Giovanni left the theatre at once, alone, and on foot. He was very much
agitated. He had done suddenly and unawares the thing of all others he
had determined never to do; his resolutions had been broken down and
carried away as an ineffectual barrier is swept to the sea by the floods
of spring. His heart had spoken in spite of him, and in speaking had
silenced every prompting of reason. He blamed himself bitterly, as he
strode out across the deserted bridge of Sant' Angelo and into the broad
gloom beyond, where the street widens from the fortress to the entrance
of the three Borghi: he walked on and on, finding at every step fresh
reason for self-reproach, and trying to understand what he had done. He
paused at the end of the open piazza and looked down towards the black
rushing river which he could hear, but hardly see; he turned into the
silent Borgo Santo Spirito, and passed along the endless wall of the
great hospital up to the colonnades, and still wandering on, he came to
the broad steps of St. Peter's and sat down, alone in the darkness, at
the foot of the stupendous pile.
He was perhaps not so much to blame as he was willing to allow in his
just anger against himself. Corona had tempted him sorely in that last
question she had put to him. She had not known, she had not even faintly
guessed what she was doing, for her own brain was intoxicated with a new
and indescribable sensation which had left no room for reflection nor for
weighing the force of words. But Giovanni, who had been willing to give
up everything, even to his personal liberty, for the sake of concealing
his love, would not allow himself any argument in extenuation of what he
had done. He had had but very few affairs of the heart in his life, and
they had been for the most part very insignificant, and his experience
was limited. Even now it never entered his mind to imagine that Corona
would condone his offence; he felt sure that she was deeply wounded, and
that his next meeting with her would be a terrible ordeal--so terrible,
indeed, that he doubted whether he had the courage to meet her at all.
His love was so great, and its object so sacred to him, that he hesitated
to conceive himself loved in return; perhaps if he had been able to
understand that Corona loved him he would have left Rome for ever, rather
than trouble her peace by his presence.
It would have been absolutely different if he had been paying court to
Donna Tullia, for instance. The feeling that he should be justified would
have lent him courage, and the coldness in his own heart would have left
his judgment free play. He could have watched her calmly, and would have
tried to take advantage of every mood in the prosecution of his suit. He
was a very honourable man, but he did not consider marriages of propriety
and convenience as being at all contrary to the ordinary standard of
social honour, and would have thought himself justified in using every
means of persuasion in order to win a woman whom, upon mature reflection,
he had judged suitable to become his wife, even though he felt no real
love for her. That is an idea inherent in most old countries, an idea for
which Giovanni Saracinesca was certainly in no way responsible, seeing
that it had been instilled into him from his boyhood. Personally he would
have preferred to live and die unmarried, rather than to take a wife as a
matter of obligation towards his family; but seeing that he had never
seriously loved any woman, he had acquired the habit of contemplating
such a marriage as a probability, perhaps as an ultimate necessity, to
be put off as long as possible, but to which he would at last yield with
a good grace.
But the current of his life had been turned. He was certainly not a
romantic character, not a man who desired to experience the external
sensations to be obtained by voluntarily creating dramatic events. He
loved action, and he had a taste for danger, but he had sought both in
a legitimate way; he never desired to implicate himself in adventures
where the feelings were concerned, and hitherto such experiences had
not fallen in his path. As is usual with such men, when love came at
last, it came with a strength such as boys of twenty do not dream of.
The mature man of thirty years, with his strong and dominant temper,
his carelessness of danger, his high and untried ideals of what a
true affection should be, resisting the first impressions of the
master-passion with the indifference of one accustomed to believe that
love could not come near his life, and was in general a thing to be
avoided--a man, moreover, who by his individual gifts and by his
brilliant position was able to command much that smaller men would
not dream of aspiring to,--such a man, in short, as Giovanni
Saracinesca,--was not likely to experience love-sickness in a mild
degree. Proud, despotic, and fiercely unyielding by his inheritance of
temper, he was outwardly gentle and courteous by acquired habit, a man
of those whom women easily love and men very generally fear.
