PART III.

VII.

On the following day as Pierre, after a long ramble, once more found

himself in front of the Vatican, whither a harassing attraction ever led

him, he again encountered Monsignor Nani. It was a Wednesday evening, and

the Assessor of the Holy Office had just come from his weekly audience

with the Pope, whom he had acquainted with the proceedings of the

Congregation at its meeting that morning. “What a fortunate chance, my

dear sir,” said he; “I was thinking of you. Would you like to see his

Holiness in public while you are waiting for a private audience?”

Nani had put on his pleasant expression of smiling civility, beneath

which one would barely detect the faint irony of a superior man who knew

everything, prepared everything, and could do everything.

“Why, yes, Monsignor,” Pierre replied, somewhat astonished by the

abruptness of the offer. “Anything of a nature to divert one’s mind is

welcome when one loses one’s time in waiting.”

“No, no, you are not losing your time,” replied the prelate. “You are

looking round you, reflecting, and enlightening yourself. Well, this is

the point. You are doubtless aware that the great international

pilgrimage of the Peter’s Pence Fund will arrive in Rome on Friday, and

be received on Saturday by his Holiness. On Sunday, moreover, the Holy

Father will celebrate mass at the Basilica. Well, I have a few cards

left, and here are some very good places for both ceremonies.” So saying

he produced an elegant little pocketbook bearing a gilt monogram and

handed Pierre two cards, one green and the other pink. “If you only knew

how people fight for them,” he resumed. “You remember that I told you of

two 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 a

way, and they have had to content themselves with cards like these. The

fact is, the Holy Father is somewhat fatigued at the present time. I

found him looking yellow and feverish just now. But he has so much

courage; he nowadays only lives by force of soul.” Then Nani’s smile came

back with its almost imperceptible touch of derision as he resumed:

“Impatient ones ought to find a great example in him, my dear son. I

heard that Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo had been unable to help you. But you

must not be too much distressed on that account. This long delay is

assuredly a grace of Providence in order that you may instruct yourself

and come to understand certain things which you French priests do not,

unfortunately, realise when you arrive in Rome. And perhaps it will

prevent you from making certain mistakes. Come, calm yourself, and

remember that the course of events is in the hands of God, who, in His

sovereign wisdom, fixes the hour for all things.”

Thereupon Nani offered Pierre his plump, supple, shapely hand, a hand

soft like a woman’s but with the grasp of a vice. And afterwards he

climbed into his carriage, which was waiting for him.

It so happened that the letter which Pierre had received from Viscount

Philibert de la Choue was a long cry of spite and despair in connection

with the great international pilgrimage of the Peter’s Pence Fund. The

Viscount wrote from his bed, to which he was confined by a very severe

attack of gout, and his grief at being unable to come to Rome was the

greater as the President of the Committee, who would naturally present

the pilgrims to the Pope, happened to be Baron de Fouras, one of his most

bitter adversaries of the old conservative, Catholic party. M. de la

Choue felt certain that the Baron would profit by his opportunity to win

the Pope over to the theory of free corporations; whereas he, the

Viscount, believed that the salvation of Catholicism and the world could

only be worked by a system in which the corporations should be closed and

obligatory. And so he urged Pierre to exert himself with such cardinals

as were favourable, to secure an audience with the Holy Father whatever

the obstacles, and to remain in Rome until he should have secured the

Pontiff’s approbation, which alone could decide the victory. The letter

further mentioned that the pilgrimage would be made up of a number of

groups headed by bishops and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, and would

comprise three thousand people from France, Belgium, Spain, Austria, and

even Germany. Two thousand of these would come from France alone. An

international committee had assembled in Paris to organise everything and

select the pilgrims, which last had proved a delicate task, as a

representative gathering had been desired, a commingling of members of

the aristocracy, sisterhood of middle-class ladies, and associations of

the working classes, among whom all social differences would be forgotten

in the union of a common faith. And the Viscount added that the

pilgrimage would bring the Pope a large sum of money, and had settled the

date of its arrival in the Eternal City in such wise that it would figure

as a solemn protest of the Catholic world against the festivities of

September 20, by which the Quirinal had just celebrated the anniversary

of the occupation of Rome.

The reception of the pilgrimage being fixed for noon, Pierre in all

simplicity thought that he would be sufficiently early if he reached St.

Peter’s at eleven. The function was to take place in the Hall of

Beatifications, which is a large and handsome apartment over the portico,

and has been arranged as a chapel since 1890. One of its windows opens on

to the central balcony, whence the popes formerly blessed the people, the

city, and the world. To reach the apartment you pass through two other

halls of audience, the Sala Regia and Sala Ducale, and when Pierre wished

to gain the place to which his green card entitled him he found both

those rooms so extremely crowded that he could only elbow his way forward

with the greatest difficulty. For an hour already the three or four

thousand people assembled there had been stifling, full of growing

emotion and feverishness. At last the young priest managed to reach the

threshold of the third hall, but was so discouraged at sight of the

extraordinary multitude of heads before him that he did not attempt to go

any 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 painted

under a severe and lofty ceiling. On a low platform, where the altar

usually stood, facing the entry, the pontifical throne had now been set:

a large arm-chair upholstered in red velvet with glittering golden back

and arms; whilst the hangings of the _baldacchino_, also of red velvet,

fell behind and spread out on either side like a pair of huge purple

wings. However, what more particularly interested Pierre was the wildly

passionate concourse of people whose hearts he could almost hear beating

and whose eyes sought to beguile their feverish impatience by

contemplating and adoring the empty throne. As if it had been some golden

monstrance which the Divinity in person would soon deign to occupy, that

throne dazzled them, disturbed them, filled them all with devout rapture.

Among the throng were workmen rigged out in their Sunday best, with clear

childish eyes and rough ecstatic faces; ladies of the upper classes

wearing black, as the regulations required, and looking intensely pale

from the sacred awe which mingled with their excessive desire; and

gentlemen in evening dress, who appeared quite glorious, inflated with

the conviction that they were saving both the Church and the nations. One

cluster of dress-coats assembled near the throne, was particularly

noticeable; it comprised the members of the International Committee,

headed by Baron de Fouras, a very tall, stout, fair man of fifty, who

bestirred and exerted himself and issued orders like some commander on

the morning of a decisive victory. Then, amidst the general mass of grey,

neutral hue, there gleamed the violet silk of some bishop’s cassock, for

each pastor had desired to remain with his flock; whilst members of

various religious orders, superiors in brown, black, and white habits,

rose up above all others with lofty bearded or shaven heads. Right and

left drooped banners which associations and congregations had brought to

present to the Pope. And the sea of pilgrims ever waved and surged with a

growing clamour: so much impatient love being exhaled by those perspiring

faces, burning eyes, and hungry mouths that the atmosphere, reeking with

the odour of the throng, seemed thickened and darkened.

All at once, however, Pierre perceived Monsignor Nani standing near the

throne and beckoning him to approach; and although the young priest

replied by a modest gesture, implying that he preferred to remain where

he 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 not

come to take your place? Your card entitled you to be here, on the left

of the throne.”

“The truth is,” answered the priest, “I did not like to disturb so many

people. Besides, this is an undue honour for me.”

“No, no; I gave you that place in order that you should occupy it. I want

you to be in the first rank, so that you may see everything of the

ceremony.”

Pierre could not do otherwise than thank him. Then, on looking round, he

saw that several cardinals and many other prelates were likewise waiting

on either side of the throne. But it was in vain that he sought Cardinal

Boccanera, who only came to St. Peter’s and the Vatican on the days when

his functions required his presence there. However, he recognised

Cardinal Sanguinetti, who, broad and sturdy and red of face, was talking

in 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 and

mighty personages--the Cardinal Vicar, a short, fat man, with a feverish

countenance scorched by ambition, and the Cardinal Secretary, who was

robust and bony, fashioned as with a hatchet, suggesting a romantic type

of 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 swept

in like a wave from the other halls. But it was merely the ushers opening

a passage for the _cortège_. Then, all at once, acclamations arose in the

first hall, gathered volume, and drew nearer. This time it was the

_cortège_ 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 the

domestic 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 blessing

the pilgrims on either hand. In his wake the clamour which had risen in

the other apartments swept into the Hall of Beatifications with the

violence of delirious love; and, under his slender, white, benedictive

hand, all those distracted creatures fell upon both knees, nought

remaining but the prostration of a devout multitude, overwhelmed, as it

were, by the apparition of its god.

