique chapel on the ground floor of the palazzo had beenshut up for half a century and was in no condition to be used, whilst theCardinal's little private chapel was altogether too small for any suchceremony. And thus it had been necessary to improvise an altar in thethrone-room, an altar at which masses had been said ever since dawn. Masses and other religious services were moreover to be celebrated allday long in the private chapel; and two additional altars had even beenset up, one in a small room adjoining the _anticamera nobile_ and theother in a sort of alcove communicating with the second anteroom: and inthis wise priests, Franciscans, and members of other Orders bound by thevow of poverty, would simultaneously and without intermission celebratethe divine sacrifice on those four altars. The Cardinal, indeed, haddesired that the Divine Blood should flow without pause under his rooffor the redemption of those two dear souls which had flown away together. And thus in that mourning mansion, through those funeral halls the bellsscarcely stopped tinkling for the elevation of the host, whilst thequivering murmur of Latin words ever continued, and consecrated waferswere continually broken and chalices drained, in such wise that theDivine Presence could not for a moment quit the heavy atmosphere allredolent of death. 

On the other hand, however, Pierre, to his great astonishment, found thethrone-room much as it had been on the day of his first visit. Thecurtains of the four large windows had not even been drawn, and the grey, cold, subdued light of the gloomy winter morning freely entered. Underthe ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work there were the customary redwall-hangings of _brocatelle_, worn away by long usage; and there was theold throne with the arm-chair turned to the wall, uselessly waiting for avisit from the Pope which would never more come. The principal changes inthe aspect of the room were that its seats and tables had been removed, and that, in addition to the improvised altar arranged beside the throne, it now contained the state bed on which lay the bodies of Benedetta andDario, amidst a profusion of flowers. The bed stood in the centre of theroom on a low platform, and at its head were two lighted candles, one oneither side. There was nothing else, nothing but that wealth of flowers, such a harvest of white roses that one wondered in what fairy garden theyhad been culled, sheaves of them on the bed, sheaves of them topplingfrom the bed, sheaves of them covering the step of the platform, andfalling from that step on to the magnificent marble paving of the room. 

Pierre drew near to the bed, his heart faint with emotion. Those taperswhose little yellow flamelets scarcely showed in the pale daylight, thatcontinuous low murmur of the mass being said at the altar, thatpenetrating perfume of roses which rendered the atmosphere so heavy, filled the antiquated, dusty room with a spirit of infinite woe, alamentation of boundless mourning. And there was not a gesture, not aword spoken, save by the priest officiating at the altar, nothing but anoccasional faint sound of stifled sobbing among the few persons present. Servants of the house constantly relieved one another, four alwaysstanding erect and motionless at the head of the bed, like faithful, familiar guards. From time to time Consistorial-Advocate Morano who, since early morning had been attending to everything, crossed the roomwith a silent step and the air of a man in a hurry. And at the edge ofthe platform all who entered, knelt, prayed, and wept. Pierre perceivedthree ladies there, their faces hidden by their handkerchiefs; and therewas also an old priest who trembled with grief and hung his head in suchwise that his face could not be distinguished. However, the young man wasmost moved by the sight of a poorly clad girl, whom he took for aservant, and whom sorrow had utterly prostrated on the marble slabs. 

Then in his turn he knelt down, and with the professional murmur of thelips sought to repeat the Latin prayers which, as a priest, he had sooften said at the bedside of the departed. But his growing emotionconfused his memory, and he became wrapt in contemplation of the loverswhom his eyes were unable to quit. Under the wealth of flowers whichcovered them the clasped bodies could scarcely be distinguished, but thetwo heads emerged from the silken shroud, and lying there on the samecushion, with their hair mingling, they were still beautiful, beautifulas with satisfied passion. Benedetta had kept her divinely gay, loving, and faithful face for eternity, transported with rapture at havingrendered up her last breath in a kiss of love; whilst Dario retained amore dolorous expression amidst his final joy. And their eyes were stillwide open, gazing at one another with a persistent and caressingsweetness which nothing would ever more disturb. 

Oh! God, was it true that yonder lay that Benedetta whom he, Pierre, hadloved with such pure, brotherly affection? He was stirred to the verydepths of his soul by the recollection of the delightful hours which hehad spent with her. She had been so beautiful, so sensible, yet so fullof passion! And he had indulged in so beautiful a dream, that ofanimating with his own liberating fraternal feelings that admirablecreature with soul of fire and indolent air, in whom he had pictured allancient Rome, and whom he would have liked to awaken and win over to theItaly of to-morrow. He had dreamt of enlarging her brain and heart byfilling her with love for the lowly and the poor, with all present-daycompassion for things and beings. How he would now have smiled at such adream had not his tears been flowing! Yet how charming she had shownherself in striving to content him despite the invincible obstacles ofrace, education, and environment. She had been a docile pupil, but wasincapable of any real progress. One day she had certainly seemed to drawnearer to him, as though her own sufferings had opened her soul to everycharity; but the illusion of happiness had come back, and then she hadlost all understanding of the woes of others, and had gone off in theegotism of her own hope and joy. Did that mean then that this Roman racemust finish in that fashion, beautiful as it still often is, and fondlyadored but so closed to all love for others, to those laws of charity andjustice which, by regulating labour, can henceforth alone save this worldof ours?

Then there came another great sorrow to Pierre which left him stammering, unable to speak any precise prayer. He thought of the overwhelmingreassertion of Nature's powers which had attended the death of those twopoor children. Was it not awful? To have taken that vow to the Virgin, tohave endured torment throughout life, and to end by plunging into death, on the loved one's neck, distracted by vain regret and eager forself-bestowal! The brutal fact of impending separation had sufficed forBenedetta to realise how she had duped herself, and to revert to theuniversal instinct of love. And therein, again once more, was the Churchvanquished; therein again appeared the great god Pan, mating the sexesand scattering life around! If in the days of the Renascence the Churchdid not fall beneath the assault of the Venuses and Hercules then exhumedfrom the old soil of Rome, the struggle at all events continued asbitterly as ever; and at each and every hour new nations, overflowingwith sap, hungering for life, and warring against a religion which wasnothing more than an appetite for death, threatened to sweep away thatold Holy Apostolic Roman and Catholic edifice whose walls were alreadytottering on all sides. 

And at that moment Pierre felt that the death of that adorable Benedettawas for him the supreme disaster. He was still looking at her and tearswere scorching his eyes. She was carrying off his chimera. This time'twas really the end. Rome the Catholic and the Princely was dead, lyingthere like marble on that funeral bed. She had been unable to go to thehumble, the suffering ones of the world, and had just expired amidst theimpotent cry of her egotistical passion when it was too late either tolove or to create. Never more would children be born of her, the oldRoman house was henceforth empty, sterile, beyond possibility ofawakening. Pierre whose soul mourned such a splendid dream, was sogrieved at seeing her thus motionless and frigid, that he felt himselffainting. He feared lest he might fall upon the step beside the bed, andso struggled to his feet and drew aside. 

Then, as he sought refuge in a window recess in order that he might tryto recover self-possession, he was astonished to perceive Victorineseated there on a bench which the hangings half concealed. She had comethither by Donna Serafina's orders, and sat watching her two dearchildren as she called them, whilst keeping an eye upon all who came inand went out. And, on seeing the young priest so pale and nearlyswooning, she at once made room for him to sit down beside her. "Ah!" hemurmured after drawing a long breath, "may they at least have the joy ofbeing together elsewhere, of living a new life in another world. "

Victorine, however, shrugged her shoulders, and in an equally low voiceresponded, "Oh! live again, Monsieur l'Abbe, why? When one's dead thebest is to remain so and to sleep. Those poor children had enoughtorments on earth, one mustn't wish that they should begin againelsewhere. "

This naive yet deep remark on the part of an ignorant unbelieving womansent a shudder through Pierre's very bones. To think that his own teethhad chattered with fear at night time at the sudden thought ofannihilation. He deemed her heroic at remaining so undisturbed by anyideas of eternity and the infinite. And she, as she felt he wasquivering, went on: "What can you suppose there should be after death?We've deserved a right to sleep, and nothing to my thinking can be moredesirable and consoling. "

"But those two did not live, " murmured Pierre, "so why not allow oneselfthe joy of believing that they now live elsewhere, recompensed for alltheir torments?"

Victorine, however, again shook her head; "No, no, " she replied. "Ah! Iwas quite right in saying that my poor Benedetta did wrong in torturingherself with all those superstitious ideas of hers when she was really sofond of her lover. Yes, happiness is rarely found, and how one regretshaving missed it when it's too late to turn back! That's the whole storyof those poor little ones. It's too late for them, they are dead. " Thenin her turn she broke down and began to sob. "Poor little ones! poorlittle ones! Look how white they are, and think what they will be whenonly the bones of their heads lie side by side on the cushion, and onlythe bones of their arms still clasp one another. Ah! may they sleep, maythey sleep; at least they know nothing and feel nothing now. "

A long interval of silence followed. Pierre, amidst the quiver of his owndoubts, the anxious desire which in common with most men he felt for anew life beyond the grave, gazed at this woman who did not find prieststo her fancy, and who retained all her Beauceronne frankness of speech, with the tranquil, contented air of one who has ever done her duty in herhumble station as a servant, lost though she had been for five and twentyyears in a land of wolves, whose language she had not even been able tolearn. Ah! yes, tortured as the young man was by his doubts, he wouldhave liked to be as she was, a well-balanced, healthy, ignorant creaturewho was quite content with what the world offered, and who, when she hadaccomplished her daily task, went fully satisfied to bed, careless as towhether she might never wake again!

However, as Pierre's eyes once more sought the state bed, he suddenlyrecognised the old priest, who was kneeling on the step of the platform, and whose features he had hitherto been unable to distinguish. "Isn'tthat Abbe Pisoni, the priest of Santa Brigida, where I sometimes saidmass?" he inquired. "The poor old man, how he weeps!"

In her quiet yet desolate voice Victorine replied, "He has good reason toweep. He did a fine thing when he took it into his head to marry my poorBenedetta to Count Prada. All those abominations would never havehappened if the poor child had been given her Dario at once. But in thisidiotic city they are all mad with their politics; and that old priest, who is none the less a very worthy man, thought he had accomplished areal miracle and saved the world by marrying the Pope and the King as hesaid with a soft laugh, poor old _savant_ that he is, who for his parthas never been in love with anything but old stones--you know, all thatantiquated rubbish of theirs of a hundred thousand years ago. And now, you see, he can't keep from weeping. The other one too came not twentyminutes ago, Father Lorenza, the Jesuit who became the Contessina'sconfessor after Abbe Pisoni, and who undid what the other had done. Yes, a handsome man he is, but a fine bungler all the same, a perfect killjoywith all the crafty hindrances which he brought into that divorce affair. I wish you had been here to see what a big sign of the cross he madeafter he had knelt down. He didn't cry, he didn't: he seemed to be sayingthat as things had ended so badly it was evident that God had withdrawnfrom all share in the business. So much the worse for the dead!"

Victorine spoke gently and without a pause, as it relieved her, to emptyher heart after the terrible hours of bustle and suffocation which shehad spent since the previous day. "And that one yonder, " she resumed in alower voice, "don't you recognise her?"

She glanced towards the poorly clad girl whom Pierre had taken for aservant, and whom intensity of grief had prostrated beside the bed. Witha gesture of awful suffering this girl had just thrown back her head, ahead of extraordinary beauty, enveloped by superb black hair. 

"La Pierina!" said Pierre. "Ah! poor girl. "

Victorine made a gesture of compassion and tolerance. 

"What would you have?" said she, "I let her come up. I don't know how sheheard of the trouble, but it's true that she is always prowling round thehouse. She sent and asked me to come down to her, and you should haveheard her sob and entreat me to let her see her Prince once more! Well, she does no harm to anybody there on the floor, looking at them both withher beautiful loving eyes full of tears. She's been there for half anhour already, and I had made up my mind to turn her out if she didn'tbehave properly. But since she's so quiet and doesn't even move, she maywell stop and fill her heart with the sight of them for her whole lifelong. "

It was really sublime to see that ignorant, passionate, beautiful Pierinathus overwhelmed below the nuptial couch on which the lovers slept forall eternity. She had sunk down on her heels, her arms hanging heavilybeside her, and her hands open. And with raised face, motionless as in anecstasy of suffering, she did not take her eyes from that adorable andtragic pair. Never had human face displayed such beauty, such a dazzlingsplendour of suffering and love; never had there been such a portrayal ofancient Grief, not however cold like marble but quivering with life. Whatwas she thinking of, what were her sufferings, as she thus fixedly gazedat her Prince now and for ever locked in her rival's arms? Was it somejealousy which could have no end that chilled the blood of her veins? Orwas it mere suffering at having lost him, at realising that she waslooking at him for the last time, without thought of hatred for thatother woman who vainly sought to warm him with her arms as icy cold ashis own? There was still a soft gleam in the poor girl's blurred eyes, and her lips were still lips of love though curved in bitterness bygrief. She found the lovers so pure and beautiful as they lay thereamidst that profusion of flowers! And beautiful herself, beautiful like aqueen, ignorant of her own charms, she remained there breathless, ahumble servant, a loving slave as it were, whose heart had been wrenchedaway and carried off by her dying master. 

People were now constantly entering the room, slowly approaching withmournful faces, then kneeling and praying for a few minutes, andafterwards retiring with the same mute, desolate mien. A pang came toPierre's heart when he saw Dario's mother, the ever beautiful Flavia, enter, accompanied by her husband, the handsome Jules Laporte, thatex-sergeant of the Swiss Guard whom she had turned into a MarquisMontefiori. Warned of the tragedy directly it had happened, she hadalready come to the mansion on the previous evening; but now she returnedin grand ceremony and full mourning, looking superb in her black garmentswhich were well suited to her massive, Juno-like style of beauty. Whenshe had approached the bed with a queenly step, she remained for a momentstanding with two tears at the edges of her eyelids, tears which did notfall. Then, at the moment of kneeling, she made sure that Jules wasbeside her, and glanced at him as if to order him to kneel as well. Theyboth sank down beside the platform and remained in prayer for the properinterval, she very dignified in her grief and he even surpassing her, with the perfect sorrow-stricken bearing of a man who knew how to conducthimself in every circumstance of life, even the gravest. And afterwardsthey rose together, and slowly betook themselves to the entrance of theprivate apartments where the Cardinal and Donna Serafina were receivingtheir relatives and friends. 

Five ladies then came in one after the other, while two Capuchins and theSpanish ambassador to the Holy See went off. And Victorine, who for a fewminutes had remained silent, suddenly resumed. "Ah! there's the littlePrincess, she's much afflicted too, and, no wonder, she was so fond ofour Benedetta. "

Pierre himself had just noticed Celia coming in. She also had attiredherself in full mourning for this abominable visit of farewell. Behindher was a maid, who carried on either arm a huge sheaf of white roses. 

"The dear girl!" murmured Victorine, "she wanted her wedding with herAttilio to take place on the same day as that of the poor lovers who liethere. And they, alas! have forestalled her, their wedding's over; therethey sleep in their bridal bed. "

Celia had at once crossed herself and knelt down beside the bed, but itwas evident that she was not praying. She was indeed looking at thelovers with desolate stupefaction at finding them so white and cold witha beauty as of marble. What! had a few hours sufficed, had life departed, would those lips never more exchange a kiss! She could again see them atthe ball of that other night, so resplendent and triumphant with theirliving love. And a feeling of furious protest rose from her young heart, so open to life, so eager for joy and sunlight, so angry with the hatefulidiocy of death. And her anger and affright and grief, as she thus foundherself face to face with the annihilation which chills every passion, could be read on her ingenuous, candid, lily-like face. She herself stoodon the threshold of a life of passion of which she yet knew nothing, andbehold! on that very threshold she encountered the corpses of thosedearly loved ones, the loss of whom racked her soul with grief. 

She gently closed her eyes and tried to pray, whilst big tears fell fromunder her lowered eyelids. Some time went by amidst the quiveringsilence, which only the murmur of the mass near by disturbed. At last sherose and took the sheaves of flowers from her maid; and standing on theplatform she hesitated for a moment, then placed the roses to the rightand left of the cushion on which the lovers' heads were resting, as ifshe wished to crown them with those blossoms, perfume their young browswith that sweet and powerful aroma. Then, though her hands remained emptyshe did not retire, but remained there leaning over the dead ones, trembling and seeking what she might yet say to them, what she mightleave them of herself for ever more. An inspiration came to her, and shestooped forward, and with her whole, deep, loving soul set a long, longkiss on the brow of either spouse. 

"Ah! the dear girl!" said Victorine, whose tears were again flowing. "Yousaw that she kissed them, and nobody had yet thought of that, not eventhe poor young Prince's mother. Ah! the dear little heart, she surelythought of her Attilio. "

However, as Celia turned to descend from the platform she perceived LaPierina, whose figure was still thrown back in an attitude of mute anddolorous adoration. And she recognised the girl and melted with pity onseeing such a fit of sobbing come over her that her whole body, hergoddess-like hips and bosom, shook as with frightful anguish. That agonyof love quite upset the little Princess, and she could be heard murmuringin a tone of infinite compassion, "Calm yourself, my dear, calm yourself. Be reasonable, my dear, I beg you. "

Then as La Pierina, thunderstruck at thus being pitied and succoured, began to sob yet more loudly so as to create quite a stir in the room, Celia raised her and held her up with both arms, for fear lest she shouldfall again. And she led her away in a sisterly clasp, like a sister ofaffection and despair, lavishing the most gentle, consoling words uponher as they went. 

"Follow them, go and see what becomes of them, " Victorine said to Pierre. "I do not want to stir from here, it quiets me to watch over my two poorchildren. "

A Capuchin was just beginning a fresh mass at the improvised altar, andthe low Latin psalmody went on again, while in the adjoiningante-chamber, where another mass was being celebrated, a bell was heardtinkling for the elevation of the host. The perfume of the flowers wasbecoming more violent and oppressive amidst the motionless and mournfulatmosphere of the spacious throne-room. The four servants standing at thehead of the bed, as for a _gala_ reception, did not stir, and theprocession of visitors ever continued, men and women entering in silence, suffocating there for a moment, and then withdrawing, carrying away withthem the never-to-be-forgotten vision of the two tragic lovers sleepingtheir eternal sleep. 

Pierre joined Celia and La Pierina in the _anticamera nobile_, wherestood Don Vigilio. The few seats belonging to the throne-room had therebeen placed in a corner, and the little Princess had just compelled thework-girl to sit down in an arm-chair, in order that she might recoverself-possession. Celia was in ecstasy before her, enraptured at findingher so beautiful, more beautiful than any other, as she said. Then shespoke of the two dead ones, who also had seemed to her very beautiful, endowed with an extraordinary beauty, at once superb and sweet; anddespite all her tears, she still remained in a transport of admiration. On speaking with La Pierina, Pierre learnt that her brother Tito was atthe hospital in great danger from the effects of a terrible knife thrustdealt him in the side; and since the beginning of the winter, said thegirl, the misery in the district of the castle fields had becomefrightful. It was a source of great suffering to every one, and thosewhom death carried off had reason to rejoice. 

