Pierre, as he slowly paced to and fro, gradually became abso

Produced by Dagny [dagnypg@yahoo.com]

and David Widger [widger@cecomet.net]

THE THREE CITIES

ROME

BY

EMILE ZOLA

TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY

PART V

XIV

THAT evening, when Pierre emerged from the Borgo in front of the Vatican,

a sonorous stroke rang out from the clock amidst the deep silence of the

dark and sleepy district. It was only half-past eight, and being in

advance the young priest resolved to wait some twenty minutes in order to

reach the doors of the papal apartments precisely at nine, the hour fixed

for his audience.

This respite brought him some relief amidst the infinite emotion and

grief which gripped his heart. That tragic afternoon which he had spent

in the chamber of death, where Dario and Benedetta now slept the eternal

sleep in one another's arms, had left him very weary. He was haunted by a

wild, dolorous vision of the two lovers, and involuntary sighs came from

his lips whilst tears continually moistened his eyes. He had been

altogether unable to eat that evening. Ah! how he would have liked to

hide himself and weep at his ease! His heart melted at each fresh

thought. The pitiful death of the lovers intensified the grievous feeling

with which his book was instinct, and impelled him to yet greater

compassion, a perfect anguish of charity for all who suffered in the

world. And he was so distracted by the thought of the many physical and

moral sores of Paris and of Rome, where he had beheld so much unjust and

abominable suffering, that at each step he took he feared lest he should

burst into sobs with arms upstretched towards the blackness of heaven.

In the hope of somewhat calming himself he began to walk slowly across

the Piazza of St. Peter's, now all darkness and solitude. On arriving he

had fancied that he was losing himself in a murky sea, but by degrees his

eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The vast expanse was only lighted by

the four candelabra at the corners of the obelisk and by infrequent lamps

skirting the buildings which run on either hand towards the Basilica.

Under the colonnade, too, other lamps threw yellow gleams across the

forest of pillars, showing up their stone trunks in fantastic fashion;

while on the piazza only the pale, ghostly obelisk was at all distinctly

visible. Pierre could scarcely perceive the dim, silent facade of St.

Peter's; whilst of the dome he merely divined a gigantic, bluey roundness

faintly shadowed against the sky. In the obscurity he at first heard the

plashing of the fountains without being at all able to see them, but on

approaching he at last distinguished the slender phantoms of the ever

rising jets which fell again in spray. And above the vast square

stretched the vast and moonless sky of a deep velvety blue, where the

stars were large and radiant like carbuncles; Charles's Wain, with golden

wheels and golden shaft tilted back as it were, over the roof of the

Vatican, and Orion, bedizened with the three bright stars of his belt,

showing magnificently above Rome, in the direction of the Via Giulia.

At last Pierre raised his eyes to the Vatican, but facing the piazza

there was here merely a confused jumble of walls, amidst which only two

gleams of light appeared on the floor of the papal apartments. The Court

of San Damaso was, however, lighted, for the conservatory-like glass-work

of two of its sides sparkled as with the reflection of gas lamps which

could not be seen. For a time there was not a sound or sign of movement,

but at last two persons crossed the expanse of the piazza, and then came

a third who in his turn disappeared, nothing remaining but a rhythmical

far-away echo of steps. The spot was indeed a perfect desert, there were

neither promenaders nor passers-by, nor was there even the shadow of a

prowler in the pillared forest of the colonnade, which was as empty as

the wild primeval forests of the world's infancy. And what a solemn

desert it was, full of the silence of haughty desolation. Never had so

vast and black a presentment of slumber, so instinct with the sovereign

nobility of death, appeared to Pierre.

At ten minutes to nine he at last made up his mind and went towards the

bronze portal. Only one of the folding doors was now open at the end of

the right-hand porticus, where the increasing density of the gloom

steeped everything in night. Pierre remembered the instructions which

Monsignor Nani had given him; at each door that he reached he was to ask

for Signor Squadra without adding a word, and thereupon each door would

open and he would have nothing to do but to let himself be guided on. No

one but the prelate now knew that he was there, since Benedetta, the only

being to whom he had confided the secret, was dead. When he had crossed

the threshold of the bronze doors and found himself in presence of the

motionless, sleeping Swiss Guard, who was on duty there, he simply spoke

the words agreed upon: "Signor Squadra." And as the Guard did not stir,

did not seek to bar his way, he passed on, turning into the vestibule of

the Scala Pia, the stone stairway which ascends to the Court of San

Damaso. And not a soul was to be seen: there was but the faint sound of

his own light footsteps and the sleepy glow of the gas jets whose light

was softly whitened by globes of frosted glass. Up above, on reaching the

courtyard he found it a solitude, whose slumber seemed sepulchral amidst

the mournful gleams of the gas lamps which cast a pallid reflection on

the lofty glass-work of the facades. And feeling somewhat nervous,

affected by the quiver which pervaded all that void and silence, Pierre

hastened on, turning to the right, towards the low flight of steps which

leads to the staircase of the Pope's private apartments.

Here stood a superb gendarme in full uniform. "Signor Squadra," said

Pierre, and without a word the gendarme pointed to the stairs.

