It was a square and fairly spacious court, surrounded by a porticus like

a cloister. Some remnants of statuary, marbles discovered in excavating,

an armless Apollo, and the trunk of a Venus, were ranged against the

walls under the dismal arcades; and some fine grass had sprouted between

the pebbles which paved the soil as with a black and white mosaic. It

seemed as if the sun-rays could never reach that paving, mouldy with

damp. A dimness and a silence instinct with departed grandeur and

infinite mournfulness reigned there.

Surprised by the emptiness of this silent mansion, Pierre continued

seeking somebody, a porter, a servant; and, fancying that he saw a shadow

flit by, he decided to pass through another arch which led to a little

garden fringing the Tiber. On this side the facade of the building was

quite plain, displaying nothing beyond its three rows of symmetrically

disposed windows. However, the abandonment reigning in the garden brought

Pierre yet a keener pang. In the centre some large box-plants were

growing in the basin of a fountain which had been filled up; while among

the mass of weeds, some orange-trees with golden, ripening fruit alone

indicated the tracery of the paths which they had once bordered. Between

two huge laurel-bushes, against the right-hand wall, there was a

sarcophagus of the second century--with fauns offering violence to

nymphs, one of those wild _baccanali_, those scenes of eager passion

which Rome in its decline was wont to depict on the tombs of its dead;

and this marble sarcophagus, crumbling with age and green with moisture,

served as a tank into which a streamlet of water fell from a large tragic

mask incrusted in the wall. Facing the Tiber there had formerly been a

sort of colonnaded loggia, a terrace whence a double flight of steps

descended to the river. For the construction of the new quays, however,

the river bank was being raised, and the terrace was already lower than

the new ground level, and stood there crumbling and useless amidst piles

of rubbish and blocks of stone, all the wretched chalky confusion of the

improvements which were ripping up and overturning the district.

Pierre, however, was suddenly convinced that he could see somebody

crossing the court. So he returned thither and found a woman somewhat

short of stature, who must have been nearly fifty, though as yet she had

not a white hair, but looked very bright and active. At sight of the

priest, however, an expression of distrust passed over her round face and

clear eyes.

Employing the few words of broken Italian which he knew, Pierre at once

sought to explain matters: “I am Abbe Pierre Froment, madame--” he began.

However, she did not let him continue, but exclaimed in fluent French,

with the somewhat thick and lingering accent of the province of the

Ile-de-France: “Ah! yes, Monsieur l’Abbe, I know, I know--I was expecting

you, I received orders about you.” And then, as he gazed at her in

amazement, she added: “Oh! I’m a Frenchwoman! I’ve been here for five and

twenty years, but I haven’t yet been able to get used to their horrible

lingo!”

Pierre thereupon remembered that Viscount Philibert de la Choue had

spoken to him of this servant, one Victorine Bosquet, a native of Auneau

in La Beauce, who, when two and twenty, had gone to Rome with a

consumptive mistress. The latter’s sudden death had left her in as much

terror and bewilderment as if she had been alone in some land of savages;

and so she had gratefully devoted herself to the Countess Ernesta

Brandini, a Boccanera by birth, who had, so to say, picked her up in the

streets. The Countess had at first employed her as a nurse to her

daughter Benedetta, hoping in this way to teach the child some French;

and Victorine--remaining for some five and twenty years with the same

family--had by degrees raised herself to the position of housekeeper,

whilst still remaining virtually illiterate, so destitute indeed of any

linguistic gift that she could only jabber a little broken Italian, just

sufficient for her needs in her intercourse with the other servants.

“And is Monsieur le Vicomte quite well?” she resumed with frank

familiarity. “He is so very pleasant, and we are always so pleased to see

him. He stays here, you know, each time he comes to Rome. I know that the

Princess and the Contessina received a letter from him yesterday

announcing you.”

It was indeed Viscount Philibert de la Choue who had made all the

arrangements for Pierre’s sojourn in Rome. Of the ancient and once

vigorous race of the Boccaneras, there now only remained Cardinal Pio

Boccanera, the Princess his sister, an old maid who from respect was

called “Donna” Serafina, their niece Benedetta--whose mother Ernesta had

followed her husband, Count Brandini, to the tomb--and finally their

nephew, Prince Dario Boccanera, whose father, Prince Onofrio, was

likewise dead, and whose mother, a Montefiori, had married again. It so

chanced that the Viscount de la Choue was connected with the family, his

younger brother having married a Brandini, sister to Benedetta’s father;

and thus, with the courtesy rank of uncle, he had, in Count Brandini’s

time, frequently sojourned at the mansion in the Via Giulia. He had also

become attached to Benedetta, especially since the advent of a private

family drama, consequent upon an unhappy marriage which the young woman

had contracted, and which she had petitioned the Holy Father to annul.

Since Benedetta had left her husband to live with her aunt Serafina and

her uncle the Cardinal, M. de la Choue had often written to her and sent

her parcels of French books. Among others he had forwarded her a copy of

Pierre’s book, and the whole affair had originated in that wise. Several

letters on the subject had been exchanged when at last Benedetta sent

word that the work had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index,

and that it was advisable the author should at once repair to Rome, where

she graciously offered him the hospitality of the Boccanera mansion.

The Viscount was quite as much astonished as the young priest at these

tidings, and failed to understand why the book should be threatened at

all; however, he prevailed on Pierre to make the journey as a matter of

good policy, becoming himself impassioned for the achievement of a

victory which he counted in anticipation as his own. And so it was easy

to understand the bewildered condition of Pierre, on tumbling into this

unknown mansion, launched into an heroic adventure, the reasons and

circumstances of which were beyond him.

Victorine, however, suddenly resumed: “But I am leaving you here,

Monsieur l’Abbe. Let me conduct you to your rooms. Where is your

luggage?”

Then, when he had shown her his valise which he had placed on the ground

beside him, and explained that having no more than a fortnight’s stay in

view he had contented himself with bringing a second cassock and some

linen, she seemed very much surprised.

“A fortnight! You only expect to remain here a fortnight? Well, well,

you’ll see.”

And then summoning a big devil of a lackey who had ended by making his

appearance, she said: “Take that up into the red room, Giacomo. Will you

kindly follow me, Monsieur l’Abbe?”

Pierre felt quite comforted and inspirited by thus unexpectedly meeting

such a lively, good-natured compatriot in this gloomy Roman “palace.”

Whilst crossing the court he listened to her as she related that the

Princess had gone out, and that the Contessina--as Benedetta from motives

of affection was still called in the house, despite her marriage--had not

yet shown herself that morning, being rather poorly. However, added

Victorine, she had her orders.

The staircase was in one corner of the court, under the porticus. It was

a monumental staircase with broad, low steps, the incline being so gentle

that a horse might easily have climbed it. The stone walls, however, were

quite bare, the landings empty and solemn, and a death-like mournfulness

fell from the lofty vault above.

As they reached the first floor, noticing Pierre’s emotion, Victorine

smiled. The mansion seemed to be uninhabited; not a sound came from its

closed chambers. Simply pointing to a large oaken door on the right-hand,

the housekeeper remarked: “The wing overlooking the court and the river

is occupied by his Eminence. But he doesn’t use a quarter of the rooms.

All the reception-rooms on the side of the street have been shut. How

could one keep up such a big place, and what, too, would be the use of

it? We should need somebody to lodge.”

With her lithe step she continued ascending the stairs. She had remained

essentially a foreigner, a Frenchwoman, too different from those among

whom she lived to be influenced by her environment. On reaching the

second floor she resumed: “There, on the left, are Donna Serafina’s

rooms; those of the Contessina are on the right. This is the only part of

the house where there’s a little warmth and life. Besides, it’s Monday

to-day, the Princess will be receiving visitors this evening. You’ll

see.”

Then, opening a door, beyond which was a second and very narrow

staircase, she went on: “We others have our rooms on the third floor. I

must ask Monsieur l’Abbe to let me go up before him.”

The grand staircase ceased at the second floor, and Victorine explained

that the third story was reached exclusively by this servants’ staircase,

which led from the lane running down to the Tiber on one side of the

mansion. There was a small private entrance in this lane, which was very

convenient.

At last, reaching the third story, she hurried along a passage, again

calling Pierre’s attention to various doors. “These are the apartments of

Don Vigilio, his Eminence’s secretary. These are mine. And these will be

yours. Monsieur le Vicomte will never have any other rooms when he comes

to spend a few days in Rome. He says that he enjoys more liberty up here,

as he can come in and go out as he pleases. I gave him a key to the door

in the lane, and I’ll give you one too. And, besides, you’ll see what a

nice view there is from here!”

Whilst speaking she had gone in. The apartments comprised two rooms: a

somewhat spacious _salon_, with wall-paper of a large scroll pattern on a

red ground, and a bed-chamber, where the paper was of a flax grey,

studded with faded blue flowers. The sitting-room was in one corner of

the mansion overlooking the lane and the Tiber, and Victorine at once

went to the windows, one of which afforded a view over the distant lower

part of the river, while the other faced the Trastevere and the Janiculum

across the water.