Celia, however, with a gesture of invincible hopefulness, brushed allidea of suffering, even of death, aside. "No, no, we must live, " shesaid. "And beauty is sufficient for life. Come, my dear, do not remainhere, do not weep any more; live for the delight of being beautiful. "

Then she led La Pierina away, and Pierre remained seated in one of thearm-chairs, overcome by such sorrow and weariness that he would haveliked to remain there for ever. Don Vigilio was still bowing to eachfresh visitor that arrived. A severe attack of fever had come on himduring the night, and he was shivering from it, with his face veryyellow, and his eyes ablaze and haggard. He constantly glanced at Pierre, as if anxious to speak to him, but his dread lest he should be seen byAbbe Paparelli, who stood in the next ante-room, the door of which waswide open, doubtless restrained him, for he did not cease to watch thetrain-bearer. At last the latter was compelled to absent himself for amoment, and the secretary thereupon approached the young Frenchman. 

"You saw his Holiness last night, " he said; and as Pierre gazed at him instupefaction he added: "Oh! everything gets known, I told you so before. Well, and you purely and simply withdrew your book, did you not?" Theyoung priest's increasing stupor was sufficient answer, and withoutleaving him time to reply, Don Vigilio went on: "I suspected it, but Iwished to make certain. Ah! that's just the way they work! Do you believeme now, have you realised that they stifle those whom they don't poison?"

He was no doubt referring to the Jesuits. However, after glancing intothe adjoining room to make sure that Abbe Paparelli had not returnedthither, he resumed: "And what has Monsignor Nani just told you?"

"But I have not yet seen Monsignor Nani, " was Pierre's reply. 

"Oh! I thought you had. He passed through before you arrived. If you didnot see him in the throne-room he must have gone to pay his respects toDonna Serafina and his Eminence. However, he will certainly pass this wayagain; you will see him by and by. " Then with the bitterness of one whowas weak, ever terror-smitten and vanquished, Don Vigilio added: "I toldyou that you would end by doing what Monsignor Nani desired. "

With these words, fancying that he heard the light footfall of AbbePaparelli, he hastily returned to his place and bowed to two old ladieswho just then walked in. And Pierre, still seated, overcome, his eyeswearily closing, at last saw the figure of Nani arise before him in allits reality so typical of sovereign intelligence and address. Heremembered what Don Vigilio, on the famous night of his revelations, hadtold him of this man who was far too shrewd to have labelled himself, soto say, with an unpopular robe, and who, withal, was a charming prelatewith thorough knowledge of the world, acquired by long experience atdifferent nunciatures and at the Holy Office, mixed up in everything, informed with regard to everything, one of the heads, one of the chiefminds in fact of that modern black army, which by dint of Opportunismhopes to bring this century back to the Church. And all at once, fullenlightenment fell on Pierre, he realised by what supple, clever strategythat man had led him to the act which he desired of him, the pure andsimple withdrawal of his book, accomplished with every appearance of freewill. First there had been great annoyance on Nani's part on learningthat the book was being prosecuted, for he feared lest its excitableauthor might be prompted to some dangerous revolt; then plans had at oncebeen formed, information had been collected concerning this young priestwho seemed so capable of schism, he had been urged to come to Rome, invited to stay in an ancient mansion whose very walls would chill andenlighten him. And afterwards had come the ever recurring obstacles, thesystem of prolonging his sojourn in Rome by preventing him from seeingthe Pope, but promising him the much-desired interview when the propertime should come, that is after he had been sent hither and thither andbrought into collision with one and all. And finally, when every one andeverything had shaken, wearied, and disgusted him, and he was restoredonce more to his old doubts, there had come the audience for which he hadundergone all this preparation, that visit to the Pope which was destinedto shatter whatever remained to him of his dream. Pierre could pictureNani smiling at him and speaking to him, declaring that the repeateddelays were a favour of Providence, which would enable him to visit Rome, study and understand things, reflect, and avoid blunders. How delicateand how profound had been the prelate's diplomacy in thus crushing hisfeelings beneath his reason, appealing to his intelligence to suppresshis work without any scandalous struggle as soon as his knowledge of thereal Rome should have shown him how supremely ridiculous it was to dreamof a new one!

At that moment Pierre perceived Nani in person just coming from thethrone-room, and did not feel the irritation and rancour which he hadanticipated. On the contrary he was glad when the prelate, in his turnseeing him, drew near and held out his hand. Nani, however, did not wearhis wonted smile, but looked very grave, quite grief-stricken. "Ah! mydear son, " he said, "what a frightful catastrophe! I have just left hisEminence, he is in tears. It is horrible, horrible!"

He seated himself on one of the chairs, inviting the young priest, whohad risen, to do the same; and for a moment he remained silent, wearywith emotion no doubt, and needing a brief rest to free himself of theweight of thoughts which visibly darkened his usually bright face. Then, with a gesture, he strove to dismiss that gloom, and recover his amiablecordiality. "Well, my dear son, " he began, "you saw his Holiness?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, yesterday evening; and I thank you for your greatkindness in satisfying my desire. "

Nani looked at him fixedly, and his invincible smile again returned tohis lips. "You thank me.... I can well see that you behaved sensiblyand laid your full submission at his Holiness's feet. I was certain ofit, I did not expect less of your fine intelligence. But, all the same, you render me very happy, for I am delighted to find that I was notmistaken concerning you. " And then, setting aside his reserve, theprelate went on: "I never discussed things with you. What would have beenthe good of it, since facts were there to convince you? And now that youhave withdrawn your book a discussion would be still more futile. However, just reflect that if it were possible for you to bring theChurch back to her early period, to that Christian community which youhave sketched so delightfully, she could only again follow the sameevolutions as those in which God the first time guided her; so that, atthe end of a similar number of centuries, she would find herself exactlyin the position which she occupies to-day. No, what God has done has beenwell done, the Church such as she is must govern the world, such as itis; it is for her alone to know how she will end by firmly establishingher reign here below. And this is why your attack upon the temporal powerwas an unpardonable fault, a crime even, for by dispossessing the papacyof her domains you hand her over to the mercy of the nations. Your newreligion is but the final downfall of all religion, moral anarchy, theliberty of schism, in a word, the destruction of the divine edifice, thatancient Catholicism which has shown such prodigious wisdom and solidity, which has sufficed for the salvation of mankind till now, and will alonebe able to save it to-morrow and always. "

Pierre felt that Nani was sincere, pious even, and really unshakable inhis faith, loving the Church like a grateful son, and convinced that shewas the only social organisation which could render mankind happy. And ifhe were bent on governing the world, it was doubtless for the pleasure ofgoverning, but also in the conviction that no one could do so better thanhimself. 

"Oh! certainly, " said he, "methods are open to discussion. I desire themto be as affable and humane as possible, as conciliatory as can be withthis present century, which seems to be escaping us, precisely becausethere is a misunderstanding between us. But we shall bring it back, I amsure of it. And that is why, my dear son, I am so pleased to see youreturn to the fold, thinking as we think, and ready to battle on ourside, is that not so?"

In Nani's words the young priest once more found the arguments of LeoXIII. Desiring to avoid a direct reply, for although he now felt no angerthe wrenching away of his dream had left him a smarting wound, he bowed, and replied slowly in order to conceal the bitter tremble of his voice:"I repeat, Monseigneur, that I deeply thank you for having amputated myvain illusions with the skill of an accomplished surgeon. A little later, when I shall have ceased to suffer, I shall think of you with eternalgratitude. "

Monsignor Nani still looked at him with a smile. He fully understood thatthis young priest would remain on one side, that as an element ofstrength he was lost to the Church. What would he do now? Somethingfoolish no doubt. However, the prelate had to content himself with havinghelped him to repair his first folly; he could not foresee the future. And he gracefully waved his hand as if to say that sufficient unto theday was the evil thereof. 

"Will you allow me to conclude, my dear son?" he at last exclaimed. "Besensible, your happiness as a priest and a man lies in humility. You willbe terribly unhappy if you use the great intelligence which God has givenyou against Him. "

Then with another gesture he dismissed this affair, which was all over, and with which he need busy himself no more. And thereupon the otheraffair came back to make him gloomy, that other affair which also wasdrawing to a close, but so tragically, with those two poor childrenslumbering in the adjoining room. "Ah!" he resumed, "that poor Princessand that poor Cardinal quite upset my heart! Never did catastrophe fallso cruelly on a house. No, no, it is indeed too much, misfortune goes toofar--it revolts one's soul!"

Just as he finished a sound of voices came from the second ante-room, andPierre was thunderstruck to see Cardinal Sanguinetti go by, escorted withthe greatest obsequiousness by Abbe Paparelli. 

"If your most Reverend Eminence will have the extreme kindness to followme, " the train-bearer was saying, "I will conduct your most ReverendEminence myself. "

"Yes, " replied Sanguinetti, "I arrived yesterday evening from Frascati, and when I heard the sad news, I at once desired to express my sorrow andoffer consolation. "

"Your Eminence will perhaps condescend to remain for a moment near thebodies. I will afterwards escort your Eminence to the privateapartments. "

"Yes, by all means. I desire every one to know how greatly I participatein the sorrow which has fallen on this illustrious house. "

Then Sanguinetti entered the throne-room, leaving Pierre quite aghast athis quiet audacity. The young priest certainly did not accuse him ofdirect complicity with Santobono, he did not even dare to measure how farhis moral complicity might go. But on seeing him pass by like that, hisbrow so lofty, his speech so clear, he had suddenly felt convinced thathe knew the truth. How or through whom, he could not have told; butdoubtless crimes become known in those shady spheres by those whoseinterest it is to know of them. And Pierre remained quite chilled by thehaughty fashion in which that man presented himself, perhaps to stiflesuspicion and certainly to accomplish an act of good policy by giving hisrival a public mark of esteem and affection. 

"The Cardinal! Here!" Pierre murmured despite himself. 

Nani, who followed the young man's thoughts in his childish eyes, inwhich all could be read, pretended to mistake the sense of hisexclamation. "Yes, " said he, "I learnt that the Cardinal returned to Romeyesterday evening. He did not wish to remain away any longer; the HolyFather being so much better that he might perhaps have need of him. "

Although these words were spoken with an air of perfect innocence, Pierrewas not for a moment deceived by them. And having in his turn glanced atthe prelate, he was convinced that the latter also knew the truth. Then, all at once, the whole affair appeared to him in its intricacy, in theferocity which fate had imparted to it. Nani, an old intimate of thePalazzo Boccanera, was not heartless, he had surely loved Benedetta withaffection, charmed by so much grace and beauty. One could thus explainthe victorious manner in which he had at last caused her marriage to beannulled. But if Don Vigilio were to be believed, that divorce, obtainedby pecuniary outlay, and under pressure of the most notorious influences, was simply a scandal which he, Nani, had in the first instance spun out, and then precipitated towards a resounding finish with the sole object ofdiscrediting the Cardinal and destroying his chances of the tiara on theeve of the Conclave which everybody thought imminent. It seemed certain, too, that the Cardinal, uncompromising as he was, could not be thecandidate of Nani, who was so desirous of universal agreement, and so thelatter's long labour in that house, whilst conducing to the happiness ofthe Contessina, had been designed to frustrate Donna Serafina andCardinal Pio in their burning ambition, that third triumphant elevationto the papacy which they sought to secure for their ancient family. However, if Nani had always desired to baulk this ambition, and had evenat one moment placed his hopes in Sanguinetti and fought for him, he hadnever imagined that Boccanera's foes would go to the point of crime, tosuch an abomination as poison which missed its mark and killed theinnocent. No, no, as he himself said, that was too much, and made one'ssoul rebel. He employed more gentle weapons; such brutality filled himwith indignation; and his face, so pinky and carefully tended, still worethe grave expression of his revolt in presence of the tearful Cardinaland those poor lovers stricken in his stead. 

Believing that Sanguinetti was still the prelate's secret candidate, Pierre was worried to know how far their moral complicity in this balefulaffair might go. So he resumed the conversation by saying: "It isasserted that his Holiness is on bad terms with his Eminence CardinalSanguinetti. Of course the reigning pope cannot look on the future popewith a very kindly eye. "

At this, Nani for a moment became quite gay in all frankness. "Oh, " saidhe, "the Cardinal has quarrelled and made things up with the Vaticanthree or four times already. And, in any event, the Holy Father has nomotive for posthumous jealousy; he knows very well that he can give hisEminence a good greeting. " Then, regretting that he had thus expressed acertainty, he added: "I am joking, his Eminence is altogether worthy ofthe high fortune which perhaps awaits him. "

Pierre knew what to think however; Sanguinetti was certainly Nani'scandidate no longer. It was doubtless considered that he had used himselfup too much by his impatient ambition, and was too dangerous by reason ofthe equivocal alliances which in his feverishness he had concluded withevery party, even that of patriotic young Italy. And thus the situationbecame clearer. Cardinals Sanguinetti and Boccanera devoured andsuppressed one another; the first, ever intriguing, accepting everycompromise, dreaming of winning Rome back by electoral methods; and theother, erect and motionless in his stern maintenance of the past, excommunicating the century, and awaiting from God alone the miraclewhich would save the Church. And, indeed, why not leave the two theories, thus placed face to face, to destroy one another, including all theextreme, disquieting views which they respectively embodied? If Boccanerahad escaped the poison, he had none the less become an impossiblecandidate, killed by all the stories which had set Rome buzzing; while ifSanguinetti could say that he was rid of a rival, he had at the same timedealt a mortal blow to his own candidature, by displaying such passionfor power, and such unscrupulousness with regard to the methods heemployed, as to be a danger for every one. Monsignor Nani was visiblydelighted with this result; neither candidate was left, it was like thelegendary story of the two wolves who fought and devoured one another socompletely that nothing of either of them was found left, not even theirtails! And in the depths of the prelate's pale eyes, in the whole of hisdiscreet person, there remained nothing but redoubtable mystery: themystery of the yet unknown, but definitively selected candidate who wouldbe patronised by the all-powerful army of which he was one of the mostskilful leaders. A man like him always had a solution ready. Who, then, who would be the next pope?

However, he now rose and cordially took leave of the young priest. "Idoubt if I shall see you again, my dear son, " he said; "I wish you a goodjourney. "

Still he did not go off, but continued to look at Pierre with hispenetrating eyes, and finally made him sit down again and did the samehimself. "I feel sure, " he said, "that you will go to pay your respectsto Cardinal Bergerot as soon as you have returned to France. Kindly tellhim that I respectfully desired to be reminded to him. I knew him alittle at the time when he came here for his hat. He is one of the greatluminaries of the French clergy. Ah! a man of such intelligence wouldonly work for a good understanding in our holy Church. Unfortunately Ifear that race and environment have instilled prejudices into him, for hedoes not always help us. "

Pierre, who was surprised to hear Nani speak of the Cardinal for thefirst time at this moment of farewell, listened with curiosity. Then inall frankness he replied: "Yes, his Eminence has very decided ideas aboutour old Church of France. For instance, he professes perfect horror ofthe Jesuits. "

With a light exclamation Nani stopped the young man. And he wore the mostsincerely, frankly astonished air that could be imagined. "What! horrorof the Jesuits! In what way can the Jesuits disquiet him? The Jesuits, there are none, that's all over! Have you seen any in Rome? Have theytroubled you in any way, those poor Jesuits who haven't even a stone oftheir own left here on which to lay their heads? No, no, that bogeymustn't be brought up again, it's childish. "

Pierre in his turn looked at him, marvelling at his perfect ease, hisquiet courage in dealing with this burning subject. He did not avert hiseyes, but displayed an open face like a book of truth. "Ah!" hecontinued, "if by Jesuits you mean the sensible priests who, instead ofentering into sterile and dangerous struggles with modern society, seekby human methods to bring it back to the Church, why, then of course weare all of us more or less Jesuits, for it would be madness not to takeinto account the times in which one lives. And besides, I won't haggleover words; they are of no consequence! Jesuits, well, yes, if you like, Jesuits!" He was again smiling with that shrewd smile of his in whichthere was so much raillery and so much intelligence. "Well, when you seeCardinal Bergerot tell him that it is unreasonable to track the Jesuitsand treat them as enemies of the nation. The contrary is the truth. TheJesuits are for France, because they are for wealth, strength, andcourage. France is the only great Catholic country which has yet remainederect and sovereign, the only one on which the papacy can some day lean. Thus the Holy Father, after momentarily dreaming of obtaining supportfrom victorious Germany, has allied himself with France, the vanquished, because he has understood that apart from France there can be nosalvation for the Church. And in this he has only followed the policy ofthe Jesuits, those frightful Jesuits, whom your Parisians execrate. Andtell Cardinal Bergerot also that it would be grand of him to work forpacification by making people understand how wrong it is for yourRepublic to help the Holy Father so little in his conciliatory efforts. It pretends to regard him as an element in the world's affairs that maybe neglected; and that is dangerous, for although he may seem to have nopolitical means of action he remains an immense moral force, and can atany moment raise consciences in rebellion and provoke a religiousagitation of the most far-reaching consequences. It is still he whodisposes of the nations, since he disposes of their souls, and theRepublic acts most inconsiderately, from the standpoint of its owninterests, in showing that it no longer even suspects it. And tell theCardinal too, that it is really pitiful to see in what a wretched wayyour Republic selects its bishops, as though it intentionally desired toweaken its episcopacy. Leaving out a few fortunate exceptions, yourbishops are men of small brains, and as a result your cardinals, likewisemere mediocrities, have no influence, play no part here in Rome. Ah! whata sorry figure you Frenchmen will cut at the next Conclave! And so why doyou show such blind and foolish hatred of those Jesuits, who, politically, are your friends? Why don't you employ their intelligentzeal, which is ready to serve you, so that you may assure yourselves thehelp of the next, the coming pope? It is necessary for you that he shouldbe on your side, that he should continue the work of Leo XIII, which isso badly judged and so much opposed, but which cares little for the pettyresults of to-day, since its purpose lies in the future, in the union ofall the nations under their holy mother the Church. Tell CardinalBergerot, tell him plainly that he ought to be with us, that he ought towork for his country by working for us. The coming pope, why the wholequestion lies in that, and woe to France if in him she does not find acontinuator of Leo XIII!"

Nani had again risen, and this time he was going off. Never before had heunbosomed himself at such length. But most assuredly he had only saidwhat he desired to say, for a purpose that he alone knew of, and in afirm, gentle, and deliberate voice by which one could tell that each wordhad been weighed and determined beforehand. "Farewell, my dear son, " hesaid, "and once again think over all you have seen and heard in Rome. Beas sensible as you can, and do not spoil your life. "

Pierre bowed, and pressed the small, plump, supple hand which the prelateoffered him. "Monseigneur, " he replied, "I again thank you for all yourkindness; you may be sure that I shall forget nothing of my journey. "

Then he watched Nani as he went off, with a light and conquering step asif marching to all the victories of the future. No, no, he, Pierre, wouldforget nothing of his journey! He well knew that union of all the nationsunder their holy mother the Church, that temporal bondage in which thelaw of Christ would become the dictatorship of Augustus, master of theworld! And as for those Jesuits, he had no doubt that they did loveFrance, the eldest daughter of the Church, and the only daughter thatcould yet help her mother to reconquer universal sovereignty, but theyloved her even as the black swarms of locusts love the harvests whichthey swoop upon and devour. Infinite sadness had returned to the youngman's heart as he dimly realised that in that sorely-stricken mansion, inall that mourning and downfall, it was they, they again, who must havebeen the artisans of grief and disaster. 