He did not realise his own nature, he did not suspect the extremes of
feeling of which he was eminently capable. He had at first felt Corona's
influence, and her face and voice seemed to awaken in him a memory, which
was as yet but an anticipation, and not a real remembrance. It was as the
faint perfume of the spring wafted up to a prisoner in some stern
fortress, as the first gentle sweetness that rose from the enchanted
lakes of the cisalpine country to the nostrils of the war-hardened Goths
as they descended the last snow-slopes in their southern wandering--an
anticipation that seemed already a memory, a looking forward again to
something that had been already loved in a former state. Giovanni had
laughed at himself for it at first, then he had dreaded its growing
charm, and at the last he had fallen hopelessly under the spell,
retaining only enough of his former self to make him determined that the
harm which had come upon himself should not come near this woman whom he
so adored.
And behold, at the first provocation, the very first time that by a
careless word she had fired his blood and set his brain throbbing, he had
not only been unable to hide what he felt, but had spoken such words as
he would not have believed he could speak--so bluntly, so roughly, that
she had almost fainted before his very eyes.
She must have been very angry, he thought. Perhaps, too, she was
frightened. It was so rude, so utterly contrary to all that was
chivalrous to say thus at the first opportunity, "I love you"--just that
and nothing more. Giovanni had never thought much about it, but he
supposed that men in love, very seriously in love, must take a long time
to express themselves, as is the manner in books; whereas he was
horrified at his own bluntness in having blurted out rashly such words as
could never be taken back, as could never even be explained now, he
feared, because he had put himself beyond the pale of all explanation,
perhaps beyond the reach of forgiveness.
Nobody ever yet explained away the distinct statement "I love you," upon
any pretence of a mistake. Giovanni almost laughed at the idea, and yet
he conceived that some kind of apology would be necessary, though he
could not imagine how he was to frame one. He reflected that few women
would consider a declaration, even as sudden as his had been, in the
light of an insult; but he knew how little cause Corona had given him for
speaking to her of love, and he judged from her manner that she had been
either offended or frightened, or both, and that he was to blame for it.
He was greatly disturbed, and the sweat stood in great drops upon his
forehead as he sat there upon the steps of St. Peter's in the cold night
wind. He remained nearly an hour without changing his position, and then
at last he rose and slowly retraced his steps, and went home by narrow
streets, avoiding the theatre and the crowd of carriages that stood
before it.
He had almost determined to go away for a time, and to let his absence
speak for his contrition. But he had reckoned upon his former self, and
he doubted now whether he had the strength to leave Rome. The most that
seemed possible was that he should keep out of Corona's way for a few
days, until she should have recovered from the shock of the scene in the
theatre. After that he would go to her and tell her quite simply that he
was very sorry, but that he had been unable to control himself. It would
soon be over. She would not refuse to speak to him, he argued, for fear
of attracting the attention of the gossips and making an open scandal.
She would perhaps tell him to avoid her, and her words would be few and
haughty, but she would speak to him, nevertheless.
Giovanni went to bed. The next day he gave out that he had a touch of
fever, and remained in his own apartments. His father, who was
passionately attached to him, in spite of his rough temper and hasty
speeches, came and spent most of the day with him, and in the intervals
of his kindly talk, marched up and down the room, swearing that Giovanni
was no more ill than he was himself, and that he had acquired his
accursed habit of staying in bed upon his travels. As Giovanni had never
before been known to spend twenty-four hours in bed for any reason
whatsoever, the accusation was unjust; but he only smiled and pretended
to argue the case for the sake of pleasing the old prince. He really
felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and would have been glad to be left alone
at any price; but there was nothing for it but to pretend to be ill in
body, when he was really sick at heart, and he remained obstinately in
bed the whole day. On the following morning he declared his intention of
going out of town, and by an early train he left the city. No one saw
Giovanni again until the evening of the Frangipani ball.
Meanwhile it would have surprised him greatly to know that Corona looked
for him in vain wherever she went, and that, not seeing him, she grew
silent and pale, and gave short answers to the pleasant speeches men made
her. Every one missed Giovanni. He wrote to Valdarno to say that he had
been suddenly obliged to visit Saracinesca in order to see to some
details connected with the timber question; but everybody wondered why he
should have taken himself away in the height of the season for so trivial
a matter. He had last been seen in the Astrardente box at the opera,
where he had only stayed a few minutes, as Del Ferice was able to
testify, having sat immediately opposite in the box of Madame Mayer. Del
Ferice swore secretly that he would find out what was the matter; and
Donna Tullia abused Giovanni in unmeasured terms to a circle of intimate
friends and admirers, because he had been engaged to dance with her at
the Valdarno cotillon, and had not even sent word that he could not come.