“Ah! yes, it’s very pleasant!” said Pierre, who had followed and stood

beside her.

Giaccomo, who did not hurry, came in behind them with the valise. It was

now past eleven o’clock; and seeing that the young priest looked tired,

and realising that he must be hungry after such a journey, Victorine

offered to have some breakfast served at once in the sitting-room. He

would then have the afternoon to rest or go out, and would only meet the

ladies in the evening at dinner. At the mere suggestion of resting,

however, Pierre began to protest, declaring that he should certainly go

out, not wishing to lose an entire afternoon. The breakfast he readily

accepted, for he was indeed dying of hunger.

However, he had to wait another full half hour. Giaccomo, who served him

under Victorine’s orders, did everything in a most leisurely way. And

Victorine, lacking confidence in the man, remained with the young priest

to make sure that everything he might require was provided.

“Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe,” said she, “what people! What a country! You can’t

have an idea of it. I should never get accustomed to it even if I were to

live here for a hundred years. Ah! if it were not for the Contessina, but

she’s so good and beautiful.”

Then, whilst placing a dish of figs on the table, she astonished Pierre

by adding that a city where nearly everybody was a priest could not

possibly be a good city. Thereupon the presence of this gay, active,

unbelieving servant in the queer old palace again scared him.

“What! you are not religious?” he exclaimed.

“No, no, Monsieur l’Abbe, the priests don’t suit me,” said Victorine; “I

knew one in France when I was very little, and since I’ve been here I’ve

seen too many of them. It’s all over. Oh! I don’t say that on account of

his Eminence, who is a holy man worthy of all possible respect. And

besides, everybody in the house knows that I’ve nothing to reproach

myself with. So why not leave me alone, since I’m fond of my employers

and attend properly to my duties?”

She burst into a frank laugh. “Ah!” she resumed, “when I was told that

another priest was coming, just as if we hadn’t enough already, I

couldn’t help growling to myself. But you look like a good young man,

Monsieur l’Abbe, and I feel sure we shall get on well together.... I

really don’t know why I’m telling you all this--probably it’s because

you’ve come from yonder, and because the Contessina takes an interest in

you. At all events, you’ll excuse me, won’t you, Monsieur l’Abbe? And

take my advice, stay here and rest to-day; don’t be so foolish as to go

running about their tiring city. There’s nothing very amusing to be seen

in it, whatever they may say to the contrary.”

When Pierre found himself alone, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by all the

fatigue of his journey coupled with the fever of enthusiasm that had

consumed him during the morning. And as though dazed, intoxicated by the

hasty meal which he had just made--a couple of eggs and a cutlet--he

flung himself upon the bed with the idea of taking half an hour’s rest.

He did not fall asleep immediately, but for a time thought of those

Boccaneras, with whose history he was partly acquainted, and of whose

life in that deserted and silent palace, instinct with such dilapidated

and melancholy grandeur, he began to dream. But at last his ideas grew

confused, and by degrees he sunk into sleep amidst a crowd of shadowy

forms, some tragic and some sweet, with vague faces which gazed at him

with enigmatical eyes as they whirled before him in the depths of

dreamland.

The Boccaneras had supplied two popes to Rome, one in the thirteenth, the

other in the fifteenth century, and from those two favoured ones, those

all-powerful masters, the family had formerly derived its vast

fortune--large estates in the vicinity of Viterbo, several palaces in

Rome, enough works of art to fill numerous spacious galleries, and a pile

of gold sufficient to cram a cellar. The family passed as being the most

pious of the Roman _patriziato_, a family of burning faith whose sword

had always been at the service of the Church; but if it were the most

believing family it was also the most violent, the most disputatious,

constantly at war, and so fiercely savage that the anger of the

Boccaneras had become proverbial. And thence came their arms, the winged

dragon spitting flames, and the fierce, glowing motto, with its play on

the name “_Bocca sera, Alma rossa_” (black mouth, red soul), the mouth

darkened by a roar, the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love.

Legends of endless passion, of terrible deeds of justice and vengeance

still circulated. There was the duel fought by Onfredo, the Boccanera by

whom the present palazzo had been built in the sixteenth century on the

site of the demolished antique residence of the family. Onfredo, learning

that his wife had allowed herself to be kissed on the lips by young Count

Costamagna, had caused the Count to be kidnapped one evening and brought

to the palazzo bound with cords. And there in one of the large halls,

before freeing him, he compelled him to confess himself to a monk. Then

he severed the cords with a stiletto, threw the lamps over and

extinguished them, calling to the Count to keep the stiletto and defend

himself. During more than an hour, in complete obscurity, in this hall

full of furniture, the two men sought one another, fled from one another,

seized hold of one another, and pierced one another with their blades.

And when the doors were broken down and the servants rushed in they found

among the pools of blood, among the overturned tables and broken seats,

Costamagna with his nose sliced off and his hips pierced with two and

thirty wounds, whilst Onfredo had lost two fingers of his right hand, and

had both shoulders riddled with holes! The wonder was that neither died

of the encounter.

A century later, on that same bank of the Tiber, a daughter of the

Boccaneras, a girl barely sixteen years of age, the lovely and passionate

Cassia, filled all Rome with terror and admiration. She loved Flavio

Corradini, the scion of a rival and hated house, whose alliance her

father, Prince Boccanera, roughly rejected, and whom her elder brother,

Ercole, swore to slay should he ever surprise him with her. Nevertheless

the young man came to visit her in a boat, and she joined him by the

little staircase descending to the river. But one evening Ercole, who was

on the watch, sprang into the boat and planted his dagger full in

Flavio’s heart. Later on the subsequent incidents were unravelled; it was

understood that Cassia, wrathful and frantic with despair, unwilling to

survive her love and bent on wreaking justice, had thrown herself upon

her brother, had seized both murderer and victim with the same grasp

whilst overturning the boat; for when the three bodies were recovered

Cassia still retained her hold upon the two men, pressing their faces one

against the other with her bare arms, which had remained as white as

snow.

But those were vanished times. Nowadays, if faith remained, blood

violence seemed to be departing from the Boccaneras. Their huge fortune

also had been lost in the slow decline which for a century past has been

ruining the Roman _patriziato_. It had been necessary to sell the

estates; the palace had emptied, gradually sinking to the mediocrity and

bourgeois life of the new times. For their part the Boccaneras

obstinately declined to contract any alien alliances, proud as they were

of the purity of their Roman blood. And poverty was as nothing to them;

they found contentment in their immense pride, and without a plaint

sequestered themselves amidst the silence and gloom in which their race

was dwindling away.

Prince Ascanio, dead since 1848, had left four children by his wife, a

Corvisieri; first Pio, the Cardinal; then Serafina, who, in order to

remain with her brother, had not married; and finally Ernesta and

Onofrio, both of whom were deceased. As Ernesta had merely left a

daughter, Benedetta, behind her, it followed that the only male heir, the

only possible continuator of the family name was Onofrio’s son, young

Prince Dario, now some thirty years of age. Should he die without

posterity, the Boccaneras, once so full of life and whose deeds had

filled Roman history in papal times, must fatally disappear.

Dario and his cousin Benedetta had been drawn together by a deep,

smiling, natural passion ever since childhood. They seemed born one for

the other; they could not imagine that they had been brought into the

world for any other purpose than that of becoming husband and wife as

soon as they should be old enough to marry. When Prince Onofrio--an

amiable man of forty, very popular in Rome, where he spent his modest

fortune as his heart listed--espoused La Montefiori’s daughter, the

little Marchesa Flavia, whose superb beauty, suggestive of a youthful

Juno, had maddened him, he went to reside at the Villa Montefiori, the

only property, indeed the only belonging, that remained to the two

ladies. It was in the direction of St’. Agnese-fuori-le-Mura,* and there

were vast grounds, a perfect park in fact, planted with centenarian

trees, among which the villa, a somewhat sorry building of the

seventeenth century, was falling into ruins.

* St. Agnes-without-the-walls, N.E. of Rome.

Unfavourable reports were circulated about the ladies, the mother having

almost lost caste since she had become a widow, and the girl having too

bold a beauty, too conquering an air. Thus the marriage had not met with

the approval of Serafina, who was very rigid, or of Onofrio’s elder

brother Pio, at that time merely a _Cameriere segreto_ of the Holy Father

and a Canon of the Vatican basilica. Only Ernesta kept up a regular

intercourse with Onofrio, fond of him as she was by reason of his gaiety

of disposition; and thus, later on, her favourite diversion was to go

each week to the Villa Montefiori with her daughter Benedetta, there to

spend the day. And what a delightful day it always proved to Benedetta

and Dario, she ten years old and he fifteen, what a fraternal loving day

in that vast and almost abandoned garden with its parasol pines, its

giant box-plants, and its clumps of evergreen oaks, amidst which one lost

oneself as in a virgin forest.