As this thought came to him he turned round and perceived Don Vigilioleaning against the credence in front of the large portrait of theCardinal. Holding his hands to his face as if he desired to annihilatehimself, the secretary was shivering in every limb as much with fear aswith fever. At a moment when no fresh visitors were arriving he hadsuccumbed to an attack of terrified despair. 

"_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter with you?" asked Pierre stepping forward, "are you ill, can I help you?"

But Don Vigilio, suffocating and still hiding his face, could only gaspbetween his close-pressed hands "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!"

"What is it? What has he done to you?" asked the other astonished. 

Then the secretary disclosed his face, and again yielded to his quiveringdesire to confide in some one. "Eh? what he has done to me? Can't youfeel anything, can't you see anything then? Didn't you notice the mannerin which he took possession of Cardinal Sanguinetti so as to conduct himto his Eminence? To impose that suspected, hateful rival on his Eminenceat such a moment as this, what insolent audacity! And a few minutespreviously did you notice with what wicked cunning he bowed out an oldlady, a very old family friend, who only desired to kiss his Eminence'shand and show a little real affection which would have made his Eminenceso happy! Ah! I tell you that he's the master here, he opens or closesthe door as he pleases, and holds us all between his fingers like a pinchof dust which one throws to the wind!"

Pierre became anxious, seeing how yellow and feverish Don Vigilio was:"Come, come, my dear fellow, " he said, "you are exaggerating!"

"Exaggerating? Do you know what happened last night, what I myselfunwillingly witnessed? No, you don't know it; well, I will tell you. "

Thereupon he related that Donna Serafina, on returning home on theprevious day to face the terrible catastrophe awaiting her, had alreadybeen overcome by the bad news which she had learnt when calling on theCardinal Secretary and various prelates of her acquaintance. She had thenacquired a certainty that her brother's position was becoming extremelybad, for he had made so many fresh enemies among his colleagues of theSacred College, that his election to the pontifical throne, which a yearpreviously had seemed probable, now appeared an impossibility. Thus, allat once, the dream of her life collapsed, the ambition which she had solong nourished lay in dust at her feet. On despairingly seeking the whyand wherefore of this change, she had been told of all sorts of blunderscommitted by the Cardinal, acts of rough sternness, unseasonablemanifestations of opinion, inconsiderate words or actions which hadsufficed to wound people, in fact such provoking demeanour that one mighthave thought it adopted with the express intention of spoilingeverything. And the worst was that in each of the blunders she hadrecognised errors of judgment which she herself had blamed, but which herbrother had obstinately insisted on perpetrating under the unacknowledgedinfluence of Abbe Paparelli, that humble and insignificant train-bearer, in whom she detected a baneful and powerful adviser who destroyed her ownvigilant and devoted influence. And so, in spite of the mourning in whichthe house was plunged, she did not wish to delay the punishment of thetraitor, particularly as his old friendship with that terrible Santobono, and the story of that basket of figs which had passed from the hands ofthe one to those of the other, chilled her blood with a suspicion whichshe even recoiled from elucidating. However, at the first words shespoke, directly she made a formal request that the traitor should beimmediately turned out of the house, she was confronted by invincibleresistance on her brother's part. He would not listen to her, but flewinto one of those hurricane-like passions which swept everything away, reproaching her for laying blame on so modest, pious, and saintly a man, and accusing her of playing into the hands of his enemies, who, afterkilling Monsignor Gallo, were seeking to poison his sole remainingaffection for that poor, insignificant priest. He treated all the storieshe was told as abominable inventions, and swore that he would keep thetrain-bearer in his service if only to show his disdain for calumny. Andshe was thereupon obliged to hold her peace. 

However, Don Vigilio's shuddering fit had again come back; he carried hishands to his face stammering: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!" And mutteredinvectives followed: the train-bearer was an artful hypocrite who feignedmodesty and humility, a vile spy appointed to pry into everything, listento everything, and pervert everything that went on in the palace; he wasa loathsome, destructive insect, feeding on the most noble prey, devouring the lion's mane, a Jesuit--the Jesuit who is at once lackey andtyrant, in all his base horror as he accomplishes the work of vermin. 

"Calm yourself, calm yourself, " repeated Pierre, who whilst allowing forfoolish exaggeration on the secretary's part could not help shivering atthought of all the threatening things which he himself could divine astirin the gloom. 

However, since Don Vigilio had so narrowly escaped eating those horriblefigs, his fright was such that nothing could calm it. Even when he wasalone at night, in bed, with his door locked and bolted, sudden terrorfell on him and made him hide his head under the sheet and vent stifledcries as if he thought that men were coming through the wall to stranglehim. In a faint, breathless voice, as if just emerging from a struggle, he now resumed: "I told you what would happen on the evening when we hada talk together in your room. Although all the doors were securely shut, I did wrong to speak of them to you, I did wrong to ease my heart bytelling you all that they were capable of. I was sure they would learnit, and you see they did learn it, since they tried to kill me.... Whyit's even wrong of me to tell you this, for it will reach their ears andthey won't miss me the next time. Ah! it's all over, I'm as good as dead;this house which I thought so safe will be my tomb. "

Pierre began to feel deep compassion for this ailing man, whose feverishbrain was haunted by nightmares, and whose life was being finally wreckedby the anguish of persecution mania. "But you must run away in thatcase!" he said. "Don't stop here; come to France. "

Don Vigilio looked at him, momentarily calmed by surprise. "Run away, why? Go to France? Why, they are there! No matter where I might go, theywould be there. They are everywhere, I should always be surrounded bythem! No, no, I prefer to stay here and would rather die at once if hisEminence can no longer defend me. " With an expression of ardent entreatyin which a last gleam of hope tried to assert itself, he raised his eyesto the large painting in which the Cardinal stood forth resplendent inhis cassock of red moire; but his attack came back again and overwhelmedhim with increased intensity of fever. "Leave me, I beg you, leave me, "he gasped. "Don't make me talk any more. Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli! If heshould come back and see us and hear me speak.... Oh! I'll never sayanything again. I'll tie up my tongue, I'll cut it off. Leave me, you arekilling me, I tell you, he'll be coming back and that will mean my death. Go away, oh! for mercy's sake, go away!"

Thereupon Don Vigilio turned towards the wall as if to flatten his faceagainst it, and immure his lips in tomb-like silence; and Pierre resolvedto leave him to himself, fearing lest he should provoke a yet moreserious attack if he went on endeavouring to succour him. 

On returning to the throne-room the young priest again found himselfamidst all the frightful mourning. Mass was following mass; withoutcessation murmured prayers entreated the divine mercy to receive the twodear departed souls with loving kindness. And amidst the dying perfume ofthe fading roses, in front of the pale stars of the lighted candles, Pierre thought of that supreme downfall of the Boccaneras. Dario was thelast of the name, and one could well understand that the Cardinal, whoseonly sin was family pride, should have loved that one remaining scion bywhom alone the old stock might yet blossom afresh. And indeed, if he andDonna Serafina had desired the divorce, and then the marriage of thecousins, it had been less with the view of putting an end to scandal thanwith the hope of seeing a new line of Boccaneras spring up. But thelovers were dead, and the last remains of a long series of dazzlingprinces of sword and of gown lay there on that bed, soon to rot in thegrave. It was all over; that old maid and that aged Cardinal could leaveno posterity. They remained face to face like two withered oaks, soleremnants of a vanished forest, and their fall would soon leave the plainquite clear. And how terrible the grief of surviving in impotence, whatanguish to have to tell oneself that one is the end of everything, thatwith oneself all life, all hope for the morrow will depart! Amidst themurmur of the prayers, the dying perfume of the roses, the pale gleams ofthe two candies, Pierre realised what a downfall was that bereavement, how heavy was the gravestone which fell for ever on an extinct house, avanished world. 

He well understood that as one of the familiars of the mansion he mustpay his respects to Donna Serafina and the Cardinal, and he at oncesought admission to the neighbouring room where the Princess wasreceiving her friends. He found her robed in black, very slim and veryerect in her arm-chair, whence she rose with slow dignity to respond tothe bow of each person that entered. She listened to the condolences butanswered never a word, overcoming her physical pain by rigidity ofbearing. Pierre, who had learnt to know her, could divine, however, bythe hollowness of her cheeks, the emptiness of her eyes, and the bittertwinge of her mouth, how frightful was the collapse within her. Not onlywas her race ended, but her brother would never be pope, never secure theelevation which she had so long fancied she was winning for him by dintof devotion, dint of feminine renunciation, giving brain and heart, careand money, foregoing even wifehood and motherhood, spoiling her wholelife, in order to realise that dream. And amidst all the ruin of hope, itwas perhaps the nonfulfilment of that ambition which most made her heartbleed. She rose for the young priest, her guest, as she rose for theother persons who presented themselves; but she contrived to introduceshades of meaning into the manner in which she quitted her chair, andPierre fully realised that he had remained in her eyes a mere pettyFrench priest, an insignificant domestic of the Divinity who had notknown how to acquire even the title of prelate. When she had again seatedherself after acknowledging his compliment with a slight inclination ofthe head, he remained for a moment standing, out of politeness. Not aword, not a sound disturbed the mournful quiescence of the room, foralthough there were four or five lady visitors seated there they remainedmotionless and silent as with grief. Pierre was most struck, however, bythe sight of Cardinal Sarno, who was lying back in an arm-chair with hiseyes closed. The poor puny lopsided old man had lingered thereforgetfully after expressing his condolences, and, overcome by the heavysilence and close atmosphere, had just fallen asleep. And everybodyrespected his slumber. Was he dreaming as he dozed of that map ofChristendom which he carried behind his low obtuse-looking brow? Was hecontinuing in dreamland his terrible work of conquest, that task ofsubjecting and governing the earth which he directed from his dark roomat the Propaganda? The ladies glanced at him affectionately anddeferentially; he was gently scolded at times for over-working himself, the sleepiness which nowadays frequently overtook him in all sorts ofplaces being attributed to excess of genius and zeal. And of thisall-powerful Eminence Pierre was destined to carry off only this lastimpression: an exhausted old man, resting amidst the emotion of amourning-gathering, sleeping there like a candid child, without any oneknowing whether this were due to the approach of senile imbecility, or tothe fatigues of a night spent in organising the reign of God over somedistant continent. 

Two ladies went off and three more arrived. Donna Serafina rose, bowed, and then reseated herself, reverting to her rigid attitude, her busterect, her face stern and full of despair. Cardinal Sarno was stillasleep. Then Pierre felt as if he would stifle, a kind of vertigo came onhim, and his heart beat violently. So he bowed and withdrew: and onpassing through the dining-room on his way to the little study whereCardinal Boccanera received his visitors, he found himself in thepresence of Paparelli who was jealously guarding the door. When thetrain-bearer had sniffed at the young man, he seemed to realise that hecould not refuse him admittance. Moreover, as this intruder was goingaway the very next day, defeated and covered with shame, there wasnothing to be feared from him. 

"You wish to see his Eminence?" said Paparelli. "Good, good. By and by, wait. " And opining that Pierre was too near the door, he pushed him backto the other end of the room, for fear no doubt lest he should overhearanything. "His Eminence is still engaged with his Eminence CardinalSanguinetti. Wait, wait there!"

Sanguinetti indeed had made a point of kneeling for a long time in frontof the bodies in the throne-room, and had then spun out his visit toDonna Serafina in order to mark how largely he shared the family sorrow. And for more than ten minutes now he had been closeted with CardinalBoccanera, nothing but an occasional murmur of their voices being heardthrough the closed door. 

Pierre, however, on finding Paparelli there, was again haunted by allthat Don Vigilio had told him. He looked at the train-bearer, so fat andshort, puffed out with bad fat in his dirty cassock, his face flabby andwrinkled, and his whole person at forty years of age suggestive of thatof a very old maid: and he felt astonished. How was it that CardinalBoccanera, that superb prince who carried his head so high, and who wasso supremely proud of his name, had allowed himself to be captured andswayed by such a frightful creature reeking of baseness and abomination?Was it not the man's very physical degradation and profound humility thathad struck him, disturbed him, and finally fascinated him, as wondrousgifts conducing to salvation, which he himself lacked? Paparelli's personand disposition were like blows dealt to his own handsome presence andhis own pride. He, who could not be so deformed, he who could notvanquish his passion for glory, must, by an effort of faith, have grownjealous of that man who was so extremely ugly and so extremelyinsignificant, he must have come to admire him as a superior force ofpenitence and human abasement which threw the portals of heaven wideopen. Who can ever tell what ascendency is exercised by the monster overthe hero; by the horrid-looking saint covered with vermin over thepowerful of this world in their terror at having to endure everlastingflames in payment of their terrestrial joys? And 'twas indeed the liondevoured by the insect, vast strength and splendour destroyed by theinvisible. Ah! to have that fine soul which was so certain of paradise, which for its welfare was enclosed in such a disgusting body, to possessthe happy humility of that wide intelligence, that remarkable theologian, who scourged himself with rods each morning on rising, and was content tobe the lowest of servants. 

Standing there a heap of livid fat, Paparelli on his side watched Pierrewith his little grey eyes blinking amidst the myriad wrinkles of hisface. And the young priest began to feel uneasy, wondering what theirEminences could be saying to one another, shut up together like that forso long a time. And what an interview it must be if Boccanera suspectedSanguinetti of counting Santobono among his clients. What serene audacityit was on Sanguinetti's part to have dared to present himself in thathouse, and what strength of soul there must be on Boccanera's part, whatempire over himself, to prevent all scandal by remaining silent andaccepting the visit as a simple mark of esteem and affection! What couldthey be saying to one another, however? How interesting it would havebeen to have seen them face to face, and have heard them exchange thediplomatic phrases suited to such an interview, whilst their souls wereraging with furious hatred!

All at once the door opened and Cardinal Sanguinetti appeared with calmface, no ruddier than usual, indeed a trifle paler, and retaining thefitting measure of sorrow which he had thought it right to assume. Hisrestless eyes alone revealed his delight at being rid of a difficulttask. And he was going off, all hope, in the conviction that he was theonly eligible candidate to the papacy that remained. 

Abbe Paparelli had darted forward: "If your Eminence will kindly followme--I will escort your Eminence to the door. " Then, turning towardsPierre, he added: "You may go in now. "

Pierre watched them walk away, the one so humble behind the other, whowas so triumphant. Then he entered the little work-room, furnished simplywith a table and three chairs, and in the centre of it he at onceperceived Cardinal Boccanera still standing in the lofty, noble attitudewhich he had assumed to take leave of Sanguinetti, his hated rival to thepontifical throne. And, visibly, Boccanera also believed himself the onlypossible pope, the one whom the coming Conclave would elect. 

However, when the door had been closed, and the Cardinal beheld thatyoung priest, his guest, who had witnessed the death of those two dearchildren lying in the adjoining room, he was again mastered by emotion, an unexpected attack of weakness in which all his energy collapsed. Hishuman feelings were taking their revenge now that his rival was no longerthere to see him. He staggered like an old tree smitten with the axe, andsank upon a chair, stifling with sobs. 

And as Pierre, according to usage, was about to stoop and kiss his ring, he raised him and at once made him sit down, stammering in a haltingvoice: "No, no, my dear son! Seat yourself there, wait--Excuse me, leaveme to myself for a moment, my heart is bursting. "

He sobbed with his hands to his face, unable to master himself, unable todrive back his grief with those yet vigorous fingers which were pressedto his cheeks and temples. 

Tears came into Pierre's eyes, for he also lived through all that woeafresh, and was much upset by the weeping of that tall old man, thatsaint and prince, usually so haughty, so fully master of himself, but nowonly a poor, suffering, agonising man, as weak and as lost as a child. However, although the young priest was likewise stifling with grief, hedesired to present his condolences, and sought for kindly words by whichhe might soothe the other's despair. "I beg your Eminence to believe inmy profound grief, " he said. "I have been overwhelmed with kindness here, and desired at once to tell your Eminence how much that irreparableloss--"

But with a brave gesture the Cardinal silenced him. "No, no, say nothing, for mercy's sake say nothing!"

And silence reigned while he continued weeping, shaken by the struggle hewas waging, his efforts to regain sufficient strength to overcomehimself. At last he mastered his quiver and slowly uncovered his face, which had again become calm, like that of a believer strong in his faith, and submissive to the will of God. In refusing a miracle, in dealing sohard a blow to that house, God had doubtless had His reasons, and he, theCardinal, one of God's ministers, one of the high dignitaries of Histerrestrial court, was in duty bound to bow to it. The silence lasted foranother moment, and then, in a voice which he managed to render naturaland cordial, Boccanera said: "You are leaving us, you are going back toFrance to-morrow, are you not, my dear son?"

"Yes, I shall have the honour to take leave of your Eminence to-morrow, again thanking your Eminence for your inexhaustible kindness. "

"And you have learnt that the Congregation of the Index has condemnedyour book, as was inevitable?"

"Yes, I obtained the signal favour of being received by his Holiness, andin his presence made my submission and reprobated my book. "

The Cardinal's moist eyes again began to sparkle. "Ah! you did that, ah!you did well, my dear son, " he said. "It was only your strict duty as apriest, but there are so many nowadays who do not even do their duty! Asa member of the Congregation I kept the promise I gave you to read yourbook, particularly the incriminated pages. And if I afterwards remainedneutral, to such a point even as to miss the sitting in which judgmentwas pronounced, it was only to please my poor, dear niece, who was sofond of you, and who pleaded your cause to me. "

Tears were coming into his eyes again, and he paused, feeling that hewould once more be overcome if he evoked the memory of that adored andlamented Benedetta. And so it was with a pugnacious bitterness that heresumed: "But what an execrable book it was, my dear son, allow me totell you so. You told me that you had shown respect for dogma, and Istill wonder what aberration can have come over you that you should havebeen so blind to all consciousness of your offences. Respect fordogma--good Lord! when the entire work is the negation of our holyreligion! Did you not realise that by asking for a new religion youabsolutely condemned the old one, the only true one, the only good one, the only one that can be eternal? And that sufficed to make your book themost deadly of poisons, one of those infamous books which in former timeswere burnt by the hangman, and which one is nowadays compelled to leavein circulation after interdicting them and thereby designating them toevil curiosity, which explains the contagious rottenness of the century. Ah! I well recognised there some of the ideas of our distinguished andpoetical relative, that dear Viscount Philibert de la Choue. A man ofletters, yes! a man of letters! Literature, mere literature! I beg God toforgive him, for he most surely does not know what he is doing, orwhither he is going with his elegiac Christianity for talkative workingmen and young persons of either sex, to whom scientific notions havegiven vagueness of soul. And I only feel angry with his Eminence CardinalBergerot, for he at any rate knows what he does, and does as he pleases. No, say nothing, do not defend him. He personifies Revolution in theChurch, and is against God. "

Although Pierre had resolved that he would not reply or argue, he hadallowed a gesture of protest to escape him on hearing this furious attackupon the man whom he most respected in the whole world. However, heyielded to Cardinal Boccanera's injunction and again bowed. 