Quivering, carried away, Pierre had knelt like the others. Ah! that

omnipotence, that irresistible contagion of faith, of the redoubtable

current from the spheres beyond, increased tenfold by a _scenario_ and a

pomp of sovereign grandeur! Profound silence fell when Leo XIII was

seated on the throne surrounded by the cardinals and his court; and then

the ceremony proceeded according to rite and usage. First a bishop spoke,

kneeling and laying the homage of the faithful of all Christendom at his

Holiness’s feet. The President of the Committee, Baron de Fouras,

followed, remaining erect whilst he read a long address in which he

introduced the pilgrimage and explained its motive, investing it with all

the gravity of a political and religious protest. This stout man had a

shrill and piercing voice, and his words jarred like the grating of a

gimlet as he proclaimed the grief of the Catholic world at the spoliation

which the Holy See had endured for a quarter of a century, and the desire

of all the nations there represented by the pilgrims to console the

supreme and venerated Head of the Church by bringing him the offerings of

rich and poor, even to the mites of the humblest, in order that the

Papacy might retain the pride of independence and be able to treat its

enemies with contempt. And he also spoke of France, deplored her errors,

predicted her return to healthy traditions, and gave it to be understood

that she remained in spite of everything the most opulent and generous of

the Christian nations, the donor whose gold and presents flowed into Rome

in a never ending stream. At last Leo XIII arose to reply to the bishop

and the baron. His voice was full, with a strong nasal twang, and

surprised one coming from a man so slight of build. In a few sentences he

expressed his gratitude, saying how touched he was by the devotion of the

nations to the Holy See. Although the times might be bad, the final

triumph could not be delayed much longer. There were evident signs that

mankind was returning to faith, and that iniquity would soon cease under

the universal dominion of the Christ. As for France, was she not the

eldest daughter of the Church, and had she not given too many proofs of

her 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 the

societies and enterprises they represented, on their families and

friends, on France, on all the nations of the Catholic world, his

apostolic benediction, in gratitude for the precious help which they sent

him. And whilst he was again seating himself applause burst forth,

frantic salvoes of applause lasting for ten minutes and mingling with

vivats and inarticulate cries--a passionate, tempestuous outburst, which

made the very building shake.

Amidst this blast of frantic adoration Pierre gazed at Leo XIII, now

again motionless on his throne. With the papal cap on his head and the

red cape edged with ermine about his shoulders, he retained in his long

white cassock the rigid, sacerdotal attitude of an idol venerated by two

hundred and fifty millions of Christians. Against the purple background

of the hangings of the _baldacchino_, between the wing-like drapery on

either side, enclosing, as it were, a brasier of glory, he assumed real

majesty 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. The

simious ugliness of his face, the largeness of his nose, the long slit of

his mouth, the hugeness of his ears, the conflicting jumble of his

withered features disappeared. In that waxen countenance you only

distinguished the admirable, dark, deep eyes, beaming with eternal youth,

with extraordinary intelligence and penetration. And then there was a

resolute bracing of his entire person, a consciousness of the eternity

which he represented, a regal nobility, born of the very circumstance

that he was now but a mere breath, a soul set in so pellucid a body of

ivory that it became visible as though it were already freed from the

bonds of earth. And Pierre realised what such a man--the Sovereign

Pontiff, the king obeyed by two hundred and fifty millions of

subjects--must be for the devout and dolent creatures who came to adore

him from so far, and who fell at his feet awestruck by the splendour of

the powers incarnate in him. Behind him, amidst the purple of the

hangings, what a gleam was suddenly afforded of the spheres beyond, what

an Infinite of ideality and blinding glory! So many centuries of history

from the Apostle Peter downward, so much strength and genius, so many

struggles and triumphs to be summed up in one being, the Elect, the

Unique, the Superhuman! And what a miracle, incessantly renewed, was that

of Heaven deigning to descend into human flesh, of the Deity fixing His

abode in His chosen servant, whom He consecrated above and beyond all

others, endowing him with all power and all science! What sacred

perturbation, what emotion fraught with distracted love might one not

feel at the thought of the Deity being ever there in the depths of that

man’s eyes, speaking with his voice and emanating from his hand each time

that he raised it to bless! Could one imagine the exorbitant absoluteness

of that sovereign who was infallible, who disposed of the totality of

authority in this world and of salvation in the next! At all events, how

well one understood that souls consumed by a craving for faith should fly

towards him, that those who at last found the certainty they had so

ardently sought should seek annihilation in him, the consolation of

self-bestowal and disappearance within the Deity Himself.

Meantime, the ceremony was drawing to an end; Baron de Fouras was now

presenting the members of the committee and a few other persons of

importance. There was a slow procession with trembling genuflections and

much greedy kissing of the papal ring and slipper. Then the banners were

offered, and Pierre felt a pang on seeing that the finest and richest of

them was one of Lourdes, an offering no doubt from the Fathers of the

Immaculate Conception. On one side of the white, gold-bordered silk Our

Lady of Lourdes was painted, while on the other appeared a portrait of

Leo XIII. Pierre saw the Pope smile at the presentment of himself, and

was greatly grieved thereat, as though, indeed, his whole dream of an

intellectual, evangelical Pope, disentangled from all low superstition,

were crumbling away. And just then his eyes met those of Nani, who from

the outset had been watching him with the inquisitive air of a man who is

making an experiment.

“That banner is superb, isn’t it?” said Nani, drawing near. “How it must

please his Holiness to be so nicely painted in company with so pretty a

virgin.” And as the young priest, turning pale, did not reply, the

prelate added, with an air of devout enjoyment: “We are very fond of

Lourdes in Rome; that story of Bernadette is so delightful.”

However, the scene which followed was so extraordinary that for a long

time Pierre remained overcome by it. He had beheld never-to-be-forgotten

idolatry at Lourdes, incidents of naive faith and frantic religious

passion which yet made him quiver with alarm and grief. But the crowds

rushing on the grotto, the sick dying of divine love before the Virgin’s

statue, the multitudes delirious with the contagion of the

miraculous--nothing of all that gave an idea of the blast of madness

which suddenly inflamed the pilgrims at the feet of the Pope. Some

bishops, superiors of religious orders, and other delegates of various

kinds had stepped forward to deposit near the throne the offerings which

they brought from the whole Catholic world, the universal “collection” of

St. Peter’s Pence. It was the voluntary tribute of the nations to their

sovereign: silver, gold, and bank notes in purses, bags, and cases.

Ladies came and fell on their knees to offer silk and velvet alms-bags

which they themselves had embroidered. Others had caused the note cases

which they tendered to be adorned with the monogram of Leo XIII in

diamonds. And at one moment the enthusiasm became so intense that several

women stripped themselves of their adornments, flung their own purses on

to the platform, and emptied their pockets even to the very coppers they

had about them. One lady, tall and slender, very beautiful and very dark,

wrenched her watch from about her neck, pulled off her rings, and threw

everything upon the carpet. Had it been possible, they would have torn

away their flesh to pluck out their love-burnt hearts and fling them

likewise to the demi-god. They would even have flung themselves, have

given themselves without reserve. It was a rain of presents, an explosion

of the passion which impels one to strip oneself for the object of one’s

cult, 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 arose

amidst pushing and jostling of increased violence, one and all yielding

to the irresistible desire to kiss the idol!

But a signal was given, and Leo XIII made haste to quit the throne and

take his place in the _cortège_ in order to return to his apartments. The

Swiss Guards energetically thrust back the throng, seeking to open a way

through the three halls. But at sight of his Holiness’s departure a

lamentation of despair arose and spread, as if heaven had suddenly closed

again and shut out those who had not yet been able to approach. What a

frightful disappointment--to have beheld the living manifestation of the

Deity and to see it disappear before gaining salvation by just touching

it! So terrible became the scramble, so extraordinary the confusion, that

the Swiss Guards were swept away. And ladies were seen to dart after the

Pope, to drag themselves on all fours over the marble slabs and kiss his

footprints and lap up the dust of his steps! The tall dark lady suddenly

fell at the edge of the platform, raised a loud shriek, and fainted; and

two gentlemen of the committee had to hold her so that she might not do

herself an injury in the convulsions of the hysterical fit which had come

upon her. Another, a plump blonde, was wildly, desperately kissing one of

the golden arms of the throne-chair, on which the old man’s poor, bony

elbow had just rested. And others, on seeing her, came to dispute

possession, seized both arms, gilding and velvet, and pressed their

mouths to wood-work or upholstery, their bodies meanwhile shaking with

their 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 painful

dream, sick at heart, and with his mind revolting. And again he

encountered Nani’s glance, which never left him. “It was a superb

ceremony, was it not?” said the prelate. “It consoles one for many

iniquities.”

“Yes, no doubt; but what idolatry!” the young priest murmured despite

himself.

Nani, however, merely smiled, as if he had not heard the last word. At

that same moment the two French ladies whom he had provided with tickets

came up to thank him, and. Pierre was surprised to recognise the mother

and daughter whom he had met at the Catacombs. Charming, bright, and

healthy as they were, their enthusiasm was only for the spectacle: they

declared that they were well pleased at having seen it--that it was

really astonishing, unique.

