Corona found it impossible to leave town so soon as she had wished. She
had indeed sent out great cart-loads of furniture, servants, horses, and
all the paraphernalia of an establishment in the country, and she
believed herself ready to move at once, when she received an exceedingly
courteous note from Cardinal Antonelli requesting the honour of being
received by her the next day at twelve o'clock. It was impossible to
refuse, and to her great annoyance she was obliged to postpone her
departure another twenty-four hours. She guessed that the great man was
the bearer of some message from the Holy Father himself; and in her
present frame of mind, such words of comfort could not fail to be
acceptable from one whom she reverenced and loved, as all who knew
Pius IX. did sincerely revere and love him. She did not like the
Cardinal, it is true; but she did not confound the ambassador with him
who sent the embassy. The Cardinal was a most courteous and accomplished
man of the world, and Corona could not easily have explained the aversion
she felt for him. It is very likely that if she could have understood the
part he was sustaining in the great European struggle of those days, she
would have accorded him at least the admiration he deserved as a
statesman. He had his faults, and they were faults little becoming a
cardinal of the Holy Roman Church. But few are willing to consider that,
though a cardinal, he was not a priest--that he was practically a layman
who, by his own unaided genius, had attained to great power, and that
those faults which have been charged against him with such virulence
would have passed, nay, actually pass, unnoticed and uncensured in many a
great statesman of those days and of these. He was a brave man, who
fought a desperate and hopeless fight to his last breath, and who fought
almost alone--a man most bitterly hated by many, at whose death many
rejoiced loudly and few mourned; and to the shame of many be it said,
that his most obstinate adversaries, those who unsparingly heaped abuse
upon him during his lifetime, and most unseemingly exulted over his end,
were the very men among whom he should have found the most willing
supporters and the firmest friends. But in 1865 he was feared, and those
who reckoned without him in the game of politics reckoned badly.
Corona was a woman, and very young. She had not the knowledge or the
experience to understand his value, and she had taken a personal dislike
to him when she first appeared in society. He was too smooth for her; she
thought him false. She preferred a rougher type. Her husband, on the
other hand, had a boundless admiration for the cardinal-statesman; and
perhaps the way in which Astrardente constantly tried to impress his wife
with a sense of the great man's virtues, indirectly contributed to
increase her aversion. Nevertheless, when he sent word that he desired to
be received by her, she did not hesitate a moment, but expressed her
willingness at once. Punctually as the gun of Sant Angelo roared out the
news that the sun was on the meridian, Cardinal Antonelli entered
Corona's house. She received him in the great drawing-room. There was an
air of solemnity about the meeting. The room itself, divested of a
thousand trifles which had already been sent into the country, looked
desolate and formal; the heavy curtains admitted but little light; there
was no fire on the hearth; Corona stood all in black--a very incarnation
of mourning--as her visitor trod softly across the dark carpet towards
her.
The Cardinal's expressive face was softened by a look of gentle sympathy,
as he came forward and took her hand in both of his, and gazed for a
moment into her beautiful eyes.
"I am an ambassador, Duchessa," he said softly. "I come to tell you how
deeply our Holy Father sympathises in your great sorrow."
Corona bent her head respectfully, and motioned to the Cardinal to be
seated.
"I beg that your Eminence will convey to his Holiness my most sincere
gratitude for this expression of his paternal kindness to one so
unhappy."
"Indeed I will not fail to deliver your message, Duchessa," answered the
Cardinal, seating himself by her side in one of the great arm-chairs
which had been placed together in the middle of the room. "His Holiness
has promised to remember you in his august prayers; and I also, for my
own part, entreat you to believe that my poor sympathy is wholly with you
in your distress."
"Your Eminence is most kind," replied Corona, gravely.
It seemed as though there were little more to be said in such a case.
There was no friendship between the two, no bond of union or fellowship:
it was simply a formal visit of condolence, entailed as a necessity by
Corona's high position. The Pope had sent her a gift at her wedding; he
sent her a message of sympathy at her husband's death. Half-a-dozen
phrases would be exchanged, and the Cardinal would take his leave,
accompanied by a file of the Duchessa's lackeys--and so it would all be
over. But the Cardinal was a statesman, a diplomatist, and one of the
best talkers in Europe; moreover, he never allowed an opportunity of
pursuing his ends to pass unimproved.