Thereupon all the men present immediately offered themselves for the
vacant dance, and Donna Tullia made them draw lots by tossing a copper
sou in the corner of the ball-room. The man who won the toss recklessly
threw over the partner he had already engaged, and almost had to fight a
duel in consequence; all of which was intensely amusing to Donna Tullia.
Nevertheless, in her heart, she was very angry at Giovanni's departure.
But Corona sought him everywhere, and at last heard that he had left
town, two days after everybody else in Rome had known it. She would
probably have been very much disturbed, if she had actually met him
within a day or two of that fatal evening, but the desire to see him was
so great, that she entirely overlooked the consequences. For the time
being, her whole life seemed to have undergone a revolution--she trembled
at the echo of the words she had heard--she spent long hours in solitude,
praying with all her strength that she might be forgiven for having
heard him speak; but the moment she left her room, and went out into the
world, the dominant desire to see him again returned. The secret longing
of her soul was to hear him speak again as he had spoken once. She would
have gone again to Padre Filippo and told him all; but when she was alone
in the solitude of her passionate prayers and self-accusation, she felt
that she must fight this fight alone, without help of any one; and when
she was in the world, she lacked courage to put altogether from her what
was so very sweet, and her eyes searched unceasingly for the dark face
she loved. But the stirring strength of the mighty passion played upon
her soul and body in spite of her, as upon an instrument of strings; and
sometimes the music was gentle and full of sweet harmony, but often there
were crashes of discord, so that she trembled and felt her heart wrung as
by torture; then she set her strong lips, and her white fingers wound
themselves together, and she could have cried aloud, but that her pride
forbade her.
The days came and went, but Giovanni did not return, and Corona's face
grew every morning more pale and her eyes every night more wistful. Her
husband did not understand, but he saw that something was the matter, as
others saw it, and in his quick suspicious humour he connected the
trouble in his wife's face with the absence of Giovanni and with the
strange chill she had felt in the theatre. But Corona d'Astrardente was a
very brave and strong woman, and she bore what seemed to her like the
agony of death renewed each day, so calmly that those who knew her
thought it was but a passing indisposition or annoyance, unusual with
her, who was never ill nor troubled, but yet insignificant. She gave
particular attention to the gown which her husband had desired she
should wear at the great ball, and the need she felt for distracting her
mind from her chief care made society necessary to her.
The evening of the Frangipani ball came, and all Rome was in a state of
excitement and expectation. The great old family had been in mourning for
years, owing to three successive deaths, and during all that time the
ancient stronghold which was called their palace had been closed to the
world. For some time, indeed, no one of the name had been in Rome--the
prince and princess preferring to pass the time of mourning in the
country and in travelling; while the eldest son, now just of age, was
finishing his academic career at an English University. But this year the
family had returned: there had been both dinners and receptions at the
palace, and the ball, which was to be a sort of festival in honour of the
coming of age of the heir, was expected as the principal event of the
year. It was rumoured that there would be nearly thirty rooms opened
besides the great hall, which was set aside for dancing, and that the
arrangements were on a scale worthy of a household which had endured in
its high position for upwards of a thousand years. It was understood that
no distinction had been made, in issuing the invitations, between parties
in politics or in society, and that there would be more people seen there
than had been collected under one roof for many years.
The Frangipani did things magnificently, and no one was disappointed. The
gardens and courts of the palace were brilliantly illuminated; vast
suites of apartments were thrown open, and lavishly decorated with rare
flowers; the grand staircase was lined with footmen in the liveries of
the house, standing motionless as the guests passed up; the supper was a
banquet such as is read of in the chronicles of medieval splendour; the
enormous conservatory in the distant south wing was softly lit by shaded
candles concealed among the tropical plants; and the ceilings and walls
of the great hall itself had been newly decorated by famous painters;
while the polished wooden floor presented an innovation upon the
old-fashioned canvas-covered brick pavement, not hitherto seen in any
Roman palace. A thousand candles, disposed in every variety of chandelier
and candelabra, shed a soft rich light from far above, and high in the
gallery at one end an orchestra of Viennese musicians played unceasingly.