The young man went up. It was a broad stairway, with low steps,

balustrade of white marble, and walls covered with yellowish stucco. The

gas, burning in globes of round glass, seemed to have been already turned

down in a spirit of prudent economy. And in the glimmering light nothing

could have been more mournfully solemn than that cold and pallid

staircase. On each landing there was a Swiss Guard, halbard in hand, and

in the heavy slumber spreading through the palace one only heard the

regular monotonous footsteps of these men, ever marching up and down, in

order no doubt that they might not succumb to the benumbing influence of

their surroundings.

Amidst the invading dimness and the quivering silence the ascent of the

stairs seemed interminable to Pierre, who by the time he reached the

second-floor landing imagined that he had been climbing for ages. There,

outside the glass door of the Sala Clementina, only the right-hand half

of which was open, a last Swiss Guard stood watching.

"Signor Squadra," Pierre said again, and the Guard drew back to let him

pass.

The Sala Clementina, spacious enough by daylight, seemed immense at that

nocturnal hour, in the twilight glimmer of its lamps. All the opulent

decorative-work, sculpture, painting, and gilding became blended, the

walls assuming a tawny vagueness amidst which appeared bright patches

like the sparkle of precious stones. There was not an article of

furniture, nothing but the endless pavement stretching away into the

semi-darkness. At last, however, near a door at the far end Pierre espied

some men dozing on a bench. They were three Swiss Guards. "Signor

Squadra," he said to them.

One of the Guards thereupon slowly rose and left the hall, and Pierre

understood that he was to wait. He did not dare to move, disturbed as he

was by the sound of his own footsteps on the paved floor, so he contented

himself with gazing around and picturing the crowds which at times

peopled that vast apartment, the first of the many papal ante-chambers.

But before long the Guard returned, and behind him, on the threshold of

the adjoining room, appeared a man of forty or thereabouts, who was clad

in black from head to foot and suggested a cross between a butler and a

beadle. He had a good-looking, clean-shaven face, with somewhat

pronounced nose and large, clear, fixed eyes. "Signor Squadra," said

Pierre for the last time.

The man bowed as if to say that he was Signor Squadra, and then, with a

fresh reverence, he invited the priest to follow him. Thereupon at a

leisurely step, one behind the other, they began to thread the

interminable suite of waiting-rooms. Pierre, who was acquainted with the

ceremonial, of which he had often spoken with Narcisse, recognised the

different apartments as he passed through them, recalling their names and

purpose, and peopling them in imagination with the various officials of

the papal retinue who have the right to occupy them. These according to

their rank cannot go beyond certain doors, so that the persons who are to

have audience of the Pope are passed on from the servants to the Noble

Guards, from the Noble Guards to the honorary /Camerieri/, and from the

latter to the /Camerieri segreti/, until they at last reach the presence

of the Holy Father. At eight o'clock, however, the ante-rooms empty and

become both deserted and dim, only a few lamps being left alight upon the

pier tables standing here and there against the walls.

And first Pierre came to the ante-room of the /bussolanti/, mere ushers

clad in red velvet broidered with the papal arms, who conduct visitors to

the door of the ante-room of honour. At that late hour only one of them

was left there, seated on a bench in such a dark corner that his purple

tunic looked quite black. Then the Hall of the Gendarmes was crossed,

where according to the regulations the secretaries of cardinals and other

high personages await their masters' return; and this was now completely

empty, void both of the handsome blue uniforms with white shoulder belts

and the cassocks of fine black cloth which mingled in it during the

brilliant reception hours. Empty also was the following room, a smaller

one reserved to the Palatine Guards, who are recruited among the Roman

middle class and wear black tunics with gold epaulets and shakoes

surmounted by red plumes. Then Pierre and his guide turned into another

series of apartments, and again was the first one empty. This was the

Hall of the Arras, a superb waiting-room with lofty painted ceiling and

admirable Gobelins tapestry designed by Audran and representing the

miracles of Jesus. And empty also was the ante-chamber of the Noble

Guards which followed, with its wooden stools, its pier table on the

right-hand surmounted by a large crucifix standing between two lamps, and

its large door opening at the far end into another but smaller room, a

sort of alcove indeed, where there is an altar at which the Holy Father

says mass by himself whilst those privileged to be present remain

kneeling on the marble slabs of the outer apartment which is resplendent

with the dazzling uniforms of the Guards. And empty likewise was the

ensuing ante-room of honour, otherwise the grand throne-room, where the

Pope receives two or three hundred people at a time in public audience.

The throne, an arm-chair of elaborate pattern, gilded, and upholstered

with red velvet, stands under a velvet canopy of the same hue, in front

of the windows. Beside it is the cushion on which the Pope rests his foot

in order that it may be kissed. Then facing one another, right and left

of the room, there are two pier tables, on one of which is a clock and on

the other a crucifix between lofty candelabra with feet of gilded wood.