"Ah, Duchessa!" he said, folding his hands upon his knee and looking
down, "there is but one Consoler in sorrow such as yours. It is vain for
us mortals to talk of any such thing as alleviating real mental
suffering. There are consolations--many of them--for some people, but
they are not for you. To many the accidents of wealth, of youth, of
beauty, seem to open the perspective of a brilliant future at the very
moment when all the present appears to be shrouded in darkness; but if
you will permit me, who know you so little, to say it frankly, I do not
believe that any of these things which you possess in such plentiful
abundance will lessen the measure of your grief. It is not right that
they should, I suppose. It is not fitting that noble minds should even
possess the faculty of forgetting real suffering in the unreal trifles
of a great worldly possession, which so easily restore the weak to
courage, and natter the vulgar into the forgetfulness of honourable
sorrow. I am no moraliser, no pedantic philosopher. The stoic may have
shrugged his heavy shoulders in sullen indifference to fate; the
epicurean may have found such bodily ease in his excessive refinement
of moderate enjoyment as to overlook the deepest afflictions in
anticipating the animal pleasure of the next meal. I cannot conceive of
such men as those philosophising diners; nor can I imagine by what
arguments the wisest of mankind could induce a fellow-creature in
distress to forget his sufferings. Sorrow is sorrow still to all finely
organised natures. The capacity for feeling sorrow is one of the highest
tests of nobility--a nobility of nature not found always in those of high
blood and birth, but existing in the people, wherever the people are
good."
The Cardinal's voice became even more gentle as he spoke. He was himself
of very humble origin, and spoke feelingly. Corona listened, though she
only heard half of what he said; but his soft tone soothed her almost
unconsciously.
"There is little consolation for me--I am quite alone," she said.
"You are not of those who find relief in worldly greatness," continued
the Cardinal. "But I have seen women, young, rich, and beautiful, wear
their mourning with wonderful composure. Youth is so much, wealth is so
much more, beauty is such a power in the world--all three together are
resistless. Many a young widow is not ashamed to think of marriage before
her husband has been dead a month. Indeed they do not always make bad
wives. A woman who has been married young and is early deprived of her
husband, has great experience, great knowledge of the world. Many feel
that they have no right to waste the goods given them in a life of
solitary mourning. Wealth is given to be used, and perhaps many a rich
young widow thinks she can use it more wisely in the company of a husband
young as herself. It may be; I cannot tell. These are days when power of
any sort should be used, and perhaps no one should even for a moment
think of withdrawing from the scene where such great battles are being
fought. But one may choose wisely a way of using power, or one may choose
unwisely. There is much to be done."
"How?" asked Corona, catching at his expression of an idea which pursued
her. "Here am I, rich, alone, idle--above all, very unhappy. What can I
do? I wish I knew, for I would try and do it."
"Ah! I was not speaking of you, Duchessa," answered the statesman. "You
are too noble a woman to be easily consoled. And yet, though you may not
find relief from your great sorrow, there are many things within your
reach which you might do, and feel that in your mourning you have done
honour to your departed husband as well as to yourself. You have great
estates--you can improve them, and especially you can improve the
condition of your peasants, and strengthen their loyalty to you and to
the State. You can find many a village on your lands where a school
might be established, an asylum built, a road opened--anything which
shall give employment to the poor, and which, when finished, shall
benefit their condition. Especially about Astrardente they are very poor;
I know the country well. In six months you might change many things; and
then you might return to Rome next winter. If it pleases you, you can do
anything with society. You can make your house a centre for a new
party--the oldest of all parties it is, but it would now be thought new
here. We have no centre. There is no _salon_ in the good old sense of the
word--no house where all that is intelligent, all that is powerful, all
that is influential, is irresistibly drawn. To make a centre of that kind
would be a worthy object, it seems to me. You would surround yourself
with men of genius; you would bring those together who cannot meet
elsewhere; you would give a vigorous tone to a society which is fast
falling to decay from inanition; you could become a power, a real power,
not only in Rome, but in Europe; you could make your house famous as the
point from which, in Rome, all that is good and great should radiate to
the very ends of the earth. You could do all this in your young
widowhood, and you would not dishonour the memory of him you loved so
dearly."
Corona looked earnestly at the Cardinal as he enlarged upon the
possibilities of her life. What he said seemed true and good. It opened
to her a larger field than she had dreamed of half an hour ago.
