Sordid Motives to All.
Enamoured of the beauty, and almost equally so of the lofty spirit, of
the Signora Cesarini, as was the warlike Cardinal of Spain, love with
him was not so master a passion as that ambition of complete success
in all the active designs of life, which had hitherto animated his
character and signalized his career. Musing, as he left the Signora, on
her wish for the restoration of the Roman Tribune, his experienced and
profound intellect ran swiftly through whatever advantages to his own
political designs might result from that restoration. We have seen that
it was the intention of the new Pontiff to attempt the recovery of the
patrimonial territories, now torn from him by the gripe of able and
disaffected tyrants. With this view, a military force was already in
preparation, and the Cardinal was already secretly nominated the chief.
But the force was very inadequate to the enterprise; and Albornoz
depended much upon the moral strength of the cause in bringing recruits
to his standard in his progress through the Italian states. The
wonderful rise of Rienzi had excited an extraordinary enthusiasm in his
favour through all the free populations of Italy. And this had been yet
more kindled and inflamed by the influential eloquence of Petrarch, who,
at that time, possessed of a power greater than ever, before or since,
(not even excepting the Sage of Ferney,) wielded by a single literary
man, had put forth his boldest genius in behalf of the Roman Tribune.
Such a companion as Rienzi in the camp of the Cardinal might be a magnet
of attraction to the youth and enterprise of Italy. On nearing Rome, he
might himself judge how far it would be advisable to reinstate Rienzi
as a delegate of the papal power. And, in the meanwhile, the Roman’s
influence might be serviceable, whether to awe the rebellious nobles
or conciliate the stubborn people. On the other hand, the Cardinal
was shrewd enough to perceive that no possible good could arise from
Rienzi’s present confinement. With every month it excited deeper and
more universal sympathy. To his lonely dungeon turned half the hearts
of republican Italy. Literature had leagued its new and sudden, and
therefore mighty and even disproportioned, power with his cause; and the
Pope, without daring to be his judge, incurred the odium of being his
gaoler. “A popular prisoner,” said the sagacious Cardinal to himself,
“is the most dangerous of guests. Restore him as your servant, or
destroy him as your foe! In this case I see no alternative but acquittal
or the knife!” In these reflections that able plotter, deep in the
Machiavelism of the age, divorced the lover from the statesman.
Recurring now to the former character, he felt some disagreeable and
uneasy forebodings at the earnest interest of his mistress. Fain would
he have attributed, either to some fantasy of patriotism or some purpose
of revenge, the anxiety of the Cesarini; and there was much in her stern
and haughty character which favoured that belief. But he was forced
to acknowledge to himself some jealous apprehension of a sinister and
latent motive, which touched his vanity and alarmed his love. “Howbeit,”
he thought, as he turned from his unwilling fear, “I can play with her
at her own weapons; I can obtain the release of Rienzi, and claim my
reward. If denied, the hand that opened the dungeon can again rivet the
chain. In her anxiety is my power!”
These thoughts the Cardinal was still revolving in his palace, when he
was suddenly summoned to attend the Pontiff.
The pontifical palace no longer exhibited the gorgeous yet graceful
luxury of Clement VI., and the sarcastic Cardinal smiled to himself at
the quiet gloom of the ante-chambers. “He thinks to set an example--this
poor native of Limoges!” thought Albornoz; “and has but the
mortification of finding himself eclipsed by the poorest bishop. He
humbles himself, and fancies that the humility will be contagious.”
His Holiness was seated before a small and rude table bestrewed with
papers, his face buried in his hands; the room was simply furnished, and
in a small niche beside the casement was an ivory crucifix; below, the
death’s head and cross-bones, which most monks then introduced with a
purpose similar to that of the ancients by the like ornaments,--mementos
of the shortness of life, and therefore admonitions to make the best
of it! On the ground lay a map of the Patrimonial Territory, with the
fortresses in especial, distinctly and prominently marked. The Pope
gently lifted up his head as the Cardinal was announced, and discovered
a plain but sensible and somewhat interesting countenance. “My son!”
said he, with a kindly courtesy to the lowly salutation of the proud
Spaniard, “scarcely wouldst thou imagine, after our long conference
this morning, that new cares would so soon demand the assistance of thy
counsels. Verily, the wreath of thorns stings sharp under the triple
crown; and I sometimes long for the quiet abode of my old professor’s
chair in Toulouse: my station is of pain and toil.”
“God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” observed the Cardinal, with
pious and compassionate gravity.
Innocent could scarcely refrain a smile as he replied, “The lamb that
carries the cross must have the strength of the lion. Since we parted,
my son, I have had painful intelligence; our couriers have arrived from
the Campagna--the heathen rage furiously--the force of John di Vico has
augmented fearfully, and the most redoubted adventurer of Europe has
enlisted under his banner.”
“Does his Holiness,” cried the Cardinal, anxiously, “speak of Fra
Moreale, the Knight of St. John?”
“Of no less a warrior,” returned the Pontiff. “I dread the vast ambition
of that wild adventurer.”
“Your Holiness hath cause,” said the Cardinal, drily.
“Some letters of his have fallen into the hands of the servants of the
Church; they are here: read them, my son.”
Albornoz received and deliberately scanned the letters; this done, he
replaced them on the table, and remained for a few moments silent and
absorbed.