The wall hangings, of red silk damask with a Louis XIV palm pattern, are

topped by a pompous frieze, framing a ceiling decorated with allegorical

figures and attributes, and it is only just in front of the throne that a

Smyrna carpet covers the magnificent marble pavement. On the days of

private audience, when the Pope remains in the little throne-room or at

times in his bed-chamber, the grand throne-room becomes simply the

ante-room of honour, where high dignitaries of the Church, ambassadors,

and great civilian personages, wait their turns. Two /Camerieri/, one in

violet coat, the other of the Cape and the Sword, here do duty, receiving

from the /bussolanti/ the persons who are to be honoured with audiences

and conducting them to the door of the next room, the secret or private

ante-chamber, where they hand them over to the /Camerieri segreti/.

Signor Squadra who, walking on with slow and silent steps, had not yet

once turned round, paused for a moment on reaching the door of the

/anticamera segreta/ so as to give Pierre time to breathe and recover

himself somewhat before crossing the threshold of the sanctuary. The

/Camerieri segreti/ alone had the right to occupy that last ante-chamber,

and none but the cardinals might wait there till the Pope should

condescend to receive them. And so when Signor Squadra made up his mind

to admit Pierre, the latter could not restrain a slight nervous shiver as

if he were passing into some redoubtable mysterious sphere beyond the

limits of the lower world. In the daytime a Noble Guard stood on sentry

duty before the door, but the latter was now free of access, and the room

within proved as empty as all the others. It was rather narrow, almost

like a passage, with two windows overlooking the new district of the

castle fields and a third one facing the Piazza of St. Peter's. Near the

last was a door conducting to the little throne-room, and between this

door and the window stood a small table at which a secretary, now absent,

usually sat. And here again, as in all the other rooms, one found a

gilded pier table surmounted by a crucifix flanked by a pair of lamps. In

a corner too there was a large clock, loudly ticking in its ebony case

incrusted with brass-work. Still there was nothing to awaken curiosity

under the panelled and gilded ceiling unless it were the wall-hangings of

red damask, on which yellow scutcheons displaying the Keys and the Tiara

alternated with armorial lions, each with a paw resting on a globe.

Signor Squadra, however, now noticed that Pierre still carried his hat in

his hand, whereas according to etiquette he should have left it in the

hall of the /bussolanti/, only cardinals being privileged to carry their

hats with them into the Pope's presence. Accordingly he discreetly took

the young priest's from him, and deposited it on the pier table to

indicate that it must at least remain there. Then, without a word, by a

simple bow he gave Pierre to understand that he was about to announce him

to his Holiness, and that he must be good enough to wait for a few

minutes in that room.

On being left to himself Pierre drew a long breath. He was stifling; his

heart was beating as though it would burst. Nevertheless his mind

remained clear, and in spite of the semi-obscurity he had been able to

form some idea of the famous and magnificent apartments of the Pope, a

suite of splendid /salons/ with tapestried or silken walls, gilded or

painted friezes, and frescoed ceilings. By way of furniture, however,

there were only pier table, stools,* and thrones. And the lamps and the

clocks, and the crucifixes, even the thrones, were all presents brought

from the four quarters of the world in the great fervent days of jubilee.

There was no sign of comfort, everything was pompous, stiff, cold, and

inconvenient. All olden Italy was there, with its perpetual display and

lack of intimate, cosy life. It had been necessary to lay a few carpets

over the superb marble slabs which froze one's feet; and some

/caloriferes/ had even lately been installed, but it was not thought

prudent to light them lest the variations of temperature should give the

Pope a cold. However, that which more particularly struck Pierre now that

he stood there waiting was the extraordinary silence which prevailed all

around, silence so deep that it seemed as if all the dark quiescence of

that huge, somniferous Vatican were concentrated in that one suite of

lifeless, sumptuous rooms, which the motionless flamelets of the lamps as

dimly illumined.

* M. Zola seems to have fallen into error here. Many of the seats,

which are of peculiar antique design, do, in the lower part,

resemble stools, but they have backs, whereas a stool proper has

none. Briefly, these seats, which are entirely of wood, are not

unlike certain old-fashioned hall chairs.--Trans.

All at once the ebony clock struck nine and the young man felt

astonished. What! had only ten minutes elapsed since he had crossed the

threshold of the bronze doors below? He felt as if he had been walking on

for days and days. Then, desiring to overcome the nervous feeling which

oppressed him--for he ever feared lest his enforced calmness should

collapse amidst a flood of tears--he began to walk up and down, passing

in front of the clock, glancing at the crucifix on the pier table, and

the globe of the lamp on which had remained the mark of a servant's

greasy fingers. And the light was so faint and yellow that he felt

inclined to turn the lamp up, but did not dare. Then he found himself

with his brow resting against one of the panes of the window facing the

Piazza of St. Peter's, and for a moment he was thunderstruck, for between

the imperfectly closed shutters he could see all Rome, as he had seen it

one day from the /loggie/ of Raffaelle, and as he had pictured Leo XIII

contemplating it from the window of his bed-room. However, it was now

Rome by night, Rome spreading out into the depths of the gloom, as

limitless as the starry sky. And in that sea of black waves one could

only with certainty identify the larger thoroughfares which the white

brightness of electric lights turned, as it were, into Milky Ways. All

the rest showed but a swarming of little yellow sparks, the crumbs, as it

were, of a half-extinguished heaven swept down upon the earth. Occasional

constellations of bright stars, tracing mysterious figures, vainly

endeavoured to show forth distinctly, but they were submerged, blotted

out by the general chaos which suggested the dust of some old planet that

had crumbled there, losing its splendour and reduced to mere

phosphorescent sand. And how immense was the blackness thus sprinkled

with light, how huge the mass of obscurity and mystery into which the

Eternal City with its seven and twenty centuries, its ruins, its

monuments, its people, its history seemed to have been merged. You could

no longer tell where it began or where it ended, whether it spread to the

farthest recesses of the gloom, or whether it were so reduced that the

sun on rising would illumine but a little pile of ashes.