Especially the plan of working for the improvement of her estates and
people attracted her. She wanted to do something at once--something
good, and something worth doing.
"I believe you are right," she said. "I shall die if I am idle."
"I know I am right," returned the Cardinal, in a tone of conviction. "Not
that I propose all this as an unalterable plan for you. I would not have
you think I mean to lay down any system, or even to advise you at all. I
was merely thinking aloud. I am too happy if my thoughts please you--if
anything I say can even for a moment relieve your mind from the pressure
of this sudden grief. It is not consolation I offer you. I am not a
priest, but a man of action; and it is action I propose to you, not as
an anodyne for sorrow, but simply because it is right that in these days
we should all strive with a good will. Your peasants are many of them in
an evil case: you can save them and make them happy, even though you find
no happiness for yourself. Our social world here is falling to pieces,
going astray after strange gods, and especially after Madame Mayer and
her _lares_ and _penates_, young Valdarno and Del Ferice: it is in your
power to create a new life here, or at least to contribute greatly
towards reestablishing the social balance. I say, do this thing, if you
will, for it is a good thing to do. At all events, while you are building
roads--and perhaps schools--at Astrardente, you can think over the course
you will afterwards pursue. And now, my dear Duchessa, I have detained
you far too long. Forgive me if I have wearied you, for I have great
things at heart, and must sometimes speak of them though I speak feebly.
Count on me always for any assistance you may require. Bear with me if I
weary you, for I was a good friend of him we both mourn."
"Thank you--you have given me good thoughts," said Corona, simply.
So the courtly Cardinal rose and took his leave, and once more Corona was
left alone. It was a strange thing that, while he disclaimed all power to
comfort her, and denied that consolation was possible in her case, she
had nevertheless listened to him with interest, and now found herself
thinking seriously of what he had said. He seemed to have put her
thoughts into shape, and to have given direction to that sense of power
she had already begun to feel. For the first time in her life she felt
something like sympathy for the Cardinal, and she lingered for some
minutes alone in the great reception-room, wondering whether she could
accomplish any of the things he had proposed to her. At all events, there
was nothing now to hinder her departure; and she thought with something
like pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the solitude of the mountains, the
simple faces of the people about her place, and of the quiet life she
intended to lead there during the next six months.
But the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through the narrow
streets in his great coach. Leaning far back in his cushioned seat, he
could just catch a glimpse of the people as he passed, and his quick eyes
recognised many, both high and low. But he did not care to show himself,
for he felt himself disliked, and deep in his finely organised nature
there lay a sensitiveness which was wounded by the popular hatred. It
hurt him to see the lowering glances of the poor man, and to return the
forced bow of the rich man who feared him. He often longed to be able to
explain many things to them both, to the rich and to the poor; and then,
knowing how impossible it was that he should be understood by either,
he sighed somewhat bitterly, and hid himself still deeper in his
carriage. Few men in the midst of the world have stood so wholly alone as
Cardinal Antonelli.
To-day, however, he had an appointment which he anticipated with a sort
of interest quite new to him. Anastase Gouache was coming to begin his
portrait, and Anastase was an object of curiosity to him. It would have
surprised the young Frenchman had he guessed how carefully he was
watched, for he was a modest fellow, and did not think himself of very
much importance. He allowed Donna Tullia and her friends to come to his
studio whenever they pleased, and he listened to their shallow talk, and
joined, occasionally in the conversation, letting them believe that he
sympathised with them, simply because his own ideas were unsettled. It
was a good thing for him to paint a portrait of Donna Tullia, for it made
him the fashion, and he had small scruple in agreeing with her views so
long as he had no fixed convictions of his own. She and her set regarded
him as a harmless boy, and looked upon his little studio as a
convenience, in payment whereof they pushed him into society, and spread
abroad the rumour that he was the rising artist of the day. But the great
Cardinal had seen him more than once, and had conceived a liking for
his delicate intellectual face and unobtrusive manner. He had watched him
and caused him to be watched, and his interest had increased, and finally
he had taken a fancy to have a portrait of himself painted by the young
fellow. This was the day appointed for the first sitting; and when the
Cardinal reached his lodgings, high up in the Vatican pile, he found
Anastase Gouache waiting for him in the small ante-chamber.
