Don Vigilio again became quite scared, and simply replied by a gesture,

opening his arms as if to embrace the world. Then his eyes flashed, and

in his turn he seemed to yield to inquisitiveness. “You already knew him,

didn’t you?” he inquired.

“I? not at all!”

“Really! Well, he knows you very well. Last Monday I heard him speak of

you in such precise terms that he seemed to be acquainted with the

slightest particulars of your career and your character.”

“Why, I never even heard his name before.”

“Then he must have procured information.”

Thereupon Don Vigilio bowed and entered his room; whilst Pierre,

surprised to find his door open, saw Victorine come out with her calm

active air.

“Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe, I wanted to make sure that you had everything you

were likely to want. There are candles, water, sugar, and matches. And

what do you take in the morning, please? Coffee? No, a cup of milk with a

roll. Very good; at eight o’clock, eh? And now rest and sleep well. I was

awfully afraid of ghosts during the first nights I spent in this old

palace! But I never saw a trace of one. The fact is, when people are

dead, they are too well pleased, and don’t want to break their rest!”

Then off she went, and Pierre at last found himself alone, glad to be

able to shake off the strain imposed on him, to free himself from the

discomfort which he had felt in that reception-room, among those people

who in his mind still mingled and vanished like shadows in the sleepy

glow of the lamps. Ghosts, thought he, are the old dead ones of long ago

whose distressed spirits return to love and suffer in the breasts of the

living of to-day. And, despite his long afternoon rest, he had never felt

so weary, so desirous of slumber, confused and foggy as was his mind,

full of the fear that he had hitherto not understood things aright. When

he began to undress, his astonishment at being in that room returned to

him with such intensity that he almost fancied himself another person.

What did all those people think of his book? Why had he been brought to

this cold dwelling whose hostility he could divine? Was it for the

purpose of helping him or conquering him? And again in the yellow

glimmer, the dismal sunset of the drawing-room, he perceived Donna

Serafina and Advocate Morano on either side of the chimney-piece, whilst

behind the calm yet passionate visage of Benedetta appeared the smiling

face of Monsignor Nani, with cunning eyes and lips bespeaking indomitable

energy.

He went to bed, but soon got up again, stifling, feeling such a need of

fresh, free air that he opened the window wide in order to lean out. But

the night was black as ink, the darkness had submerged the horizon. A

mist must have hidden the stars in the firmament; the vault above seemed

opaque and heavy like lead; and yonder in front the houses of the

Trastevere had long since been asleep. Not one of all their windows

glittered; there was but a single gaslight shining, all alone and far

away, like a lost spark. In vain did Pierre seek the Janiculum. In the

depths of that ocean of nihility all sunk and vanished, Rome’s four and

twenty centuries, the ancient Palatine and the modern Quirinal, even the

giant dome of St. Peter’s, blotted out from the sky by the flood of

gloom. And below him he could not see, he could not even hear the Tiber,

the dead river flowing past the dead city.

III.

AT a quarter to ten o’clock on the following morning Pierre came down to

the first floor of the mansion for his audience with Cardinal Boccanera.

He had awoke free of all fatigue and again full of courage and candid

enthusiasm; nothing remaining of his strange despondency of the previous

night, the doubts and suspicions which had then come over him. The

morning was so fine, the sky so pure and so bright, that his heart once

more palpitated with hope.

On the landing he found the folding doors of the first ante-room wide

open. While closing the gala saloons which overlooked the street, and

which were rotting with old age and neglect, the Cardinal still used the

reception-rooms of one of his grand-uncles, who in the eighteenth century

had risen to the same ecclesiastical dignity as himself. There was a

suite of four immense rooms, each sixteen feet high, with windows facing

the lane which sloped down towards the Tiber; and the sun never entered

them, shut off as it was by the black houses across the lane. Thus the

installation, in point of space, was in keeping with the display and pomp

of the old-time princely dignitaries of the Church. But no repairs were

ever made, no care was taken of anything, the hangings were frayed and

ragged, and dust preyed on the furniture, amidst an unconcern which

seemed to betoken some proud resolve to stay the course of time.