However, in spite of all Pierre's efforts, his nervous anguish increased

each moment, even in presence of that ocean of darkness which displayed

such sovereign quiescence. He drew away from the window and quivered from

head to foot on hearing a faint footfall and thinking it was that of

Signor Squadra approaching to fetch him. The sound came from an adjacent

apartment, the little throne-room, whose door, he now perceived, had

remained ajar. And at last, as he heard nothing further, he yielded to

his feverish impatience and peeped into this room which he found to be

fairly spacious, again hung with red damask, and containing a gilded

arm-chair, covered with red velvet under a canopy of the same material.

And again there was the inevitable pier table, with a tall ivory

crucifix, a clock, a pair of lamps, a pair of candelabra, a pair of large

vases on pedestals, and two smaller ones of Sevres manufacture decorated

with the Holy Father's portrait. At the same time, however, the room

displayed rather more comfort, for a Smyrna carpet covered the whole of

the marble floor, while a few arm-chairs stood against the walls, and an

imitation chimney-piece, draped with damask, served as counterpart to the

pier table. As a rule the Pope, whose bed-chamber communicated with this

little throne-room, received in the latter such persons as he desired to

honour. And Pierre's shiver became more pronounced at the idea that in

all likelihood he would merely have the throne-room to cross and that Leo

XIII was yonder behind its farther door. Why was he kept waiting, he

wondered? He had been told of mysterious audiences granted at a similar

hour to personages who had been received in similar silent fashion, great

personages whose names were only mentioned in the lowest whispers. With

regard to himself no doubt, it was because he was considered compromising

that there was a desire to receive him in this manner unknown to the

personages of the Court, and so as to speak with him at ease. Then, all

at once, he understood the cause of the noise he had recently heard, for

beside the lamp on the pier table of the little throne-room he saw a kind

of butler's tray containing some soiled plates, knives, forks, and

spoons, with a bottle and a glass, which had evidently just been removed

from a supper table. And he realised that Signor Squadra, having seen

these things in the Pope's room, had brought them there, and had then

gone in again, perhaps to tidy up. He knew also of the Pope's frugality,

how he took his meals all alone at a little round table, everything being

brought to him in that tray, a plate of meat, a plate of vegetables, a

little Bordeaux claret as prescribed by his doctor, and a large allowance

of beef broth of which he was very fond. In the same way as others might

offer a cup of tea, he was wont to offer cups of broth to the old

cardinals his friends and favourites, quite an invigorating little treat

which these old bachelors much enjoyed. And, O ye orgies of Alexander VI,

ye banquets and /galas/ of Julius II and Leo X, only eight /lire/ a

day--six shillings and fourpence--were allowed to defray the cost of Leo

XIII's table! However, just as that recollection occurred to Pierre, he

again heard a slight noise, this time in his Holiness's bed-chamber, and

thereupon, terrified by his indiscretion, he hastened to withdraw from

the entrance of the throne-room which, lifeless and quiescent though it

was, seemed in his agitation to flare as with sudden fire.

Then, quivering too violently to be able to remain still, he began to

walk up and down the ante-chamber. He remembered that Narcisse had spoken

to him of that Signor Squadra, his Holiness's cherished valet, whose

importance and influence were so great. He alone, on reception days, was

able to prevail on the Pope to don a clean cassock if the one he was

wearing happened to be soiled by snuff. And though his Holiness

stubbornly shut himself up alone in his bed-room every night from a

spirit of independence, which some called the anxiety of a miser

determined to sleep alone with his treasure, Signor Squadra at all events

occupied an adjoining chamber, and was ever on the watch, ready to

respond to the faintest call. Again, it was he who respectfully

intervened whenever his Holiness sat up too late or worked too long. But

on this point it was difficult to induce the Pope to listen to reason.

During his hours of insomnia he would often rise and send Squadra to

fetch a secretary in order that he might detail some memoranda or sketch

out an encyclical letter. When the drafting of one of the latter

impassioned him he would have spent days and nights over it, just as

formerly, when claiming proficiency in Latin verse, he had often let the

dawn surprise him whilst he was polishing a line. But, indeed, he slept

very little, his brain ever being at work, ever scheming out the

realisation of some former ideas. His memory alone seemed to have

slightly weakened during recent times.