The poor stifled soul of Ernesta was a soul of pain and passion. Born

with a mighty longing for life, she thirsted for the sun--for a free,

happy, active existence in the full daylight. She was noted for her large

limpid eyes and the charming oval of her gentle face. Extremely ignorant,

like all the daughters of the Roman nobility, having learnt the little

she knew in a convent of French nuns, she had grown up cloistered in the

black Boccanera palace, having no knowledge of the world than by those

daily drives to the Corso and the Pincio on which she accompanied her

mother. Eventually, when she was five and twenty, and was already weary

and desolate, she contracted the customary marriage of her caste,

espousing Count Brandini, the last-born of a very noble, very numerous

and poor family, who had to come and live in the Via Giulia mansion,

where an entire wing of the second floor was got ready for the young

couple. And nothing changed, Ernesta continued to live in the same cold

gloom, in the midst of the same dead past, the weight of which, like that

of a tombstone, she felt pressing more and more heavily upon her.

The marriage was, on either side, a very honourable one. Count Brandini

soon passed as being the most foolish and haughty man in Rome. A strict,

intolerant formalist in religious matters, he became quite triumphant

when, after innumerable intrigues, secret plottings which lasted ten long

years, he at last secured the appointment of grand equerry to the Holy

Father. With this appointment it seemed as if all the dismal majesty of

the Vatican entered his household. However, Ernesta found life still

bearable in the time of Pius IX--that is until the latter part of

1870--for she might still venture to open the windows overlooking the

street, receive a few lady friends otherwise than in secrecy, and accept

invitations to festivities. But when the Italians had conquered Rome and

the Pope declared himself a prisoner, the mansion in the Via Giulia

became a sepulchre. The great doors were closed and bolted, even nailed

together in token of mourning; and during ten years the inmates only went

out and came in by the little staircase communicating with the lane. It

was also forbidden to open the window shutters of the facade. This was

the sulking, the protest of the black world, the mansion sinking into

death-like immobility, complete seclusion; no more receptions, barely a

few shadows, the intimates of Donna Serafina who on Monday evenings

slipped in by the little door in the lane which was scarcely set ajar.

And during those ten lugubrious years, overcome by secret despair, the

young woman wept every night, suffered untold agony at thus being buried

alive.

Ernesta had given birth to her daughter Benedetta rather late in life,

when three and thirty years of age. At first the little one helped to

divert her mind. But afterwards her wonted existence, like a grinding

millstone, again seized hold of her, and she had to place the child in

the charge of the French nuns, by whom she herself had been educated, at

the convent of the Sacred Heart of La Trinita de’ Monti. When Benedetta

left the convent, grown up, nineteen years of age, she was able to speak

and write French, knew a little arithmetic and her catechism, and

possessed a few hazy notions of history. Then the life of the two women

was resumed, the life of a _gynoeceum_, suggestive of the Orient; never

an excursion with husband or father, but day after day spent in closed,

secluded rooms, with nought to cheer one but the sole, everlasting,

obligatory promenade, the daily drive to the Corso and the Pincio.

At home, absolute obedience was the rule; the tie of relationship

possessed an authority, a strength, which made both women bow to the will

of the Count, without possible thought of rebellion; and to the Count’s

will was added that of Donna Serafina and that of Cardinal Pio, both of

whom were stern defenders of the old-time customs. Since the Pope had

ceased to show himself in Rome, the post of grand equerry had left the

Count considerable leisure, for the number of equipages in the pontifical

stables had been very largely reduced; nevertheless, he was constant in

his attendance at the Vatican, where his duties were now a mere matter of

parade, and ever increased his devout zeal as a mark of protest against

the usurping monarchy installed at the Quirinal. However, Benedetta had

just attained her twentieth year, when one evening her father returned

coughing and shivering from some ceremony at St. Peter’s. A week later he

died, carried off by inflammation of the lungs. And despite their

mourning, the loss was secretly considered a deliverance by both women,

who now felt that they were free.

Thenceforward Ernesta had but one thought, that of saving her daughter

from that awful life of immurement and entombment. She herself had

sorrowed too deeply: it was no longer possible for her to remount the

current of existence; but she was unwilling that Benedetta should in her

turn lead a life contrary to nature, in a voluntary grave. Moreover,

similar lassitude and rebellion were showing themselves among other

patrician families, which, after the sulking of the first years, were

beginning to draw nearer to the Quirinal. Why indeed should the children,

eager for action, liberty, and sunlight, perpetually keep up the quarrel

of the fathers? And so, though no reconciliation could take place between

the black world and the white world,* intermediate tints were already

appearing, and some unexpected matrimonial alliances were contracted.

* The “blacks” are the supporters of the papacy, the “whites”

those of the King of Italy.--Trans.

Ernesta for her part was indifferent to the political question; she knew

next to nothing about it; but that which she passionately desired was

that her race might at last emerge from that hateful sepulchre, that

black, silent Boccanera mansion, where her woman’s joys had been frozen

by so long a death. She had suffered very grievously in her heart, as

girl, as lover, and as wife, and yielded to anger at the thought that her

life should have been so spoiled, so lost through idiotic resignation.

Then, too, her mind was greatly influenced by the choice of a new

confessor at this period; for she had remained very religious, practising

all the rites of the Church, and ever docile to the advice of her

spiritual director. To free herself the more, however, she now quitted

the Jesuit father whom her husband had chosen for her, and in his stead

took Abbe Pisoni, the rector of the little church of Sta. Brigida, on the

Piazza Farnese, close by. He was a man of fifty, very gentle, and very

good-hearted, of a benevolence seldom found in the Roman world; and

archaeology, a passion for the old stones of the past, had made him an

ardent patriot. Humble though his position was, folks whispered that he

had on several occasions served as an intermediary in delicate matters

between the Vatican and the Quirinal. And, becoming confessor not only of

Ernesta but of Benedetta also, he was fond of discoursing to them about

the grandeur of Italian unity, the triumphant sway that Italy would

exercise when the Pope and the King should agree together.

Meantime Benedetta and Dario loved as on the first day, patiently, with

the strong tranquil love of those who know that they belong to one

another. But it happened that Ernesta threw herself between them and

stubbornly opposed their marriage. No, no! her daughter must not espouse

that Dario, that cousin, the last of the name, who in his turn would

immure his wife in the black sepulchre of the Boccanera palace! Their

union would be a prolongation of entombment, an aggravation of ruin, a

repetition of the haughty wretchedness of the past, of the everlasting

peevish sulking which depressed and benumbed one! She was well acquainted

with the young man’s character; she knew that he was egotistical and

weak, incapable of thinking and acting, predestined to bury his race with

a smile on his lips, to let the last remnant of the house crumble about

his head without attempting the slightest effort to found a new family.

And that which she desired was fortune in another guise, a new birth for

her daughter with wealth and the florescence of life amid the victors and

powerful ones of to-morrow.

From that moment the mother did not cease her stubborn efforts to ensure

her daughter’s happiness despite herself. She told her of her tears,

entreated her not to renew her own deplorable career. Yet she would have

failed, such was the calm determination of the girl who had for ever

given her heart, if certain circumstances had not brought her into

connection with such a son-in-law as she dreamt of. At that very Villa

Montefiori where Benedetta and Dario had plighted their troth, she met

Count Prada, son of Orlando, one of the heroes of the reunion of Italy.

Arriving in Rome from Milan, with his father, when eighteen years of age,

at the time of the occupation of the city by the Italian Government,

Prada had first entered the Ministry of Finances as a mere clerk, whilst

the old warrior, his sire, created a senator, lived scantily on a petty

income, the last remnant of a fortune spent in his country’s service. The

fine war-like madness of the former comrade of Garibaldi had, however, in

the son turned into a fierce appetite for booty, so that the young man

became one of the real conquerors of Rome, one of those birds of prey

that dismembered and devoured the city. Engaged in vast speculations on

land, already wealthy according to popular report, he had--at the time of

meeting Ernesta--just become intimate with Prince Onofrio, whose head he

had turned by suggesting to him the idea of selling the far-spreading

grounds of the Villa Montefiori for the erection of a new suburban

district on the site. Others averred that he was the lover of the

princess, the beautiful Flavia, who, although nine years his senior, was

still superb. And, truth to tell, he was certainly a man of violent

desires, with an eagerness to rush on the spoils of conquest which

rendered him utterly unscrupulous with regard either to the wealth or to

the wives of others.

From the first day that he beheld Benedetta he desired her. But she, at

any rate, could only become his by marriage. And he did not for a moment

hesitate, but broke off all connection with Flavia, eager as he was for

the pure virgin beauty, the patrician youth of the other. When he

realised that Ernesta, the mother, favoured him, he asked her daughter’s

hand, feeling certain of success. And the surprise was great, for he was

some fifteen years older than the girl. However, he was a count, he bore

a name which was already historical, he was piling up millions, he was

regarded with favour at the Quirinal, and none could tell to what heights

he might not attain. All Rome became impassioned.