The prime minister was not luxuriously lodged. Four rooms sufficed
him--to wit, the said ante-chamber, bare and uncarpeted, and furnished
with three painted wooden box benches; a comfortable study lined
throughout with shelves and lockers, furnished with half-a-dozen large
chairs and a single writing-table, whereon stood a crucifix and an
inkstand; beyond this a bedroom and a small dining-room: that was all.
The drawers of the lockers and bookcases contained a correspondence which
would have astonished Europe, and a collection of gems and precious
stones unrivalled in the world; but there was nothing in the shape of
ornament visible to the eye, unless one were to class under that head a
fairly good bust of Pius IX, which stood upon a plain marble pedestal
in one corner. Gouache followed the great man into this study. He was
surprised by the simplicity of the apartment; but he felt in sympathy
with it, and with the Cardinal himself; and with the intuitive knowledge
of a true artist, he foresaw that he was to paint a successful portrait.
The Cardinal busied himself with some papers while the painter silently
made his preparations.
"If your Eminence is ready?" suggested Gouache.
"At your service, my friend," replied the Cardinal, blandly. "How shall I
sit? The portrait must be taken in full face, I think."
"By all means. Here, I think--so; the light is very good at this hour,
but a little later we shall have the sun. If your Eminence will look at
me--a little more to the left--I think that will do. I will draw it in in
charcoal and your Eminence can judge."
"Precisely," returned the Cardinal. "You will paint the devil even
blacker than he is."
"The devil?" repeated Gouache, raising his eyebrows with a slight smile.
"I was not aware--"
"And yet you have been in Rome four years!"
"I am very careful," returned Gouache. "I never by any chance hear any
evil of those whom I am to paint."
"You have very well-bred ears, Monsieur Gouache. I fear that if I had
attended some of the meetings in your studio while Donna Tullia was
having her portrait painted, I should have heard strange things. Have
they all escaped you?"
Gouache was silent for a moment. It did not surprise him to learn that
the omniscient Cardinal was fully acquainted with the doings in his
studio, but he looked curiously at the great man before he answered. The
Cardinal's small gleaming eyes met his with the fearlessness of
superiority.
"I remember nothing but good of your Eminence," the painter replied at
last, with a laugh; and applying himself to his work, he began to draw in
the outline of the Cardinal's head. The words he had just heard, implying
as they did a thorough knowledge of the minutest details of social life,
would have terrified Madame Mayer, and would perhaps have driven Del
Ferice out of the Papal States in fear of his life. Even the good-natured
and foolish Valdarno might reasonably have been startled; but Anastase
was made of different stuff. His grandfather had helped to storm the
Bastille, his father had been among the men of 1848; there was
revolutionary blood in his veins, and he distinguished between real and
imaginary conspiracy with the unerring certainty of instinct, as the
bloodhound knows the track of man from the slot of meaner game. He
laughed at Donna Tullia, he distrusted Del Ferice, and to some extent he
understood the Cardinal. And the statesman understood him, too, and was
interested by him.
"You may as well forget their chatter. It does me no harm, and it amuses
them. It does not seem to surprise you that I should know all about it,
however. You have good nerves, Monsieur Gouache."
"Of course your Eminence can send me out of Rome to-morrow, if you
please," answered Gouache, with perfect unconcern. "But the portrait will
not be finished so soon."
"No--that would be a pity. You shall stay. But the others--what would you
advise me to do with them?" asked the Cardinal, his bright eyes twinkling
with amusement.
"If by the others your Eminence means my friends," replied Gouache,
quietly, "I can assure you that none of them will ever cause you the
slightest inconvenience."
"I believe you are right--their ability to annoy me is considerably
inferior to their inclination. Is it not so?"
"If your Eminence will allow me," said Gouache, rising suddenly and
laying down his charcoal pencil, "I will pin this curtain across the
window. The sun is beginning to come in."
He had no intention of answering any questions. If the Cardinal knew of
the meetings in the Via San Basilio, that was not Gouache's fault;
Gouache would certainly not give any further information. The statesman
had expected as much, and was not at all surprised at the young man's
silence.
"One of those young gentlemen seems to have met his match, at all
events," he remarked, presently. "I am sorry it should have come about in
that way."
"Your Eminence might easily have prevented the duel."
"I knew nothing about it," answered the Cardinal, glancing keenly at
Anastase.