As generally happens at very large balls, the dancing began late, but
numbers of persons had come early in order to survey the wonders of the
palace at their leisure. Among those who arrived soon after ten o'clock
was Giovanni Saracinesca, who was greeted loudly by all who knew him. He
looked pale and tired, if his tough nature could ever be said to seem
weary; but he was in an unusually affable mood, and exchanged words with
every one he met. Indeed he had been sad for so many days that he hardly
understood why he felt gay, unless it was in the anticipation of once
more seeing the woman he loved. He wandered through the rooms carelessly
enough, but he was in reality devoured by impatience, and his quick eyes
sought Corona's tall figure in every direction. But she was not yet
there, and Giovanni at last came and took his station in one of the outer
halls, waiting patiently for her arrival.
While he waited, leaning against one of the marble pillars of the door,
the throng increased rapidly; but he hardly noticed the swelling crowd,
until suddenly there was a lull in the unceasing talk, and the men and
women parted to allow a cardinal to pass out from the inner rooms. With
many gracious nods and winning looks, the great man moved on, his keen
eyes embracing every one and everything within the range of his vision,
his courteous smile seeming intended for each separate individual, and
yet overlooking none, nor resting long on any, his high brow serene and
unbent, his flowing robes falling back from his courtly figure, as with
his red hat in his hand he bowed his way through the bowing crowd. His
departure, which was quickly followed by that of several other cardinals
and prelates, was the signal that the dancing would soon begin; and when
he had passed out, the throng of men and women pressed more quickly in
through the door on their way to the ball-room.
But as the great cardinal's eye rested on Giovanni Saracinesca,
accompanied by that invariable smile that so many can remember well to
this day, his delicate hand made a gesture as though beckoning to the
young man to follow him. Giovanni obeyed the summons, and became for the
moment the most notable man in the room. The two passed out together, and
a moment later were standing in the outer hall. Already the torch-bearers
were standing without upon the grand staircase, and the lackeys were
mustering in long files to salute the Prime Minister. Just then the
master of the house came running breathless from within. He had not seen
that Cardinal Antonelli was taking his leave, and hastened to overtake
him, lest any breach of etiquette on his part should attract the
displeasure of the statesman.
"Your Eminence's pardon!" he exclaimed, hurriedly "I had not seen that
your Eminence was leaving us--so early too--the Princess feared--"
"Do not speak of it," answered the Cardinal, in suave tones. "I am not so
strong as I used to be. We old fellows must to bed betimes, and leave you
young ones to enjoy yourselves. No excuses--good night--a beautiful
ball--I congratulate you on the reopening of your house--good night
again. I will have a word with Giovanni here before I go down-stairs."
He extended his hand to Frangipani, who lifted it respectfully to his
lips and withdrew, seeing that he was not wanted. He and many others
speculated long upon the business which engaged his Eminence in close
conversation with Giovanni Saracinesca, keeping him for more than a
quarter of an hour in the cold ante-chamber, where the night wind blew in
unhindered from the vast staircase of the palace. As a matter of fact,
Giovanni was as much surprised as any one.
"Where have you been, my friend?" inquired the Cardinal, when they were
alone.
"To Saracinesca, your Eminence."
"And what have you been doing in Saracinesca at this time of year? I hope
you are attending to the woods there--you have not been cutting timber?"
"No one can be more anxious than we to see the woods grow thick upon our
hills," replied Giovanni. "Your Eminence need have no fear."
"Not for your estates," said the great Cardinal, his small keen black
eyes resting searchingly on Giovanni's face. "But I confess I have some
fears for yourself."
"For me, Eminence?" repeated Giovanni, in some astonishment.
"For you. I have heard with considerable anxiety that there is a question
of marrying you to Madame Mayer. Such a match would not meet with the
Holy Father's approval, nor--if I may be permitted to mention my humble
self in the same breath with our august sovereign--would it be wise in my
own estimation."
"Permit me to remark to your Eminence," answered Giovanni, proudly, "that
in my house we have never been in the habit of asking advice upon such
subjects. Donna Tullia is a good Catholic. There can therefore be no
valid objection to my asking her hand, if my father and I agree that it
is best."
"You are terrible fellows, you Saracinesca," returned the Cardinal,
blandly. "I have read your family history with immense interest, and what
you say is quite true. I cannot find an instance on record of your taking
the advice of any one--certainly not of the Holy Church. It is with the
utmost circumspection that I venture to approach the subject with you,
and I am sure that you will believe me when I say that my words are not
dictated by any officious or meddling spirit; I am addressing you by the
direct desire of the Holy Father himself."