Never afterwards was Benedetta able to explain to herself how it happened

that she had eventually consented. Six months sooner, six months later,

such a marriage would certainly have been impossible, given the fearful

scandal which it raised in the black world. A Boccanera, the last maiden

of that antique papal race, given to a Prada, to one of the despoilers of

the Church! Was it credible? In order that the wild project might prove

successful it had been necessary that it should be formed at a particular

brief moment--a moment when a supreme effort was being made to conciliate

the Vatican and the Quirinal. A report circulated that an agreement was

on the point of being arrived at, that the King consented to recognise

the Pope’s absolute sovereignty over the Leonine City,* and a narrow band

of territory extending to the sea. And if such were the case would not

the marriage of Benedetta and Prada become, so to say, a symbol of union,

of national reconciliation? That lovely girl, the pure lily of the black

world, was she not the acquiescent sacrifice, the pledge granted to the

whites?

* The Vatican suburb of Rome, called the _Civitas Leonina_,

because Leo IV, to protect it from the Saracens and Arabs,

enclosed it with walls in the ninth century.--Trans.

For a fortnight nothing else was talked of; people discussed the

question, allowed their emotion rein, indulged in all sorts of hopes. The

girl, for her part, did not enter into the political reasons, but simply

listened to her heart, which she could not bestow since it was hers no

more. From morn till night, however, she had to encounter her mother’s

prayers entreating her not to refuse the fortune, the life which offered.

And she was particularly exercised by the counsels of her confessor, good

Abbe Pisoni, whose patriotic zeal now burst forth. He weighed upon her

with all his faith in the Christian destinies of Italy, and returned

heartfelt thanks to Providence for having chosen one of his penitents as

the instrument for hastening the reconciliation which would work God’s

triumph throughout the world. And her confessor’s influence was certainly

one of the decisive factors in shaping Benedetta’s decision, for she was

very pious, very devout, especially with regard to a certain Madonna

whose image she went to adore every Sunday at the little church on the

Piazza Farnese. One circumstance in particular struck her: Abbe Pisoni

related that the flame of the lamp before the image in question whitened

each time that he himself knelt there to beg the Virgin to incline his

penitent to the all-redeeming marriage. And thus superior forces

intervened; and she yielded in obedience to her mother, whom the Cardinal

and Donna Serafina had at first opposed, but whom they left free to act

when the religious question arose.

Benedetta had grown up in such absolute purity and ignorance, knowing

nothing of herself, so shut off from existence, that marriage with

another than Dario was to her simply the rupture of a long-kept promise

of life in common. It was not the violent wrenching of heart and flesh

that it would have been in the case of a woman who knew the facts of

life. She wept a good deal, and then in a day of self-surrender she

married Prada, lacking the strength to continue resisting everybody, and

yielding to a union which all Rome had conspired to bring about.

But the clap of thunder came on the very night of the nuptials. Was it

that Prada, the Piedmontese, the Italian of the North, the man of

conquest, displayed towards his bride the same brutality that he had

shown towards the city he had sacked? Or was it that the revelation of

married life filled Benedetta with repulsion since nothing in her own

heart responded to the passion of this man? On that point she never

clearly explained herself; but with violence she shut the door of her

room, locked it and bolted it, and refused to admit her husband. For a

month Prada was maddened by her scorn. He felt outraged; both his pride

and his passion bled; and he swore to master her, even as one masters a

colt, with the whip. But all his virile fury was impotent against the

indomitable determination which had sprung up one evening behind

Benedetta’s small and lovely brow. The spirit of the Boccaneras had awoke

within her; nothing in the world, not even the fear of death, would have

induced her to become her husband’s wife.* And then, love being at last

revealed to her, there came a return of her heart to Dario, a conviction

that she must reserve herself for him alone, since it was to him that she

had promised herself.

* Many readers will doubtless remember that the situation as

here described is somewhat akin to that of the earlier part

of M. George Ohnet’s _Ironmaster_, which, in its form as a

novel, I translated into English many years ago. However,

all resemblance between _Rome_ and the _Ironmaster_ is confined

to this one point.--Trans.

Ever since that marriage, which he had borne like a bereavement, the

young man had been travelling in France. She did not hide the truth from

him, but wrote to him, again vowing that she would never be another’s.

And meantime her piety increased, her resolve to reserve herself for the

lover she had chosen mingled in her mind with constancy of religious

faith. The ardent heart of a great _amorosa_ had ignited within her, she

was ready for martyrdom for faith’s sake. And when her despairing mother

with clasped hands entreated her to resign herself to her conjugal

duties, she replied that she owed no duties, since she had known nothing

when she married. Moreover, the times were changing; the attempts to

reconcile the Quirinal and the Vatican had failed, so completely, indeed,

that the newspapers of the rival parties had, with renewed violence,

resumed their campaign of mutual insult and outrage; and thus that

triumphal marriage, to which every one had contributed as to a pledge of

peace, crumbled amid the general smash-up, became but a ruin the more

added to so many others.

Ernesta died of it. She had made a mistake. Her spoilt life--the life of

a joyless wife--had culminated in this supreme maternal error. And the

worst was that she alone had to bear all the responsibility of the

disaster, for both her brother, the Cardinal, and her sister, Donna

Serafina, overwhelmed her with reproaches. For consolation she had but

the despair of Abbe Pisoni, whose patriotic hopes had been destroyed, and

who was consumed with grief at having contributed to such a catastrophe.

And one morning Ernesta was found, icy white and cold, in her bed. Folks

talked of the rupture of a blood-vessel, but grief had been sufficient,

for she had suffered frightfully, secretly, without a plaint, as indeed

she had suffered all her life long.

At this time Benedetta had been married about a twelvemonth: still strong

in her resistance to her husband, but remaining under the conjugal roof

in order to spare her mother the terrible blow of a public scandal.

However, her aunt Serafina had brought influence to bear on her, by

opening to her the hope of a possible nullification of her marriage,

should she throw herself at the feet of the Holy Father and entreat his

intervention. And Serafina ended by persuading her of this, when,

deferring to certain advice, she removed her from the spiritual control

of Abbe Pisoni, and gave her the same confessor as herself. This was a

Jesuit father named Lorenza, a man scarce five and thirty, with bright

eyes, grave and amiable manners, and great persuasive powers. However, it

was only on the morrow of her mother’s death that Benedetta made up her

mind, and returned to the Palazzo Boccanera, to occupy the apartments

where she had been born, and where her mother had just passed away.

Immediately afterwards proceedings for annulling the marriage were

instituted, in the first instance, for inquiry, before the Cardinal Vicar

charged with the diocese of Rome. It was related that the Contessina had

only taken this step after a secret audience with his Holiness, who had

shown her the most encouraging sympathy. Count Prada at first spoke of

applying to the law courts to compel his wife to return to the conjugal

domicile; but, yielding to the entreaties of his old father Orlando, whom

the affair greatly grieved, he eventually consented to accept the

ecclesiastical jurisdiction. He was infuriated, however, to find that the

nullification of the marriage was solicited on the ground of its

non-consummation through _impotentia mariti_; this being one of the most

valid and decisive pleas on which the Church of Rome consents to part

those whom she has joined. And far more unhappy marriages than might be

imagined are severed on these grounds, though the world only gives

attention to those cases in which people of title or renown are

concerned, as it did, for instance, with the famous Martinez Campos suit.

In Benedetta’s case, her counsel, Consistorial-Advocate Morano, one of

the leading authorities of the Roman bar, simply neglected to mention, in

his memoir, that if she was still merely a wife in name, this was

entirely due to herself. In addition to the evidence of friends and

servants, showing on what terms the husband and wife had lived since

their marriage, the advocate produced a certificate of a medical

character, showing that the non-consummation of the union was certain.

And the Cardinal Vicar, acting as Bishop of Rome, had thereupon remitted

the case to the Congregation of the Council. This was a first success for

Benedetta, and matters remained in this position. She was waiting for the

Congregation to deliver its final pronouncement, hoping that the

ecclesiastical dissolution of the marriage would prove an irresistible

argument in favour of the divorce which she meant to solicit of the civil

courts. And meantime, in the icy rooms where her mother Ernesta,

submissive and desolate, had lately died, the Contessina resumed her

girlish life, showing herself calm, yet very firm in her passion, having

vowed that she would belong to none but Dario, and that she would not

belong to him until the day when a priest should have joined them

together in God’s holy name.

As it happened, some six months previously, Dario also had taken up his

abode at the Boccanera palace in consequence of the death of his father

and the catastrophe which had ruined him. Prince Onofrio, after adopting

Prada’s advice and selling the Villa Montefiori to a financial company

for ten million _lire_,* had, instead of prudently keeping his money in

his pockets, succumbed to the fever of speculation which was consuming

Rome. He began to gamble, buying back his own land, and ending by losing

everything in the formidable _krach_ which was swallowing up the wealth

of the entire city. Totally ruined, somewhat deeply in debt even, the

Prince nevertheless continued to promenade the Corso, like the handsome,

smiling, popular man he was, when he accidentally met his death through

falling from his horse; and four months later his widow, the ever

beautiful Flavia--who had managed to save a modern villa and a personal

income of forty thousand _lire_* from the disaster--was remarried to a

man of magnificent presence, her junior by some ten years. This was a

Swiss named Jules Laporte, originally a sergeant in the Papal Swiss

Guard, then a traveller for a shady business in “relics,” and finally

Marchese Montefiore, having secured that title in securing his wife,

thanks to a special brief of the Holy Father. Thus the Princess Boccanera

had again become the Marchioness Montefiori.