Pierre, as he slowly paced to and fro, gradually became absorbed in his

thoughts of that lofty and sovereign personality. From the petty details

of the Pope's daily existence, he passed to his intellectual life, to the

/role/ which he was certainly bent on playing as a great pontiff. And

Pierre asked himself which of his two hundred and fifty-seven

predecessors, the long line of saints and criminals, men of mediocrity

and men of genius, he most desired to resemble. Was it one of the first

humble popes, those who followed on during the first three centuries,

mere heads of burial guilds, fraternal pastors of the Christian

community? Was it Pope Damasus, the first great builder, the man of

letters who took delight in intellectual matters, the ardent believer who

is said to have opened the Catacombs to the piety of the faithful? Was it

Leo III, who by crowning Charlemagne boldly consummated the rupture with

the schismatic East and conveyed the Empire to the West by the

all-powerful will of God and His Church, which thenceforth disposed of

the crowns of monarchs? Was it the terrible Gregory VII, the purifier of

the temple, the sovereign of kings; was it Innocent III or Boniface VIII,

those masters of souls, nations, and thrones, who, armed with the fierce

weapon of excommunication, reigned with such despotism over the terrified

middle ages that Catholicism was never nearer the attainment of its dream

of universal dominion? Was it Urban II or Gregory IX or another of those

popes in whom flared the red Crusading passion which urged the nations on

to the conquest of the unknown and the divine? Was it Alexander III, who

defended the Holy See against the Empire, and at last conquered and set

his foot on the neck of Frederick Barbarossa? Was it, long after the

sorrows of Avignon, Julius II, who wore the cuirass and once more

strengthened the political power of the papacy? Was it Leo X, the

pompous, glorious patron of the Renascence, of a whole great century of

art, whose mind, however, was possessed of so little penetration and

foresight that he looked on Luther as a mere rebellious monk? Was it Pius

V, who personified dark and avenging reaction, the fire of the stakes

that punished the heretic world? Was it some other of the popes who

reigned after the Council of Trent with faith absolute, belief

re-established in its full integrity, the Church saved by pride and the

stubborn upholding of every dogma? Or was it a pope of the decline, such

as Benedict XIV, the man of vast intelligence, the learned theologian

who, as his hands were tied, and he could not dispose of the kingdoms of

the world, spent a worthy life in regulating the affairs of heaven?

In this wise, in Pierre's mind there spread out the whole history of the

popes, the most prodigious of all histories, showing fortune in every

guise, the lowest, the most wretched, as well as the loftiest and most

dazzling; whilst an obstinate determination to live enabled the papacy to

survive everything--conflagrations, massacres, and the downfall of many

nations, for always did it remain militant and erect in the persons of

its popes, that most extraordinary of all lines of absolute, conquering,

and domineering sovereigns, every one of them--even the puny and

humble--masters of the world, every one of them glorious with the

imperishable glory of heaven when they were thus evoked in that ancient

Vatican, where their spirits assuredly awoke at night and prowled about

the endless galleries and spreading halls in that tomb-like silence whose

quiver came no doubt from the light touch of their gliding steps over the

marble slabs.

However, Pierre was now thinking that he indeed knew which of the great

popes Leo XIII most desired to resemble. It was first Gregory the Great,

the conqueror and organiser of the early days of Catholic power. He had

come of ancient Roman stock, and in his heart there was a little of the

blood of the emperors. He administered Rome after it had been saved from

the Goths, cultivated the ecclesiastical domains, and divided earthly

wealth into thirds, one for the poor, one for the clergy, and one for the

Church. Then too he was the first to establish the Propaganda, sending

his priests forth to civilise and pacify the nations, and carrying his

conquests so far as to win Great Britain over to the divine law of

Christ. And the second pope whom Leo XIII took as model was one who had

arisen after a long lapse of centuries, Sixtus V, the pope financier and

politician, the vine-dresser's son, who, when he had donned the tiara,

revealed one of the most extensive and supple minds of a period fertile

in great diplomatists. He heaped up treasure and displayed stern avarice,

in order that he might ever have in his coffers all the money needful for

war or for peace. He spent years and years in negotiations with kings,

never despairing of his own triumph; and never did he display open

hostility for his times, but took them as they were and then sought to

modify them in accordance with the interests of the Holy See, showing

himself conciliatory in all things and with every one, already dreaming

of an European balance of power which he hoped to control. And withal a

very saintly pope, a fervent mystic, yet a pope of the most absolute and

domineering mind blended with a politician ready for whatever courses

might most conduce to the rule of God's Church on earth.