A soft answer turneth away wrath, and if the all-powerful statesman's
answer to Giovanni seems to have been more soft than might have been
expected, it must be remembered that he was speaking to the heir of one
of the most powerful houses in the Roman State, at a time when the
personal friendship of such men as the Saracinesca was of vastly greater
importance than it is now. At that time some twenty noblemen owned a
great part of the Pontifical States, and the influence they could exert
upon their tenantry was very great, for the feudal system was not
extinct, nor the feudal spirit. Moreover, though Cardinal Antonelli was
far from popular with any party, Pius IX. was respected and beloved by a
vast majority of the gentlemen as well as of the people. Giovanni's first
impulse was to resist any interference whatsoever in his affairs; but on
receiving the Cardinal's mild answer to his own somewhat arrogant
assertion of independence, he bowed politely and professed himself
willing to listen to reason.
"But," he said, "since his Holiness has mentioned the matter, I beg that
your Eminence will inform him that, though the question of my marriage
seems to be in everybody's mouth, it is as yet merely a project in which
no active steps have been taken."
"I am glad of it, Giovanni," replied the Cardinal, familiarly taking his
arm, and beginning to pace the hall; "I am glad of it. There are reasons
why the match appears to be unworthy of you. If you will permit me,
without any offence to Madame Mayer, I will tell you what those reasons
are."
"I am at your service," said Giovanni, gravely, "provided only there is
no offence to Donna Tullia."
"None whatever. The reasons are purely political. Madame Mayer--or Donna
Tullia, since you prefer to call her so--is the centre of a sort of club
of so-called Liberals, of whom the most active and the most foolish
member is a certain Ugo del Ferice, a fellow who calls himself a count,
but whose grandfather was a coachman in the Vatican under Leo XII. He
will get himself into trouble some day. He is always in attendance upon
Donna Tullia, and probably led her into this band of foolish young people
for objects of his own. It is a very silly society; I daresay you have
heard some of their talk?"
"Very little," replied Giovanni; "I do not trouble myself about politics.
I did not even know that there was such a club as your Eminence speaks
of."
Cardinal Antonelli glanced sharply at his companion as he proceeded.
"They affect solidarity and secrecy, these young people," he said, with a
sneer, "and their solidarity betrays their secrecy, because it is
unfortunately true in our dear Rome that wherever two or three are
gathered together they are engaged in some mischief. But they may gather
in peace at the studio of Monsieur Gouache, or anywhere else they please,
for all I care. Gouache is a clever fellow; he is to paint my portrait.
Do you know him? But, to return to my sheep in wolves' clothing--my
amusing little conspirators. They can do no harm, for they know not even
what they say, and their words are not followed by any kind of action
whatsoever. But the principle of the thing is bad, Giovanni. Your brave
old ancestors used to fight us Churchmen outright, and unless the Lord is
especially merciful, their souls are in an evil case, for the devil
knoweth his own, and is a particularly bad paymaster. But they fought
outright, like gentlemen; whereas these people--_foderunt foveam ut
caperent me_--they have digged a ditch, but they will certainly not catch
me, nor any one else. Their conciliabules, as Rousseau would have called
them, meet daily and talk great nonsense and do nothing; which does not
prove their principles to be good, while it demonstrates their intellect
to be contemptible. No offence to the Signor Conte del Ferice, but I
think ignorance has marked his little party for its own, and inanity
waits on all his councils. If they believe in half the absurdities they
utter, why do they not pack up their goods and chattels and cross the
frontier? If they meant anything, they would do something."
"Evidently," replied Giovanni, half amused at his Eminence's tirade.
"Evidently. Therefore they mean nothing. Therefore our good friend Donna
Tullia is dabbling in the emptiness of political dilettanteism for the
satisfaction of a hollow vanity; no offence to her--it is the manner of
her kind."
Giovanni was silent.
"Believe me, prince," said the Cardinal, suddenly changing his tone and
speaking very seriously, "there is something better for strong men like
you and me to do, in these times, than to dabble in conspiracy and to
toss off glasses of champagne to Italian unity and Victor Emmanuel. The
condition of our lives is battle, and battle against terrible odds.