* 400,000 pounds.

** 1,800 pounds.

It was then that Cardinal Boccanera, feeling greatly hurt, insisted on

his nephew Dario coming to live with him, in a small apartment on the

first floor of the palazzo. In the heart of that holy man, who seemed

dead to the world, there still lingered pride of name and lineage, with a

feeling of affection for his young, slightly built nephew, the last of

the race, the only one by whom the old stock might blossom anew.

Moreover, he was not opposed to Dario’s marriage with Benedetta, whom he

also loved with a paternal affection; and so proud was he of the family

honour, and so convinced of the young people’s pious rectitude that, in

taking them to live with him, he absolutely scorned the abominable

rumours which Count Prada’s friends in the white world had begun to

circulate ever since the two cousins had resided under the same roof.

Donna Serafina guarded Benedetta, as he, the Cardinal, guarded Dario, and

in the silence and the gloom of the vast deserted mansion, ensanguined of

olden time by so many tragic deeds of violence, there now only remained

these four with their restrained, stilled passions, last survivors of a

crumbling world upon the threshold of a new one.

When Abbe Pierre Froment all at once awoke from sleep, his head heavy

with painful dreams, he was worried to find that the daylight was already

waning. His watch, which he hastened to consult, pointed to six o’clock.

Intending to rest for an hour at the utmost, he had slept on for nearly

seven hours, overcome beyond power of resistance. And even on awaking he

remained on the bed, helpless, as though he were conquered before he had

fought. Why, he wondered, did he experience this prostration, this

unreasonable discouragement, this quiver of doubt which had come he knew

not whence during his sleep, and which was annihilating his youthful

enthusiasm of the morning? Had the Boccaneras any connection with this

sudden weakening of his powers? He had espied dim disquieting figures in

the black night of his dreams; and the anguish which they had brought him

continued, and he again evoked them, scared as he was at thus awaking in

a strange room, full of uneasiness in presence of the unknown. Things no

longer seemed natural to him. He could not understand why Benedetta

should have written to Viscount Philibert de la Choue to tell him that

his, Pierre’s, book had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index.

What interest too could she have had in his coming to Rome to defend

himself; and with what object had she carried her amiability so far as to

desire that he should take up his quarters in the mansion? Pierre’s

stupefaction indeed arose from his being there, on that bed in that

strange room, in that palace whose deep, death-like silence encompassed

him. As he lay there, his limbs still overpowered and his brain seemingly

empty, a flash of light suddenly came to him, and he realised that there

must be certain circumstances that he knew nothing of that, simple though

things appeared, they must really hide some complicated intrigue.

However, it was only a fugitive gleam of enlightenment; his suspicions

faded; and he rose up shaking himself and accusing the gloomy twilight of

being the sole cause of the shivering and the despondency of which he

felt ashamed.

In order to bestir himself, Pierre began to examine the two rooms. They

were furnished simply, almost meagrely, in mahogany, there being scarcely

any two articles alike, though all dated from the beginning of the

century. Neither the bed nor the windows nor the doors had any hangings.

On the floor of bare tiles, coloured red and polished, there were merely

some little foot-mats in front of the various seats. And at sight of this

middle-class bareness and coldness Pierre ended by remembering a room

where he had slept in childhood--a room at Versailles, at the abode of

his grandmother, who had kept a little grocer’s shop there in the days of

Louis Philippe. However, he became interested in an old painting which

hung in the bed-room, on the wall facing the bed, amidst some childish

and valueless engravings. But partially discernible in the waning light,

this painting represented a woman seated on some projecting stone-work,

on the threshold of a great stern building, whence she seemed to have

been driven forth. The folding doors of bronze had for ever closed behind

her, yet she remained there in a mere drapery of white linen; whilst

scattered articles of clothing, thrown forth chance-wise with a violent

hand, lay upon the massive granite steps. Her feet were bare, her arms

were bare, and her hands, distorted by bitter agony, were pressed to her

face--a face which one saw not, veiled as it was by the tawny gold of her

rippling, streaming hair. What nameless grief, what fearful shame, what

hateful abandonment was thus being hidden by that rejected one, that

lingering victim of love, of whose unknown story one might for ever dream

with tortured heart? It could be divined that she was adorably young and

beautiful in her wretchedness, in the shred of linen draped about her

shoulders; but a mystery enveloped everything else--her passion, possibly

her misfortune, perhaps even her transgression--unless, indeed, she were

there merely as a symbol of all that shivers and that weeps visageless

before the ever closed portals of the unknown. For a long time Pierre

looked at her, and so intently that he at last imagined he could

distinguish her profile, divine in its purity and expression of

suffering. But this was only an illusion; the painting had greatly

suffered, blackened by time and neglect; and he asked himself whose work

it might be that it should move him so intensely. On the adjoining wall a

picture of a Madonna, a bad copy of an eighteenth-century painting,

irritated him by the banality of its smile.

Night was falling faster and faster, and, opening the sitting-room

window, Pierre leant out. On the other bank of the Tiber facing him arose

the Janiculum, the height whence he had gazed upon Rome that morning. But

at this dim hour Rome was no longer the city of youth and dreamland

soaring into the early sunshine. The night was raining down, grey and

ashen; the horizon was becoming blurred, vague, and mournful. Yonder, to

the left, beyond the sea of roofs, Pierre could still divine the presence

of the Palatine; and yonder, to the right, there still arose the Dome of

St. Peter’s, now grey like slate against the leaden sky; whilst behind

him the Quirinal, which he could not see, must also be fading away into

the misty night. A few minutes went by, and everything became yet more

blurred; he realised that Rome was fading, departing in its immensity of

which he knew nothing. Then his causeless doubt and disquietude again

came on him so painfully that he could no longer remain at the window. He

closed it and sat down, letting the darkness submerge him with its flood

of infinite sadness. And his despairing reverie only ceased when the door

gently opened and the glow of a lamp enlivened the room.

It was Victorine who came in quietly, bringing the light. “Ah! so you are

up, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said she; “I came in at about four o’clock but I

let you sleep on. You have done quite right to take all the rest you

required.”

Then, as he complained of pains and shivering, she became anxious. “Don’t

go catching their nasty fevers,” she said. “It isn’t at all healthy near

their river, you know. Don Vigilio, his Eminence’s secretary, is always

having the fever, and I assure you that it isn’t pleasant.”

She accordingly advised him to remain upstairs and lie down again. She

would excuse his absence to the Princess and the Contessina. And he ended

by letting her do as she desired, for he was in no state to have any will

of his own. By her advice he dined, partaking of some soup, a wing of a

chicken, and some preserves, which Giaccomo, the big lackey, brought up

to him. And the food did him a great deal of good; he felt so restored

that he refused to go to bed, desiring, said he, to thank the ladies that

very evening for their kindly hospitality. As Donna Serafina received on

Mondays he would present himself before her.

“Very good,” said Victorine approvingly. “As you are all right again it

can do you no harm, it will even enliven you. The best thing will be for

Don Vigilio to come for you at nine o’clock and accompany you. Wait for

him here.”

Pierre had just washed and put on the new cassock he had brought with

him, when, at nine o’clock precisely, he heard a discreet knock at his

door. A little priest came in, a man scarcely thirty years of age, but

thin and debile of build, with a long, seared, saffron-coloured face. For

two years past attacks of fever, coming on every day at the same hour,

had been consuming him. Nevertheless, whenever he forgot to control the

black eyes which lighted his yellow face, they shone out ardently with

the glow of his fiery soul. He bowed, and then in fluent French

introduced himself in this simple fashion: “Don Vigilio, Monsieur l’Abbe,

who is entirely at your service. If you are willing, we will go down.”

Pierre immediately followed him, expressing his thanks, and Don Vigilio,

relapsing into silence, answered his remarks with a smile. Having

descended the small staircase, they found themselves on the second floor,

on the spacious landing of the grand staircase. And Pierre was surprised

and saddened by the scanty illumination, which, as in some dingy

lodging-house, was limited to a few gas-jets, placed far apart, their

yellow splotches but faintly relieving the deep gloom of the lofty,

endless corridors. All was gigantic and funereal. Even on the landing,

where was the entrance to Donna Serafina’s apartments, facing those

occupied by her niece, nothing indicated that a reception was being held

that evening. The door remained closed, not a sound came from the rooms,

a death-like silence arose from the whole palace. And Don Vigilio did not

even ring, but, after a fresh bow, discreetly turned the door-handle.

A single petroleum lamp, placed on a table, lighted the ante-room, a

large apartment with bare fresco-painted walls, simulating hangings of

red and gold, draped regularly all around in the antique fashion. A few

men’s overcoats and two ladies’ mantles lay on the chairs, whilst a pier

table was littered with hats, and a servant sat there dozing, with his

back to the wall.