And, after all, Pierre amidst his rising enthusiasm, which despite his

efforts at calmness was sweeping away all prudence and doubt, Pierre

asked himself why he need question the past. Was not Leo XIII the pope

whom he had depicted in his book, the great pontiff, who was desired and

expected? No doubt the portrait which he had sketched was not accurate in

every detail, but surely its main lines must be correct if mankind were

to retain a hope of salvation. Whole pages of that book of his arose

before him, and he again beheld the Leo XIII that he had portrayed, the

wise and conciliatory politician, labouring for the unity of the Church

and so anxious to make it strong and invincible against the day of the

inevitable great struggle. He again beheld him freed from the cares of

the temporal power, elevated, radiant with moral splendour, the only

authority left erect above the nations; he beheld him realising what

mortal danger would be incurred if the solution of the social question

were left to the enemies of Christianity, and therefore resolving to

intervene in contemporary quarrels for the defence of the poor and the

lowly, even as Jesus had intervened once before. And he again beheld him

putting himself on the side of the democracies, accepting the Republic in

France, leaving the dethroned kings in exile, and verifying the

prediction which promised the empire of the world to Rome once more when

the papacy should have unified belief and have placed itself at the head

of the people. The times indeed were near accomplishment, Caesar was

struck down, the Pope alone remained, and would not the people, the great

silent multitude, for whom the two powers had so long contended, give

itself to its Father now that it knew him to be both just and charitable,

with heart aglow and hand outstretched to welcome all the penniless

toilers and beggars of the roads! Given the catastrophe which threatened

our rotten modern societies, the frightful misery which ravaged every

city, there was surely no other solution possible: Leo XIII, the

predestined, necessary redeemer, the pastor sent to save the flock from

coming disaster by re-establishing the true Christian community, the

forgotten golden age of primitive Christianity. The reign of justice

would at last begin, all men would be reconciled, there would be but one

nation living in peace and obeying the equalising law of work, under the

high patronage of the Pope, sole bond of charity and love on earth!

And at this thought Pierre was upbuoyed by fiery enthusiasm. At last he

was about to see the Holy Father, empty his heart and open his soul to

him! He had so long and so passionately looked for the advent of that

moment! To secure it he had fought with all his courage through ever

recurring obstacles, and the length and difficulty of the struggle and

the success now at last achieved, increased his feverishness, his desire

for final victory. Yes, yes, he would conquer, he would confound his

enemies. As he had said to Monsignor Fornaro, could the Pope disavow him?

Had he not expressed the Holy Father's secret ideas? Perhaps he might

have done so somewhat prematurely, but was not that a fault to be

forgiven? And then too, he remembered his declaration to Monsignor Nani,

that he himself would never withdraw and suppress his book, for he

neither regretted nor disowned anything that was in it. At this very

moment he again questioned himself, and felt that all his valour and

determination to defend his book, all his desire to work the triumph of

his belief, remained intact. Yet his mental perturbation was becoming

great, he had to seek for ideas, wondering how he should enter the Pope's

presence, what he should say, what precise terms he should employ.

Something heavy and mysterious which he could hardly account for seemed

to weigh him down. At bottom he was weary, already exhausted, only held

up by his dream, his compassion for human misery. However, he would enter

in all haste, he would fall upon his knees and speak as he best could,

letting his heart flow forth. And assuredly the Holy Father would smile

on him, and dismiss him with a promise that he would not sign the

condemnation of a work in which he had found the expression of his own

most cherished thoughts.

Then, again, such an acute sensation as of fainting came over Pierre that

he went up to the window to press his burning brow against the cold

glass. His ears were buzzing, his legs staggering, whilst his brain

throbbed violently. And he was striving to forget his thoughts by gazing

upon the black immensity of Rome, longing to be steeped in night himself,

total, healing night, the night in which one sleeps on for ever, knowing

neither pain nor wretchedness, when all at once he became conscious that

somebody was standing behind him; and thereupon, with a start, he turned

round.

And there, indeed, stood Signor Squadra in his black livery. Again he

made one of his customary bows to invite the visitor to follow him, and

again he walked on in front, crossing the little throne-room, and slowly

opening the farther door. Then he drew aside, allowed Pierre to enter,

and noiselessly closed the door behind him.

Pierre was in his Holiness's bed-room. He had feared one of those

overwhelming attacks of emotion which madden or paralyse one. He had been

told of women reaching the Pope's presence in a fainting condition,

staggering as if intoxicated, while others came with a rush, as though

upheld and borne along by invisible pinions. And suddenly the anguish of

his own spell of waiting, his intense feverishness, ceased in a sort of

astonishment, a reaction which rendered him very calm and so restored his

clearness of vision, that he could see everything. As he entered he

distinctly realised the decisive importance of such an audience, he, a

mere petty priest in presence of the Supreme Pontiff, the Head of the

Church. All his religious and moral life would depend on it; and possibly

it was this sudden thought that thus chilled him on the threshold of the

redoubtable sanctuary, which he had approached with such quivering steps,

and which he would not have thought to enter otherwise than with

distracted heart and loss of senses, unable to do more than stammer the

simple prayers of childhood.

Later on, when he sought to classify his recollections he remembered that

his eyes had first lighted on Leo XIII, not, however, to the exclusion of

his surroundings, but in conjunction with them, that spacious room hung

with yellow damask whose alcove, adorned with fluted marble columns, was

so deep that the bed was quite hidden away in it, as well as other

articles of furniture, a couch, a wardrobe, and some trunks, those famous

trunks in which the treasure of the Peter's Pence was said to be securely

locked. A sort of Louis XIV writing-desk with ornaments of engraved brass

stood face to face with a large gilded and painted Louis XV pier table on

which a lamp was burning beside a lofty crucifix. The room was virtually

bare, only three arm-chairs and four or five other chairs, upholstered in

light silk, being disposed here and there over the well-worn carpet. And

on one of the arm-chairs sat Leo XIII, near a small table on which

another lamp with a shade had been placed. Three newspapers, moreover,

lay there, two of them French and one Italian, and the last was half

unfolded as if the Pope had momentarily turned from it to stir a glass of

syrup, standing beside him, with a long silver-gilt spoon.