Pierre experienced a slight shock as he entered the first room, the

servants’ ante-chamber. Formerly two pontifical _gente d’armi_ in full

uniform had always stood there amidst a stream of lackeys; and the single

servant now on duty seemed by his phantom-like appearance to increase the

melancholiness of the vast and gloomy hall. One was particularly struck

by an altar facing the windows, an altar with red drapery surmounted by a

_baldacchino_ with red hangings, on which appeared the escutcheon of the

Boccaneras, the winged dragon spitting flames with the device, _Bocca

nera, Alma rossa_. And the grand-uncle’s red hat, the old huge ceremonial

hat, was also there, with the two cushions of red silk, and the two

antique parasols which were taken in the coach each time his Eminence

went out. And in the deep silence it seemed as if one could almost hear

the faint noise of the moths preying for a century past upon all this

dead splendour, which would have fallen into dust at the slightest touch

of a feather broom.

The second ante-room, that was formerly occupied by the secretary, was

also empty, and it was only in the third one, the _anticamera nobile_,

that Pierre found Don Vigilio. With his retinue reduced to what was

strictly necessary, the Cardinal had preferred to have his secretary near

him--at the door, so to say, of the old throne-room, where he gave

audience. And Don Vigilio, so thin and yellow, and quivering with fever,

sat there like one lost, at a small, common, black table covered with

papers. Raising his head from among a batch of documents, he recognised

Pierre, and in a low voice, a faint murmur amidst the silence, he said,

“His Eminence is engaged. Please wait.”

Then he again turned to his reading, doubtless to escape all attempts at

conversation.

Not daring to sit down, Pierre examined the apartment. It looked perhaps

yet more dilapidated than the others, with its hangings of green damask

worn by age and resembling the faded moss on ancient trees. The ceiling,

however, had remained superb. Within a frieze of gilded and coloured

ornaments was a fresco representing the Triumph of Amphitrite, the work

of one of Raffaelle’s pupils. And, according to antique usage, it was

here that the _berretta_, the red cap, was placed, on a credence, below a

large crucifix of ivory and ebony.

As Pierre grew used to the half-light, however, his attention was more

particularly attracted by a recently painted full-length portrait of the

Cardinal in ceremonial costume--cassock of red moire, rochet of lace, and

_cappa_ thrown like a royal mantle over his shoulders. In these vestments

of the Church the tall old man of seventy retained the proud bearing of a

prince, clean shaven, but still boasting an abundance of white hair which

streamed in curls over his shoulders. He had the commanding visage of the

Boccaneras, a large nose and a large thin-lipped mouth in a long face

intersected by broad lines; and the eyes which lighted his pale

countenance were indeed the eyes of his race, very dark, yet sparkling

with ardent life under bushy brows which had remained quite black. With

laurels about his head he would have resembled a Roman emperor, very

handsome and master of the world, as though indeed the blood of Augustus

pulsated in his veins.

Pierre knew his story which this portrait recalled. Educated at the

College of the Nobles, Pio Boccanera had but once absented himself from

Rome, and that when very young, hardly a deacon, but nevertheless

appointed oblegate to convey a _berretta_ to Paris. On his return his

ecclesiastical career had continued in sovereign fashion. Honours had

fallen on him naturally, as by right of birth. Ordained by Pius IX

himself, afterwards becoming a Canon of the Vatican Basilica, and

_Cameriere segreto_, he had risen to the post of Majordomo about the time

of the Italian occupation, and in 1874 had been created a Cardinal. For

the last four years, moreover, he had been Papal Chamberlain

(_Camerlingo_), and folks whispered that Leo XIII had appointed him to

that post, even as he himself had been appointed to it by Pius IX, in

order to lessen his chance of succeeding to the pontifical throne; for

although the conclave in choosing Leo had set aside the old tradition

that the Camerlingo was ineligible for the papacy, it was not probable

that it would again dare to infringe that rule. Moreover, people asserted

that, even as had been the case in the reign of Pius, there was a secret

warfare between the Pope and his Camerlingo, the latter remaining on one

side, condemning the policy of the Holy See, holding radically different

opinions on all things, and silently waiting for the death of Leo, which

would place power in his hands with the duty of summoning the conclave,

and provisionally watching over the affairs and interests of the Church

until a new Pope should be elected. Behind Cardinal Pio’s broad, stern

brow, however, in the glow of his dark eyes, might there not also be the

ambition of actually rising to the papacy, of repeating the career of

Gioachino Pecci, Camerlingo and then Pope, all tradition notwithstanding?