As the crowd slowly withdrew Pierre all at once felt a tap on his

shoulder, and, on turning his head, perceived Narcisse Habert, who also

was very enthusiastic. “I made signs to you, my dear Abbé,” said he, “but

you didn’t see me. Ah! how superb was the expression of that dark woman

who fell rigid beside the platform with her arms outstretched. She

reminded me of a masterpiece of one of the primitives, Cimabue, Giotto,

or Fra Angelico. And the others, those who devoured the chair arms with

their kisses, what suavity, beauty, and love! I never miss these

ceremonies: there are always some fine scenes, perfect pictures, in which

souls 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 the

ideas which were tumultuously throbbing in his brain into something like

order. There was certainly grandeur and beauty in that Pope who had shut

himself up in his Vatican, and who, the more he became a purely moral,

spiritual authority, freed from all terrestrial cares, had grown in the

adoration and awe of mankind. Such a flight into the ideal deeply stirred

Pierre, whose dream of rejuvenated Christianity rested on the idea of the

supreme Head of the Church exercising only a purified, spiritual

authority. He had just seen what an increase of majesty and power was in

that way gained by the Supreme Pontiff of the spheres beyond, at whose

feet the women fainted, and behind whom they beheld a vision of the

Deity. But at the same moment the pecuniary side of the question had

risen before him and spoilt his joy. If the enforced relinquishment of

the temporal power had exalted the Pope by freeing him from the worries

of a petty sovereignty which was ever threatened, the need of money still

remained like a chain about his feet tying him to earth. As he could not

accept the proffered subvention of the Italian Government,* there was

certainly in the Peter’s Pence a means of placing the Holy See above all

material cares, provided, however, that this Peter’s Pence were really

the Catholic _sou_, the mite of each believer, levied on his daily income

and sent direct to Rome. Such a voluntary tribute paid by the flock to

its pastor would, moreover, suffice for the wants of the Church if each

of the 250,000,000 of Catholics gave his or her _sou_ every week. In this

wise the Pope, indebted to each and all of his children, would be

indebted to none in particular. A _sou_ was so little and so easy to

give, and there was also something so touching about the idea. But,

unhappily, things were not worked in that way; the great majority of

Catholics gave nothing whatever, while the rich ones sent large sums from

motives of political passion; and a particular objection was that the

gifts were centralised in the hands of certain bishops and religious

orders, so that these became ostensibly the benefactors of the papacy,

the indispensable cashiers from whom it drew the sinews of life. The

lowly and humble whose mites filled the collection boxes were, so to say,

suppressed, and the Pope became dependent on the intermediaries, and was

compelled to act cautiously with them, listen to their remonstrances, and

even at times obey their passions, lest the stream of gifts should

suddenly dry up. And so, although he was disburdened of the dead weight

of the temporal power, he was not free; but remained the tributary of his

clergy, with interests and appetites around him which he must needs

satisfy. And Pierre remembered the “Grotto of Lourdes” in the Vatican

gardens, and the banner which he had just seen, and he knew that the

Lourdes fathers levied 200,000 francs a year on their receipts to send

them as a present to the Holy Father. Was not that the chief reason of

their great power? He quivered, and suddenly became conscious that, do

what 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 heard

Narcisse asking Monsignor Nani: “Indeed! Do you really think that

to-day’s gifts exceeded that figure?”

“Yes, more than three millions,* I’m convinced of it,” the prelate

replied.

* 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 and

gazed at the vast, sunlit piazza where the pilgrims were spreading out

like little black specks hurrying hither and thither--an ant-hill, as it

were, in revolution.

Three millions! The words had rung in Pierre’s ears. And, raising his

head, he gazed at the Vatican, all golden in the sunlight against the

expanse of blue sky, as if he wished to penetrate its walls and follow

the steps of Leo XIII returning to his apartments. He pictured him laden

with those millions, with his weak, slender arms pressed to his breast,

carrying the silver, the gold, the bank notes, and even the jewels which

the women had flung him. And almost unconsciously the young priest spoke

aloud: “What will he do with those millions? Where is he taking them?”

Narcisse and even Nani could not help being amused by this strangely

expressed curiosity. It was the young _attaché_ who replied. “Why, his

Holiness is taking them to his room; or, at least, is having them carried

there before him. Didn’t you see two persons of his suite picking up

everything and filling their pockets? And now his Holiness has shut

himself up quite alone; and if you could see him you would find him

counting and recounting his treasure with cheerful care, ranging the

rolls of gold in good order, slipping the bank notes into envelopes in

equal quantities, and then putting everything away in hiding-places which

are only known to himself.”

While his companion was speaking Pierre again raised his eyes to the

windows of the Pope’s apartments, as if to follow the scene. Moreover,

Narcisse gave further explanations, asserting that the money was put away

in a certain article of furniture, standing against the right-hand wall

in the Holy Father’s bedroom. Some people, he added, also spoke of a

writing table or secrétaire with deep drawers; and others declared that

the money slumbered in some big padlocked trunks stored away in the

depths of the alcove, which was very roomy. Of course, on the left side

of the passage leading to the Archives there was a large room occupied by

a general cashier and a monumental safe; but the funds kept there were

simply those of the Patrimony of St. Peter, the administrative receipts

of Rome; whereas the Peter’s Pence money, the voluntary donations of

Christendom, remained in the hands of Leo XIII: he alone knew the exact

amount of that fund, and lived alone with its millions, which he disposed

of like an absolute master, rendering account to none. And such was his

prudence that he never left his room when the servants cleaned and set it

in order. At the utmost he would consent to remain on the threshold of

the adjoining apartment in order to escape the dust. And whenever he

meant to absent himself for a few hours, to go down into the gardens, for

instance, 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 not

that so, Monsignor? These are things known to all Rome.”

The prelate, ever smiling and wagging his head without expressing either

approval or disapproval, had begun to study on Pierre’s face the effect

of these curious stories. “No doubt, no doubt,” he responded; “so many

things are said! I know nothing myself, but you seem to be certain of it

all, 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 of

coffers full of gold in which the Holy Father is said to plunge his hands

for hours at a time; treasures which he has heaped up in corners for the

sole pleasure of counting them over and over again. Nevertheless, one may

well 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 happens

to be alone--and after all that is a very excusable mania in an old man

who has no other pastime. But I must add that he is yet fonder of money

for the social power which it brings, the decisive help which it will

give 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, conscious

of modern requirements, inclined to utilise the powers of the century in

order to conquer it, and for this reason venturing on business and

speculation. As it happened, the treasure bequeathed by Pius IX had

nearly been lost in a financial disaster, but ever since that time Leo

XIII had sought to repair the breach and make the treasure whole again,

in order that he might leave it to his successor intact and even

enlarged. Economical he certainly was, but he saved for the needs of the

Church, which, as he knew, increased day by day; and money was absolutely

necessary if Atheism was to be met and fought in the sphere of the

schools, institutions, and associations of all sorts. Without money,

indeed, the Church would become a vassal at the mercy of the civil

powers, the Kingdom of Italy and other Catholic states; and so, although

he liberally helped every enterprise which might contribute to the

triumph of the Faith, Leo XIII had a contempt for all expenditure without

an object, and treated himself and others with stern closeness.

Personally, he had no needs. At the outset of his pontificate he had set

his small private patrimony apart from the rich patrimony of St. Peter,

refusing to take aught from the latter for the purpose of assisting his

relatives. Never had pontiff displayed less nepotism: his three nephews

and his two nieces had remained poor--in fact, in great pecuniary

embarrassment. 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 therefore

vigorously defending the millions of the Holy See against the desperate

covetousness 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 am

altogether ignorant in such matters,” he replied. “Ask Monsieur Habert,

who is so well informed.”

“For my part,” responded the _attaché_, “I simply know what is known to

all the embassies here, the matters which are the subject of common

report. With respect to the receipts there is, first of all, the treasure

left by Pius IX, some twenty millions, invested in various ways and

formerly yielding about a million a year in interest. But, as I said

before, a disaster happened, and there must then have been a falling off

in the income. Still, nowadays it is reported that nearly all

deficiencies have been made good. Well, besides the regular income from

the invested money, a few hundred thousand francs are derived every year

from chancellery dues, patents of nobility, and all sorts of little fees

paid to the Congregations. However, as the annual expenses exceed seven

millions, 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 six

millions, perhaps, but three or four of them, and with these the Holy See

has speculated in the hope of doubling them and making both ends meet. It

would take me too long just now to relate the whole story of these

speculations, the first huge gains, then the catastrophe which almost

swept everything away, and finally the stubborn perseverance which is

gradually supplying all deficiencies. However, if you are anxious on the

subject, I will one day tell you all about it.”

Pierre had listened with deep interest. “Six millions--even four!” he

exclaimed, “what does the Peter’s Pence Fund bring in, then?”