However, as Don Vigilio stepped aside to allow Pierre to enter a first

reception-room, hung with red _brocatelle_, a room but dimly lighted and

which he imagined to be empty, the young priest found himself face to

face with an apparition in black, a woman whose features he could not at

first distinguish. Fortunately he heard his companion say, with a low

bow, “Contessina, I have the honour to present to you Monsieur l’Abbe

Pierre Froment, who arrived from France this morning.”

Then, for a moment, Pierre remained alone with Benedetta in that deserted

_salon_, in the sleepy glimmer of two lace-veiled lamps. At present,

however, a sound of voices came from a room beyond, a larger apartment

whose doorway, with folding doors thrown wide open, described a

parallelogram of brighter light.

The young woman at once showed herself very affable, with perfect

simplicity of manner: “Ah! I am happy to see you, Monsieur l’Abbe. I was

afraid that your indisposition might be serious. You are quite recovered

now, are you not?”

Pierre listened to her, fascinated by her slow and rather thick voice, in

which restrained passion seemed to mingle with much prudent good sense.

And at last he saw her, with her hair so heavy and so dark, her skin so

white, the whiteness of ivory. She had a round face, with somewhat full

lips, a small refined nose, features as delicate as a child’s. But it was

especially her eyes that lived, immense eyes, whose infinite depths none

could fathom. Was she slumbering? Was she dreaming? Did her motionless

face conceal the ardent tension of a great saint and a great _amorosa_?

So white, so young, and so calm, her every movement was harmonious, her

appearance at once very staid, very noble, and very rhythmical. In her

ears she wore two large pearls of matchless purity, pearls which had come

from a famous necklace of her mother’s, known throughout Rome.

Pierre apologised and thanked her. “You see me in confusion, madame,”

said he; “I should have liked to express to you this morning my gratitude

for your great kindness.”

He had hesitated to call her madame, remembering the plea brought forward

in the suit for the dissolution of her marriage. But plainly enough

everybody must call her madame. Moreover, her face had retained its calm

and kindly expression.

“Consider yourself at home here, Monsieur l’Abbe,” she responded, wishing

to put him at his ease. “It is sufficient that our relative, Monsieur de

la Choue, should be fond of you, and take interest in your work. I have,

you know, much affection for him.” Then her voice faltered slightly, for

she realised that she ought to speak of the book, the one reason of

Pierre’s journey and her proffered hospitality. “Yes,” she added, “the

Viscount sent me your book. I read it and found it very beautiful. It

disturbed me. But I am only an ignoramus, and certainly failed to

understand everything in it. We must talk it over together; you will

explain your ideas to me, won’t you, Monsieur l’Abbe?”

In her large clear eyes, which did not know how to lie, Pierre then read

the surprise and emotion of a child’s soul when confronted by disquieting

and undreamt-of problems. So it was not she who had become impassioned

and had desired to have him near her that she might sustain him and

assist his victory. Once again, and this time very keenly, he suspected a

secret influence, a hidden hand which was directing everything towards

some unknown goal. However, he was charmed by so much simplicity and

frankness in so beautiful, young, and noble a creature; and he gave

himself to her after the exchange of those few words, and was about to

tell her that she might absolutely dispose of him, when he was

interrupted by the advent of another woman, whose tall, slight figure,

also clad in black, stood out strongly against the luminous background of

the further reception-room as seen through the open doorway.

“Well, Benedetta, have you sent Giaccomo up to see?” asked the newcomer.

“Don Vigilio has just come down and he is quite alone. It is improper.”

“No, no, aunt. Monsieur l’Abbe is here,” was the reply of Benedetta,

hastening to introduce the young priest. “Monsieur l’Abbe Pierre

Froment--The Princess Boccanera.”

Ceremonious salutations were exchanged. The Princess must have been

nearly sixty, but she laced herself so tightly that from behind one might

have taken her for a young woman. This tight lacing, however, was her

last coquetry. Her hair, though still plentiful, was quite white, her

eyebrows alone remaining black in her long, wrinkled face, from which

projected the large obstinate nose of the family. She had never been

beautiful, and had remained a spinster, wounded to the heart by the

selection of Count Brandini, who had preferred her younger sister,

Ernesta. From that moment she had resolved to seek consolation and

satisfaction in family pride alone, the hereditary pride of the great

name which she bore. The Boccaneras had already supplied two Popes to the

Church, and she hoped that before she died her brother would become the

third. She had transformed herself into his housekeeper, as it were,

remaining with him, watching over him, and advising him, managing all the

household affairs herself, and accomplishing miracles in order to conceal

the slow ruin which was bringing the ceilings about their heads. If every

Monday for thirty years past she had continued receiving a few intimates,

all of them folks of the Vatican, it was from high political

considerations, so that her drawing-room might remain a meeting-place of

the black world, a power and a threat.

And Pierre divined by her greeting that she deemed him of little account,

petty foreign priest that he was, not even a prelate. This too again

surprised him, again brought the puzzling question to the fore: Why had

he been invited, what was expected of him in this society from which the

humble were usually excluded? Knowing the Princess to be austerely

devout, he at last fancied that she received him solely out of regard for

her kinsman, the Viscount, for in her turn she only found these words of

welcome: “We are so pleased to receive good news of Monsieur de la Choue!

He brought us such a beautiful pilgrimage two years ago.”

Passing the first through the doorway, she at last ushered the young

priest into the adjoining reception-room. It was a spacious square

apartment, hung with old yellow _brocatelle_ of a flowery Louis XIV

pattern. The lofty ceiling was adorned with a very fine panelling, carved

and coloured, with gilded roses in each compartment. The furniture,

however, was of all sorts. There were some high mirrors, a couple of

superb gilded pier tables, and a few handsome seventeenth-century

arm-chairs; but all the rest was wretched. A heavy round table of

first-empire style, which had come nobody knew whence, caught the eye

with a medley of anomalous articles picked up at some bazaar, and a

quantity of cheap photographs littered the costly marble tops of the pier

tables. No interesting article of _virtu_ was to be seen. The old

paintings on the walls were with two exceptions feebly executed. There

was a delightful example of an unknown primitive master, a

fourteenth-century Visitation, in which the Virgin had the stature and

pure delicacy of a child of ten, whilst the Archangel, huge and superb,

inundated her with a stream of dazzling, superhuman love; and in front of

this hung an antique family portrait, depicting a very beautiful young

girl in a turban, who was thought to be Cassia Boccanera, the _amorosa_

and avengeress who had flung herself into the Tiber with her brother

Ercole and the corpse of her lover, Flavio Corradini. Four lamps threw a

broad, peaceful glow over the faded room, and, like a melancholy sunset,

tinged it with yellow. It looked grave and bare, with not even a flower

in a vase to brighten it.

In a few words Donna Serafina at once introduced Pierre to the company;

and in the silence, the pause which ensued in the conversation, he felt

that every eye was fixed upon him as upon a promised and expected

curiosity. There were altogether some ten persons present, among them

being Dario, who stood talking with little Princess Celia Buongiovanni,

whilst the elderly relative who had brought the latter sat whispering to

a prelate, Monsignor Nani, in a dim corner. Pierre, however, had been

particularly struck by the name of Consistorial-Advocate Morano, of whose

position in the house Viscount de la Choue had thought proper to inform

him in order to avert any unpleasant blunder. For thirty years past

Morano had been Donna Serafina’s _amico_. Their connection, formerly a

guilty one, for the advocate had wife and children of his own, had in

course of time, since he had been left a widower, become one of those

_liaisons_ which tolerant people excuse and except. Both parties were

extremely devout and had certainly assured themselves of all needful

“indulgences.” And thus Morano was there in the seat which he had always

taken for a quarter of a century past, a seat beside the chimney-piece,

though as yet the winter fire had not been lighted, and when Donna

Serafina had discharged her duties as mistress of the house, she returned

to her own place in front of him, on the other side of the chimney.

When Pierre in his turn had seated himself near Don Vigilio, who, silent

and discreet, had already taken a chair, Dario resumed in a louder voice

the story which he had been relating to Celia. Dario was a handsome man,

of average height, slim and elegant. He wore a full beard, dark and

carefully tended, and had the long face and pronounced nose of the

Boccaneras, but the impoverishment of the family blood over a course of

centuries had attenuated, softened as it were, any sharpness or undue

prominence of feature.

“Oh! a beauty, an astounding beauty!” he repeated emphatically.

“Whose beauty?” asked Benedetta, approaching him.

Celia, who resembled the little Virgin of the primitive master hanging

above her head, began to laugh. “Oh! Dario’s speaking of a poor girl, a

work-girl whom he met to-day,” she explained.

Thereupon Dario had to begin his narrative again. It appeared that while

passing along a narrow street near the Piazza Navona, he had perceived a

tall, shapely girl of twenty, who was weeping and sobbing violently,

prone upon a flight of steps. Touched particularly by her beauty, he had

approached her and learnt that she had been working in the house outside

which she was, a manufactory of wax beads, but that, slack times having

come, the workshops had closed and she did not dare to return home, so

fearful was the misery there. Amidst the downpour of her tears she raised

such beautiful eyes to his that he ended by drawing some money from his

pocket. But at this, crimson with confusion, she sprang to her feet,

hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, and refusing to take

anything. She added, however, that he might follow her if it so pleased

him, and give the money to her mother. And then she hurried off towards

the Ponte St’. Angelo.*

* Bridge of St. Angelo.