"I cannot sufficiently express my horror, " the Cardinal roughlycontinued; "yes, my horror for all that hollow dream of a new religion!That appeal to the most hideous passions which stir up the poor againstthe rich, by promising them I know not what division of wealth, whatcommunity of possession which is nowadays impossible! That base flatteryshown to the lower orders to whom equality and justice are promised butnever given, for these can come from God alone, it is only He who canfinally make them reign on the day appointed by His almighty power! Andthere is even that interested charity which people abuse of to railagainst Heaven itself and accuse it of iniquity and indifference, thatlackadaisical weakening charity and compassion, unworthy of strong firmhearts, for it is as if human suffering were not necessary for salvation, as if we did not become more pure, greater and nearer to the supremehappiness, the more and more we suffer!"

He was growing excited, full of anguish, and superb. It was hisbereavement, his heart wound, which thus exasperated him, the great blowwhich had felled him for a moment, but against which he again rose erect, defying grief, and stubborn in his stoic belief in an omnipotent God, whowas the master of mankind, and reserved felicity to those whom Heselected. Again, however, he made an effort to calm himself, and resumedin a more gentle voice: "At all events the fold is always open, my dearson, and here you are back in it since you have repented. You cannotimagine how happy it makes me. "

In his turn Pierre strove to show himself conciliatory in order that hemight not further ulcerate that violent, grief-stricken soul: "YourEminence, " said he, "may be sure that I shall endeavour to remember everyone of the kind words which your Eminence has spoken to me, in the sameway as I shall remember the fatherly greeting of his Holiness Leo XIII. "

This sentence seemed to throw Boccanera into agitation again. At firstonly murmured, restrained words came from him, as if he were strugglingagainst a desire to question the young priest. "Ah yes! you saw hisHoliness, you spoke to him, and he told you I suppose, as he tells allthe foreigners who go to pay their respects to him, that he desiresconciliation and peace. For my part I now only see him when it isabsolutely necessary; for more than a year I have not been received inprivate audience. "

This proof of disfavour, of the covert struggle which as in the days ofPius IX kept the Holy Father and the _Camerlingo_ at variance, filled thelatter with bitterness. He was unable to restrain himself and spoke out, reflecting no doubt that he had a familiar before him, one whosediscretion was certain, and who moreover was leaving Rome on the morrow. "One may go a long way, " said he, "with those fine words, peace andconciliation, which are so often void of real wisdom and courage. Theterrible truth is that Leo XIII's eighteen years of concessions haveshaken everything in the Church, and should he long continue to reignCatholicism would topple over and crumble into dust like a building whosepillars have been undermined. "

Interested by this remark, Pierre in his desire for knowledge began toraise objections. "But hasn't his Holiness shown himself very prudent?"he asked; "has he not placed dogma on one side in an impregnablefortress? If he seems to have made concessions on many points, have theynot always been concessions in mere matters of form?"

"Matters of form; ah, yes!" the Cardinal resumed with increasing passion. "He told you, no doubt, as he tells others, that whilst in substance hewill make no surrender, he will readily yield in matters of form! It's adeplorable axiom, an equivocal form of diplomacy even when it isn't somuch low hypocrisy! My soul revolts at the thought of that Opportunism, that Jesuitism which makes artifice its weapon, and only serves to castdoubt among true believers, the confusion of a _sauve-qui-peut_, which byand by must lead to inevitable defeat. It is cowardice, the worst form ofcowardice, abandonment of one's weapons in order that one may retreat themore speedily, shame of oneself, assumption of a mask in the hope ofdeceiving the enemy, penetrating into his camp, and overcoming him bytreachery! No, no, form is everything in a traditional and immutablereligion, which for eighteen hundred years has been, is now, and till theend of time will be the very law of God!"

The Cardinal's feelings so stirred him that he was unable to remainseated, and began to walk about the little room. And it was the wholereign, the whole policy of Leo XIII which he discussed and condemned. "Unity too, " he continued, "that famous unity of the Christian Churchwhich his Holiness talks of bringing about, and his desire for whichpeople turn to his great glory, why, it is only the blind ambition of aconqueror enlarging his empire without asking himself if the new nationsthat he subjects may not disorganise, adulterate, and impregnate his oldand hitherto faithful people with every error. What if all theschismatical nations on returning to the Catholic Church should sotransform it as to kill it and make it a new Church? There is only onewise course, which is to be what one is, and that firmly. Again, isn'tthere both shame and danger in that pretended alliance with the democracywhich in itself gives the lie to the ancient spirit of the papacy? Theright of kings is divine, and to abandon the monarchical principle is toset oneself against God, to compound with revolution, and harbour amonstrous scheme of utilising the madness of men the better to establishone's power over them. All republics are forms of anarchy, and there canbe no more criminal act, one which must for ever shake the principle ofauthority, order, and religion itself, than that of recognising arepublic as legitimate for the sole purpose of indulging a dream ofimpossible conciliation. And observe how this bears on the question ofthe temporal power. He continues to claim it, he makes a point of nosurrender on that question of the restoration of Rome; but in reality, has he not made the loss irreparable, has he not definitively renouncedRome, by admitting that nations have the right to drive away their kingsand live like wild beasts in the depths of the forest?"

All at once the Cardinal stopped short and raised his arms to Heaven in aburst of holy anger. "Ah! that man, ah! that man who by his vanity andcraving for success will have proved the ruin of the Church, that man whohas never ceased corrupting everything, dissolving everything, crumblingeverything in order to reign over the world which he fancies he willreconquer by those means, why, Almighty God, why hast Thou not alreadycalled him to Thee?"

So sincere was the accent in which that appeal to Death was raised, tosuch a point was hatred magnified by a real desire to save the Deityimperilled here below, that a great shudder swept through Pierre also. Henow understood that Cardinal Boccanera who religiously and passionatelyhated Leo XIII; he saw him in the depths of his black palace, waiting andwatching for the Pope's death, that death which as _Camerlingo_ he mustofficially certify. How feverishly he must wait, how impatiently he mustdesire the advent of the hour, when with his little silver hammer hewould deal the three symbolic taps on the skull of Leo XIII, while thelatter lay cold and rigid on his bed surrounded by his pontifical Court. Ah! to strike that wall of the brain, to make sure that nothing morewould answer from within, that nothing beyond night and silence was leftthere. And the three calls would ring out: "Gioachino! Gioachino!Gioachino!" And, the corpse making no answer, the _Camerlingo_ afterwaiting for a few seconds would turn and say: "The Pope is dead!"

"Conciliation, however, is the weapon of the times, " remarked Pierre, wishing to bring the Cardinal back to the present, "and it is in order tomake sure of conquering that the Holy Father yields in matters of form. "

"He will not conquer, he will be conquered, " cried Boccanera. "Never hasthe Church been victorious save in stubbornly clinging to itsintegrality, the immutable eternity of its divine essence. And it wouldfor a certainty fall on the day when it should allow a single stone ofits edifice to be touched. Remember the terrible period through which itpassed at the time of the Council of Trent. The Reformation had justdeeply shaken it, laxity of discipline and morals was everywhereincreasing, there was a rising tide of novelties, ideas suggested by thespirit of evil, unhealthy projects born of the pride of man, running riotin full license. And at the Council itself many members were disturbed, poisoned, ready to vote for the wildest changes, a fresh schism added toall the others. Well, if Catholicism was saved at that critical period, under the threat of such great danger, it was because the majority, enlightened by God, maintained the old edifice intact, it was becausewith divinely inspired obstinacy it kept itself within the narrow limitsof dogma, it was because it made no concession, none, whether insubstance or in form! Nowadays the situation is certainly not worse thanit was at the time of the Council of Trent. Let us suppose it to be muchthe same, and tell me if it is not nobler, braver, and safer for theChurch to show the courage which she showed before and declare aloud whatshe is, what she has been, and what she will be. There is no salvationfor her otherwise than in her complete, indisputable sovereignty; andsince she has always conquered by non-surrender, all attempts toconciliate her with the century are tantamount to killing her!"

The Cardinal had again begun to walk to and fro with thoughtful step. "No, no, " said he, "no compounding, no surrender, no weakness! Rather thewall of steel which bars the road, the block of granite which marks thelimit of a world! As I told you, my dear son, on the day of your arrival, to try to accommodate Catholicism to the new times is to hasten its end, if really it be threatened, as atheists pretend. And in that way it woulddie basely and shamefully instead of dying erect, proud, and dignified inits old glorious royalty! Ah! to die standing, denying nought of thepast, braving the future and confessing one's whole faith!"

That old man of seventy seemed to grow yet loftier as he spoke, free fromall dread of final annihilation, and making the gesture of a hero whodefies futurity. Faith had given him serenity of peace; he believed, heknew, he had neither doubt nor fear of the morrow of death. Still hisvoice was tinged with haughty sadness as he resumed, "God can do all, even destroy His own work should it seem evil in His eyes. But though allshould crumble to-morrow, though the Holy Church should disappear amongthe ruins, though the most venerated sanctuaries should be crushed by thefalling stars, it would still be necessary for us to bow and adore God, who after creating the world might thus annihilate it for His own glory. And I wait, submissive to His will, for nothing happens unless He willsit. If really the temples be shaken, if Catholicism be fated to fallto-morrow into dust, I shall be here to act as the minister of death, even as I have been the minister of life! It is certain, I confess it, that there are hours when terrible signs appear to me. Perhaps, indeed, the end of time is nigh, and we shall witness that fall of the old worldwith which others threaten us. The worthiest, the loftiest are struckdown as if Heaven erred, and in them punished the crimes of the world. Have I not myself felt the blast from the abyss into which all must sink, since my house, for transgressions that I am ignorant of, has beenstricken with that frightful bereavement which precipitates it into thegulf which casts it back into night everlasting!"

He again evoked those two dear dead ones who were always present in hismind. Sobs were once more rising in his throat, his hands trembled, hislofty figure quivered with the last revolt of grief. Yes, if God hadstricken him so severely by suppressing his race, if the greatest andmost faithful were thus punished, it must be that the world wasdefinitively condemned. Did not the end of his house mean the approachingend of all? And in his sovereign pride as priest and as prince, he founda cry of supreme resignation, once more raising his hands on high:"Almighty God, Thy will be done! May all die, all fall, all return to thenight of chaos! I shall remain standing in this ruined palace, waiting tobe buried beneath its fragments. And if Thy will should summon me to buryThy holy religion, be without fear, I shall do nothing unworthy toprolong its life for a few days! I will maintain it erect, like myself, as proud, as uncompromising as in the days of all its power. I will yieldnothing, whether in discipline, or in rite, or in dogma. And when the dayshall come I will bury it with myself, carrying it whole into the graverather than yielding aught of it, encompassing it with my cold arms torestore it to Thee, even as Thou didst commit it to the keeping of ThyChurch. O mighty God and sovereign Master, dispose of me, make me if suchbe Thy good pleasure the pontiff of destruction, the pontiff of the deathof the world. "

Pierre, who was thunderstruck, quivered with fear and admiration at theextraordinary vision this evoked: the last of the popes interringCatholicism. He understood that Boccanera must at times have made thatdream; he could see him in the Vatican, in St. Peter's which thethunderbolts had riven asunder, he could see him erect and alone in thespacious halls whence his terrified, cowardly pontifical Court had fled. Clad in his white cassock, thus wearing white mourning for the Church, heonce more descended to the sanctuary, there to wait for heaven to fall onthe evening of Time's accomplishment and annihilate the earth. Thrice heraised the large crucifix, overthrown by the supreme convulsions of thesoil. Then, when the final crack rent the steps apart, he caught it inhis arms and was annihilated with it beneath the falling vaults. Andnothing could be more instinct with fierce and kingly grandeur. 

Voiceless, but without weakness, his lofty stature invincible and erectin spite of all, Cardinal Boccanera made a gesture dismissing Pierre, whoyielding to his passion for truth and beauty found that he alone wasgreat and right, and respectfully kissed his hand. 

It was in the throne-room, with closed doors, at nightfall, after thevisits had ceased, that the two bodies were laid in their coffin. Thereligious services had come to an end, and in the close silent atmospherethere only lingered the dying perfume of the roses and the warm odour ofthe candles. As the latter's pale stars scarcely lighted the spaciousroom, some lamps had been brought, and servants held them in their handslike torches. According to custom, all the servants of the house werepresent to bid a last farewell to the departed. 

There was a little delay. Morano, who had been giving himself no end oftrouble ever since morning, was forced to run off again as the triplecoffin did not arrive. At last it came, some servants brought it up, andthen they were able to begin. The Cardinal and Donna Serafina stood sideby side near the bed. Pierre also was present, as well as Don Vigilio. Itwas Victorine who sewed the lovers up in the white silk shroud, whichseemed like a bridal robe, the gay pure robe of their union. Then twoservants came forward and helped Pierre and Don Vigilio to lay the bodiesin the first coffin, of pine wood lined with pink satin. It was scarcelybroader than an ordinary coffin, so young and slim were the lovers and sotightly were they clasped in their last embrace. When they were stretchedinside they there continued their eternal slumber, their heads halfhidden by their odorous, mingling hair. And when this first coffin hadbeen placed in the second one, a leaden shell, and the second had beenenclosed in the third, of stout oak, and when the three lids had beensoldered and screwed down, the lovers' faces could still be seen throughthe circular opening, covered with thick glass, which in accordance withthe Roman custom had been left in each of the coffins. And then, for everparted from the living, alone together, they still gazed at one anotherwith their eyes obstinately open, having all eternity before them whereinto exhaust their infinite love. 

XVI. 

ON the following day, on his return from the funeral Pierre lunched alonein his room, having decided to take leave of the Cardinal and DonnaSerafina during the afternoon. He was quitting Rome that evening by thetrain which started at seventeen minutes past ten. There was nothing todetain him any longer; there was only one visit which he desired to make, a visit to old Orlando, with whom he had promised to have a long chatprior to his departure. And so a little before two o'clock he sent for acab which took him to the Via Venti Settembre. A fine rain had fallen allnight, its moisture steeping the city in grey vapour; and though thisrain had now ceased the sky remained very dark, and the huge new mansionsof the Via Venti Settembre were quite livid, interminably mournful withtheir balconies ever of the same pattern and their regular and endlessrows of windows. The Ministry of Finances, that colossal pile of masonryand sculpture, looked in particular like a dead town, a huge bloodlessbody whence all life had withdrawn. On the other hand, although all wasso gloomy the rain had made the atmosphere milder, in fact it was almostwarm, damply and feverishly warm. 

In the hall of Prada's little palazzo Pierre was surprised to find fouror five gentlemen taking off their overcoats; however he learnt from aservant that Count Luigi had a meeting that day with some contractors. Ashe, Pierre, wished to see the Count's father he had only to ascend to thethird floor, added the servant. He must knock at the little door on theright-hand side of the landing there. 

On the very first landing, however, the priest found himself face to facewith the young Count who was there receiving the contractors, and who onrecognising him became frightfully pale. They had not met since thetragedy at the Boccanera mansion, and Pierre well realised how greatlyhis glance disturbed that man, what a troublesome recollection of moralcomplicity it evoked, and what mortal dread lest he should have guessedthe truth. 

"Have you come to see me, have you something to tell me?" the Countinquired. 

"No, I am leaving Rome, I have come to wish your father good-bye. "

Prada's pallor increased at this, and his whole face quivered: "Ah! it isto see my father. He is not very well, be gentle with him, " he replied, and as he spoke, his look of anguish clearly proclaimed what he fearedfrom Pierre, some imprudent word, perhaps even a final mission, themalediction of that man and woman whom he had killed. And surely if hisfather knew, he would die as well. "Ah! how annoying it is, " he resumed, "I can't go up with you! There are gentlemen waiting for me. Yes, howannoyed I am. As soon as possible, however, I will join you, yes, as soonas possible. "

He knew not how to stop the young priest, whom he must evidently allow toremain with his father, whilst he himself stayed down below, kept thereby his pecuniary worries. But how distressful were the eyes with which hewatched Pierre climb the stairs, how he seemed to supplicate him with hiswhole quivering form. His father, good Lord, the only true love, the onegreat, pure, faithful passion of his life!

"Don't make him talk too much, brighten him, won't you?" were his partingwords. 

Up above it was not Batista, the devoted ex-soldier, who opened the door, but a very young fellow to whom Pierre did not at first pay anyattention. The little room was bare and light as on previous occasions, and from the broad curtainless window there was the superb view of Rome, Rome crushed that day beneath a leaden sky and steeped in shade ofinfinite mournfulness. Old Orlando, however, had in no wise changed, butstill displayed the superb head of an old blanched lion, a powerfulmuzzle and youthful eyes, which yet sparkled with the passions which hadgrowled in a soul of fire. Pierre found the stricken hero in the samearm-chair as previously, near the same table littered with newspapers, and with his legs buried in the same black wrapper, as if he were thereimmobilised in a sheath of stone, to such a point that after months andyears one was sure to perceive him quite unchanged, with living bust, andface glowing with strength and intelligence. 

That grey day, however, he seemed gloomy, low in spirits. "Ah! so hereyou are, my dear Monsieur Froment, " he exclaimed, "I have been thinkingof you these three days past, living the awful days which you must havelived in that tragic Palazzo Boccanera. Ah, God! What a frightfulbereavement! My heart is quite overwhelmed, these newspapers have againjust upset me with the fresh details they give!" He pointed as he spoketo the papers scattered over the table. Then with a gesture he strove tobrush aside the gloomy story, and banish that vision of Benedetta dead, which had been haunting him. "Well, and yourself?" he inquired. 

"I am leaving this evening, " replied Pierre, "but I did not wish to quitRome without pressing your brave hands. "

"You are leaving? But your book?"

"My book--I have been received by the Holy Father, I have made mysubmission and reprobated my book. "

Orlando looked fixedly at the priest. There was a short interval ofsilence, during which their eyes told one another all that they had totell respecting the affair. Neither felt the necessity of any longerexplanation. The old man merely spoke these concluding words: "You havedone well, your book was a chimera. "

"Yes, a chimera, a piece of childishness, and I have condemned it myselfin the name of truth and reason. "

A smile appeared on the dolorous lips of the impotent hero. "Then youhave seen things, you understand and know them now?"