“Oh! I can only repeat that nobody has ever known the exact figures. In

former times the Catholic Press published lists giving the amounts of

different offerings, and in this way one could frame an approximate

estimate. But the practice must have been considered unadvisable, for no

documents nowadays appear, and it is absolutely impossible for people to

form any real idea of what the Pope receives. He alone knows the correct

amount, keeps the money, and disposes of it with absolute authority.

Still I believe that in good years the offerings have amounted to between

four and five millions. Originally France contributed one-half of the

sum; but nowadays it certainly gives much less. Then come Belgium and

Austria, England and Germany. As for Spain and Italy--oh! Italy--”

Narcisse paused and smiled at Monsignor Nani, who was wagging his head

with the air of a man delighted at learning some extremely curious things

of 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 to

provide for his living out of the gifts of the Italian Catholics there

would soon be a famine at the Vatican. Far from helping him, indeed, the

Roman nobility has cost him dear; for one of the chief causes of his

pecuniary losses was his folly in lending money to the princes who

speculated. It is really only from France and England that rich people,

noblemen and so forth, have sent royal gifts to the imprisoned and

martyred Pontiff. Among others there was an English nobleman who came to

Rome every year with a large offering, the outcome of a vow which he had

made in the hope that Heaven would cure his unhappy idiot son. And, of

course, I don’t refer to the extraordinary harvest garnered during the

sacerdotal and the episcopal jubilees--the forty millions which then fell

at his Holiness’s feet.”

“And the expenses?” asked Pierre.

“Well, as I told you, they amount to about seven millions. We may reckon

two of them for the pensions paid to former officials of the pontifical

government who were unwilling to take service under Italy; but I must add

that this source of expense is diminishing every year as people die off

and their pensions become extinguished. Then, broadly speaking, we may

put down one million for the Italian sees, another for the Secretariate

and the Nunciatures, and another for the Vatican. In this last sum I

include the expenses of the pontifical Court, the military establishment,

the museums, and the repair of the palace and the Basilica. Well, we have

reached five millions, and the two others may be set down for the various

subsidised enterprises, the Propaganda, and particularly the schools,

which Leo XIII, with great practical good sense, subsidises very

handsomely, for he is well aware that the battle and the triumph be in

that direction--among the children who will be men to-morrow, and who

will then defend their mother the Church, provided that they have been

inspired with horror for the abominable doctrines of the age.”

A spell of silence ensued, and the three men slowly paced the majestic

colonnade. The swarming crowd had gradually disappeared, leaving the

piazza empty, so that only the obelisk and the twin fountains now arose

from the burning desert of symmetrical paving; whilst on the entablature

of the porticus across the square a noble line of motionless statues

stood out in the bright sunlight. And Pierre, with his eyes still raised

to the Pope’s windows, again fancied that he could see Leo XIII amidst

all the streaming gold that had been spoken of, his whole, white, pure

figure, his poor, waxen, transparent form steeped amidst those millions

which he hid and counted and expended for the glory of God alone. “And

so,” murmured the young priest, “he has no anxiety, he is not in any

pecuniary embarrassment.”

“Pecuniary embarrassment!” exclaimed Monsignor Nani, his patience so

sorely tried by the remark that he could no longer retain his diplomatic

reserve. “Oh! my dear son! Why, when Cardinal Mocenni, the treasurer,

goes to his Holiness every month, his Holiness always gives him the sum

he asks for; he would give it, and be able to give it, however large it

might be! His Holiness has certainly had the wisdom to effect great

economies; the Treasure of St. Peter is larger than ever. Pecuniary

embarrassment, indeed! Why, if a misfortune should occur, and the

Sovereign Pontiff were to make a direct appeal to all his children, the

Catholics of the entire world, do you know that in that case a thousand

millions would fall at his feet just like the gold and the jewels which

you saw raining on the steps of his throne just now?” Then suddenly

calming 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 have

been here to give you information. Ah! Monsieur Habert, Monsieur Habert!

Why, I fancied that you were always in the skies absorbed in your passion

for art, and far removed from all base mundane interests! But you really

understand 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. At

bottom, beneath this make-believe Florentine all-angelicalness, with long

curly hair and mauve eyes which grew dim with rapture at sight of a

Botticelli, 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 a

languorous air. “Oh!” said he, “I’m all reverie; my soul is elsewhere.”

“At all events,” resumed Nani, turning towards Pierre, “I am very glad

that you were able to see such a beautiful spectacle. A few more such

opportunities and you will understand things far better than you would

from all the explanations in the world. Don’t miss the grand ceremony at

St. Peter’s to-morrow. It will be magnificent, and will give you food for

useful 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 with

pleasure the weariness and uncertainty which were paling his face. And

when the prelate had gone off, and Narcisse also had taken leave with a

gentle hand-shake, the young priest felt the ire of protest rising within

him. What fit frame of mind did Nani mean? Did that man hope to weary him

and drive him to despair by throwing him into collision with obstacles,

so that he might afterwards overcome him with perfect ease? For the

second time Pierre became suddenly and briefly conscious of the stealthy

efforts which were being made to invest and crush him. But, believing as

he did in his own strength of resistance, pride filled him with disdain.

Again he swore that he would never yield, never withdraw his book, no

matter what might happen. And then, before crossing the piazza, he once

more raised his eyes to the windows of the Vatican, all his impressions

crystallising in the thought of that much-needed money which like a last

bond still attached the Pope to earth. Its chief evil doubtless lay in

the manner in which it was provided; and if indeed the only question were

to devise an improved method of collection, his dream of a pope who

should be all soul, the bond of love, the spiritual leader of the world,

would not be seriously affected. At this thought, Pierre felt comforted

and was unwilling to look on things otherwise than hopefully, moved as he

was by the extraordinary scene which he had just beheld, that feeble old

man shining forth like the symbol of human deliverance, obeyed and

venerated by the multitudes, and alone among all men endowed with the

moral omnipotence that might at last set the reign of charity and peace

on earth.

For the ceremony on the following day, it was fortunate that Pierre held

a private ticket which admitted him to a reserved gallery, for the

scramble at the entrances to the Basilica proved terrible. The mass,

which the Pope was to celebrate in person, was fixed for ten o’clock, but

people began to pour into St. Peter’s four hours earlier, as soon,

indeed, as the gates had been thrown open. The three thousand members of

the International Pilgrimage were increased tenfold by the arrival of all

the tourists in Italy, who had hastened to Rome eager to witness one of

those great pontifical functions which nowadays are so rare. Moreover,

the devotees and partisans whom the Holy See numbered in Rome itself and

in other great cities of the kingdom, helped to swell the throng, all

alacrity at the prospect of a demonstration. Judging by the tickets

distributed, there would be a concourse of 40,000 people. And, indeed, at

nine 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 were

admitted, he saw the portico of the façade still thronged with people who

were but slowly gaining admittance, while several gentlemen in evening

dress, members of some Catholic association, bestirred themselves to

maintain order with the help of a detachment of Pontifical Guards.

Nevertheless, violent quarrels broke out in the crowd, and blows were

exchanged amidst the involuntary scramble. Some people were almost

stifled, and two women were carried off half crushed to death.

A disagreeable surprise met Pierre on his entry into the Basilica. The

huge edifice was draped; coverings of old red damask with bands of gold

swathed the columns and pilasters, seventy-five feet high; even the

aisles were hung with the same old and faded silk; and the shrouding of

those pompous marbles, of all the superb dazzling ornamentation of the

church bespoke a very singular taste, a tawdry affectation of pomposity,

extremely wretched in its effect. However, he was yet more amazed on

seeing that even the statue of St. Peter was clad, costumed like a living

pope in sumptuous pontifical vestments, with a tiara on its metal head.

He had never imagined that people could garment statues either for their

glory or for the pleasure of the eyes, and the result seemed to him

disastrous.

The Pope was to say mass at the papal altar of the Confession, the high

altar which stands under the dome. On a platform at the entrance of the

left-hand transept was the throne on which he would afterwards take his

place. Then, on either side of the nave, tribunes had been erected for

the choristers of the Sixtine Chapel, the Corps Diplomatique, the Knights

of Malta, the Roman nobility, and other guests of various kinds. And,

finally, in the centre, before the altar, there were three rows of

benches covered with red rugs, the first for the cardinals and the other

two for the bishops and the prelates of the pontifical court. All the

rest of the congregation was to remain standing.