In the same way as Pierre saw the Pope's room, he saw his costume, his

cassock of white cloth with white buttons, his white skull-cap, his white

cape and his white sash fringed with gold and broidered at either end

with golden keys. His stockings were white, his slippers were of red

velvet, and these again were broidered with golden keys. What surprised

the young priest, however, was his Holiness's face and figure, which now

seemed so shrunken that he scarcely recognised them. This was his fourth

meeting with the Pope. He had seen him walking in the Vatican gardens,

enthroned in the Hall of Beatifications, and pontifying at St. Peter's,

and now he beheld him on that arm-chair, in privacy, and looking so

slight and fragile that he could not restrain a feeling of affectionate

anxiety. Leo's neck was particularly remarkable, slender beyond belief,

suggesting the neck of some little, aged, white bird. And his face, of

the pallor of alabaster, was characteristically transparent, to such a

degree, indeed, that one could see the lamplight through his large

commanding nose, as if the blood had entirely withdrawn from that organ.

A mouth of great length, with white bloodless lips, streaked the lower

part of the papal countenance, and the eyes alone had remained young and

handsome. Superb eyes they were, brilliant like black diamonds, endowed

with sufficient penetration and strength to lay souls open and force them

to confess the truth aloud. Some scanty white curls emerged from under

the white skull-cap, thus whitely crowning the thin white face, whose

ugliness was softened by all this whiteness, this spiritual whiteness in

which Leo XIII's flesh seemed as it were but pure lily-white florescence.

At the first glance, however, Pierre noticed that if Signor Squadra had

kept him waiting, it had not been in order to compel the Holy Father to

don a clean cassock, for the one he was wearing was badly soiled by

snuff. A number of brown stains had trickled down the front of the

garment beside the buttons, and just like any good /bourgeois/, his

Holiness had a handkerchief on his knees to wipe himself. Apart from all

this he seemed in good health, having recovered from his recent

indisposition as easily as he usually recovered from such passing

illnesses, sober, prudent old man that he was, quite free from organic

disease, and simply declining by reason of progressive natural

exhaustion.

Immediately on entering Pierre had felt that the Pope's sparkling eyes,

those two black diamonds, were fixed upon him. The silence was profound,

and the lamps burned with motionless, pallid flames. He had to approach,

and after making the three genuflections prescribed by etiquette, he

stooped over one of the Pope's feet resting on a cushion in order to kiss

the red velvet slipper. And on the Pope's side there was not a word, not

a gesture, not a movement. When the young man drew himself up again he

found the two black diamonds, those two eyes which were all brightness

and intelligence, still riveted on him.

But at last Leo XIII, who had been unwilling to spare the young priest

the humble duty of kissing his foot and who now left him standing, began

to speak, whilst still examining him, probing, as it were, his very soul.

"My son," he said, "you greatly desired to see me, and I consented to

afford you that satisfaction."

He spoke in French, somewhat uncertain French, pronounced after the

Italian fashion, and so slowly did he articulate each sentence that one

could have written it down like so much dictation. And his voice, as

Pierre had previously noticed, was strong and nasal, one of those full

voices which people are surprised to hear coming from debile and

apparently bloodless and breathless frames.

In response to the Holy Father's remark Pierre contented himself with

bowing, knowing that respect required him to wait for a direct answer

before speaking. However, this question promptly came. "You live in

Paris?" asked Leo XIII.

"Yes, Holy Father."

"Are you attached to one of the great parishes of the city?"

"No, Holy Father. I simply officiate at the little church of Neuilly."

"Ah, yes, Neuilly, that is in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, is

it not? And how old are you, my son?"

"Thirty-four, Holy Father."

A short interval followed. Leo XIII had at last lowered his eyes. With

frail, ivory hand he took up the glass beside him, again stirred the

syrup with the long spoon, and then drank a little of it. And all this he

did gently and slowly, with a prudent, judicious air, as was his wont no

doubt in everything. "I have read your book, my son," he resumed. "Yes,

the greater part of it. As a rule only fragments are submitted to me. But

a person who is interested in you handed me the volume, begging me to

glance through it. And that is how I was able to look into it."

As he spoke he made a slight gesture in which Pierre fancied he could

detect a protest against the isolation in which he was kept by those

surrounding him, who, as Monsignor Nani had said, maintained a strict

watch in order that nothing they objected to might reach him. And

thereupon the young priest ventured to say: "I thank your Holiness for

having done me so much honour. No greater or more desired happiness could

have befallen me." He was indeed so happy! On seeing the Pope so calm, so

free from all signs of anger, and on hearing him speak in that way of his

book, like one well acquainted with it, he imagined that his cause was

won.