“Yes, she was a beauty, a perfect beauty,” repeated Dario with an air of

ecstasy. “Taller than I, and slim though sturdy, with the bosom of a

goddess. In fact, a real antique, a Venus of twenty, her chin rather

bold, her mouth and nose of perfect form, and her eyes wonderfully pure

and large! And she was bare-headed too, with nothing but a crown of heavy

black hair, and a dazzling face, gilded, so to say, by the sun.”

They had all begun to listen to him, enraptured, full of that passionate

admiration for beauty which, in spite of every change, Rome still retains

in her heart.

“Those beautiful girls of the people are becoming very rare,” remarked

Morano. “You might scour the Trastevere without finding any. However,

this proves that there is at least one of them left.”

“And what was your goddess’s name?” asked Benedetta, smiling, amused and

enraptured like the others.

“Pierina,” replied Dario, also with a laugh.

“And what did you do with her?”

At this question the young man’s excited face assumed an expression of

discomfort and fear, like the face of a child on suddenly encountering

some ugly creature amidst its play.

“Oh! don’t talk of it,” said he. “I felt very sorry afterwards. I saw

such misery--enough to make one ill.”

Yielding to his curiosity, it seemed, he had followed the girl across the

Ponte St’. Angelo into the new district which was being built over the

former castle meadows*; and there, on the first floor of an abandoned

house which was already falling into ruins, though the plaster was

scarcely dry, he had come upon a frightful spectacle which still stirred

his heart: a whole family, father and mother, children, and an infirm old

uncle, dying of hunger and rotting in filth! He selected the most

dignified words he could think of to describe the scene, waving his hand

the while with a gesture of fright, as if to ward off some horrible

vision.

* The meadows around the Castle of St. Angelo. The district, now

covered with buildings, is quite flat and was formerly greatly

subject to floods. It is known as the Quartiere dei Prati.--Trans.

“At last,” he concluded, “I ran away, and you may be sure that I shan’t

go back again.”

A general wagging of heads ensued in the cold, irksome silence which fell

upon the room. Then Morano summed up the matter in a few bitter words, in

which he accused the despoilers, the men of the Quirinal, of being the

sole cause of all the frightful misery of Rome. Were not people even

talking of the approaching nomination of Deputy Sacco as Minister of

Finances--Sacco, that intriguer who had engaged in all sorts of underhand

practices? His appointment would be the climax of impudence; bankruptcy

would speedily and infallibly ensue.

Meantime Benedetta, who had fixed her eyes on Pierre, with his book in

her mind, alone murmured: “Poor people, how very sad! But why not go back

to see them?”

Pierre, out of his element and absent-minded during the earlier moments,

had been deeply stirred by the latter part of Dario’s narrative. His

thoughts reverted to his apostolate amidst the misery of Paris, and his

heart was touched with compassion at being confronted by the story of

such fearful sufferings on the very day of his arrival in Rome.

Unwittingly, impulsively, he raised his voice, and said aloud: “Oh! we

will go to see them together, madame; you will take me. These questions

impassion me so much.”

The attention of everybody was then again turned upon the young priest.

The others questioned him, and he realised that they were all anxious

about his first impressions, his opinion of their city and of themselves.

He must not judge Rome by mere outward appearances, they said. What

effect had the city produced on him? How had he found it, and what did he

think of it? Thereupon he politely apologised for his inability to answer

them. He had not yet gone out, said he, and had seen nothing. But this

answer was of no avail; they pressed him all the more keenly, and he

fully understood that their object was to gain him over to admiration and

love. They advised him, adjured him not to yield to any fatal

disillusion, but to persist and wait until Rome should have revealed to

him her soul.

“How long do you expect to remain among us, Monsieur l’Abbe?” suddenly

inquired a courteous voice, with a clear but gentle ring.

It was Monsignor Nani, who, seated in the gloom, thus raised his voice

for the first time. On several occasions it had seemed to Pierre that the

prelate’s keen blue eyes were steadily fixed upon him, though all the

while he pretended to be attentively listening to the drawling chatter of

Celia’s aunt. And before replying Pierre glanced at him. In his

crimson-edged cassock, with a violet silk sash drawn tightly around his

waist, Nani still looked young, although he was over fifty. His hair had

remained blond, he had a straight refined nose, a mouth very firm yet

very delicate of contour, and beautifully white teeth.

“Why, a fortnight or perhaps three weeks, Monsignor,” replied Pierre.

The whole _salon_ protested. What, three weeks! It was his pretension to

know Rome in three weeks! Why, six weeks, twelve months, ten years were

required! The first impression was always a disastrous one, and a long

sojourn was needed for a visitor to recover from it.

“Three weeks!” repeated Donna Serafina with her disdainful air. “Is it

possible for people to study one another and get fond of one another in

three weeks? Those who come back to us are those who have learned to know

us.”

Instead of launching into exclamations like the others, Nani had at first

contented himself with smiling, and gently waving his shapely hand, which

bespoke his aristocratic origin. Then, as Pierre modestly explained

himself, saying that he had come to Rome to attend to certain matters and

would leave again as soon as those matters should have been concluded,

the prelate, still smiling, summed up the argument with the remark: “Oh!

Monsieur l’Abbe will stay with us for more than three weeks; we shall

have the happiness of his presence here for a long time, I hope.”

These words, though spoken with quiet cordiality, strangely disturbed the

young priest. What was known, what was meant? He leant towards Don

Vigilio, who had remained near him, still and ever silent, and in a

whisper inquired: “Who is Monsignor Nani?”

The secretary, however, did not at once reply. His feverish face became

yet more livid. Then his ardent eyes glanced round to make sure that

nobody was watching him, and in a breath he responded: “He is the

Assessor of the Holy Office.” *

* Otherwise the Inquisition.

This information sufficed, for Pierre was not ignorant of the fact that

the assessor, who was present in silence at the meetings of the Holy

Office, waited upon his Holiness every Wednesday evening after the

sitting, to render him an account of the matters dealt with in the

afternoon. This weekly audience, this hour spent with the Pope in a

privacy which allowed of every subject being broached, gave the assessor

an exceptional position, one of considerable power. Moreover the office

led to the cardinalate; the only “rise” that could be given to the

assessor was his promotion to the Sacred College.

Monsignor Nani, who seemed so perfectly frank and amiable, continued to

look at the young priest with such an encouraging air that the latter

felt obliged to go and occupy the seat beside him, which Celia’s old aunt

at last vacated. After all, was there not an omen of victory in meeting,

on the very day of his arrival, a powerful prelate whose influence would

perhaps open every door to him? He therefore felt very touched when

Monsignor Nani, immediately after the first words, inquired in a tone of

deep interest, “And so, my dear child, you have published a book?”

After this, gradually mastered by his enthusiasm and forgetting where he

was, Pierre unbosomed himself, and recounted the birth and progress of

his burning love amidst the sick and the humble, gave voice to his dream

of a return to the olden Christian community, and triumphed with the

rejuvenescence of Catholicism, developing into the one religion of the

universal democracy. Little by little he again raised his voice, and

silence fell around him in the stern, antique reception-room, every one

lending ear to his words with increasing surprise, with a growing

coldness of which he remained unconscious.

At last Nani gently interrupted him, still wearing his perpetual smile,

the faint irony of which, however, had departed. “No doubt, no doubt, my

dear child,” he said, “it is very beautiful, oh! very beautiful, well

worthy of the pure and noble imagination of a Christian. But what do you

count on doing now?”

“I shall go straight to the Holy Father to defend myself,” answered

Pierre.

A light, restrained laugh went round, and Donna Serafina expressed the

general opinion by exclaiming: “The Holy Father isn’t seen as easily as

that.”

Pierre, however, was quite impassioned. “Well, for my part,” he rejoined,

“I hope I shall see him. Have I not expressed his views? Have I not

defended his policy? Can he let my book be condemned when I believe that

I have taken inspiration from all that is best in him?”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Nani again hastily replied, as if he feared that

the others might be too brusque with the young enthusiast. “The Holy

Father has such a lofty mind. And of course it would be necessary to see

him. Only, my dear child, you must not excite yourself so much; reflect a

little; take your time.” And, turning to Benedetta, he added, “Of course

his Eminence has not seen Abbe Froment yet. It would be well, however,

that he should receive him to-morrow morning to guide him with his wise

counsel.”

Cardinal Boccanera never attended his sister’s Monday-evening receptions.

Still, he was always there in the spirit, like some absent sovereign

master.

“To tell the truth,” replied the Contessina, hesitating, “I fear that my

uncle does not share Monsieur l’Abbe’s views.”

Nani again smiled. “Exactly; he will tell him things which it is good he

should hear.”

Thereupon it was at once settled with Don Vigilio that the latter would

put down the young priest’s name for an audience on the following morning

at ten o’clock.