"Yes, I know them; and that is why I did not wish to go off withouthaving that frank conversation with you which we agreed upon. "

Orlando was delighted, but all at once he seemed to remember the youngfellow who had opened the door to Pierre, and who had afterwards modestlyresumed his seat on a chair near the window. This young fellow was ayouth of twenty, still beardless, of a blonde handsomeness such asoccasionally flowers at Naples, with long curly hair, a lily-likecomplexion, a rosy mouth, and soft eyes full of a dreamy languor. The oldman presented him in fatherly fashion, Angiolo Mascara his name was, andhe was the grandson of an old comrade in arms, the epic Mascara of theThousand, who had died like a hero, his body pierced by a hundred wounds. 

"I sent for him to scold him, " continued Orlando with a smile. "Do youknow that this fine fellow with his girlish airs goes in for the newideas? He is an Anarchist, one of the three or four dozen Anarchists thatwe have in Italy. He's a good little lad at bottom, he has only hismother left him, and supports her, thanks to the little berth which heholds, but which he'll lose one of these fine days if he is not careful. Come, come, my child, you must promise me to be reasonable. "

Thereupon Angiolo, whose clean but well-worn garments bespoke decentpoverty, made answer in a grave and musical voice: "I am reasonable, itis the others, all the others who are not. When all men are reasonableand desire truth and justice, the world will be happy. "

"Ah! if you fancy that he'll give way!" cried Orlando. "But, my poorchild, just ask Monsieur l'Abbe if one ever knows where truth and justiceare. Well, well, one must leave you the time to live, and see, andunderstand things. "

Then, paying no more attention to the young man, he returned to Pierre, while Angiolo, remaining very quiet in his corner, kept his eyes ardentlyfixed on them, and with open, quivering ears lost not a word they said. 

"I told you, my dear Monsieur Froment, " resumed Orlando, "that your ideaswould change, and that acquaintance with Rome would bring you to accurateviews far more readily than any fine speeches I could make to you. So Inever doubted but what you would of your own free will withdraw your bookas soon as men and things should have enlightened you respecting theVatican at the present day. But let us leave the Vatican on one side, there is nothing to be done but to let it continue falling slowly andinevitably into ruin. What interests me is our Italian Rome, which youtreated as an element to be neglected, but which you have now seen andstudied, so that we can both speak of it with the necessary knowledge!"

He thereupon at once granted a great many things, acknowledged thatblunders had been committed, that the finances were in a deplorablestate, and that there were serious difficulties of all kinds. They, theItalians, had sinned by excess of legitimate pride, they had proceededtoo hastily with their attempt to improvise a great nation, to changeancient Rome into a great modern capital as by the mere touch of a wand. And thence had come that mania for erecting new districts, that madspeculation in land and shares, which had brought the country within ahair's breadth of bankruptcy. 

At this Pierre gently interrupted him to tell him of the view which hehimself had arrived at after his peregrinations and studies through Rome. "That fever of the first hour, that financial _debacle_, " said he, "isafter all nothing. All pecuniary sores can be healed. But the grave pointis that your Italy still remains to be created. There is no aristocracyleft, and as yet there is no people, nothing but a devouring middleclass, dating from yesterday, which preys on the rich harvest of thefuture before it is ripe. "

Silence fell. Orlando sadly wagged his old leonine head. The cuttingharshness of Pierre's formula struck him in the heart. "Yes, yes, " hesaid at last, "that is so, you have seen things plainly; and why say nowhen facts are there, patent to everybody? I myself had already spoken toyou of that middle class which hungers so ravenously for place andoffice, distinctions and plumes, and which at the same time is soavaricious, so suspicious with regard to its money which it invests inbanks, never risking it in agriculture or manufactures or commerce, having indeed the one desire to enjoy life without doing anything, and sounintelligent that it cannot see it is killing its country by itsloathing for labour, its contempt for the poor, its one ambition to livein a petty way with the barren glory of belonging to some officialadministration. And, as you say, the aristocracy is dying, discrowned, ruined, sunk into the degeneracy which overtakes races towards theirclose, most of its members reduced to beggary, the others, the few whohave clung to their money, crushed by heavy imposts, possessing noughtbut dead fortunes which constant sharing diminishes and which must soondisappear with the princes themselves. And then there is the people, which has suffered so much and suffers still, but is so used to sufferingthat it can seemingly conceive no idea of emerging from it, blind anddeaf as it is, almost regretting its ancient bondage, and so ignorant, soabominably ignorant, which is the one cause of its hopeless, morrowlessmisery, for it has not even the consolation of understanding that if wehave conquered and are trying to resuscitate Rome and Italy in theirancient glory, it is for itself, the people, alone. Yes, yes, noaristocracy left, no people as yet, and a middle class which reallyalarms one. How can one therefore help yielding at times to the terrorsof the pessimists, who pretend that our misfortunes are as yet nothing, that we are going forward to yet more awful catastrophes, as though, indeed, what we now behold were but the first symptoms of our race's end, the premonitory signs of final annihilation!"

As he spoke he raised his long quivering arms towards the window, towardsthe light, and Pierre, deeply moved, remembered how Cardinal Boccanera onthe previous day had made a similar gesture of supplicant distress whenappealing to the divine power. And both men, Cardinal and patriot, sohostile in their beliefs, were instinct with the same fierce anddespairing grandeur. 

"As I told you, however, on the first day, " continued Orlando, "we onlysought to accomplish logical and inevitable things. As for Rome, with herpast history of splendour and domination which weighs so heavily upon us, we could not do otherwise than take her for capital, for she alone wasthe bond, the living symbol of our unity at the same time as the promiseof eternity, the renewal offered to our great dream of resurrection andglory. "

He went on, recognising the disastrous conditions under which Romelaboured as a capital. She was a purely decorative city with exhaustedsoil, she had remained apart from modern life, she was unhealthy, sheoffered no possibility of commerce or industry, she was invincibly preyedupon by death, standing as she did amidst that sterile desert of theCampagna. Then he compared her with the other cities which are jealous ofher; first Florence, which, however, has become so indifferent and sosceptical, impregnated with a happy heedlessness which seems inexplicablewhen one remembers the frantic passions, and the torrents of bloodrolling through her history; next Naples, which yet remains content withher bright sun, and whose childish people enjoy their ignorance andwretchedness so indolently that one knows not whether one ought to pitythem; next Venice, which has resigned herself to remaining a marvel ofancient art, which one ought to put under glass so as to preserve herintact, slumbering amid the sovereign pomp of her annals; next Genoa, which is absorbed in trade, still active and bustling, one of the lastqueens of that Mediterranean, that insignificant lake which was once theopulent central sea, whose waters carried the wealth of the world; andthen particularly Turin and Milan, those industrial and commercialcentres, which are so full of life and so modernised that touristsdisdain them as not being "Italian" cities, both of them having savedthemselves from ruin by entering into that Western evolution which ispreparing the next century. Ah! that old land of Italy, ought one toleave it all as a dusty museum for the pleasure of artistic souls, leaveit to crumble away, even as its little towns of Magna Graecia, Umbria, and Tuscany are already crumbling, like exquisite _bibelots_ which onedares not repair for fear that one might spoil their character. At allevents, there must either be death, death soon and inevitable, or elsethe pick of the demolisher, the tottering walls thrown to the ground, andcities of labour, science, and health created on all sides; in one word, a new Italy really rising from the ashes of the old one, and adapted tothe new civilisation into which humanity is entering. 

"However, why despair?" Orlando continued energetically. "Rome may weighheavily on our shoulders, but she is none the less the summit we coveted. We are here, and we shall stay here awaiting events. Even if thepopulation does not increase it at least remains stationary at a figureof some 400, 000 souls, and the movement of increase may set in again whenthe causes which stopped it shall have ceased. Our blunder was to thinkthat Rome would become a Paris or Berlin; but, so far, all sorts ofsocial, historical, even ethnical considerations seem opposed to it; yetwho can tell what may be the surprises of to-morrow? Are we forbidden tohope, to put faith in the blood which courses in our veins, the blood ofthe old conquerors of the world? I, who no longer stir from this room, impotent as I am, even I at times feel my madness come back, believe inthe invincibility and immortality of Rome, and wait for the two millionsof people who must come to populate those dolorous new districts whichyou have seen so empty and already falling into ruins! And certainly theywill come! Why not? You will see, you will see, everything will bepopulated, and even more houses will have to be built. Moreover, can youcall a nation poor, when it possesses Lombardy? Is there not alsoinexhaustible wealth in our southern provinces? Let peace settle down, let the South and the North mingle together, and a new generation ofworkers grow up. Since we have the soil, such a fertile soil, the greatharvest which is awaited will surely some day sprout and ripen under theburning sun!"

Enthusiasm was upbuoying him, all the _furia_ of youth inflamed his eyes. Pierre smiled, won over; and as soon as he was able to speak, he said:"The problem must be tackled down below, among the people. You must makemen!"

"Exactly!" cried Orlando. "I don't cease repeating it, one must makeItaly. It is as if a wind from the East had blown the seed of humanity, the seed which makes vigorous and powerful nations, elsewhere. Our peopleis not like yours in France, a reservoir of men and money from which onecan draw as plentifully as one pleases. It is such another inexhaustiblereservoir that I wish to see created among us. And one must begin at thebottom. There must be schools everywhere, ignorance must be stamped out, brutishness and idleness must be fought with books, intellectual andmoral instruction must give us the industrious people which we need if weare not to disappear from among the great nations. And once again forwhom, if not for the democracy of to-morrow, have we worked in takingpossession of Rome? And how easily one can understand that all shouldcollapse here, and nothing grow up vigorously since such a democracy isabsolutely absent. Yes, yes, the solution of the problem does not lieelsewhere; we must make a people, make an Italian democracy. "

Pierre had grown calm again, feeling somewhat anxious yet not daring tosay that it is by no means easy to modify a nation, that Italy is such assoil, history, and race have made her, and that to seek to transform herso radically and all at once might be a dangerous enterprise. Do notnations like beings have an active youth, a resplendent prime, and a moreor less prolonged old age ending in death? A modern democratic Rome, goodheavens! The modern Romes are named Paris, London, Chicago. So hecontented himself with saying: "But pending this great renovation of thepeople, don't you think that you ought to be prudent? Your finances arein such a bad condition, you are passing through such great social andeconomic difficulties, that you run the risk of the worst catastrophesbefore you secure either men or money. Ah! how prudent would thatminister be who should say in your Chamber: 'Our pride has made amistake, it was wrong of us to try to make ourselves a great nation inone day; more time, labour, and patience are needed; and we consent toremain for the present a young nation, which will quietly reflect andlabour at self-formation, without, for a long time yet, seeking to play adominant part. So we intend to disarm, to strike out the war and navalestimates, all the estimates intended for display abroad, in order todevote ourselves to our internal prosperity, and to build up byeducation, physically and morally, the great nation which we swear wewill be fifty years hence!' Yes, yes, strike out all needlessexpenditure, your salvation lies in that!"

But Orlando, while listening, had become gloomy again, and with a vague, weary gesture he replied in an undertone: "No, no, the minister whoshould use such language would be hooted. It would be too hard aconfession, such as one cannot ask a nation to make. Every heart wouldbound, leap forth at the idea. And, besides, would not the danger perhapsbe even greater if all that has been done were allowed to crumble? Howmany wrecked hopes, how much discarded, useless material there would be!No, we can now only save ourselves by patience and courage--and forward, ever forward! We are a very young nation, and in fifty years we desiredto effect the unity which others have required two hundred years toarrive at. Well, we must pay for our haste, we must wait for the harvestto ripen, and fill our barns. " Then, with another and more sweeping waveof the arm, he stubbornly strengthened himself in his hopes. "You know, "said he, "that I was always against the alliance with Germany. As Ipredicted, it has ruined us. We were not big enough to march side by sidewith such a wealthy and powerful person, and it is in view of a war, always near at hand and inevitable, that we now suffer so cruelly fromhaving to support the budgets of a great nation. Ah! that war which hasnever come, it is that which has exhausted the best part of our blood andsap and money without the slightest profit. To-day we have nothing beforeus but the necessity of breaking with our ally, who speculated on ourpride, who has never helped us in any way, who has never given usanything but bad advice, and treated us otherwise than with suspicion. But it was all inevitable, and that's what people won't admit in France. I can speak freely of it all, for I am a declared friend of France, andpeople even feel some spite against me on that account. However, explainto your compatriots, that on the morrow of our conquest of Rome, in ourfrantic desire to resume our ancient rank, it was absolutely necessarythat we should play our part in Europe and show that we were a power withwhom the others must henceforth count. And hesitation was not allowable, all our interests impelled us toward Germany, the evidence was so bindingas to impose itself. The stern law of the struggle for life weighs asheavily on nations as on individuals, and this it is which explains andjustifies the rupture between the two sisters, France and Italy, theforgetting of so many ties, race, commercial intercourse, and, if youlike, services also. The two sisters, ah! they now pursue each other withso much hatred that all common sense even seems at an end. My poor oldheart bleeds when I read the articles which your newspapers and oursexchange like poisoned darts. When will this fratricidal massacre cease, which of the two will first realise the necessity of peace, the necessityof the alliance of the Latin races, if they are to remain alive amidstthose torrents of other races which more and more invade the world?" Thengaily, with the _bonhomie_ of a hero disarmed by old age, and seeking arefuge in his dreams, Orlando added: "Come, you must promise to help meas soon as you are in Paris. However small your field of action may be, promise me you will do all you can to promote peace between France andItaly; there can be no more holy task. Relate all you have seen here, allyou have heard, oh! as frankly as possible. If we have faults, youcertainly have faults as well. And, come, family quarrels can't last forever!"

"No doubt, " Pierre answered in some embarrassment. "Unfortunately theyare the most tenacious. In families, when blood becomes exasperated withblood, hate goes as far as poison and the knife. And pardon becomesimpossible. "

He dared not fully express his thoughts. Since he had been in Rome, listening, and considering things, the quarrel between Italy and Francehad resumed itself in his mind in a fine tragic story. Once upon a timethere were two princesses, daughters of a powerful queen, the mistress ofthe world. The elder one, who had inherited her mother's kingdom, wassecretly grieved to see her sister, who had established herself in aneighbouring land, gradually increase in wealth, strength, andbrilliancy, whilst she herself declined as if weakened by age, dismembered, so exhausted, and so sore, that she already felt defeated onthe day when she attempted a supreme effort to regain universal power. And so how bitter were her feelings, how hurt she always felt on seeingher sister recover from the most frightful shocks, resume her dazzling_gala_, and continue to reign over the world by dint of strength andgrace and wit. Never would she forgive it, however well that envied anddetested sister might act towards her. Therein lay an incurable wound, the life of one poisoned by that of the other, the hatred of old bloodfor young blood, which could only be quieted by death. And even if peace, as was possible, should soon be restored between them in presence of theyounger sister's evident triumph, the other would always harbour deepwithin her heart an endless grief at being the elder yet the vassal. 

"However, you may rely on me, " Pierre affectionately resumed. "Thisquarrel between the two countries is certainly a great source of griefand a great peril. And assuredly I will only say what I think to be thetruth about you. At the same time I fear that you hardly like the truth, for temperament and custom have hardly prepared you for it. The poets ofevery nation who at various times have written on Rome have intoxicatedyou with so much praise that you are scarcely fitted to hear the realtruth about your Rome of to-day. No matter how superb a share of praiseone may accord you, one must all the same look at the reality of things, and this reality is just what you won't admit, lovers of the beautiful asyou ever are, susceptible too like women, whom the slightest hint of awrinkle sends into despair. "

Orlando began to laugh. "Well, certainly, one must always beautify thingsa little, " said he. "Why speak of ugly faces at all? We in our theatresonly care for pretty music, pretty dancing, pretty pieces which pleaseone. As for the rest, whatever is disagreeable let us hide it, formercy's sake!"

"On the other hand, " the priest continued, "I will cheerfully confess thegreat error of my book. The Italian Rome which I neglected and sacrificedto papal Rome not only exists but is already so powerful and triumphantthat it is surely the other one which is bound to disappear in course oftime. However much the Pope may strive to remain immutable within hisVatican, a steady evolution goes on around him, and the black world, bymingling with the white, has already become a grey world. I neverrealised that more acutely than at the _fete_ given by PrinceBuongiovanni for the betrothal of his daughter to your grand-nephew. Icame away quite enchanted, won over to the cause of your resurrection. "

The old man's eyes sparkled. "Ah! you were present?" said he, "and youwitnessed a never-to-be-forgotten scene, did you not, and you no longerdoubt our vitality, our growth into a great people when the difficultiesof to-day are overcome? What does a quarter of a century, what does evena century matter! Italy will again rise to her old glory, as soon as thegreat people of to-morrow shall have sprung from the soil. And if Idetest that man Sacco it is because to my mind he is the incarnation ofall the enjoyers and intriguers whose appetite for the spoils of ourconquest has retarded everything. But I live again in my deargrand-nephew Attilio, who represents the future, the generation of braveand worthy men who will purify and educate the country. Ah! may some ofthe great ones of to-morrow spring from him and that adorable littlePrincess Celia, whom my niece Stefana, a sensible woman at bottom, brought to see me the other day. If you had seen that child fling herarms about me, call me endearing names, and tell me that I should begodfather to her first son, so that he might bear my name and once againsave Italy! Yes, yes, may peace be concluded around that coming cradle;may the union of those dear children be the indissoluble marriage of Romeand the whole nation, and may all be repaired, and all blossom anew intheir love!"

Tears came to his eyes, and Pierre, touched by his inextinguishablepatriotism, sought to please him. "I myself, " said he, "expressed to yourson much the same wish on the evening of the betrothal _fete_, when Itold him I trusted that their nuptials might be definitive and fruitful, and that from them and all the others there might arise the great nationwhich, now that I begin to know you, I hope you will soon become!"

"You said that!" exclaimed Orlando. "Well, I forgive your book, for youhave understood at last; and new Rome, there she is, the Rome which isours, which we wish to make worthy of her glorious past, and for thethird time the queen of the world. "

With one of those broad gestures into which he put all his remaininglife, he pointed to the curtainless window where Rome spread out insolemn majesty from one horizon to the other. But, suddenly he turned hishead and in a fit of paternal indignation began to apostrophise youngAngiolo Mascara. "You young rascal!" said he, "it's our Rome which youdream of destroying with your bombs, which you talk of razing like arotten, tottering house, so as to rid the world of it for ever!"

Angiolo had hitherto remained silent, passionately listening to theothers. His pretty, girlish, beardless face reflected the slightestemotion in sudden flashes; and his big blue eyes also had glowed onhearing what had been said of the people, the new people which it wasnecessary to create. "Yes!" he slowly replied in his pure and musicalvoice, "we mean to raze it and not leave a stone of it, but raze it inorder to build it up again. "

Orlando interrupted him with a soft, bantering laugh: "Oh! you wouldbuild it up again; that's fortunate!" he said. 

