penetrating eyes, and finally made him sit down again and did the same
himself. "I feel sure," he said, "that you will go to pay your respects
to Cardinal Bergerot as soon as you have returned to France. Kindly tell
him that I respectfully desired to be reminded to him. I knew him a
little at the time when he came here for his hat. He is one of the great
luminaries of the French clergy. Ah! a man of such intelligence would
only work for a good understanding in our holy Church. Unfortunately I
fear that race and environment have instilled prejudices into him, for he
does not always help us."
Pierre, who was surprised to hear Nani speak of the Cardinal for the
first time at this moment of farewell, listened with curiosity. Then in
all frankness he replied: "Yes, his Eminence has very decided ideas about
our old Church of France. For instance, he professes perfect horror of
the Jesuits."
With a light exclamation Nani stopped the young man. And he wore the most
sincerely, frankly astonished air that could be imagined. "What! horror
of the Jesuits! In what way can the Jesuits disquiet him? The Jesuits,
there are none, that's all over! Have you seen any in Rome? Have they
troubled you in any way, those poor Jesuits who haven't even a stone of
their own left here on which to lay their heads? No, no, that bogey
mustn't be brought up again, it's childish."
Pierre in his turn looked at him, marvelling at his perfect ease, his
quiet courage in dealing with this burning subject. He did not avert his
eyes, but displayed an open face like a book of truth. "Ah!" he
continued, "if by Jesuits you mean the sensible priests who, instead of
entering into sterile and dangerous struggles with modern society, seek
by human methods to bring it back to the Church, why, then of course we
are all of us more or less Jesuits, for it would be madness not to take
into account the times in which one lives. And besides, I won't haggle
over words; they are of no consequence! Jesuits, well, yes, if you like,
Jesuits!" He was again smiling with that shrewd smile of his in which
there was so much raillery and so much intelligence. "Well, when you see
Cardinal Bergerot tell him that it is unreasonable to track the Jesuits
and treat them as enemies of the nation. The contrary is the truth. The
Jesuits are for France, because they are for wealth, strength, and
courage. France is the only great Catholic country which has yet remained
erect and sovereign, the only one on which the papacy can some day lean.
Thus the Holy Father, after momentarily dreaming of obtaining support
from victorious Germany, has allied himself with France, the vanquished,
because he has understood that apart from France there can be no
salvation for the Church. And in this he has only followed the policy of
the Jesuits, those frightful Jesuits, whom your Parisians execrate. And
tell Cardinal Bergerot also that it would be grand of him to work for
pacification by making people understand how wrong it is for your
Republic to help the Holy Father so little in his conciliatory efforts.
It pretends to regard him as an element in the world's affairs that may
be neglected; and that is dangerous, for although he may seem to have no
political means of action he remains an immense moral force, and can at
any moment raise consciences in rebellion and provoke a religious
agitation of the most far-reaching consequences. It is still he who
disposes of the nations, since he disposes of their souls, and the
Republic acts most inconsiderately, from the standpoint of its own
interests, in showing that it no longer even suspects it. And tell the
Cardinal too, that it is really pitiful to see in what a wretched way
your Republic selects its bishops, as though it intentionally desired to
weaken its episcopacy. Leaving out a few fortunate exceptions, your
bishops are men of small brains, and as a result your cardinals, likewise
mere mediocrities, have no influence, play no part here in Rome. Ah! what
a sorry figure you Frenchmen will cut at the next Conclave! And so why do
you show such blind and foolish hatred of those Jesuits, who,
politically, are your friends? Why don't you employ their intelligent
zeal, which is ready to serve you, so that you may assure yourselves the
help of the next, the coming pope? It is necessary for you that he should
be on your side, that he should continue the work of Leo XIII, which is
so badly judged and so much opposed, but which cares little for the petty
results of to-day, since its purpose lies in the future, in the union of
all the nations under their holy mother the Church. Tell Cardinal
Bergerot, tell him plainly that he ought to be with us, that he ought to
work for his country by working for us. The coming pope, why the whole
question lies in that, and woe to France if in him she does not find a
continuator of Leo XIII!"