However, at that moment a cardinal came in, clad in town costume--his

sash and his stockings red, but his simar black, with a red edging and

red buttons. It was Cardinal Sarno, a very old intimate of the

Boccaneras; and whilst he apologised for arriving so late, through press

of work, the company became silent and deferentially clustered round him.

This was the first cardinal Pierre had seen, and he felt greatly

disappointed, for the newcomer had none of the majesty, none of the fine

port and presence to which he had looked forward. On the contrary, he was

short and somewhat deformed, with the left shoulder higher than the

right, and a worn, ashen face with lifeless eyes. To Pierre he looked

like some old clerk of seventy, half stupefied by fifty years of office

work, dulled and bent by incessantly leaning over his writing desk ever

since his youth. And indeed that was Sarno’s story. The puny child of a

petty middle-class family, he had been educated at the Seminario Romano.

Then later he had for ten years professed Canon Law at that same

seminary, afterwards becoming one of the secretaries of the Congregation

for the Propagation of the Faith. Finally, five and twenty years ago, he

had been created a cardinal, and the jubilee of his cardinalate had

recently been celebrated. Born in Rome, he had always lived there; he was

the perfect type of the prelate who, through growing up in the shade of

the Vatican, has become one of the masters of the world. Although he had

never occupied any diplomatic post, he had rendered such important

services to the Propaganda, by his methodical habits of work, that he had

become president of one of the two commissions which furthered the

interests of the Church in those vast countries of the west which are not

yet Catholic. And thus, in the depths of his dim eyes, behind his low,

dull-looking brow, the huge map of Christendom was stored away.

Nani himself had risen, full of covert respect for the unobtrusive but

terrible man whose hand was everywhere, even in the most distant corners

of the earth, although he had never left his office. As Nani knew,

despite his apparent nullity, Sarno, with his slow, methodical, ably

organised work of conquest, possessed sufficient power to set empires in

confusion.

“Has your Eminence recovered from that cold which distressed us so much?”

asked Nani.

“No, no, I still cough. There is a most malignant passage at the offices.

I feel as cold as ice as soon as I leave my room.”

From that moment Pierre felt quite little, virtually lost. He was not

even introduced to the Cardinal. And yet he had to remain in the room for

nearly another hour, looking around and observing. That antiquated world

then seemed to him puerile, as though it had lapsed into a mournful

second childhood. Under all the apparent haughtiness and proud reserve he

could divine real timidity, unacknowledged distrust, born of great

ignorance. If the conversation did not become general, it was because

nobody dared to speak out frankly; and what he heard in the corners was

simply so much childish chatter, the petty gossip of the week, the

trivial echoes of sacristies and drawing-rooms. People saw but little of

one another, and the slightest incidents assumed huge proportions. At

last Pierre ended by feeling as though he were transported into some

_salon_ of the time of Charles X, in one of the episcopal cities of the

French provinces. No refreshments were served. Celia’s old aunt secured

possession of Cardinal Sarno; but, instead of replying to her, he simply

wagged his head from time to time. Don Vigilio had not opened his mouth

the whole evening. However, a conversation in a very low tone was started

by Nani and Morano, to whom Donna Serafina listened, leaning forward and

expressing her approval by slowly nodding her head. They were doubtless

speaking of the dissolution of Benedetta’s marriage, for they glanced at

the young woman gravely from time to time. And in the centre of the

spacious room, in the sleepy glow of the lamps, there was only the young

people, Benedetta, Dario, and Celia who seemed to be at all alive,

chattering in undertones and occasionally repressing a burst of laughter.

All at once Pierre was struck by the great resemblance between Benedetta

and the portrait of Cassia hanging on the wall. Each displayed the same

delicate youth, the same passionate mouth, the same large, unfathomable

eyes, set in the same round, sensible, healthy-looking face. In each

there was certainly the same upright soul, the same heart of flame. Then

a recollection came to Pierre, that of a painting by Guido Reni, the

adorable, candid head of Beatrice Cenci, which, at that moment and to his

thinking, the portrait of Cassia closely resembled. This resemblance

stirred him and he glanced at Benedetta with anxious sympathy, as if all

the fierce fatality of race and country were about to fall on her. But

no, it could not be; she looked so calm, so resolute, and so patient!

Besides, ever since he had entered that room he had noticed none other

than signs of gay fraternal tenderness between her and Dario, especially

on her side, for her face ever retained the bright serenity of a love

which may be openly confessed. At one moment, it is true, Dario in a

joking way had caught hold of her hands and pressed them; but while he

began to laugh rather nervously, with a brighter gleam darting from his

eyes, she on her side, all composure, slowly freed her hands, as though

theirs was but the play of old and affectionate friends. She loved him,

though, it was visible, with her whole being and for her whole life.

At last when Dario, after stifling a slight yawn and glancing at his

watch, had slipped off to join some friends who were playing cards at a

lady’s house, Benedetta and Celia sat down together on a sofa near

Pierre; and the latter, without wishing to listen, overheard a few words

of their confidential chat. The little Princess was the eldest daughter

of Prince Matteo Buongiovanni, who was already the father of five

children by an English wife, a Mortimer, to whom he was indebted for a

dowry of two hundred thousand pounds. Indeed, the Buongiovannis were

known as one of the few patrician families of Rome that were still rich,

still erect among the ruins of the past, now crumbling on every side.

They also numbered two popes among their forerunners, yet this had not

prevented Prince Matteo from lending support to the Quirinal without

quarrelling with the Vatican. Son of an American woman, no longer having

the pure Roman blood in his veins, he was a more supple politician than

other aristocrats, and was also, folks said, extremely grasping,

struggling to be one of the last to retain the wealth and power of olden

times, which he realised were condemned to death. Yet it was in his

family, renowned for its superb pride and its continued magnificence,

that a love romance had lately taken birth, a romance which was the

subject of endless gossip: Celia had suddenly fallen in love with a young

lieutenant to whom she had never spoken; her love was reciprocated, and

the passionate attachment of the officer and the girl only found vent in

the glances they exchanged on meeting each day during the usual drive

through the Corso. Nevertheless Celia displayed a tenacious will, and

after declaring to her father that she would never take any other

husband, she was waiting, firm and resolute, in the certainty that she

would ultimately secure the man of her choice. The worst of the affair

was that the lieutenant, Attilio Sacco, happened to be the son of Deputy

Sacco, a parvenu whom the black world looked down upon, as upon one sold

to the Quirinal and ready to undertake the very dirtiest job.

“It was for me that Morano spoke just now,” Celia murmured in Benedetta’s

ear. “Yes, yes, when he spoke so harshly of Attilio’s father and that

ministerial appointment which people are talking about. He wanted to give

me a lesson.”

The two girls had sworn eternal affection in their school-days, and

Benedetta, the elder by five years, showed herself maternal. “And so,”

she said, “you’ve not become a whit more reasonable. You still think of

that young man?”

“What! are you going to grieve me too, dear?” replied Celia. “I love

Attilio and mean to have him. Yes, him and not another! I want him and

I’ll have him, because I love him and he loves me. It’s simple enough.”

Pierre glanced at her, thunderstruck. With her gentle virgin face she was

like a candid, budding lily. A brow and a nose of blossom-like purity; a

mouth all innocence with its lips closing over pearly teeth, and eyes

like spring water, clear and fathomless. And not a quiver passed over her

cheeks of satiny freshness, no sign, however faint, of anxiety or

inquisitiveness appeared in her candid glance. Did she think? Did she

know? Who could have answered? She was virginity personified with all its

redoubtable mystery.

“Ah! my dear,” resumed Benedetta, “don’t begin my sad story over again.

One doesn’t succeed in marrying the Pope and the King.”

All tranquillity, Celia responded: “But you didn’t love Prada, whereas I

love Attilio. Life lies in that: one must love.”

These words, spoken so naturally by that ignorant child, disturbed Pierre

to such a point that he felt tears rising to his eyes. Love! yes, therein

lay the solution of every quarrel, the alliance between the nations, the

reign of peace and joy throughout the world! However, Donna Serafina had

now risen, shrewdly suspecting the nature of the conversation which was

impassioning the two girls. And she gave Don Vigilio a glance, which the

latter understood, for he came to tell Pierre in an undertone that it was

time to retire. Eleven o’clock was striking, and Celia went off with her

aunt. Advocate Morano, however, doubtless desired to retain Cardinal

Sarno and Nani for a few moments in order that they might privately

discuss some difficulty which had arisen in the divorce proceedings. On

reaching the outer reception-room, Benedetta, after kissing Celia on both

cheeks, took leave of Pierre with much good grace.

“In answering the Viscount to-morrow morning,” said she, “I shall tell

him how happy we are to have you with us, and for longer than you think.

Don’t forget to come down at ten o’clock to see my uncle, the Cardinal.”

Having climbed to the third floor again, Pierre and Don Vigilio, each

carrying a candlestick which the servant had handed to them, were about

to part for the night, when the former could not refrain from asking the

secretary a question which had been worrying him for hours: “Is Monsignor

Nani a very influential personage?”