"Nor I," said the artist, simply.
"You see my information is not always so good as people imagine, my
friend."
"It is a pity," remarked Gouache. "It would have been better had poor Del
Ferice been killed outright. The matter would have terminated there."
"Whereas--"
"Whereas Del Ferice will naturally seek an occasion for revenge."
"You speak as though you were a friend of Don Giovanni's," said the
Cardinal.
"No; I have a very slight acquaintance with him. I admire him, he has
such a fine head. I should be sorry if anything happened to him."
"Do you think Del Ferice is capable of murdering him?"
"Oh no! He might annoy him a great deal."
"I think not," answered the Cardinal, thoughtfully. "Del Ferice was
afraid that Don Giovanni would marry Donna Tullia and spoil his own
projects. But Giovanni will not think of that again."
"No; I suppose Don Giovanni will marry the Duchessa d'Astrardente."
"Of course," replied the Cardinal. For some minutes there was silence.
Gouache, while busy with his pencil, was wondering at the interest the
great man took in such details of the Roman social life. The Cardinal was
thinking of Corona, whom he had seen but half an hour ago, and was
revolving in his mind the advantages that might be got by allying her to
Giovanni. He had in view for her a certain Serene Highness whom he wished
to conciliate, and whose circumstances were not so splendid as to make
Corona's fortune seem insignificant to him. But on the other hand, the
Cardinal had no Serene Highness ready for Giovanni, and feared lest he
should after all marry Donna Tullia, and get into the opposite camp.
"You are from Paris, Monsieur Gouache, I believe," said the Cardinal at
last.
"Parisian of the Parisians, your Eminence."
"How can you bear to live in exile so long? You have not been to your
home these four years, I think."
"I would rather live in Rome for the present. I will go to Paris some
day. It will always be a pleasant recollection to have seen Rome in these
days. My friends write me that Paris is gay, but not pleasant."
"You think there will soon be nothing of this time left but the
recollection of it?" suggested the Cardinal.
"I do not know what to think. The times seem unsettled, and so are my
ideas. I was told that your Eminence would help me to decide what to
believe." Gouache smiled pleasantly, and looked up.
"And who told you that?"
"Don Giovanni Saracinesca."
"But I must have some clue to what your ideas are," said the Cardinal.
"When did Don Giovanni say that?"
"At Prince Frangipani's. He had been talking with your Eminence--perhaps
he had come to some conclusion in consequence," suggested Gouache.
"Perhaps so," answered the great man, with a look of considerable
satisfaction. "At all events I am flattered by the opinion he gave you of
me. Perhaps I may help you to decide. What are your opinions? or rather,
what would you like your opinions to be?"
"I am an ardent republican," said Gouache, boldly. It needed no ordinary
courage to make such a statement to the incarnate chief of reactionary
politics in those days--within the walls of the Vatican, not a hundred
yards from the private apartments of the Holy Father. But Cardinal
Antonelli smiled blandly, and seemed not in the least surprised nor
offended.
"Republicanism is an exceedingly vague term, Monsieur Gouache," he said.
"But with what other opinions do you wish to reconcile your
republicanism?"
"With those held by the Church. I am a good Catholic, and I desire to
remain one--indeed I cannot help remaining one."
"Christianity is not vague, at all events," answered the Cardinal, who,
to tell the truth, was somewhat astonished at the artist's juxtaposition
of two such principles. "In the first place, allow me to observe, my
friend, that Christianity is the purest form of a republic which the
world has ever seen, and that it therefore only depends upon your good
sense to reconcile in your own mind two ideas which from the first have
been indissolubly bound together."
It was Gouache's turn to be startled at the Cardinal's confidence.
"I am afraid I must ask your Eminence for some further explanation," he
said. "I had no idea that Christianity and republicanism were the same
thing."
"Republicanism," returned the statesman, "is a vague term, invented in an
abortive attempt to define by one word the mass of inextricable disorder
arising in our times from the fusion of socialistic ideas with ideas
purely republican. If you mean to speak of this kind of thing, you must
define precisely your position in regard to socialism, and in regard to
the pure theory of a commonwealth. If you mean to speak of a real
republic in any known form, such as the ancient Roman, the Dutch, or the
American, I understand you without further explanation."