Nani had again risen, and this time he was going off. Never before had he
unbosomed himself at such length. But most assuredly he had only said
what he desired to say, for a purpose that he alone knew of, and in a
firm, gentle, and deliberate voice by which one could tell that each word
had been weighed and determined beforehand. "Farewell, my dear son," he
said, "and once again think over all you have seen and heard in Rome. Be
as sensible as you can, and do not spoil your life."
Pierre bowed, and pressed the small, plump, supple hand which the prelate
offered him. "Monseigneur," he replied, "I again thank you for all your
kindness; you may be sure that I shall forget nothing of my journey."
Then he watched Nani as he went off, with a light and conquering step as
if marching to all the victories of the future. No, no, he, Pierre, would
forget nothing of his journey! He well knew that union of all the nations
under their holy mother the Church, that temporal bondage in which the
law of Christ would become the dictatorship of Augustus, master of the
world! And as for those Jesuits, he had no doubt that they did love
France, the eldest daughter of the Church, and the only daughter that
could yet help her mother to reconquer universal sovereignty, but they
loved her even as the black swarms of locusts love the harvests which
they swoop upon and devour. Infinite sadness had returned to the young
man's heart as he dimly realised that in that sorely-stricken mansion, in
all that mourning and downfall, it was they, they again, who must have
been the artisans of grief and disaster.
As this thought came to him he turned round and perceived Don Vigilio
leaning against the credence in front of the large portrait of the
Cardinal. Holding his hands to his face as if he desired to annihilate
himself, the secretary was shivering in every limb as much with fear as
with fever. At a moment when no fresh visitors were arriving he had
succumbed to an attack of terrified despair.
"/Mon Dieu/! What is the matter with you?" asked Pierre stepping forward,
"are you ill, can I help you?"
But Don Vigilio, suffocating and still hiding his face, could only gasp
between his close-pressed hands "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!"
"What is it? What has he done to you?" asked the other astonished.
Then the secretary disclosed his face, and again yielded to his quivering
desire to confide in some one. "Eh? what he has done to me? Can't you
feel anything, can't you see anything then? Didn't you notice the manner
in which he took possession of Cardinal Sanguinetti so as to conduct him
to his Eminence? To impose that suspected, hateful rival on his Eminence
at such a moment as this, what insolent audacity! And a few minutes
previously did you notice with what wicked cunning he bowed out an old
lady, a very old family friend, who only desired to kiss his Eminence's
hand and show a little real affection which would have made his Eminence
so happy! Ah! I tell you that he's the master here, he opens or closes
the door as he pleases, and holds us all between his fingers like a pinch
of dust which one throws to the wind!"
Pierre became anxious, seeing how yellow and feverish Don Vigilio was:
"Come, come, my dear fellow," he said, "you are exaggerating!"
"Exaggerating? Do you know what happened last night, what I myself
unwillingly witnessed? No, you don't know it; well, I will tell you."
Thereupon he related that Donna Serafina, on returning home on the
previous day to face the terrible catastrophe awaiting her, had already
been overcome by the bad news which she had learnt when calling on the
Cardinal Secretary and various prelates of her acquaintance. She had then
acquired a certainty that her brother's position was becoming extremely
bad, for he had made so many fresh enemies among his colleagues of the
Sacred College, that his election to the pontifical throne, which a year
previously had seemed probable, now appeared an impossibility. Thus, all
at once, the dream of her life collapsed, the ambition which she had so
long nourished lay in dust at her feet. On despairingly seeking the why
and wherefore of this change, she had been told of all sorts of blunders
committed by the Cardinal, acts of rough sternness, unseasonable
manifestations of opinion, inconsiderate words or actions which had
sufficed to wound people, in fact such provoking demeanour that one might
have thought it adopted with the express intention of spoiling
everything. And the worst was that in each of the blunders she had
recognised errors of judgment which she herself had blamed, but which her
brother had obstinately insisted on perpetrating under the unacknowledged
influence of Abbe Paparelli, that humble and insignificant train-bearer,
in whom she detected a baneful and powerful adviser who destroyed her own
vigilant and devoted influence. And so, in spite of the mourning in which
the house was plunged, she did not wish to delay the punishment of the
traitor, particularly as his old friendship with that terrible Santobono,
and the story of that basket of figs which had passed from the hands of
the one to those of the other, chilled her blood with a suspicion which
she even recoiled from elucidating. However, at the first words she
spoke, directly she made a formal request that the traitor should be
immediately turned out of the house, she was confronted by invincible
resistance on her brother's part. He would not listen to her, but flew
into one of those hurricane-like passions which swept everything away,
reproaching her for laying blame on so modest, pious, and saintly a man,
and accusing her of playing into the hands of his enemies, who, after
killing Monsignor Gallo, were seeking to poison his sole remaining
affection for that poor, insignificant priest. He treated all the stories
he was told as abominable inventions, and swore that he would keep the
train-bearer in his service if only to show his disdain for calumny. And
she was thereupon obliged to hold her peace.