Neither you nor I should be content to waste our strength in fighting
shadows, in waging war on petty troubles of our own raising, knowing
all the while that the powers of evil are marshalled in a deadly array
against the powers of good. _Sed non praevalebunt!_"
The Cardinal's thin face assumed a strange look of determination, and his
delicate fingers grasped Giovanni's arm with a force that startled him.
"You speak bravely," answered the young man. "You are more sanguine than
we men of the world. You believe that disaster impossible which to me
seems growing daily more imminent."
Cardinal Antonelli turned his gleaming black eyes full on his companion.
"_O generatio incredula!_ If you have not faith, you have not courage,
and if you have not courage you will waste your life in the pursuit of
emptiness! It is for men like you, for men of ancient race, of broad
acres, of iron body and healthy mind, to put your hand to the good work
and help us who have struggled for many years and whose strength is
already failing. Every action of your life, every thought of your
waking hours, should be for the good end, lest we all perish together
and expiate our lukewarm indifference. _Timidi nunquam statuerunt
trapaeum_--if we would divide the spoil we must gird on the sword and use
it boldly; we must not allow the possibility of failure; we must be
vigilant; we must be united as one man. You tell me that you men of the
world already regard a disaster as imminent--to expect defeat is
nine-tenths of a defeat itself. Ah, if we could count upon such men as
you to the very death, our case would be far from desperate."
"For the matter of that, your Eminence can count upon us well enough,"
replied Giovanni, quietly.
"Upon you, Giovanni--yes, for you are a brave gentleman. But upon your
friends, even upon your class--no. Can I count upon the Valdarno, even?
You know as well as I that they are in sympathy with the Liberals--that
they have neither the courage to support us nor the audacity to renounce
us; and, what is worse, they represent a large class, of whom, I regret
to say, Donna Tullia Mayer is one of the most prominent members. With her
wealth, her youth, her effervescent spirits, and her early widowhood, she
leads men after her; they talk, they chatter, they set up an opinion and
gloat over it, while they lack the spirit to support it. They are all
alike--_non tantum ovum ovo simile_--one egg is not more like another
than they are. _Non tali auxilio_--we want no such help. We ask for
bread, not for stones; we want men, not empty-headed dandies. We have
both at present; but if the Emperor fails us, we shall have too many
dandies and too few men--too few men like you, Don Giovanni. Instead of
armed battalions we shall have polite societies for mutual assurance
against political risks,--instead of the support of the greatest military
power in Europe, we shall have to rely on a parcel of young gentlemen
whose opinions are guided by Donna Tullia Mayer."
Giovanni laughed and glanced at his Eminence, who chose to refer all the
imminent disasters of the State to the lady whom he did not wish to see
married to his companion.
"Is her influence really so great?" asked Saracinesca, incredulously.
"She is agreeable, she is pretty, she is rich--her influence is a type of
the whole influence which is abroad in Rome--a reflection of the life of
Paris. There, at least, the women play a real part--very often a great
one: here, when they have got command of a drawing-room full of fops,
they do not know where to lead them; they change their minds twenty times
a-day; they have an access of religious enthusiasm in Advent, followed by
an attack of Liberal fever in Carnival, and their season is brought to
a fitting termination by the prostration which overtakes them in Lent. By
that time all their principles are upset, and they go to Paris for the
month of May--_pour se retremper dans les idées idéalistes_, as they
express it. Do you think one could construct a party out of such
elements, especially when you reflect that this mass of uncertainty is
certain always to yield to the ultimate consideration of self-interest?
Half of them keep an Italian flag with the Papal one, ready to thrust
either of them out of the window as occasion may require. Good night,
Giovanni. I have talked enough, and all Rome will set upon you to find
out what secrets of State I have been confiding. You had better prepare
an answer, for you can hardly inform Donna Tullia and her set that I have
been calling them a parcel of--weak and ill-advised people. They might
take offence--they might even call me by bad names,--fancy how very
terribly that would afflict me! Good night, Giovanni--my greetings to
your father."
The Cardinal nodded, but did not offer his hand. He knew that Giovanni
hated to kiss his ring, and he had too much tact to press the ceremonial
etiquette upon any one whom he desired to influence. But he nodded
graciously, and receiving his cloak from the gentleman who accompanied
him and who had waited at a respectful distance, the statesman passed out
of the great doorway, where the double line of torch-bearers stood ready
to accompany him down the grand staircase to his carriage, in accordance
with the custom of those days.