"I certainly mean to speak of the pure republic. I believe that under a
pure republic the partition of wealth would take care of itself."
"Very good, my friend. Now, with regard to the early Christians, should
you say that their communities were monarchic, or aristocratic, or
oligarchic?"
"None of those three, I should think," said Gouache.
"There are only two systems left, then--democracy and hierarchy. You will
probably say that the government of the early Christians was of the
latter kind--that they were governed by priests, in fact. But on the
other hand, there is no doubt that both those who governed, and those who
were governed by them, had all things in common, regarded no man as
naturally superior to another, and preached a fraternity and equality at
least as sincere as those inculcated by the first French Republic. I do
not see how you can avoid calling such community a republic, seeing that
there was an equal partition of wealth; and defining it as a democratic
one, seeing that they all called each other brethren."
"But the hierarchy--what became of it?" inquired Gouache.
"The hierarchy existed within the democracy, by common consent and for
the public good, and formed a second democracy of smaller extent but
greater power. Any man might become a priest, any priest might become a
bishop, any bishop might become pope, as surely as any born citizen of
Rome could become consul, or any native of New York may be elected
President of the United States. Now in theory this was beautiful, and in
practice the democratic spirit of the hierarchy, the smaller republic,
has survived in undiminished vigour to the present day. In the original
Christian theory the whole world should now be one vast republic, in
which all Christians should call each other brothers, and support each
other in worldly as well as spiritual matters. Within this should exist
the smaller republic of the hierarchy, by common consent,--an elective
body, recruiting its numbers from the larger, as it does now; choosing
its head, the sovereign Pontiff, as it does now, to be the head of both
Church and State; eminently fitted for that position, for the very simple
reason that in a community organised and maintained upon such principles,
in which, by virtue of the real and universal love of religion, the best
men would find their way into the Church, and would ultimately find their
way to the papal throne."
"Your Eminence states the case very convincingly," answered Gouache. "But
why has the larger republic, which was to contain the smaller one, ceased
to exist? or rather, why did it never come into existence?"
"Because man has not yet fulfilled his part in the great contract. The
matter lies in a nutshell. The men who enter the Church are sufficiently
intelligent and well educated to appreciate the advantages of Christian
democracy, fellowship, solidarity, and brotherly love. The republic of
the Church has therefore survived, and will survive for ever. The men who
form the majority, on the other hand, have never had either the
intelligence or the education to understand that democracy is the
ultimate form of government: instead of forming themselves into a
federation, they have divided themselves into hostile factions, calling
themselves nations, and seeking every occasion for destroying and
plundering each other, frequently even turning against the Church
herself. The Church has committed faults in history, without doubt, but
on the whole she has nobly fulfilled her contract, and reaps the fruits
of fidelity in the vigour and unity she displays after eighteen
centuries. Man, on the other hand, has failed to do his duty, and all
races of men are consequently suffering for their misdeeds; the nations
are divided against each other, and every nation is a house divided
against itself, which sooner or later shall fall."
"But," objected Gouache, "allowing, as one easily may, that all this is
true, your Eminence is always called reactionary in politics. Does that
accord with these views?"
Gouache believed the question unanswerable, but as he put it he worked
calmly on with his pencil, labouring hard to catch something of the
Cardinal's striking expression in the rough drawing he was making.
"Nothing is easier, my friend," replied the statesman. "The republic of
the Church is driven to bay. We are on a war footing. For the sake of
strength we are obliged to hold together so firmly that for the time we
can only think of maintaining old traditions without dreaming of progress
or spending time in experiments. When we have weathered the storm we
shall have leisure for improving much that needs improvement. Do not
think that if I am alive twenty years hence I shall advise what I advise
now. We are fighting now, and we have no time to think of the arts of
peace. We shall have peace some day. We shall lose an ornament or two
from our garments in the struggle, but our body will not be injured, and
in time of peace our ornaments will be restored to us fourfold. But now
there is war and rumour of war. There is a vast difference between the
ideal republic which I was speaking of, and the real anarchy and
confusion which would be brought about by what is called republicanism."
"In other words, if the attack upon the Church were suddenly abandoned,
your Eminence would immediately abandon your reactionary policy," said
Gouache, "and adopt progressive views?"
"Immediately," replied the Cardinal.
"I see," said Gouache. "A little more towards me--just so that I can
catch that eye. Thank you--that will do."