However, Don Vigilio's shuddering fit had again come back; he carried his
hands to his face stammering: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!" And muttered
invectives followed: the train-bearer was an artful hypocrite who feigned
modesty and humility, a vile spy appointed to pry into everything, listen
to everything, and pervert everything that went on in the palace; he was
a loathsome, destructive insect, feeding on the most noble prey,
devouring the lion's mane, a Jesuit--the Jesuit who is at once lackey and
tyrant, in all his base horror as he accomplishes the work of vermin.
"Calm yourself, calm yourself," repeated Pierre, who whilst allowing for
foolish exaggeration on the secretary's part could not help shivering at
thought of all the threatening things which he himself could divine astir
in the gloom.
However, since Don Vigilio had so narrowly escaped eating those horrible
figs, his fright was such that nothing could calm it. Even when he was
alone at night, in bed, with his door locked and bolted, sudden terror
fell on him and made him hide his head under the sheet and vent stifled
cries as if he thought that men were coming through the wall to strangle
him. In a faint, breathless voice, as if just emerging from a struggle,
he now resumed: "I told you what would happen on the evening when we had
a talk together in your room. Although all the doors were securely shut,
I did wrong to speak of them to you, I did wrong to ease my heart by
telling you all that they were capable of. I was sure they would learn
it, and you see they did learn it, since they tried to kill me. . . . Why
it's even wrong of me to tell you this, for it will reach their ears and
they won't miss me the next time. Ah! it's all over, I'm as good as dead;
this house which I thought so safe will be my tomb."
Pierre began to feel deep compassion for this ailing man, whose feverish
brain was haunted by nightmares, and whose life was being finally wrecked
by the anguish of persecution mania. "But you must run away in that
case!" he said. "Don't stop here; come to France."
Don Vigilio looked at him, momentarily calmed by surprise. "Run away,
why? Go to France? Why, they are there! No matter where I might go, they
would be there. They are everywhere, I should always be surrounded by
them! No, no, I prefer to stay here and would rather die at once if his
Eminence can no longer defend me." With an expression of ardent entreaty
in which a last gleam of hope tried to assert itself, he raised his eyes
to the large painting in which the Cardinal stood forth resplendent in
his cassock of red moire; but his attack came back again and overwhelmed
him with increased intensity of fever. "Leave me, I beg you, leave me,"
he gasped. "Don't make me talk any more. Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli! If he
should come back and see us and hear me speak. . . . Oh! I'll never say
anything again. I'll tie up my tongue, I'll cut it off. Leave me, you are
killing me, I tell you, he'll be coming back and that will mean my death.
Go away, oh! for mercy's sake, go away!"
Thereupon Don Vigilio turned towards the wall as if to flatten his face
against it, and immure his lips in tomb-like silence; and Pierre resolved
to leave him to himself, fearing lest he should provoke a yet more
serious attack if he went on endeavouring to succour him.