"I would build it up again, " the young man replied, in the tremblingvoice of an inspired prophet. "I would build it up again oh, so vast, sobeautiful, and so noble! Will not the universal democracy of to-morrow, humanity when it is at last freed, need an unique city, which shall bethe ark of alliance, the very centre of the world? And is not Romedesignated, Rome which the prophecies have marked as eternal andimmortal, where the destinies of the nations are to be accomplished? Butin order that it may become the final definitive sanctuary, the capitalof the destroyed kingdoms, where the wise men of all countries shall meetonce every year, one must first of all purify it by fire, leave nothingof its old stains remaining. Then, when the sun shall have absorbed allthe pestilence of the old soil, we will rebuild the city ten times morebeautiful and ten times larger than it has ever been. And what a city oftruth and justice it will at last be, the Rome that has been announcedand awaited for three thousand years, all in gold and all in marble, filling the Campagna from the sea to the Sabine and the Alban mountains, and so prosperous and so sensible that its twenty millions of inhabitantsafter regulating the law of labour will live with the unique joy ofbeing. Yes, yes, Rome the Mother, Rome the Queen, alone on the face ofthe earth and for all eternity!"

Pierre listened to him, aghast. What! did the blood of Augustus go tosuch a point as this? The popes had not become masters of Rome withoutfeeling impelled to rebuild it in their passion to rule over the world;young Italy, likewise yielding to the hereditary madness of universaldomination, had in its turn sought to make the city larger than anyother, erecting whole districts for people who had never come, and noweven the Anarchists were possessed by the same stubborn dream of therace, a dream beyond all measure this time, a fourth and monstrous Rome, whose suburbs would invade continents in order that liberated humanity, united in one family, might find sufficient lodging! This was the climax. Never could more extravagant proof be given of the blood of pride andsovereignty which had scorched the veins of that race ever since Augustushad bequeathed it the inheritance of his absolute empire, with thefurious instinct that the world legally belonged to it, and that itsmission was to conquer it again. This idea had intoxicated all thechildren of that historic soil, impelling all of them to make their cityThe City, the one which had reigned and which would reign again insplendour when the days predicted by the oracles should arrive. AndPierre remembered the four fatidical letters, the S. P. Q. R. Of old andglorious Rome, which like an order of final triumph given to Destiny hehad everywhere found in present-day Rome, on all the walls, on all theinsignia, even on the municipal dust-carts! And he understood theprodigious vanity of these people, haunted by the glory of theirancestors, spellbound by the past of their city, declaring that shecontains everything, that they themselves cannot know her thoroughly, that she is the sphinx who will some day explain the riddle of theuniverse, that she is so great and noble that all within her acquiresincrease of greatness and nobility, in such wise that they demand for herthe idolatrous respect of the entire world, so vivacious in their mindsis the illusive legend which clings to her, so incapable are they ofrealising that what was once great may be so no longer. 

"But I know your fourth Rome, " resumed Orlando, again enlivened. "It'sthe Rome of the people, the capital of the Universal Republic, whichMazzini dreamt of. Only he left the pope in it. Do you know, my lad, thatif we old Republicans rallied to the monarchy, it was because we fearedthat in the event of revolution the country might fall into the hands ofdangerous madmen such as those who have upset your brain? Yes, that waswhy we resigned ourselves to our monarchy, which is not much differentfrom a parliamentary republic. And now, goodbye and be sensible, rememberthat your poor mother would die of it if any misfortune should befallyou. Come, let me embrace you all the same. "

On receiving the hero's affectionate kiss Angiolo coloured like a girl. Then he went off with his gentle, dreamy air, never adding a word butpolitely inclining his head to the priest. Silence continued tillOrlando's eyes encountered the newspapers scattered on the table, when heonce more spoke of the terrible bereavement of the Boccaneras. He hadloved Benedetta like a dear daughter during the sad days when she haddwelt near him; and finding the newspaper accounts of her death somewhatsingular, worried in fact by the obscure points which he could divine inthe tragedy, he was asking Pierre for particulars, when his son Luigisuddenly entered the room, breathless from having climbed the stairs soquickly and with his face full of anxious fear. He had just dismissed hiscontractors with impatient roughness, giving no thought to his seriousfinancial position, the jeopardy in which his fortune was now placed, soanxious was he to be up above beside his father. And when he was therehis first uneasy glance was for the old man, to make sure whether thepriest by some imprudent word had not dealt him his death blow. 

He shuddered on noticing how Orlando quivered, moved to tears by theterrible affair of which he was speaking; and for a moment he thought hehad arrived too late, that the harm was done. "Good heavens, father!" heexclaimed, "what is the matter with you, why are you crying?" And as hespoke he knelt at the old man's feet, taking hold of his hands and givinghim such a passionate, loving glance that he seemed to be offering allthe blood of his heart to spare him the slightest grief. 

"It is about the death of that poor woman, " Orlando sadly answered. "Iwas telling Monsieur Froment how it grieved me, and I added that I couldnot yet understand it all. The papers talk of a sudden death which isalways so extraordinary. "

The young Count rose again looking very pale. The priest had not yetspoken. But what a frightful moment was this! What if he should reply, what if he should speak out?

"You were present, were you not?" continued the old man addressingPierre. "You saw everything. Tell me then how the thing happened. "

Luigi Prada looked at Pierre. Their eyes met fixedly, plunging into oneanother's souls. All began afresh in their minds, Destiny on the march, Santobono encountered with his little basket, the drive across themelancholy Campagna, the conversation about poison while the littlebasket was gently rocked on the priest's knees; then, in particular, thesleepy _osteria_, and the little black hen, so suddenly killed, lying onthe ground with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak. And next there was that splendid ball at the Buongiovanni mansion, withall its _odore di femina_ and its triumph of love: and finally, beforethe Palazzo Boccanera, so black under the silvery moon, there was the manwho lighted a cigar and went off without once turning his head, allowingdim Destiny to accomplish its work of death. Both of them, Pierre andPrada, knew that story and lived it over again, having no need to recallit aloud in order to make certain that they had fully penetrated oneanother's soul. 

Pierre did not immediately answer the old man. "Oh!" he murmured at last, "there were frightful things, yes, frightful things. "

"No doubt--that is what I suspected, " resumed Orlando. "You can tell usall. In presence of death my son has freely forgiven. "

The young Count's gaze again sought that of Pierre with such weight, suchardent entreaty that the priest felt deeply stirred. He had justremembered that man's anguish during the ball, the atrocious torture ofjealousy which he had undergone before allowing Destiny to avenge him. And he pictured also what must have been his feelings after the terribleoutcome of it all: at first stupefaction at Destiny's harshness, at thisfull vengeance which he had never desired so ferocious; then icy calmnesslike that of the cool gambler who awaits events, reading the newspapers, and feeling no other remorse than that of the general whose victory hascost him too many men. He must have immediately realised that theCardinal would stifle the affair for the sake of the Church's honour; andonly retained one weight on his heart, regret possibly for that womanwhom he had never won, with perhaps a last horrible jealousy which he didnot confess to himself but from which he would always suffer, jealousy atknowing that she lay in another's arms in the grave, for all eternity. But behold, after that victorious effort to remain calm, after that coldand remorseless waiting, Punishment arose, the fear that Destiny, travelling on with its poisoned figs, might have not yet ceased itsmarch, and might by a rebound strike down his own father. Yet anotherthunderbolt, yet another victim, the most unexpected, the being he mostadored! At that thought all his strength of resistance had in one momentcollapsed, and he was there, in terror of Destiny, more at a loss, moretrembling than a child. 

"The newspapers, however, " slowly said Pierre as if he were seeking hiswords, "the newspapers must have told you that the Prince succumbedfirst, and that the Contessina died of grief whilst embracing him for thelast time.... As for the cause of death, _mon Dieu_, you know thatdoctors themselves in sudden cases scarcely dare to pronounce an exactopinion--"

He stopped short, for within him he had suddenly heard the voice ofBenedetta giving him just before she died that terrible order: "You, whowill see his father, I charge you to tell him that I cursed his son. Iwish that he should know, it is necessary that he should know, for thesake of truth and justice. " And was he, oh! Lord, about to obey thatorder, was it one of those divine commands which must be executed even ifthe result be a torrent of blood and tears? For a few seconds Pierresuffered from a heart-rending combat within him, hesitating between theact of truth and justice which the dead woman had called for and his ownpersonal desire for forgiveness, and the horror he would feel should hekill that poor old man by fulfilling his implacable mission which couldbenefit nobody. And certainly the other one, the son, must haveunderstood what a supreme struggle was going on in the priest's mind, astruggle which would decide his own father's fate, for his glance becameyet more suppliant than ever. 

"One first thought that it was merely indigestion, " continued Pierre, "but the Prince became so much worse, that one was alarmed, and thedoctor was sent for--"

Ah! Prada's eyes, they had become so despairing, so full of the mosttouching and weightiest things, that the priest could read in them allthe decisive reasons which were about to stay his tongue. No, no, hewould not strike an innocent old man, he had promised nothing, and toobey the last expression of the dead woman's hatred would have seemed tohim like charging her memory with a crime. The young Count, too, duringthose few minutes of anguish, had suffered a whole life of suchabominable torture, that after all some little justice was done. 

"And then, " Pierre concluded, "when the doctor arrived he at oncerecognised that it was a case of infectious fever. There can be no doubtof it. This morning I attended the funeral, it was very splendid and verytouching. "

Orlando did not insist, but contented himself with saying that he alsohad felt much emotion all the morning on thinking of that funeral. Then, as he turned to set the papers on the table in order with his tremblinghands, his son, icy cold with perspiration, staggering and clinging tothe back of a chair in order that he might not fall, again gave Pierre along glance, but a very soft one, full of distracted gratitude. 

"I am leaving this evening, " resumed Pierre, who felt exhausted andwished to break off the conversation, "and I must now bid you farewell. Have you any commission to give me for Paris?"

"No, none, " replied Orlando; and then, with sudden recollection, headded, "Yes, I have, though! You remember that book written by my oldcomrade in arms, Theophile Morin, one of Garibaldi's Thousand, thatmanual for the bachelor's degree which he desired to see translated andadopted here. Well, I am pleased to say that I have a promise that itshall be used in our schools, but on condition that he makes somealterations in it. Luigi, give me the book, it is there on that shelf. "

Then, when his son had handed him the volume, he showed Pierre some noteswhich he had pencilled on the margins, and explained to him themodifications which were desired in the general scheme of the work. "Willyou be kind enough, " he continued, "to take this copy to Morin himself?His address is written inside the cover. If you can do so you will spareme the trouble of writing him a very long letter; in ten minutes you canexplain matters to him more clearly and completely than I could do in tenpages.... And you must embrace Morin for me, and tell him that I stilllove him, oh! with all my heart of the bygone days, when I could stilluse my legs and we two fought like devils side by side under a hail ofbullets. "

A short silence followed, that pause, that embarrassment tinged withemotion which precedes the moment of farewell. "Come, good-bye, " saidOrlando, "embrace me for him and for yourself, embrace me affectionatelylike that lad did just now. I am so old and so near my end, my dearMonsieur Froment, that you will allow me to call you my child and to kissyou like a grandfather, wishing you all courage and peace, and that faithin life which alone helps one to live. "

Pierre was so touched that tears rose to his eyes, and when with all hissoul he kissed the stricken hero on either cheek, he felt that helikewise was weeping. With a hand yet as vigorous as a vice, Orlandodetained him for a moment beside his arm-chair, whilst with his otherhand waving in a supreme gesture, he for the last time showed him Rome, so immense and mournful under the ashen sky. And his voice came low, quivering and suppliant. "For mercy's sake swear to me that you will loveher all the same, in spite of all, for she is the cradle, the mother!Love her for all that she no longer is, love her for all that she desiresto be! Do not say that her end has come, love her, love her so that shemay live again, that she may live for ever!"

Pierre again embraced him, unable to find any other response, upset as hewas by all the passion displayed by that old warrior, who spoke of hiscity as a man of thirty might speak of the woman he adores. And he foundhim so handsome and so lofty with his old blanched, leonine mane and hisstubborn belief in approaching resurrection, that once more the other oldRoman, Cardinal Boccanera, arose before him, equally stubborn in hisfaith and relinquishing nought of his dream, even though he might becrushed on the spot by the fall of the heavens. These twain ever stoodface to face, at either end of their city, alone rearing their loftyfigures above the horizon, whilst awaiting the future. 

Then, when Pierre had bowed to Count Luigi, and found himself outsideagain in the Via Venti Settembre he was all eagerness to get back to theBoccanera mansion so as to pack up his things and depart. His farewellvisits were made, and he now only had to take leave of Donna Serafina andthe Cardinal, and to thank them for all their kind hospitality. For himalone did their doors open, for they had shut themselves up on returningfrom the funeral, resolved to see nobody. At twilight, therefore, Pierrehad no one but Victorine to keep him company in the vast, black mansion, for when he expressed a desire to take supper with Don Vigilio she toldhim that the latter had also shut himself in his room. Desirous as he wasof at least shaking hands with the secretary for the last time, Pierrewent to knock at the door, which was so near his own, but could obtain noreply, and divined that the poor fellow, overcome by a fresh attack offever and suspicion, desired not to see him again, in terror at the ideathat he might compromise himself yet more than he had done already. Thereupon, it was settled that as the train only started at seventeenminutes past ten Victorine should serve Pierre his supper on the littletable in his sitting-room at eight o'clock. She brought him a lamp andspoke of putting his linen in order, but he absolutely declined her help, and she had to leave him to pack up quietly by himself. 

He had purchased a little box, since his valise could not possibly holdall the linen and winter clothing which had been sent to him from Parisas his stay in Rome became more and more protracted. However, the packingwas soon accomplished; the wardrobe was emptied, the drawers werevisited, the box and valise filled and securely locked by seven o'clock. An hour remained to him before supper and he sat there resting, when hiseyes whilst travelling round the walls to make sure that he had forgottennothing, encountered that old painting by some unknown master, which hadso often filled him with emotion. The lamplight now shone full upon it;and this time again as he gazed at it he felt a blow in the heart, a blowwhich was all the deeper, as now, at his parting hour, he found a symbolof his defeat at Rome in that dolent, tragic, half-naked woman, draped ina shred of linen, and weeping between her clasped hands whilst seated onthe threshold of the palace whence she had been driven. Did not thatrejected one, that stubborn victim of love, who sobbed so bitterly, andof whom one knew nothing, neither what her face was like, nor whence shehad come, nor what her fault had been--did she not personify all man'suseless efforts to force the doors of truth, and all the frightfulabandonment into which he falls as soon as he collides with the wallwhich shuts the unknown off from him? For a long while did Pierre look ather, again worried at being obliged to depart without having seen herface behind her streaming golden hair, that face of dolorous beauty whichhe pictured radiant with youth and delicious in its mystery. And as hegazed he was just fancying that he could see it, that it was becoming hisat last, when there was a knock at the door and Narcisse Habert entered. 

Pierre was surprised to see the young _attache_, for three dayspreviously he had started for Florence, impelled thither by one of thesudden whims of his artistic fancy. However, he at once apologised forhis unceremonious intrusion. "Ah! there is your luggage!" he said; "Iheard that you were going away this evening, and I was unwilling to letyou leave Rome without coming to shake hands with you. But what frightfulthings have happened since we met! I only returned this afternoon, sothat I could not attend the funeral. However, you may well imagine howthunderstruck I was by the news of those frightful deaths. "

Then, suspecting some unacknowledged tragedy, like a man well acquaintedwith the legendary dark side of Rome, he put some questions to Pierre butdid not insist on them, being at bottom far too prudent to burden himselfuselessly with redoubtable secrets. And after Pierre had given him suchparticulars as he thought fit, the conversation changed and they spoke atlength of Italy, Rome, Naples, and Florence. "Ah! Florence, Florence!"Narcisse repeated languorously. He had lighted a cigarette and his wordsfell more slowly, as he glanced round the room. "You were very welllodged here, " he said, "it is very quiet. I had never come up to thisfloor before. "

His eyes continued wandering over the walls until they were at lastarrested by the old painting which the lamp illumined, and thereupon heremained for a moment blinking as if surprised. And all at once he roseand approached the picture. "Dear me, dear me, " said he, "but that's verygood, that's very fine. "

"Isn't it?" rejoined Pierre. "I know nothing about painting but I wasstirred by that picture on the very day of my arrival, and over and overagain it has kept me here with my heart beating and full of indescribablefeelings. "

Narcisse no longer spoke but examined the painting with the care of aconnoisseur, an expert, whose keen glance decides the question ofauthenticity, and appraises commercial value. And the most extraordinarydelight appeared upon the young man's fair, rapturous face, whilst hisfingers began to quiver. "But it's a Botticelli, it's a Botticelli! Therecan be no doubt about it, " he exclaimed. "Just look at the hands, andlook at the folds of the drapery! And the colour of the hair, and thetechnique, the flow of the whole composition. A Botticelli, ah! _monDieu_, a Botticelli. "

He became quite faint, overflowing with increasing admiration as hepenetrated more and more deeply into the subject, at once so simple andso poignant. Was it not acutely modern? The artist had foreseen ourpain-fraught century, our anxiety in presence of the invisible, ourdistress at being unable to cross the portal of mystery which was forever closed. And what an eternal symbol of the world's wretchedness wasthat woman, whose face one could not see, and who sobbed so distractedlywithout it being possible for one to wipe away her tears. Yes, aBotticelli, unknown, uncatalogued, what a discovery! Then he paused toinquire of Pierre: "Did you know it was a Botticelli?"

"Oh no! I spoke to Don Vigilio about it one day, but he seemed to thinkit of no account. And Victorine, when I spoke to her, replied that allthose old things only served to harbour dust. "

Narcisse protested, quite stupefied: "What! they have a Botticelli hereand don't know it! Ah! how well I recognise in that the Roman princeswho, unless their masterpieces have been labelled, are for the most partutterly at sea among them! No doubt this one has suffered a little, but asimple cleaning would make a marvel, a famous picture of it, for which amuseum would at least give--"

He abruptly stopped, completing his sentence with a wave of the hand andnot mentioning the figure which was on his lips. And then, as Victorinecame in followed by Giacomo to lay the little table for Pierre's supper, he turned his back upon the Botticelli and said no more about it. Theyoung priest's attention was aroused, however, and he could well divinewhat was passing in the other's mind. Under that make-believe Florentine, all angelicalness, there was an experienced business man, who well knewhow to look after his pecuniary interests and was even reported to besomewhat avaricious. Pierre, who was aware of it, could not help smilingtherefore when he saw him take his stand before another picture--afrightful Virgin, badly copied from some eighteenth-century canvas--andexclaim: "Dear me! that's not at all bad! I've a friend, I remember, whoasked me to buy him some old paintings. I say, Victorine, now that DonnaSerafina and the Cardinal are left alone do you think they would like torid themselves of a few valueless pictures?"

The servant raised her arms as if to say that if it depended on her, everything might be carried away. Then she replied: "Not to a dealer, sir, on account of the nasty rumours which would at once spread about, but I'm sure they would be happy to please a friend. The house costs alot to keep up, and money would be welcome. "

Pierre then vainly endeavoured to persuade Narcisse to stay and sup withhim, but the young man gave his word of honour that he was expectedelsewhere and was even late. And thereupon he ran off, after pressing thepriest's hands and affectionately wishing him a good journey. 