"You are in relations with Monsieur le Vicomte Philibert de la Choue, are

you not, my son?" continued Leo XIII. "I was struck by the resemblance

between some of your ideas and those of that devoted servant of the

Church, who has in other ways given us previous testimony of his good

feelings."

"Yes, indeed, Holy Father, Monsieur de la Choue is kind enough to show me

some affection. We have often talked together, so it is not surprising

that I should have given expression to some of his most cherished ideas."

"No doubt, no doubt. For instance, there is that question of the

working-class guilds with which he largely occupies himself--with which,

in fact, he occupies himself rather too much. At the time of his last

journey to Rome he spoke to me of it in the most pressing manner. And in

the same way, quite recently, another of your compatriots, one of the

best and worthiest of men, Monsieur le Baron de Fouras, who brought us

that superb pilgrimage of the St. Peter's Pence Fund, never ceased his

efforts until I consented to receive him, when he spoke to me on the same

subject during nearly an hour. Only it must be said that they do not

agree in the matter, for one begs me to do things which the other will

not have me do on any account."

Pierre realised that the conversation was straying away from his book,

but he remembered having promised the Viscount that if he should see the

Pope he would make an attempt to obtain from him a decisive expression of

opinion on the famous question as to whether the working-class guilds or

corporations should be free or obligatory, open or closed. And the

unhappy Viscount, kept in Paris by the gout, had written the young priest

letter after letter on the subject, whilst his rival the Baron, availing

himself of the opportunity offered by the international pilgrimage,

endeavoured to wring from the Pope an approval of his own views, with

which he would have returned in triumph to France. Pierre conscientiously

desired to keep his promise, and so he answered: "Your Holiness knows

better than any of us in which direction true wisdom lies. Monsieur de

Fouras is of opinion that salvation, the solution of the labour question,

lies simply in the re-establishment of the old free corporations, whilst

Monsieur de la Choue desires the corporations to be obligatory, protected

by the state and governed by new regulations. This last conception is

certainly more in agreement with the social ideas now prevalent in

France. Should your Holiness condescend to express a favourable opinion

in that sense, the young French Catholic party would certainly know how

to turn it to good result, by producing quite a movement of the working

classes in favour of the Church."

In his quiet way Leo XIII responded: "But I cannot. Frenchmen always ask

things of me which I cannot, will not do. What I will allow you to say on

my behalf to Monsieur de la Choue is, that though I cannot content him I

have not contented Monsieur de Fouras. He obtained from me nothing beyond

the expression of my sincere good-will for the French working classes,

who are so dear to me and who can do so much for the restoration of the

faith. You must surely understand, however, that among you Frenchmen

there are questions of detail, of mere organisation, so to say, into

which I cannot possibly enter without imparting to them an importance

which they do not have, and at the same time greatly discontenting some

people should I please others."

As the Pope pronounced these last words he smiled a pale smile, in which

the shrewd, conciliatory politician, who was determined not to allow his

infallibility to be compromised in useless and risky ventures, was fully

revealed. And then he drank a little more syrup and wiped his mouth with

his handkerchief, like a sovereign whose Court day is over and who takes

his ease, having chosen this hour of solitude and silence to chat as long

as he may be so inclined.

Pierre, however, sought to bring him back to the subject of his book.

"Monsieur de la Choue," said he, "has shown me so much kindness and is so

anxious to know the fate reserved to my book--as if, indeed, it were his

own--that I should have been very happy to convey to him an expression of

your Holiness's approval."

However, the Pope continued wiping his mouth and did not reply.

"I became acquainted with the Viscount," continued Pierre, "at the

residence of his Eminence Cardinal Bergerot, another great heart whose

ardent charity ought to suffice to restore the faith in France."

This time the effect was immediate. "Ah! yes, Monsieur le Cardinal

Bergerot!" said Leo XIII. "I read that letter of his which is printed at

the beginning of your book. He was very badly inspired in writing it to

you; and you, my son, acted very culpably on the day you published it. I

cannot yet believe that Monsieur le Cardinal Bergerot had read some of

your pages when he sent you an expression of his complete and full

approval. I prefer to charge him with ignorance and thoughtlessness. How

could he approve of your attacks on dogma, your revolutionary theories

which tend to the complete destruction of our holy religion? If it be a

fact that he had read your book, the only excuse he can invoke is sudden

and inexplicable aberration. It is true that a very bad spirit prevails

among a small portion of the French clergy. What are called Gallican

ideas are ever sprouting up like noxious weeds; there is a malcontent

Liberalism rebellious to our authority which continually hungers for free

examination and sentimental adventures."

The Pope grew animated as he spoke. Italian words mingled with his

hesitating French, and every now and again his full nasal voice resounded

with the sonority of a brass instrument. "Monsieur le Cardinal Bergerot,"

he continued, "must be given to understand that we shall crush him on the

day when we see in him nothing but a rebellious son. He owes the example

of obedience; we shall acquaint him with our displeasure, and we hope

that he will submit. Humility and charity are great virtues doubtless,

and we have always taken pleasure in recognising them in him. But they

must not be the refuge of a rebellious heart, for they are as nothing

unless accompanied by obedience--obedience, obedience, the finest

adornment of the great saints!"