Ah! that huge concert-audience, those thirty, forty thousand believers

from here, there, and everywhere, inflamed with curiosity, passion, or

faith, bestirring themselves, jostling one another, rising on tip-toe to

see the better! The clamour of a human sea arose, the crowd was as gay

and familiar as if it had found itself in some heavenly theatre where it

was allowable for one to chat aloud and recreate oneself with the

spectacle of religious pomp! At first Pierre was thunderstruck, he who

only knew of nervous, silent kneeling in the depths of dim cathedrals,

who was not accustomed to that religion of light, whose brilliancy

transformed a religious celebration into a morning festivity. Around him,

in the same tribune as himself, were gentlemen in dress-coats and ladies

gowned in black, carrying glasses as in an opera-house. There were German

and English women, and numerous Americans, all more or less charming,

displaying the grace of thoughtless, chirruping birds. In the tribune of

the Roman nobility on the left he recognised Benedetta and Donna

Serafina, and there the simplicity of the regulation attire for ladies

was relieved by large lace veils rivalling one another in richness and

elegance. Then on the right was the tribune of the Knights of Malta,

where the Grand Master stood amidst a group of commanders: while across

the nave rose the diplomatic tribune where Pierre perceived the

ambassadors of all the Catholic nations, resplendent in gala uniforms

covered with gold lace. However, the young priest’s eyes were ever

returning to the crowd, the great surging throng in which the three

thousand pilgrims were lost amidst the multitude of other spectators. And

yet as the Basilica was so vast that it could easily contain eighty

thousand people, it did not seem to be more than half full. People came

and went along the aisles and took up favourable positions without

impediment. Some could be seen gesticulating, and calls rang out above

the ceaseless rumble of voices. From the lofty windows of plain white

glass fell broad sheets of sunlight, which set a gory glow upon the faded

damask hangings, and these cast a reflection as of fire upon all the

tumultuous, feverish, impatient faces. The multitude of candles, and the

seven-and-eighty lamps of the Confession paled to such a degree that they

seemed but glimmering night-lights in the blinding radiance; and

everything proclaimed the worldly gala of the imperial Deity of Roman

pomp.

All at once there came a premature shock of delight, a false alert. Cries

burst forth and circulated through the crowd: “Eccolo! eccolo! Here he

comes!” And then there was pushing and jostling, eddying which made the

human sea whirl and surge, all craning their necks, raising themselves to

their full height, darting forward in a frenzied desire to see the Holy

Father and the _cortège_. But only a detachment of Noble Guards marched

by and took up position right and left of the altar. A flattering murmur

accompanied them, their fine impassive bearing with its exaggerated

military stiffness, provoking the admiration of the throng. An American

woman declared that they were superb-looking fellows; and a Roman lady

gave an English friend some particulars about the select corps to which

they belonged. Formerly, said she, young men of the aristocracy had

greatly sought the honour of forming part of it, for the sake of wearing

its rich uniform and caracoling in front of the ladies. But recruiting

was now such a difficult matter that one had to content oneself with

good-looking young men of doubtful or ruined nobility, whose only care

was for the meagre “pay” which just enabled them to live.

When another quarter of an hour of chatting and scrutinising had elapsed,

the papal _cortège_ at last made its appearance, and no sooner was it

seen than applause burst forth as in a theatre--furious applause it was

which rose and rolled along under the vaulted ceilings, suggesting the

acclamations which ring out when some popular, idolised actor makes his

entry on the stage. As in a theatre, too, everything had been very

skilfully contrived so as to produce all possible effect amidst the

magnificent scenery of the Basilica. The _cortège_ was formed in the

wings, that is in the Cappella della Pieta, the first chapel of the right

aisle, and in order to reach it, the Holy Father, coming from his

apartments by the way of the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, had been

stealthily carried behind the hangings of the aisle which served the

purpose of a drop-scene. Awaiting him in all readiness in the Cappella

della Pieta were the cardinals, archbishops, and bishops, the whole

pontifical prelacy, hierarchically classified and grouped. And then, as

at a signal from a ballet master, the _cortège_ made its entry, reaching

the nave and ascending it in triumph from the closed Porta Santa to the

altar of the Confession. On either hand were the rows of spectators whose

applause at the sight of so much magnificence grew louder and louder as

their delirious enthusiasm increased.

It was the _cortège_ of the olden solemnities, the cross and sword, the

Swiss Guard in full uniform, the valets in scarlet simars, the Knights of

the Cape and the Sword in Renascence costumes, the Canons in rochets of

lace, the superiors of the religious communities, the apostolic

prothonotaries, the archbishops, and bishops, all the pontifical prelates

in violet silk, the cardinals, each wearing the _cappa magna_ and draped

in purple, walking solemnly two by two with long intervals between each

pair. Finally, around his Holiness were grouped the officers of the

military household, the chamber prelates, Monsignor the Majordomo,

Monsignor the Grand Chamberlain, and all the other high dignitaries of

the Vatican, with the Roman prince assistant of the throne, the

traditional, symbolical defender of the Church. And on the _sedia

gestatoria_, screened by the _flabelli_ with their lofty triumphal fans

of feathers and carried on high by the bearers in red tunics broidered

with silk, sat the Pope, clad in the sacred vestments which he had

assumed in the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, the amict, the alb, the

stole, and the white chasuble and white mitre enriched with gold, two

gifts of extraordinary sumptuousness that had come from France. And, as

his Holiness drew near, all hands were raised and clapped yet more loudly

amidst the waves of living sunlight which streamed from the lofty

windows.

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 old

man, leaning on the arm of a talkative prelate as he strolled through the

loveliest gardens in the world. He no longer recalled the Holy Father, in

red cape and papal cap, giving a paternal welcome to a pilgrimage which

brought him a fortune. He was here the Sovereign Pontiff, the

all-powerful Master whom Christendom adored. His slim waxen form seemed

to 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 centuries

past by the smoke of sacrifices. Amidst the mournful stiffness of his

face only his eyes lived--eyes like black sparkling diamonds gazing afar,

beyond earth, into the infinite. He gave not a glance to the crowd, he

lowered his eyes neither to right nor to left, but remained soaring in

the heavens, ignoring all that took place at his feet.

And as that seemingly embalmed idol, deaf and blind, in spite of the

brilliancy of his eyes, was carried through the frantic multitude which

it appeared neither to hear nor to see, it assumed fearsome majesty,

disquieting grandeur, all the rigidity of dogma, all the immobility of

tradition exhumed with its _fascioe_ which alone kept it erect. Still

Pierre fancied he could detect that the Pope was ill and weary, suffering

from the attack of fever which Nani had spoken of when glorifying the

courage of that old man of eighty-four, whom strength of soul alone now

kept alive.

The service began. Alighting from the _sedia gestatoria_ before the altar

of the Confession, his Holiness slowly celebrated a low mass, assisted by

four prelates and the pro-prefect of the ceremonies. When the time came

for washing his fingers, Monsignor the Majordomo and Monsignor the Grand

Chamberlain, accompanied by two cardinals, poured the water on his august

hands; and shortly before the elevation of the host all the prelates of

the pontifical court, each holding a lighted taper, came and knelt around

the altar. There was a solemn moment, the forty thousand believers there

assembled shuddered as if they could feel the terrible yet delicious

blast of the invisible sweeping over them when during the elevation the

silver clarions sounded the famous chorus of angels which invariably

makes some women swoon. Almost immediately an aerial chant descended from

the cupola, from a lofty gallery where one hundred and twenty choristers

were concealed, and the enraptured multitude marvelled as though the

angels had indeed responded to the clarion call. The voices descended,

taking their flight under the vaulted ceilings with the airy sweetness of

celestial harps; then in suave harmony they died away, reascended to the

heavens as with a faint flapping of wings. And, after the mass, his

Holiness, 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 congregation

joined them, forty thousand voices were raised, and a hymn of joy and

glory spread through the vast nave with incomparable splendour of effect.

And then the scene became one of extraordinary magnificence: there was

Bernini’s triumphal, flowery, gilded _baldacchino_, surrounded by the

whole pontifical court with the lighted tapers showing like starry

constellations, there was the Sovereign Pontiff in the centre, radiant

like a planet in his gold-broidered chasuble, there were the benches

crowded with cardinals in purple and archbishops and bishops in violet

silk, there were the tribunes glittering with official finery, the gold

lace of the diplomatists, the variegated uniforms of foreign officers,

and then there was the throng flowing and eddying on all sides, rolling

billows after billows of heads from the most distant depths of the

Basilica. And the hugeness of the temple increased one’s amazement; and

even the glorious hymn which the multitude repeated became colossal,

ascended like a tempest blast amidst the great marble tombs, the

superhuman statues and gigantic pillars, till it reached the vast vaulted

heavens of stone, and penetrated into the firmament of the cupola where

the Infinite seemed to open resplendent with the gold-work of the

mosaics.