“What think you, my son?” said the Pope, at length, with an impatient
and even peevish tone.
“I think that, with Montreal’s hot genius and John di Vico’s frigid
villany, your Holiness may live to envy, if not the quiet, at least the
revenue, of the Professor’s chair.”
“How, Cardinal!” said the Pope, hastily, and with an angry flush on his
pale brow. The Cardinal quietly proceeded.
“By these letters it seems that Montreal has written to all the
commanders of free lances throughout Italy, offering the highest pay
of a soldier to every man who will join his standard, combined with the
richest plunder of a brigand. He meditates great schemes then!--I know
the man!”
“Well,--and our course?”
“Is plain,” said the Cardinal, loftily, and with an eye that flashed
with a soldier’s fire. “Not a moment is to be lost! Thy son should at
once take the field. Up with the Banner of the Church!”
“But are we strong enough? our numbers are few. Zeal slackens! the piety
of the Baldwins is no more!”
“Your Holiness knows well,” said the Cardinal, “that for the multitude
of men there are two watchwords of war--Liberty and Religion. If
Religion begins to fail, we must employ the profaner word. ‘Up with the
Banner of the Church--and down with the tyrants!’ We will proclaim equal
laws and free government; (In correcting the pages of this work, in the
year 1847...strange coincidences between the present policy of the Roman
Church and that by which in the 14th century it recovered both spiritual
and temporal power cannot fail to suggest themselves.) and, God willing,
our camp shall prosper better with those promises than the tents of
Montreal with the more vulgar shout of ‘Pay and Rapine.’”
“Giles d’Albornoz,” said the Pope, emphatically; and, warmed by the
spirit of the Cardinal, he dropped the wonted etiquette of phrase, “I
trust implicitly to you. Now the right hand of the Church--hereafter,
perhaps, its head. Too well I feel that the lot has fallen on a lowly
place. My successor must requite my deficiencies.”
No changing hue, no brightening glance, betrayed to the searching eye of
the Pope whatever emotion these words had called up in the breast of the
ambitious Cardinal. He bowed his proud head humbly as he answered, “Pray
Heaven that Innocent VI. may long live to guide the Church to glory.
For Giles d’Albornoz, less priest than soldier, the din of the camp,
the breath of the war-steed, suggest the only aspirations which he
ever dares indulge. But has your Holiness imparted to your servant all
that--”
“Nay,” interrupted Innocent, “I have yet intelligence equally ominous.
This John di Vico,--pest go with him!--who still styles himself (the
excommunicated ruffian!) Prefect of Rome, has so filled that unhappy
city with his emissaries, that we have well-nigh lost the seat of
the Apostle. Rome, long in anarchy, seems now in open rebellion.
The nobles--sons of Belial!--it is true, are once more humbled; but
how?--One Baroncelli, a new demagogue, the fiercest--the most bloody
that the fiend ever helped--has arisen--is invested by the mob with
power, and uses it to butcher the people and insult the Pontiff. Wearied
of the crimes of this man, (which are not even decorated by ability,)
the shout of the people day and night along the streets is for ‘Rienzi
the Tribune.’”
“Ha!” said the Cardinal, “Rienzi’s faults then are forgotten in Rome,
and there is felt for him the same enthusiasm in that city as in the
rest of Italy?”
“Alas! It is so.”
“It is well, I have thought of this: Rienzi can accompany my progress--”
“My son! the rebel, the heretic--”
“By your Holiness’s absolution will become quiet subject and orthodox
Catholic,” said Albornoz. “Men are good or bad as they suit our purpose.
What matters a virtue that is useless, or a crime that is useful, to us?
The army of the Church proceeds against tyrants--it proclaims everywhere
to the Papal towns the restoration of their popular constitutions. Sees
not your Holiness that the acquittal of Rienzi, the popular darling,
will be hailed an earnest of your sincerity?--sees not your Holiness
that his name will fight for us?--sees not your Holiness that the
great demagogue Rienzi must be used to extinguish the little demagogue
Baroncelli? We must regain the Romans, whether of the city or whether in
the seven towns of John di Vico. When they hear Rienzi is in our camp,
trust me, we shall have a multitude of deserters from the tyrants--trust
me, we shall hear no more of Baroncelli.”
“Ever sagacious,” said the Pope, musingly; “it is true, we can use this
man: but with caution. His genius is formidable--”
“And therefore must be conciliated; if we acquit, we must make him ours.
My experience has taught me this, when you cannot slay a demagogue by
law, crush him with honours. He must be no longer Tribune of the People.
Give him the Patrician title of Senator, and he is then the Lieutenant
of the Pope!”
“I will see to this, my son--your suggestions please, but alarm me: he
shall at least be examined;--but if found a heretic--”
“Should, I humbly advise, be declared a saint.”
The Pope bent his brow for a moment, but the effort was too much for
him, and after a moment’s struggle, he fairly laughed aloud.
“Go to, my son,” said he, affectionately patting the Cardinal’s sallow
cheek. “Go to.--If the world heard thee, what would it say?”
“That Giles d’Albornoz had just enough religion to remember that the
State is a Church, but not too much to forget that the Church is a
State.”
With these words the conference ended. That very evening the Pope
decreed that Rienzi should be permitted the trial he had demanded.