On returning to the throne-room the young priest again found himself
amidst all the frightful mourning. Mass was following mass; without
cessation murmured prayers entreated the divine mercy to receive the two
dear departed souls with loving kindness. And amidst the dying perfume of
the fading roses, in front of the pale stars of the lighted candles,
Pierre thought of that supreme downfall of the Boccaneras. Dario was the
last of the name, and one could well understand that the Cardinal, whose
only sin was family pride, should have loved that one remaining scion by
whom alone the old stock might yet blossom afresh. And indeed, if he and
Donna Serafina had desired the divorce, and then the marriage of the
cousins, it had been less with the view of putting an end to scandal than
with the hope of seeing a new line of Boccaneras spring up. But the
lovers were dead, and the last remains of a long series of dazzling
princes of sword and of gown lay there on that bed, soon to rot in the
grave. It was all over; that old maid and that aged Cardinal could leave
no posterity. They remained face to face like two withered oaks, sole
remnants of a vanished forest, and their fall would soon leave the plain
quite clear. And how terrible the grief of surviving in impotence, what
anguish to have to tell oneself that one is the end of everything, that
with oneself all life, all hope for the morrow will depart! Amidst the
murmur of the prayers, the dying perfume of the roses, the pale gleams of
the two candies, Pierre realised what a downfall was that bereavement,
how heavy was the gravestone which fell for ever on an extinct house, a
vanished world.
He well understood that as one of the familiars of the mansion he must
pay his respects to Donna Serafina and the Cardinal, and he at once
sought admission to the neighbouring room where the Princess was
receiving her friends. He found her robed in black, very slim and very
erect in her arm-chair, whence she rose with slow dignity to respond to
the bow of each person that entered. She listened to the condolences but
answered never a word, overcoming her physical pain by rigidity of
bearing. Pierre, who had learnt to know her, could divine, however, by
the hollowness of her cheeks, the emptiness of her eyes, and the bitter
twinge of her mouth, how frightful was the collapse within her. Not only
was her race ended, but her brother would never be pope, never secure the
elevation which she had so long fancied she was winning for him by dint
of devotion, dint of feminine renunciation, giving brain and heart, care
and money, foregoing even wifehood and motherhood, spoiling her whole
life, in order to realise that dream. And amidst all the ruin of hope, it
was perhaps the nonfulfilment of that ambition which most made her heart
bleed. She rose for the young priest, her guest, as she rose for the
other persons who presented themselves; but she contrived to introduce
shades of meaning into the manner in which she quitted her chair, and
Pierre fully realised that he had remained in her eyes a mere petty
French priest, an insignificant domestic of the Divinity who had not
known how to acquire even the title of prelate. When she had again seated
herself after acknowledging his compliment with a slight inclination of
the head, he remained for a moment standing, out of politeness. Not a
word, not a sound disturbed the mournful quiescence of the room, for
although there were four or five lady visitors seated there they remained
motionless and silent as with grief. Pierre was most struck, however, by
the sight of Cardinal Sarno, who was lying back in an arm-chair with his
eyes closed. The poor puny lopsided old man had lingered there
forgetfully after expressing his condolences, and, overcome by the heavy
silence and close atmosphere, had just fallen asleep. And everybody
respected his slumber. Was he dreaming as he dozed of that map of
Christendom which he carried behind his low obtuse-looking brow? Was he
continuing in dreamland his terrible work of conquest, that task of
subjecting and governing the earth which he directed from his dark room
at the Propaganda? The ladies glanced at him affectionately and
deferentially; he was gently scolded at times for over-working himself,
the sleepiness which nowadays frequently overtook him in all sorts of
places being attributed to excess of genius and zeal. And of this
all-powerful Eminence Pierre was destined to carry off only this last
impression: an exhausted old man, resting amidst the emotion of a
mourning-gathering, sleeping there like a candid child, without any one
knowing whether this were due to the approach of senile imbecility, or to
the fatigues of a night spent in organising the reign of God over some
distant continent.
Two ladies went off and three more arrived. Donna Serafina rose, bowed,
and then reseated herself, reverting to her rigid attitude, her bust
erect, her face stern and full of despair. Cardinal Sarno was still
asleep. Then Pierre felt as if he would stifle, a kind of vertigo came on
him, and his heart beat violently. So he bowed and withdrew: and on
passing through the dining-room on his way to the little study where
Cardinal Boccanera received his visitors, he found himself in the
presence of Paparelli who was jealously guarding the door. When the
train-bearer had sniffed at the young man, he seemed to realise that he
could not refuse him admittance. Moreover, as this intruder was going
away the very next day, defeated and covered with shame, there was
nothing to be feared from him.