A long murmur of voices followed the _Te Deum_, whilst Leo XIII, after

donning the tiara in lieu of the mitre, and exchanging the chasuble for

the pontifical cope, went to occupy his throne on the platform at the

entry of the left transept. He thence dominated the whole assembly,

through which a quiver sped when after the prayers of the ritual, he once

more rose erect. Beneath the symbolic, triple crown, in the golden

sheathing of his cope, he seemed to have grown taller. Amidst sudden and

profound silence, which only feverish heart-beats interrupted, he raised

his arm with a very noble gesture and pronounced the papal benediction in

a slow, loud, full voice, which seemed, as it were, the very voice of the

Deity, so greatly did its power astonish one, coming from such waxen

lips, from such a bloodless, lifeless frame. And the effect was

prodigious: as soon as the _cortège_ reformed to return whence it had

come, applause again burst forth, a frenzy of enthusiasm which the

clapping of hands could no longer content. Acclamations resounded and

gradually gained upon the whole multitude. They began among a group of

ardent partisans stationed near the statue of St. Peter: _“Evviva il

Papa-Rè! evviva il Papa-Rè_! Long live the Pope-King!” as the _cortège_

went by the shout rushed along like leaping fire, inflaming heart after

heart, and at last springing from every mouth in a thunderous protest

against the theft of the states of the Church. All the faith, all the

love of those believers, overexcited by the regal spectacle they had just

beheld, returned once more to the dream, to the rageful desire that the

Pope should be both King and Pontiff, master of men’s bodies as he was of

their souls--in one word, the absolute sovereign of the earth. Therein

lay the only truth, the only happiness, the only salvation! Let all be

given to him, both mankind and the world! “_Evviva il Papa-Rè! evviva il

Papa-Rè_! Long live the Pope-King!”

Ah! that cry, that cry of war which had caused so many errors and so much

bloodshed, that cry of self-abandonment and blindness which, realised,

would have brought back the old ages of suffering, it shocked Pierre, and

impelled him in all haste to quit the tribune where he was in order that

he might escape the contagion of idolatry. And while the _cortège_ still

went its way and the deafening clamour of the crowd continued, he for a

moment followed the left aisle amidst the general scramble. This,

however, made him despair of reaching the street, and anxious to escape

the crush of the general departure, it occurred to him to profit by a

door which he saw open and which led him into a vestibule, whence

ascended the steps conducting to the dome. A sacristan standing in the

doorway, both bewildered and delighted at the demonstration, looked at

him for a moment, hesitating whether he should stop him or not. However,

the sight of the young priest’s cassock combined with his own emotion

rendered the man tolerant. Pierre was allowed to pass, and at once began

to climb the staircase as rapidly as he could, in order that he might

flee farther and farther away, ascend higher and yet higher into peace

and silence.

And the silence suddenly became profound, the walls stifled the cry of

the multitude. The staircase was easy and light, with broad paved steps

turning within a sort of tower. When Pierre came out upon the roofs of

nave and aisles, he was delighted to find himself in the bright sunlight

and the pure keen air which blew there as in the open country. And it was

with astonishment that he gazed upon the huge expanse of lead, zinc, and

stone-work, a perfect aerial city living a life of its own under the blue

sky. He saw cupolas, spires, terraces, even houses and gardens, houses

bright with flowers, the residences of the workmen who live atop of the

Basilica, which is ever and ever requiring repair. A little population

here bestirs itself, labours, loves, eats, and sleeps. However, Pierre

desired to approach the balustrade so as to get a near view of the

colossal statues of the Saviour and the Apostles which surmount the

façade on the side of the piazza. These giants, some nineteen feet in

height, are constantly being mended; their arms, legs, and heads, into

which the atmosphere is ever eating, nowadays only hold together by the

help of cement, bars, and hooks. And having examined them, Pierre was

leaning forward to glance at the Vatican’s jumble of ruddy roofs, when it

seemed to him that the shout from which he had fled was rising from the

piazza, and thereupon, in all haste, he resumed his ascent within the

pillar conducting to the dome. There was first a staircase, and then came

some 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 Basilica

again, at nearly 200 feet from the ground. A narrow gallery there ran

round the dome just above the frieze, on which, in letters five feet

high, appeared the famous inscription: _Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram

œdificabo ecclesiam meam et tibi dabo claves regni cœlorum._* And then,

as Pierre leant over to gaze into the fearful cavity beneath him and the

wide openings of nave, and aisles, and transepts, the cry, the delirious

cry of the multitude, yet clamorously swarming below, struck him full in

the face. He fled once more; but, higher up, yet a second time he pushed

another door open and found another gallery, one perched above the

windows, just where the splendid mosaics begin, and whence the crowd

seemed to him lost in the depths of a dizzy abyss, altar and

_baldacchino_ alike looking no larger than toys. And yet the cry of

idolatry and warfare arose again, and smote him like the buffet of a

tempest which gathers increase of strength the farther it rushes. So to

escape it he had to climb higher still, even to the outer gallery which

encircles 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 at

first brought him! Above him now there only remained the ball of gilt

copper into which emperors and queens have ascended, as is testified by

the pompous inscriptions in the passages; a hollow ball it is, where the

voice crashes like thunder, where all the sounds of space reverberate. As

he emerged on the side of the apse, his eyes at first plunged into the

papal gardens, whose clumps of trees seemed mere bushes almost level with

the soil; and he could retrace his recent stroll among them, the broad

_parterre_ looking like a faded Smyrna rug, the large wood showing the

deep glaucous greenery of a stagnant pool. Then there were the kitchen

garden and the vineyard easily identified and tended with care. The

fountains, the observatory, the casino, where the Pope spent the hot days

of summer, showed merely like little white spots in those undulating

grounds, walled in like any other estate, but with the fearsome rampart

of the fourth Leo, which yet retained its fortress-like aspect. However,

Pierre took his way round the narrow gallery and abruptly found himself

in front of Rome, a sudden and immense expanse, with the distant sea on

the west, the uninterrupted mountain chains on the east and the south,

the Roman Campagna stretching to the horizon like a bare and greenish

desert, while the city, the Eternal City, was spread out at his feet.

Never before had space impressed him so majestically. Rome was there, as

a bird might see it, within the glance, as distinct as some geographical

plan executed in relief. To think of it, such a past, such a history, so

much grandeur, and Rome so dwarfed and contracted by distance! Houses as

lilliputian and as pretty as toys; and the whole a mere mouldy speck upon

the earth’s face! What impassioned Pierre was that he could at a glance

understand the divisions of Rome: the antique city yonder with the

Capitol, the Forum, and the Palatine; the papal city in that Borgo which

he overlooked, with St. Peter’s and the Vatican gazing across the city of

the middle ages--which was huddled together in the right angle described

by the yellow Tiber--towards the modern city, the Quirinal of the Italian

monarchy. And particularly did he remark the chalky girdle with which the

new districts encompassed the ancient, central, sun-tanned quarters, thus

symbolising 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 pure

ethereal Rome which had met his eyes on the morning of his arrival in the

delightfully soft radiance of the rising sun. That smiling, unobtrusive

city, half veiled by golden mist, immersed as it were in some dream of

childhood, now appeared to him flooded with a crude light, motionless,

hard of outline and silent like death. The distance was as if devoured by

too keen a flame, steeped in a luminous dust in which it crumbled. And

against that blurred background the whole city showed with violent

distinctness in great patches of light and shade, their tracery harshly

conspicuous. One might have fancied oneself above some very ancient,

abandoned stone quarry, which a few clumps of trees spotted with dark

green. Of the ancient city one could see the sunburnt tower of the

Capitol, the black cypresses of the Palatine, and the ruins of the palace

of Septimius Severus, suggesting the white osseous carcase of some fossil

monster, left there by a flood. In front, was enthroned the modern city

with the long, renovated buildings of the Quirinal, whose yellow walls

stood forth with wondrous crudity amidst the vigorous crests of the

garden trees. And to right and left on the Viminal, beyond the palace,

the new districts appeared like a city of chalk and plaster mottled by

innumerable windows as with a thousand touches of black ink. Then here

and there were the Pincio showing like a stagnant mere, the Villa Medici

uprearing its campanili, the castle of Sant’ Angelo brown like rust, the

spire of Santa Maria Maggiore aglow like a burning taper, the three

churches of the Aventine drowsy amidst verdure, the Palazzo Farnese with

its summer-baked tiles showing like old gold, the domes of the Gesù, of

Sant’ Andrea della Valle, of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, and yet other

domes and other domes, all in fusion, incandescent in the brazier of the

heavens. And Pierre again felt a heart-pang in presence of that harsh,

stern Rome, so different from the Rome of his dream, the Rome of

rejuvenescence and hope, which he had fancied he had found on his first

morning, but which had now faded away to give place to the immutable city

of pride and domination, stubborn under the sun even unto death.