Eight o'clock was striking, and Pierre seated himself at the littletable, Victorine remaining to serve him after dismissing Giacomo, who hadbrought the supper things upstairs in a basket. "The people here make mewild, " said the worthy woman after the other had gone, "they are so slow. And besides, it's a pleasure for me to serve you your last meal, Monsieurl'Abbe. I've had a little French dinner cooked for you, a _sole augratin_ and a roast fowl. "

Pierre was touched by this attention, and pleased to have the company ofa compatriot whilst he partook of his final meal amidst the deep silenceof the old, black, deserted mansion. The buxom figure of Victorine wasstill instinct with mourning, with grief for the loss of her dearContessina, but her daily toil was already setting her erect again, restoring her quick activity; and she spoke almost cheerfully whilstpassing plates and dishes to Pierre. "And to think Monsieur l'Abbe, " saidshe, "that you'll be in Paris on the morning of the day after to-morrow!As for me, you know, it seems as if I only left Auneau yesterday. Ah!what fine soil there is there; rich soil yellow like gold, not like theirpoor stuff here which smells of sulphur! And the pretty fresh willowsbeside our stream, too, and the little wood so full of moss! They've nomoss here, their trees look like tin under that stupid sun of theirswhich burns up the grass. _Mon Dieu_! in the early times I would havegiven I don't know what for a good fall of rain to soak me and wash awayall the dust. Ah! I shall never get used to their awful Rome. What acountry and what people!"

Pierre was quite enlivened by her stubborn fidelity to her own nook, which after five and twenty years of absence still left her horrifiedwith that city of crude light and black vegetation, true daughter as shewas of a smiling and temperate clime which of a morning was steeped inrosy mist. "But now that your young mistress is dead, " said he, "whatkeeps you here? Why don't you take the train with me?"

She looked at him in surprise: "Go off with you, go back to Auneau! Oh!it's impossible, Monsieur l'Abbe. It would be too ungrateful to beginwith, for Donna Serafina is accustomed to me, and it would be bad on mypart to forsake her and his Eminence now that they are in trouble. Andbesides, what could I do elsewhere? No, my little hole is here now. "

"So you will never see Auneau again?"

"No, never, that's certain. "

"And you don't mind being buried here, in their ground which smells ofsulphur?"

She burst into a frank laugh. "Oh!" she said, "I don't mind where I amwhen I'm dead. One sleeps well everywhere. And it's funny that you shouldbe so anxious as to what there may be when one's dead. There's nothing, I'm sure. That's what tranquillises me, to feel that it will be all overand that I shall have a rest. The good God owes us that after we'veworked so hard. You know that I'm not devout, oh! dear no. Still thatdoesn't prevent me from behaving properly, and, true as I stand here, I've never had a lover. It seems foolish to say such a thing at my age, still I say it because it's the sober truth. "

She continued laughing like the worthy woman she was, having no belief inpriests and yet without a sin upon her conscience. And Pierre once moremarvelled at the simple courage and great practical common sense of thislaborious and devoted creature, who for him personified the wholeunbelieving lowly class of France, those who no longer believe and willbelieve never more. Ah! to be as she was, to do one's work and lie downfor the eternal sleep without any revolt of pride, satisfied with the onejoy of having accomplished one's share of toil!

When Pierre had finished his supper Victorine summoned Giacomo to clearthe things away. And as it was only half-past eight she advised thepriest to spend another quiet hour in his room. Why go and catch a chillby waiting at the station? She could send for a cab at half-past nine, and as soon as it arrived she would send word to him and have his luggagecarried down. He might be easy as to that, and need trouble himself aboutnothing. 

When she had gone off Pierre soon sank into a deep reverie. It seemed tohim, indeed, as if he had already quitted Rome, as if the city were faraway and he could look back on it, and his experiences within it. Hisbook, "New Rome, " arose in his mind; and he remembered his first morningon the Janiculum, his view of Rome from the terrace of San Pietro inMontorio, a Rome such as he had dreamt of, so young and ethereal underthe pure sky. It was then that he had asked himself the decisivequestion: Could Catholicism be renewed? Could it revert to the spirit ofprimitive Christianity, become the religion of the democracy, the faithwhich the distracted modern world, in danger of death, awaits in orderthat it may be pacified and live? His heart had then beaten with hope andenthusiasm. After his disaster at Lourdes from which he had scarcelyrecovered, he had come to attempt another and supreme experiment byasking Rome what her reply to his question would be. And now theexperiment had failed, he knew what answer Rome had returned him throughher ruins, her monuments, her very soil, her people, her prelates, hercardinals, her pope! No, Catholicism could not be renewed: no, it couldnot revert to the spirit of primitive Christianity; no, it could notbecome the religion of the democracy, the new faith which might save theold toppling societies in danger of death. Though it seemed to be ofdemocratic origin, it was henceforth riveted to that Roman soil, itremained kingly in spite of everything, forced to cling to the principleof temporal power under penalty of suicide, bound by tradition, enchainedby dogma, its evolutions mere simulations whilst in reality it wasreduced to such immobility that, behind the bronze doors of the Vatican, the papacy was the prisoner, the ghost of eighteen centuries of atavism, indulging the ceaseless dream of universal dominion. There, where withpriestly faith exalted by love of the suffering and the poor, he had cometo seek life and a resurrection of the Christian communion, he had founddeath, the dust of a destroyed world in which nothing more couldgerminate, an exhausted soil whence now there could never grow aught butthat despotic papacy, the master of bodies as it was of souls. To hisdistracted cry asking for a new religion, Rome had been content to replyby condemning his book as a work tainted with heresy, and he himself hadwithdrawn it amidst the bitter grief of his disillusions. He had seen, hehad understood, and all had collapsed. And it was himself, his soul andhis brain, which lay among the ruins. 

Pierre was stifling. He rose, threw the window overlooking the Tiber wideopen, and leant out. The rain had begun to fall again at the approach ofevening, but now it had once more ceased. The atmosphere was very mild, moist, even oppressive. The moon must have arisen in the ashen grey sky, for her presence could be divined behind the clouds which she illuminedwith a vague, yellow, mournful light. And under that slumberous glimmerthe vast horizon showed blackly and phantom-like: the Janiculum in frontwith the close-packed houses of the Trastevere; the river flowing awayyonder on the left towards the dim height of the Palatine; whilst on theright the dome of St. Peter's showed forth, round and domineering in thepale atmosphere. Pierre could not see the Quirinal but divined it to bebehind him, and could picture its long facade shutting off part of thesky. And what a collapsing Rome, half-devoured by the gloom, was this, sodifferent from the Rome all youth and dreamland which he had beheld andpassionately loved on the day of his arrival! He remembered the threesymbolic summits which had then summed up for him the whole long historyof Rome, the ancient, the papal, and the Italian city. But if thePalatine had remained the same discrowned mount on which there only rosethe phantom of the ancestor, Augustus, emperor and pontiff, master of theworld, he now pictured St. Peter's and the Quirinal as strangely altered. To that royal palace which he had so neglected, and which had seemed tohim like a flat, low barrack, to that new Government which had broughthim the impression of some attempt at sacrilegious modernity, he nowaccorded the large, increasing space that they occupied in the panorama, the whole of which they would apparently soon fill; whilst, on thecontrary, St. Peter's, that dome which he had found so triumphal, allazure, reigning over the city like a gigantic and unshakable monarch, atpresent seemed to him full of cracks and already shrinking, as if it wereone of those huge old piles, which, through the secret, unsuspected decayof their timbers, at times fall to the ground in one mass. 

A murmur, a growling plaint rose from the swollen Tiber, and Pierreshivered at the icy abysmal breath which swept past his face. And histhoughts of the three summits and their symbolic triangle aroused withinhim the memory of the sufferings of the great silent multitude of poorand lowly for whom pope and king had so long disputed. It all dated fromlong ago, from the day when, in dividing the inheritance of Augustus, theemperor had been obliged to content himself with men's bodies, leavingtheir souls to the pope, whose one idea had henceforth been to gain thetemporal power of which God, in his person, was despoiled. All the middleages had been disturbed and ensanguined by the quarrel, till at last thesilent multitude weary of vexations and misery spoke out; threw off thepapal yoke at the Reformation, and later on began to overthrow its kings. And then, as Pierre had written in his book, a new fortune had beenoffered to the pope, that of reverting to the ancient dream, bydissociating himself from the fallen thrones and placing himself on theside of the wretched in the hope that this time he would conquer thepeople, win it entirely for himself. Was it not prodigious to see thatman, Leo XIII, despoiled of his kingdom and allowing himself to be calleda socialist, assembling under his banner the great flock of thedisinherited, and marching against the kings at the head of that fourthestate to whom the coming century will belong? The eternal struggle forpossession of the people continued as bitterly as ever even in Romeitself, where pope and king, who could see each other from their windows, contended together like falcon and hawk for the little birds of thewoods. And in this for Pierre lay the reason why Catholicism was fatallycondemned; for it was of monarchical essence to such a point that theApostolic and Roman papacy could not renounce the temporal power underpenalty of becoming something else and disappearing. In vain did it feigna return to the people, in vain did it seek to appear all soul; there wasno room in the midst of the world's democracies for any such total anduniversal sovereignty as that which it claimed to hold from God. Pierreever beheld the Imperator sprouting up afresh in the Pontifex Maximus, and it was this in particular which had killed his dream, destroyed hisbook, heaped up all those ruins before which he remained distractedwithout either strength or courage. 

The sight of that ashen Rome, whose edifices faded away into the night, at last brought him such a heart-pang that he came back into the room andfell on a chair near his luggage. Never before had he experienced suchdistress of spirit, it seemed like the death of his soul. After hisdisaster at Lourdes he had not come to Rome in search of the candid andcomplete faith of a little child, but the superior faith of anintellectual being, rising above rites and symbols, and seeking to ensurethe greatest possible happiness of mankind based on its need ofcertainty. And if this collapsed, if Catholicism could not be rejuvenatedand become the religion and moral law of the new generations, if the Popeat Rome and with Rome could not be the Father, the arch of alliance, thespiritual leader whom all hearkened to and obeyed, why then, in Pierre'seyes, the last hope was wrecked, the supreme rending which must plungepresent-day society into the abyss was near at hand. That scaffolding ofCatholic socialism which had seemed to him so happily devised for theconsolidation of the old Church, now appeared to him lying on the ground;and he judged it severely as a mere passing expedient which might perhapsfor some years prop up the ruined edifice, but which was simply based onan intentional misunderstanding, on a skilful lie, on politics anddiplomacy. No, no, that the people should once again, as so many timesbefore, be duped and gained over, caressed in order that it might beenthralled--this was repugnant to one's reason, and the whole systemappeared degenerate, dangerous, temporary, calculated to end in the worstcatastrophes. So this then was the finish, nothing remained erect andstable, the old world was about to disappear amidst the frightfulsanguinary crisis whose approach was announced by such indisputablesigns. And he, before that chaos near at hand, had no soul left him, having once more lost his faith in that decisive experiment which, he hadfelt beforehand, would either strengthen him or strike him down for ever. The thunderbolt had fallen, and now, O God, what should he do?

To shake off his anguish he began to walk across the room. Aye, whatshould he do now that he was all doubt again, all dolorous negation, andthat his cassock weighed more heavily than it had ever weighed upon hisshoulders? He remembered having told Monsignor Nani that he would neversubmit, would never be able to resign himself and kill his hope insalvation by love, but would rather reply by a fresh book, in which hewould say in what new soil the new religion would spring up. Yes, aflaming book against Rome, in which he would set down all he had seen, abook which would depict the real Rome, the Rome which knows neithercharity nor love, and is dying in the pride of its purple! He had spokenof returning to Paris, leaving the Church and going to the point ofschism. Well, his luggage now lay there packed, he was going off and hewould write that book, he would be the great schismatic who was awaited!Did not everything foretell approaching schism amidst that great movementof men's minds, weary of old mummified dogmas and yet hungering for thedivine? Even Leo XIII must be conscious of it, for his whole policy, hiswhole effort towards Christian unity, his assumed affection for thedemocracy had no other object than that of grouping the whole familyaround the papacy, and consolidating it so as to render the Popeinvincible in the approaching struggle. But the times had come, Catholicism would soon find that it could grant no more politicalconcessions without perishing, that at Rome it was reduced to theimmobility of an ancient hieratic idol, and that only in the lands ofpropaganda, where it was fighting against other religions, could furtherevolution take place. It was, indeed, for this reason that Rome wascondemned, the more so as the abolition of the temporal power, byaccustoming men's minds to the idea of a purely spiritual papacy, seemedlikely to conduce to the rise of some anti-pope, far away, whilst thesuccessor of St. Peter was compelled to cling stubbornly to his Apostolicand Roman fiction. A bishop, a priest would arise--where, who could tell?Perhaps yonder in that free America, where there are priests whom thestruggle for life has turned into convinced socialists, into ardentdemocrats, who are ready to go forward with the coming century. Andwhilst Rome remains unable to relinquish aught of her past, aught of hermysteries and dogmas, that priest will relinquish all of those thingswhich fall from one in dust. Ah! to be that priest, to be that greatreformer, that saviour of modern society, what a vast dream, what a part, akin to that of a Messiah summoned by the nations in distress. For amoment Pierre was transported as by a breeze of hope and triumph. If thatgreat change did not come in France, in Paris, it would come elsewhere, yonder across the ocean, or farther yet, wherever there might be asufficiently fruitful soil for the new seed to spring from it inoverflowing harvests. A new religion! a new religion! even as he hadcried on returning from Lourdes, a religion which in particular shouldnot be an appetite for death, a religion which should at last realisehere below that Kingdom of God referred to in the Gospel, and whichshould equitably divide terrestrial wealth, and with the law of labourensure the rule of truth and justice. 

In the fever of this fresh dream Pierre already saw the pages of his newbook flaring before him when his eyes fell on an object lying upon achair, which at first surprised him. This also was a book, that work ofTheophile Morin's which Orlando had commissioned him to hand to itsauthor, and he felt annoyed with himself at having left it there, for hemight have forgotten it altogether. Before putting it into his valise heretained it for a moment in his hand turning its pages over, his ideaschanging as by a sudden mental revolution. The work was, however, a verymodest one, one of those manuals for the bachelor's degree containinglittle beyond the first elements of the sciences; still all the scienceswere represented in it, and it gave a fair summary of the present stateof human knowledge. And it was indeed Science which thus burst uponPierre's reverie with the energy of sovereign power. Not only wasCatholicism swept away from his mind, but all his religious conceptions, every hypothesis of the divine tottered and fell. Only that little schoolbook, nothing but the universal desire for knowledge, that educationwhich ever extends and penetrates the whole people, and behold themysteries became absurdities, the dogmas crumbled, and nothing of ancientfaith was left. A nation nourished upon Science, no longer believing inmysteries and dogmas, in a compensatory system of reward and punishment, is a nation whose faith is for ever dead: and without faith Catholicismcannot be. Therein is the blade of the knife, the knife which falls andsevers. If one century, if two centuries be needed, Science will takethem. She alone is eternal. It is pure _naivete_ to say that reason isnot contrary to faith. The truth is, that now already in order to savemere fragments of the sacred writings, it has been necessary toaccommodate them to the new certainties, by taking refuge in theassertion that they are simply symbolical! And what an extraordinaryattitude is that of the Catholic Church, expressly forbidding all thosewho may discover a truth contrary to the sacred writings to pronounceupon it in definitive fashion, and ordering them to await events in theconviction that this truth will some day be proved an error! Only thePope, says the Church, is infallible; Science is fallible, her constantgroping is exploited against her, and divines remain on the watchstriving to make it appear that her discoveries of to-day are incontradiction with her discoveries of yesterday. What do her sacrilegiousassertions, what do her certainties rending dogma asunder, matter to aCatholic since it is certain that at the end of time, she, Science, willagain join Faith, and become the latter's very humble slave! Voluntaryblindness and impudent denial of things as evident as the sunlight, canno further go. But all the same the insignificant little book, the manualof truth travels on continuing its work, destroying error and building upthe new world, even as the infinitesimal agents of life built up ourpresent continents. 

In the sudden great enlightenment which had come on him Pierre at lastfelt himself upon firm ground. Has Science ever retreated? It isCatholicism which has always retreated before her, and will always beforced to retreat. Never does Science stop, step by step she wrests truthfrom error, and to say that she is bankrupt because she cannot explainthe world in one word and at one effort, is pure and simple nonsense. Ifshe leaves, and no doubt will always leave a smaller and smaller domainto mystery, and if supposition may always strive to explain that mystery, it is none the less certain that she ruins, and with each successive hourwill add to the ruin of the ancient hypotheses, those which crumble awaybefore the acquired truths. And Catholicism is in the position of thoseancient hypotheses, and will be in it yet more thoroughly to-morrow. Likeall religions it is, at the bottom, but an explanation of the world, asuperior social and political code, intended to bring about the greatestpossible sum of peace and happiness on earth. This code which embracesthe universality of things thenceforth becomes human, and mortal likeeverything that is human. One cannot put it on one side and say that itexists on one side by itself, whilst Science does the same on the other. Science is total and has already shown Catholicism that such is the case, and will show it again and again by compelling it to repair the breachesincessantly effected in its ramparts till the day of victory shall comewith the final assault of resplendent truth. Frankly, it makes one laughto hear people assign a _role_ to Science, forbid her to enter such andsuch a domain, predict to her that she shall go no further, and declarethat at this end of the century she is already so weary that sheabdicates! Oh! you little men of shallow or distorted brains, youpoliticians planning expedients, you dogmatics at bay, you authoritariansso obstinately clinging to the ancient dreams, Science will pass on, andsweep you all away like withered leaves!

Pierre continued glancing through the humble little book, listening toall it told him of sovereign Science. She cannot become bankrupt, for shedoes not promise the absolute, she is simply the progressive conquest oftruth. Never has she pretended that she could give the whole truth at oneeffort, that sort of edifice being precisely the work of metaphysics, ofrevelation, of faith. The _role_ of Science, on the contrary, is only todestroy error as she gradually advances and increases enlightenment. Andthus, far from becoming bankrupt, in her march which nothing stops, sheremains the only possible truth for well-balanced and healthy minds. Asfor those whom she does not satisfy, who crave for immediate anduniversal knowledge, they have the resource of seeking refuge in nomatter what religious hypothesis, provided, if they wish to appear in theright, that they build their fancy upon acquired certainties. Everythingwhich is raised on proven error falls. However, although religiousfeeling persists among mankind, although the need of religion may beeternal, it by no means follows that Catholicism is eternal, for it is, after all, but one form of religion, which other forms preceded and whichothers will follow. Religions may disappear, but religious feeling willcreate new ones even with the help of Science. Pierre thought of thatalleged repulse of Science by the present-day awakening of mysticism, thecauses of which he had indicated in his book: the discredit into whichthe idea of liberty has fallen among the people, duped in the last socialreorganisation, and the uneasiness of the _elite_, in despair at the voidin which their liberated minds and enlarged intelligences have left them. It is the anguish of the Unknown springing up again; but it is also onlya natural and momentary reaction after so much labour, on finding thatScience does not yet calm our thirst for justice, our desire forsecurity, or our ancient idea of an eternal after-life of enjoyment. Inorder, however, that Catholicism might be born anew, as some seem tothink it will be, the social soil would have to change, and it cannotchange; it no longer possesses the sap needful for the renewal of adecaying formula which schools and laboratories destroy more and moreeach day. The ground is other than it once was, a different oak mustspring from it. May Science therefore have her religion, for such areligion will soon be the only one possible for the coming democracies, for the nations, whose knowledge ever increases whilst their Catholicfaith is already nought but dust. 