"You wish to see his Eminence?" said Paparelli. "Good, good. By and by,
wait." And opining that Pierre was too near the door, he pushed him back
to the other end of the room, for fear no doubt lest he should overhear
anything. "His Eminence is still engaged with his Eminence Cardinal
Sanguinetti. Wait, wait there!"
Sanguinetti indeed had made a point of kneeling for a long time in front
of the bodies in the throne-room, and had then spun out his visit to
Donna Serafina in order to mark how largely he shared the family sorrow.
And for more than ten minutes now he had been closeted with Cardinal
Boccanera, nothing but an occasional murmur of their voices being heard
through the closed door.
Pierre, however, on finding Paparelli there, was again haunted by all
that Don Vigilio had told him. He looked at the train-bearer, so fat and
short, puffed out with bad fat in his dirty cassock, his face flabby and
wrinkled, and his whole person at forty years of age suggestive of that
of a very old maid: and he felt astonished. How was it that Cardinal
Boccanera, that superb prince who carried his head so high, and who was
so supremely proud of his name, had allowed himself to be captured and
swayed by such a frightful creature reeking of baseness and abomination?
Was it not the man's very physical degradation and profound humility that
had struck him, disturbed him, and finally fascinated him, as wondrous
gifts conducing to salvation, which he himself lacked? Paparelli's person
and disposition were like blows dealt to his own handsome presence and
his own pride. He, who could not be so deformed, he who could not
vanquish his passion for glory, must, by an effort of faith, have grown
jealous of that man who was so extremely ugly and so extremely
insignificant, he must have come to admire him as a superior force of
penitence and human abasement which threw the portals of heaven wide
open. Who can ever tell what ascendency is exercised by the monster over
the hero; by the horrid-looking saint covered with vermin over the
powerful of this world in their terror at having to endure everlasting
flames in payment of their terrestrial joys? And 'twas indeed the lion
devoured by the insect, vast strength and splendour destroyed by the
invisible. Ah! to have that fine soul which was so certain of paradise,
which for its welfare was enclosed in such a disgusting body, to possess
the happy humility of that wide intelligence, that remarkable theologian,
who scourged himself with rods each morning on rising, and was content to
be the lowest of servants.
Standing there a heap of livid fat, Paparelli on his side watched Pierre
with his little grey eyes blinking amidst the myriad wrinkles of his
face. And the young priest began to feel uneasy, wondering what their
Eminences could be saying to one another, shut up together like that for
so long a time. And what an interview it must be if Boccanera suspected
Sanguinetti of counting Santobono among his clients. What serene audacity
it was on Sanguinetti's part to have dared to present himself in that
house, and what strength of soul there must be on Boccanera's part, what
empire over himself, to prevent all scandal by remaining silent and
accepting the visit as a simple mark of esteem and affection! What could
they be saying to one another, however? How interesting it would have
been to have seen them face to face, and have heard them exchange the
diplomatic phrases suited to such an interview, whilst their souls were
raging with furious hatred!
All at once the door opened and Cardinal Sanguinetti appeared with calm
face, no ruddier than usual, indeed a trifle paler, and retaining the
fitting measure of sorrow which he had thought it right to assume. His
restless eyes alone revealed his delight at being rid of a difficult
task. And he was going off, all hope, in the conviction that he was the
only eligible candidate to the papacy that remained.
Abbe Paparelli had darted forward: "If your Eminence will kindly follow
me--I will escort your Eminence to the door." Then, turning towards
Pierre, he added: "You may go in now."
Pierre watched them walk away, the one so humble behind the other, who
was so triumphant. Then he entered the little work-room, furnished simply
with a table and three chairs, and in the centre of it he at once
perceived Cardinal Boccanera still standing in the lofty, noble attitude
which he had assumed to take leave of Sanguinetti, his hated rival to the
pontifical throne. And, visibly, Boccanera also believed himself the only
possible pope, the one whom the coming Conclave would elect.