And there on high, all alone with his thoughts, Pierre suddenly

understood. It was as if a dart of flaming light fell on him in that

free, unbounded expanse where he hovered. Had it come from the ceremony

which he had just beheld, from the frantic cry of servitude still ringing

in his ears? Had it come from the spectacle of that city beneath him,

that city which suggested an embalmed queen still reigning amidst the

dust 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: he

felt that Catholicism could not exist without the temporal power, that it

must fatally disappear whenever it should no longer be king over this

earth. 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 they

had come from the imperial abodes on the Palatine, from the palace of

Septimius Severus, and throughout the centuries their policy had ever

pursued 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’être_; for the Church cannot recognise any empire or kingdom

otherwise than politically--the emperors and the kings being purely and

simply so many temporary delegates placed in charge of the nations

pending the time when they shall be called upon to relinquish their

trust. All the nations, all humanity, and the whole world belong to the

Church to whom they have been given by God. And if real and effective

possession is not hers to-day, this is only because she yields to force,

compelled to face accomplished facts, but with the formal reserve that

she is in presence of guilty usurpation, that her possessions are

unjustly withheld from her, and that she awaits the realisation of the

promises of the Christ, who, when the time shall be accomplished, will

for ever restore to her both the earth and mankind. Such is the real

future city which time is to bring: Catholic Rome, sovereign of the world

once more. And Rome the city forms a substantial part of the dream, Rome

whose eternity has been predicted, Rome whose soil has imparted to

Catholicism the inextinguishable thirst of absolute power. And thus the

destiny of the papacy is linked to that of Rome, to such a point indeed

that a pope elsewhere than at Rome would no longer be a Catholic pope.

The thought of all this frightened Pierre; a great shudder passed through

him as he leant on the light iron balustrade, gazing down into the abyss

where the stern mournful city was even now crumbling away under the

fierce sun.

There was, however, evidence of the facts which had dawned on him. If

Pius 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 leave

the city, to be the head of the Church elsewhere; and in the same way a

pope, however well he may understand the modern world, has not the right

to relinquish the temporal power. This is an inalienable inheritance

which he must defend, and it is moreover a question of life, peremptory,

above discussion. And thus Leo XIII has retained the title of Master of

the temporal dominions of the Church, and this he has done the more

readily since as a cardinal--like all the members of the Sacred College

when elected--he swore that he would maintain those dominions intact.

Italy may hold Rome as her capital for another century or more, but the

coming popes will never cease to protest and claim their kingdom. If ever

an understanding should be arrived at, it must be based on the gift of a

strip of territory. Formerly, when rumours of reconciliation were

current, was it not said that the papacy exacted, as a formal condition,

the possession of at least the Leonine City with the neutralisation of a

road leading to the sea? Nothing is not enough, one cannot start from

nothing to attain to everything, whereas that Civitas Leonina, that bit

of a city, would already be a little royal ground, and it would then only

be necessary to conquer the rest, first Rome, next Italy, then the

neighbouring states, and at last the whole world. Never has the Church

despaired, even when, beaten and despoiled, she seemed to be at the last

gasp. Never will she abdicate, never will she renounce the promises of

the Christ, for she believes in a boundless future and declares herself

to be both indestructible and eternal. Grant her but a pebble on which to

rest her head, and she will hope to possess, first the field in which

that pebble lies, and then the empire in which the field is situated. If

one pope cannot achieve the recovery of the inheritance, another pope,

ten, twenty other popes will continue the work. The centuries do not

count. And this explains why an old man of eighty-four has undertaken

colossal enterprises whose achievement requires several lives, certain as

he is that his successors will take his place, and that the work will

ever and ever be carried forward and completed.

As these thoughts coursed through his mind, Pierre, overlooking that

ancient city of glory and domination, so stubbornly clinging to its

purple, realised that he was an imbecile with his dream of a purely

spiritual pope. The notion seemed to him so different from the reality,

so out of place, that he experienced a sort of shame-fraught despair. The

new pope, consonant to the teachings of the Gospel, such as a purely

spiritual pope reigning over souls alone, would be, was virtually beyond

the ken of a Roman prelate. At thought of that papal court congealed in

ritual, pride, and authority, Pierre suddenly understood what horror and

repugnance such a pastor would inspire. How great must be the

astonishment and contempt of the papal prelates for that singular notion

of the northern mind, a pope without dominions or subjects, military

household or royal honours, a pope who would be, as it were, a spirit,

exercising purely moral authority, dwelling in the depths of God’s

temple, and governing the world solely with gestures of benediction and

deeds of kindliness and love! All that was but a misty Gothic invention

for this Latin clergy, these priests of light and magnificence, who were

certainly pious and even superstitious, but who left the Deity well

sheltered within the tabernacle in order to govern in His name, according

to what they considered the interests of Heaven. Thence it arose that

they employed craft and artifice like mere politicians, and lived by dint

of expedients amidst the great battle of human appetites, marching with

the prudent, stealthy steps of diplomatists towards the final terrestrial

victory of the Christ, who, in the person of the Pope, was one day to

reign over all the nations. And how stupefied must a French prelate have

been--a prelate like Monseigneur Bergerot, that apostle of renunciation

and charity--when he lighted amidst that world of the Vatican! How

difficult must it have been for him to understand and focus things, and

afterwards how great his grief at finding himself unable to come to any

agreement 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 days

were necessary, one needed to live in Rome, and he, Pierre himself, had

only seen things clearly after a month’s sojourn, whilst labouring under

the violent shock of the royal pomp of St. Peter’s, and standing face to

face with the ancient city as it slumbered heavily in the sunlight and

dreamt its dream of eternity.

But on lowering his eyes to the piazza in front of the Basilica he

perceived the multitude, the 40,000 believers streaming over the pavement

like insects. And then he thought that he could hear the cry again

rising: “_Evviva il Papa-Rè! evviva il Papa-Rè_! Long live the

Pope-King!” Whilst ascending those endless staircases a moment previously

it had seemed to him as if the colossus of stone were quivering with the

frantic shout raised beneath its ceilings. And now that he had climbed

even into cloudland that shout apparently was traversing space. If the

colossal pile beneath him still vibrated with it, was it not as with a

last rise of sap within its ancient walls, a reinvigoration of that

Catholic blood which formerly had demanded that the pile should be a

stupendous one, the veritable king of temples, and which now was striving

to reanimate it with the powerful breath of life, and this at the very

hour when death was beginning to fall upon its over-vast, deserted nave

and aisles? The crowd was still streaming forth, filling the piazza, and

Pierre’s heart was wrung by frightful anguish, for that throng with its

shout had just swept his last hope away. On the previous afternoon, after

the reception of the pilgrimage, he had yet been able to deceive himself

by overlooking the necessity for money which bound the Pope to earth in

order that he might see nought but the feeble old man, all spirituality,

resplendent like the symbol of moral authority. But his faith in such a

pastor of the Gospel, free from all considerations of earthly wealth, and

king of none other than a heavenly kingdom, had fled. Not only did the

Peter’s Pence impose hard servitude upon Leo XIII but he was also the

prisoner of papal tradition--the eternal King of Rome, riveted to the

soil of Rome, unable either to quit the city or to renounce the temporal

power. 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 schism

burst forth: a new faith for the new nations. Of this Pierre had a

grandiose and tragical vision: he beheld his dream destroyed, his book

swept away amidst that cry which spread around him as if flying to the

four corners of the Catholic world “_Evviva il Papa-Rè! evviva il

Papa-Rè!_ Long live the Pope-King!” But even in that hour of the papacy’s

passing triumph he already felt that the giant of gold and marble on

which he stood was oscillating, even as totter all old and rotten

societies.

At last he took his way down again, and a fresh shock of emotion came to

him as he reached the roofs, that sunlit expanse of lead and zinc, large

enough for the site of a town. Monsignor Nani was there, in company with

the two French ladies, the mother and the daughter, both looking very

happy and highly amused. No doubt the prelate had good-naturedly offered

to conduct them to the dome. However, as soon as he recognised the young

priest he went towards him: “Well, my dear son,” he inquired, “are you

pleased? Have you been impressed, edified?” As he spoke, his searching

eyes dived into Pierre’s soul, as if to ascertain the present result of

his experiments. Then, satisfied with what he detected, he began to laugh

softly: “Yes, yes, I see--come, you are a sensible fellow after all. I

begin to think that the unfortunate affair which brought you here will

have a happy ending.”

VIII.

WHEN Pierre remained in the morning at the Boccanera mansion he often

spent some hours in the little neglected garden which had formerly ended

with a sort of colonnaded _loggia_, whence two flights of steps descended

to the Tiber. This garden was a delightful, solitary nook, perfumed by

the ripe fruit of the centenarian orange-trees, whose symmetrical lines

were the only indication of the former pathways, now hidden beneath rank

weeds. And Pierre also found there the acrid scent of the large

box-shrubs growing in the old central fountain basin, which had been

filled up with loose earth and rubbish.