And all at once, by way of conclusion, Pierre bethought himself of theidiocy of the Congregation of the Index. It had condemned his book, andwould surely condemn the other one that he had thought of, should he everwrite it. A fine piece of work truly! To fall tooth and nail on the poorbooks of an enthusiastic dreamer, in which chimera contended withchimera! Yet the Congregation was so foolish as not to interdict thatlittle book which he held in his hands, that humble book which alone wasto be feared, which was the ever triumphant enemy that would surelyoverthrow the Church. Modest it was in its cheap "get up" as a schoolmanual, but that did not matter: danger began with the very alphabet, increased as knowledge was acquired, and burst forth with those _resumes_of the physical, chemical, and natural sciences which bring the veryCreation, as described by Holy Writ, into question. However, the Indexdared not attempt to suppress those humble volumes, those terriblesoldiers of truth, those destroyers of faith. What was the use, then, ofall the money which Leo XIII drew from his hidden treasure of the Peter'sPence to subvention Catholic schools, with the thought of forming thebelieving generations which the papacy needed to enable it to conquer?What was the use of that precious money if it was only to serve for thepurchase of similar insignificant yet formidable volumes, which couldnever be sufficiently "cooked" and expurgated, but would always containtoo much Science, that growing Science which one day would blow up bothVatican and St. Peter's? Ah! that idiotic and impotent Index, whatwretchedness and what derision!

Then, when Pierre had placed Theophile Morin's book in his valise, heonce more returned to the window, and while leaning out, beheld anextraordinary vision. Under the cloudy, coppery sky, in the mild andmournful night, patches of wavy mist had risen, hiding many of thehouse-roofs with trailing shreds which looked like shrouds. Entireedifices had disappeared, and he imagined that the times were at lastaccomplished, and that truth had at last destroyed St. Peter's dome. In ahundred or a thousand years, it would be like that, fallen, obliteratedfrom the black sky. One day, already, he had felt it tottering andcracking beneath him, and had foreseen that this temple of Catholicismwould fall even as Jove's temple had fallen on the Capitol. And it wasover now, the dome had strewn the ground with fragments, and all thatremained standing, in addition to a portion of the apse, where fivecolumns of the central nave, still upholding a shred of entablature, andfour cyclopean buttress-piers on which the dome had rested--piers whichstill arose, isolated and superb, looking indestructible among all thesurrounding downfall. But a denser mist flowed past, another thousandyears no doubt went by, and then nothing whatever remained. The apse, thelast pillars, the giant piers themselves were felled! The wind had sweptaway their dust, and it would have been necessary to search the soilbeneath the brambles and the nettles to find a few fragments of brokenstatues, marbles with mutilated inscriptions, on the sense of whichlearned men were unable to agree. And, as formerly, on the Capitol, amongthe buried remnants of Jupiter's temple, goats strayed and climbedthrough the solitude, browsing upon the bushes, amidst the deep silenceof the oppressive summer sunlight, which only the buzzing fliesdisturbed. 

Then, only then, did Pierre feel the supreme collapse within him. It wasreally all over, Science was victorious, nothing of the old worldremained. What use would it be then to become the great schismatic, thereformer who was awaited? Would it not simply mean the building up of anew dream? Only the eternal struggle of Science against the Unknown, thesearching, pursuing inquiry which incessantly moderated man's thirst forthe divine, now seemed to him of import, leaving him waiting to know ifshe would ever triumph so completely as to suffice mankind, by satisfyingall its wants. And in the disaster which had overcome his apostolicenthusiasm, in presence of all those ruins, having lost his faith, andeven his hope of utilising old Catholicism for social and moralsalvation, there only remained reason that held him up. She had at onemoment given way. If he had dreamt that book, and had just passed throughthat terrible crisis, it was because sentiment had once again overcomereason within him. It was his mother, so to say, who had wept in hisheart, who had filled him with an irresistible desire to relieve thewretched and prevent the massacres which seemed near at hand; and hispassion for charity had thus swept aside the scruples of hisintelligence. But it was his father's voice that he now heard, lofty andbitter reason which, though it had fled, at present came back in allsovereignty. As he had done already after Lourdes, he protested againstthe glorification of the absurd and the downfall of common sense. Reasonalone enabled him to walk erect and firm among the remnants of the oldbeliefs, even amidst the obscurities and failures of Science. Ah! Reason, it was through her alone that he suffered, through her alone that hecould content himself, and he swore that he would now always seek tosatisfy her, even if in doing so he should lose his happiness. 

At that moment it would have been vain for him to ask what he ought todo. Everything remained in suspense, the world stretched before him stilllittered with the ruins of the past, of which, to-morrow, it wouldperhaps be rid. Yonder, in that dolorous faubourg of Paris, he would findgood Abbe Rose, who but a few days previously had written begging him toreturn and tend, love, and save his poor, since Rome, so dazzling fromafar, was dead to charity. And around the good and peaceful old priest hewould find the ever growing flock of wretched ones; the little fledglingswho had fallen from their nests, and whom he found pale with hunger andshivering with cold; the households of abominable misery in which thefather drank and the mother became a prostitute, while the sons and thedaughters sank into vice and crime; the dwellings, too, through whichfamine swept, where all was filth and shameful promiscuity, where therewas neither furniture nor linen, nothing but purely animal life. And thenthere would also come the cold blasts of winter, the disasters of slacktimes, the hurricanes of consumption carrying off the weak, whilst thestrong clenched their fists and dreamt of vengeance. One evening, too, perhaps, he might again enter some room of horror and find that anothermother had killed herself and her five little ones, her last-born in herarms clinging to her drained breast, and the others scattered over thebare tiles, at last contented, feeling hunger no more, now that they weredead! But no, no, such awful things were no longer possible: such blackmisery conducting to suicide in the heart of that great city of Paris, which is brimful of wealth, intoxicated with enjoyment, and flingsmillions out of window for mere pleasure! The very foundations of thesocial edifice were rotten; all would soon collapse amidst mire andblood. Never before had Pierre so acutely realised the derisive futilityof Charity. And all at once he became conscious that the long-awaitedword, the word which was at last springing from the great silentmultitude, the crushed and gagged people was _Justice_! Aye, Justice notCharity! Charity had only served to perpetuate misery, Justice perhapswould cure it. It was for Justice that the wretched hungered; an act ofJustice alone could sweep away the olden world so that the new one mightbe reared. After all, the great silent multitude would belong neither toVatican nor to Quirinal, neither to pope nor to king. If it had covertlygrowled through the ages in its long, sometimes mysterious, and sometimesopen contest; if it had struggled betwixt pontiff and emperor who eachhad wished to retain it for himself alone, it had only done so in orderthat it might free itself, proclaim its resolve to belong to none on theday when it should cry Justice! Would to-morrow then at last prove thatday of Justice and Truth? For his part, Pierre amidst his anguish--havingon one hand that need of the divine which tortures man, and on the othersovereignty of reason which enables man to remain erect--was only sure ofone thing, that he would keep his vows, continue a priest, watching overthe belief of others though he could not himself believe, and would thuschastely and honestly follow his profession, amidst haughty sadness athaving been unable to renounce his intelligence in the same way as he hadrenounced his flesh and his dream of saving the nations. And again, asafter Lourdes, he would wait. 

So deeply was he plunged in reflection at that window, face to face withthe mist which seemed to be destroying the dark edifices of Rome, that hedid not hear himself called. At last, however, he felt a tap on theshoulder: "Monsieur l'Abbe!" And then as he turned he saw Victorine, whosaid to him: "It is half-past nine; the cab is there. Giacomo has alreadytaken your luggage down. You must come away, Monsieur l'Abbe. "

Then seeing him blink, still dazed as it were, she smiled and added: "Youwere bidding Rome goodbye. What a frightful sky there is. "

"Yes, frightful, " was his reply. 

Then they descended the stairs. He had handed her a hundred-franc note tobe shared between herself and the other servants. And she apologised forgoing down before him with the lamp, explaining that the old palace wasso dark that evening one could scarcely see. 

Ah! that departure, that last descent through the black and emptymansion, it quite upset Pierre's heart. He gave his room that glance offarewell which always saddened him, even when he was leaving a spot wherehe had suffered. Then, on passing Don Vigilio's chamber, whence thereonly came a quivering silence, he pictured the secretary with his headburied in his pillows, holding his breath for fear lest he should speakand attract vengeance. But it was in particular on the second and firstfloor landings, on passing the closed doors of Donna Serafina and theCardinal, that Pierre quivered with apprehension at hearing nothing butthe silence of the grave. And as he followed Victorine, who, lamp inhand, was still descending, he thought of the brother and sister who wereleft alone in the ruined palace, last relics of a world which had halfpassed away. All hope of life had departed with Benedetta and Dario, noresurrection could come from that old maid and that priest who was boundto chastity. Ah! those interminable and lugubrious passages, that frigidand gigantic staircase which seemed to descend into nihility, those hugehalls with cracking walls where all was wretchedness and abandonment! Andthat inner court, looking like a cemetery with its weeds and its dampporticus, where remnants of Apollos and Venuses were rotting! And thelittle deserted garden, fragrant with ripe oranges, whither nobody nowwould ever stray, where none would ever meet that adorable Contessinaunder the laurels near the sarcophagus! All was now annihilated inabominable mourning, in a death-like silence, amidst which the two lastBoccaneras must wait, in savage grandeur, till their palace should fallabout their heads. Pierre could only just detect a faint sound, thegnawing of a mouse perhaps, unless it were caused by Abbe Paparelliattacking the walls of some out-of-the-way rooms, preying on the oldedifice down below, so as to hasten its fall. 

The cab stood at the door, already laden with the luggage, the box besidethe driver, the valise on the seat; and the priest at once got in. 

"Oh! You have plenty of time, " said Victorine, who had remained on thefoot-pavement. "Nothing has been forgotten. I'm glad to see you go offcomfortably. "

And indeed at that last moment Pierre was comforted by the presence ofthat worthy woman, his compatriot, who had greeted him on his arrival andnow attended his departure. "I won't say 'till we meet again, ' Monsieurl'Abbe, " she exclaimed, "for I don't fancy that you'll soon be back inthis horrid city. Good-bye, Monsieur l'Abbe. "

"Good-bye, Victorine, and thank you with all my heart. "

The cab was already going off at a fast trot, turning into the narrowsinuous street which leads to the Corso Vittoria Emanuele. It was notraining and so the hood had not been raised, but although the dampatmosphere was comparatively mild, Pierre at once felt a chill. However, he was unwilling to stop the driver, a silent fellow whose only desireseemingly was to get rid of his fare as soon as possible. When the cabcame out into the Corso Vittoria Emanuele, the young man was astonishedto find it already quite deserted, the houses shut, the footways bare, and the electric lamps burning all alone in melancholy solitude. Intruth, however, the temperature was far from warm and the fog seemed tobe increasing, hiding the house-fronts more and more. When Pierre passedthe Cancelleria, that stern colossal pile seemed to him to be receding, fading away; and farther on, upon the right, at the end of the Via di AraCoeli, starred by a few smoky gas lamps, the Capitol had quite vanishedin the gloom. Then the thoroughfare narrowed, and the cab went on betweenthe dark heavy masses of the Gesu and the Altieri palace; and there inthat contracted passage, where even on fine sunny days one found all thedampness of old times, the quivering priest yielded to a fresh train ofthought. It was an idea which had sometimes made him feel anxious, theidea that mankind, starting from over yonder in Asia, had always marchedonward with the sun. An east wind had always carried the human seed forfuture harvest towards the west. And for a long while now the cradle ofhumanity had been stricken with destruction and death, as if indeed thenations could only advance by stages, leaving exhausted soil, ruinedcities, and degenerate populations behind, as they marched from orient tooccident, towards their unknown goal. Nineveh and Babylon on the banks ofthe Euphrates, Thebes and Memphis on the banks of the Nile, had beenreduced to dust, sinking from old age and weariness into a deadlynumbness beyond possibility of awakening. Then decrepitude had spread tothe shores of the great Mediterranean lake, burying both Tyre and Sidonwith dust, and afterwards striking Carthage with senility whilst it yetseemed in full splendour. In this wise as mankind marched on, carried bythe hidden forces of civilisation from east to west, it marked each day'sjourney with ruins; and how frightful was the sterility nowadaysdisplayed by the cradle of History, that Asia and that Egypt, which hadonce more lapsed into childhood, immobilised in ignorance and degeneracyamidst the ruins of ancient cities that once had been queens of theworld!

It was thus Pierre reflected as the cab rolled on. Still he was notunconscious of his surroundings. As he passed the Palazzo di Venezia itseemed to him to be crumbling beneath some assault of the invisible, forthe mist had already swept away its battlements, and the lofty, bare, fearsome walls looked as if they were staggering from the onslaught ofthe growing darkness. And after passing the deep gap of the Corso, whichwas also deserted amidst the pallid radiance of its electric lights, thePalazzo Torlonia appeared on the right-hand, with one wing ripped open bythe picks of demolishers, whilst on the left, farther up, the PalazzoColonna showed its long, mournful facade and closed windows, as if, nowthat it was deserted by its masters and void of its ancient pomp, itawaited the demolishers in its turn. 

Then, as the cab at a slower pace began to climb the ascent of the ViaNazionale, Pierre's reverie continued. Was not Rome also stricken, hadnot the hour come for her to disappear amidst that destruction which thenations on the march invariably left behind them? Greece, Athens, andSparta slumbered beneath their glorious memories, and were of no accountin the world of to-day. Moreover, the growing paralysis had alreadyinvaded the lower portion of the Italic peninsula; and after Naplescertainly came the turn of Rome. She was on the very margin of the deathspot which ever extends over the old continent, that margin where agonybegins, where the impoverished soil will no longer nourish and supportcities, where men themselves seem stricken with old age as soon as theyare born. For two centuries Rome had been declining, withdrawing littleby little from modern life, having neither manufactures nor trade, andbeing incapable even of science, literature, or art. And in Pierre'sthoughts it was no longer St. Peter's only that fell, but allRome--basilicas, palaces, and entire districts--which collapsed amidst asupreme rending, and covered the seven hills with a chaos of ruins. LikeNineveh and Babylon, and like Thebes and Memphis, Rome became but aplain, bossy with remnants, amidst which one vainly sought to identifythe sites of ancient edifices, whilst its sole denizens were coilingserpents and bands of rats. 

The cab turned, and on the right, in a huge gap of darkness Pierrerecognised Trajan's column, but it was no longer gilded by the sun aswhen he had first seen it; it now rose up blackly like the dead trunk ofa giant tree whose branches have fallen from old age. And farther on, when he raised his eyes while crossing the little triangular piazza, andperceived a real tree against the leaden sky, that parasol pine of theVilla Aldobrandini which rises there like a symbol of Rome's grace andpride, it seemed to him but a smear, a little cloud of soot ascendingfrom the downfall of the whole city. 

With the anxious, fraternal turn of his feelings, fear was coming overhim as he reached the end of his tragic dream. When the numbness whichspreads across the aged world should have passed Rome, when Lombardyshould have yielded to it, and Genoa, Turin, and Milan should have fallenasleep as Venice has fallen already, then would come the turn of France. The Alps would be crossed, Marseilles, like Tyre and Sidon, would see itsport choked up by sand, Lyons would sink into desolation and slumber, andat last Paris, invaded by the invincible torpor, and transformed into asterile waste of stones bristling with nettles, would join Rome andNineveh and Babylon in death, whilst the nations continued their marchfrom orient to occident following the sun. A great cry sped through thegloom, the death cry of the Latin races! History, which seemed to havebeen born in the basin of the Mediterranean, was being transportedelsewhere, and the ocean had now become the centre of the world. How manyhours of the human day had gone by? Had mankind, starting from its cradleover yonder at daybreak, strewing its road with ruins from stage tostage, now accomplished one-half of its day and reached the dazzling hourof noon? If so, then the other half of the day allotted to it wasbeginning, the new world was following the old one, the new world ofthose American cities where democracy was forming and the religion ofto-morrow was sprouting, those sovereign queens of the coming century, with yonder, across another ocean, on the other side of the globe, thatmotionless Far East, mysterious China and Japan, and all the threateningswarm of the yellow races. 

However, while the cab climbed higher and higher up the Via Nazionale, Pierre felt his nightmare dissipating. There was here a lighteratmosphere, and he came back into a renewal of hope and courage. Yet theBanca d'Italia, with its brand-new ugliness, its chalky hugeness, lookedto him like a phantom in a shroud; whilst above a dim expanse of gardensthe Quirinal formed but a black streak barring the heavens. However, thestreet ever ascended and broadened, and on the summit of the Viminal, onthe Piazza delle Terme, when he passed the ruins of Diocletian's baths, he could breathe as his lungs listed. No, no, the human day could notfinish, it was eternal, and the stages of civilisation would follow andfollow without end! What mattered that eastern wind which carried thenations towards the west, as if borne on by the power of the sun! Ifnecessary, they would return across the other side of the globe, theywould again and again make the circuit of the earth, until the day shouldcome when they could establish themselves in peace, truth, and justice. After the next civilisation on the shores of the Atlantic, which wouldbecome the world's centre, skirted by queenly cities, there would springup yet another civilisation, having the Pacific for its centre, withseaport capitals that could not be yet foreseen, whose germs yetslumbered on unknown shores. And in like way there would be still othercivilisations and still others! And at that last moment, the inspiritingthought came to Pierre that the great movement of the nations was theinstinct, the need which impelled them to return to unity. Originating inone sole family, afterwards parted and dispersed in tribes, thrown intocollision by fratricidal hatred, their tendency was none the less tobecome one sole family again. The provinces united in nations, thenations would unite in races, and the races would end by uniting in oneimmortal mankind--mankind at last without frontiers, or possibility ofwars, mankind living by just labour amidst an universal commonwealth. Wasnot this indeed the evolution, the object of the labour progressingeverywhere, the finish reserved to History? Might Italy then become astrong and healthy nation, might concord be established between her andFrance, and might that fraternity of the Latin races become the beginningof universal fraternity! Ah! that one fatherland, the whole earthpacified and happy, in how many centuries would that come--and what adream!

Then, on reaching the station the scramble prevented Pierre from thinkingany further. He had to take his ticket and register his luggage, andafterwards he at once climbed into the train. At dawn on the next day butone, he would be back in Paris. 

END

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