On those luminous October mornings, full of such tender and penetrating

charm, the spot was one where all the joy of living might well be

savoured, but Pierre brought thither his northern dreaminess, his concern

for suffering, his steadfast feeling of compassion, which rendered yet

sweeter the caress of the sunlight pervading that atmosphere of love. He

seated himself against the right-hand wall on a fragment of a fallen

column over which a huge laurel cast a deep-black shadow, fresh and

aromatic. In the antique greenish sarcophagus beside him, on which fauns

offered violence to nymphs, the streamlet of water trickling from the

mask incrusted in the wall, set the unchanging music of its crystal note,

whilst he read the newspapers and the letters which he received, all the

communications of good Abbé Rose, who kept him informed of his mission

among the wretched ones of gloomy Paris, now already steeped in fog and

mud.

One morning however, Pierre unexpectedly found Benedetta seated on the

fallen column which he usually made his chair. She raised a light cry of

surprise on seeing him, and for a moment remained embarrassed, for she

had with her his book “New Rome,” which she had read once already, but

had then imperfectly understood. And overcoming her embarrassment she now

hastened to detain him, making him sit down beside her, and frankly

owning that she had come to the garden in order to be alone and apply

herself to an attentive study of the book, in the same way as some

ignorant school-girl. Then they began to chat like a pair of friends, and

the young priest spent a delightful hour. Although Benedetta did not

speak of herself, he realised that it was her grief alone which brought

her nearer to him, as if indeed her own sufferings enlarged her heart and

made her think of all who suffered in the world. Patrician as she was,

regarding social hierarchy as a divine law, she had never previously

thought of such things, and some pages of Pierre’s book greatly

astonished her. What! one ought to take interest in the lowly, realise

that they had the same souls and the same griefs as oneself, and seek in

brotherly or sisterly fashion to make them happy? She certainly sought to

acquire such an interest, but with no great success, for she secretly

feared that it might lead her into sin, as it could not be right to alter

aught of the social system which had been established by God and

consecrated by the Church. Charitable she undoubtedly was, wont to bestow

small sums in alms, but she did not give her heart, she felt no true

sympathy 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 the

plebeian elect.

She and Pierre, however, found themselves on other mornings side by side

in the shade of the laurels near the trickling, singing water; and he,

lacking occupation, weary of waiting for a solution which seemed to

recede day by day, fervently strove to animate this young and beautiful

woman with some of his own fraternal feelings. He was impassioned by the

idea that he was catechising Italy herself, the queen of beauty, who was

still slumbering in ignorance, but who would recover all her past glory

if she were to awake to the new times with soul enlarged, swelling with

pity for men and things. Reading good Abbé Rose’s letters to Benedetta,

he made her shudder at the frightful wail of wretchedness which ascends

from all great cities. With such deep tenderness in her eyes, with the

happiness of love reciprocated emanating from her whole being, why should

she not recognise, even as he did, that the law of love was the sole

means of saving suffering humanity, which, through hatred, incurred the

danger of death? And to please him she did try to believe in democracy,

in the fraternal remodelling of society, but among other nations

only--not at Rome, for an involuntary, gentle laugh came to her lips

whenever his words evoked the idea of the poor still remaining in the

Trastevere district fraternising with those who yet dwelt in the old

princely palaces. No, no, things had been as they were so long; they

could not, must not, be altered! And so, after all, Pierre’s pupil made

little progress: she was, in reality, simply touched by the wealth of

ardent love which the young priest had chastely transferred from one

alone to the whole of human kind. And between him and her, as those

sunlit 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 of

Dario, whose name she had hitherto refrained from mentioning. Ah! poor

_amico_, how circumspect and repentant he had shown himself since that

fit of brutal insanity! At first, to conceal his embarrassment, he had

gone to spend three days at Naples, and it was said that La Tonietta, the

sentimental _demi-mondaine_, had hastened to join him there, wildly in

love with him. Since his return to the mansion he had avoided all private

meetings with his cousin, and scarcely saw her except at the Monday

receptions, when he wore a submissive air, and with his eyes silently

entreated forgiveness.

“Yesterday, however,” continued Benedetta, “I met him on the staircase

and gave him my hand. He understood that I was no longer angry with him

and was very happy. What else could I have done? One must not be severe

for ever. Besides, I do not want things to go too far between him and

that woman. I want him to remember that I still love him, and am still

waiting for him. Oh! he is mine, mine alone. But alas! I cannot say the

word: our affairs are in such sorry plight.”

She paused, and two big tears welled into her eyes. The divorce

proceedings to which she alluded had now come to a standstill, fresh

obstacles ever arising to stay their course.

Pierre was much moved by her tears, for she seldom wept. She herself

sometimes confessed, with her calm smile, that she did not know how to

weep. But now her heart was melting, and for a moment she remained

overcome, leaning on the mossy, crumbling sarcophagus, whilst the clear

water falling from the gaping mouth of the tragic mask still sounded its

flutelike note. And a sudden thought of death came to the priest as he

saw her, so young and so radiant with beauty, half fainting beside that

marble resting-place where fauns were rushing upon nymphs in a frantic

bacchanal which proclaimed the omnipotence of love--that omnipotence

which the ancients were fond of symbolising on their tombs as a token of

life’s eternity. And meantime a faint, warm breeze passed through the

sunlit, silent garden, wafting hither and thither the penetrating scent

of 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 am

childish. But it is the fault of your book. It is only when I suffer that

I properly understand it. But all the same I am making progress, am I

not? Since you desire it, let all the poor, all those who suffer, as I

do, be my brothers and sisters.”

Then for a while they resumed their chat.

On these occasions Benedetta was usually the first to return to the

house, and Pierre would linger alone under the laurels, vaguely dreaming

of sweet, sad things. Often did he think how hard life proved for poor

creatures whose only thirst was for happiness!

One Monday evening, at a quarter-past ten, only the young folks remained

in Donna Serafina’s reception-room. Monsignor Nani had merely put in an

appearance that night, and Cardinal Sarno had just gone off.

Even Donna Serafina, in her usual seat by the fireplace, seemed to have

withdrawn from the others, absorbed as she was in contemplation of the

chair which the absent Morano still stubbornly left unoccupied. Chatting

and laughing in front of the sofa on which sat Benedetta and Celia were

Dario, Pierre, and Narcisse Habert, the last of whom had begun to twit

the 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 was

really superb. She was walking beside you, and you turned into a lane

together--the Borgo Angelico, I think.”

Dario listened smiling, quite at his ease and incapable of denying his

passionate predilection for beauty. “No doubt, no doubt; it was I, I

don’t deny it,” he responded. “Only the inferences you draw are not

correct.” And turning towards Benedetta, who, without a thought of

jealous anxiety, wore as gay a look as himself, as though delighted that

he should have enjoyed that passing pleasure of the eyes, he went on: “It

was the girl, you know, whom I found in tears six weeks ago. Yes, that

bead-worker who was sobbing because the workshop was shut up, and who

rushed along, all blushing, to conduct me to her parents when I offered

her 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 and

spoken to her. The other day, for instance, I walked with her as far as a

manufacturer’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 aback

at it, but she seemed very well pleased.”

At this all the others began to laugh. But suddenly Celia desisted and

said very gravely, “You know, Dario, she loves you; you must not be hard

on her.”

Dario, no doubt, was of Celia’s opinion, for he again looked at

Benedetta, but with a gay toss of the head, as if to say that, although

the girl might love him, he did not love her. A bead-worker indeed, a

girl of the lowest classes, pooh! She might be a Venus, but she could be

nothing to him. And he himself made merry over his romantic adventure,

which Narcisse sought to arrange in a kind of antique sonnet: A beautiful

bead-worker falling madly in love with a young prince, as fair as

sunlight, who, touched by her misfortune, hands her a silver crown; then

the beautiful bead-worker, quite overcome at finding him as charitable as

handsome, dreaming of him incessantly, and following him everywhere,

chained to his steps by a link of flame; and finally the beautiful

bead-worker, who has refused the silver crown, so entreating the handsome

prince with her soft, submissive eyes, that he at last deigns to grant

her the alms of his heart. This pastime greatly amused Benedetta; but

Celia, with her angelic face and the air of a little girl who ought to

have 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 poor

folks are not happy!” said she.

“Oh!” exclaimed the Prince, “it’s misery beyond belief. On the day she

took 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,” resumed

Benedetta, “and we have done wrong in delaying our visit so long. For

your studies, Monsieur l’Abbé Froment, you greatly desired to accompany

us and see the poor of Rome--was that not so?”

As she spoke she raised her eyes to Pierre, who for a moment had been

silent. He was much moved by her charitable thought, for he realised, by

the faint quiver of her voice, that she desired to appear a docile pupil,

progressing in affection for the lowly and the wretched. Moreover, his

passion for his apostolate had at once returned to him. “Oh!” said he, “I

shall not quit Rome without having seen those who suffer, those who lack

work and bread. Therein lies the malady which affects every nation;

salvation can only be attained by the healing of misery. When the roots

of the tree cannot find sustenance the tree dies.”

“Well,” resumed the Contessina, “we will fix an appointment at once; you

shall come with us to the Quartiere dei Prati--Dario will take us there.”