With the pride of a Roman prince Pio knew but Rome; he almost gloried in

being totally ignorant of the modern world; and verily he showed himself

very pious, austerely religious, with a full firm faith into which the

faintest doubt could never enter.

But a whisper drew Pierre from his reflections. Don Vigilio, in his

prudent way, invited him to sit down: “You may have to wait some time:

take a stool.”

Then he began to cover a large sheet of yellowish paper with fine

writing, while Pierre seated himself on one of the stools ranged

alongside the wall in front of the portrait. And again the young man fell

into a reverie, picturing in his mind a renewal of all the princely pomp

of the old-time cardinals in that antique room. To begin with, as soon as

nominated, a cardinal gave public festivities, which were sometimes very

splendid. During three days the reception-rooms remained wide open, all

could enter, and from room to room ushers repeated the names of those who

came--patricians, people of the middle class, poor folks, all Rome

indeed, whom the new cardinal received with sovereign kindliness, as a

king might receive his subjects. Then there was quite a princely retinue;

some cardinals carried five hundred people about with them, had no fewer

than sixteen distinct offices in their households, lived, in fact, amidst

a perfect court. Even when life subsequently became simplified, a

cardinal, if he were a prince, still had a right to a gala train of four

coaches drawn by black horses. Four servants preceded him in liveries,

emblazoned with his arms, and carried his hat, cushion, and parasols. He

was also attended by a secretary in a mantle of violet silk, a

train-bearer in a gown of violet woollen stuff, and a gentleman in

waiting, wearing an Elizabethan style of costume, and bearing the

_berretta_ with gloved hands. Although the household had then become

smaller, it still comprised an _auditore_ specially charged with the

congregational work, a secretary employed exclusively for correspondence,

a chief usher who introduced visitors, a gentleman in attendance for the

carrying of the _berretta_, a train-bearer, a chaplain, a majordomo and a

_valet-de-chambre_, to say nothing of a flock of underlings, lackeys,

cooks, coachmen, grooms, quite a population, which filled the vast

mansions with bustle. And with these attendants Pierre mentally sought to

fill the three spacious ante-rooms now so deserted; the stream of lackeys

in blue liveries broidered with emblazonry, the world of abbes and

prelates in silk mantles appeared before him, again setting magnificent

and passionate life under the lofty ceilings, illumining all the

semi-gloom with resuscitated splendour.

But nowadays--particularly since the Italian occupation of Rome--nearly

all the great fortunes of the Roman princes have been exhausted, and the

pomp of the great dignitaries of the Church has disappeared. The ruined

patricians have kept aloof from badly remunerated ecclesiastical offices

to which little renown attaches, and have left them to the ambition of

the petty _bourgeoisie_. Cardinal Boccanera, the last prince of ancient

nobility invested with the purple, received scarcely more than 30,000

_lire_* a year to enable him to sustain his rank, that is 22,000

_lire_,** the salary of his post as Camerlingo, and various small sums

derived from other functions. And he would never have made both ends meet

had not Donna Serafina helped him with the remnants of the former family

fortune which he had long previously surrendered to his sisters and his

brother. Donna Serafina and Benedetta lived apart, in their own rooms,

having their own table, servants, and personal expenses. The Cardinal

only had his nephew Dario with him, and he never gave a dinner or held a

public reception. His greatest source of expense was his carriage, the

heavy pair-horse coach, which ceremonial usage compelled him to retain,

for a cardinal cannot go on foot through the streets of Rome. However,

his coachman, an old family servant, spared him the necessity of keeping

a groom by insisting on taking entire charge of the carriage and the two

black horses, which, like himself, had grown old in the service of the

Boccaneras. There were two footmen, father and son, the latter born in

the house. And the cook’s wife assisted in the kitchen. However, yet

greater reductions had been made in the ante-rooms, where the staff, once

so brilliant and numerous, was now simply composed of two petty priests,

Don Vigilio, who was at once secretary, auditore, and majordomo, and Abbe

Paparelli, who acted as train-bearer, chaplain, and chief usher. There,

where a crowd of salaried people of all ranks had once moved to and fro,

filling the vast halls with bustle and colour, one now only beheld two

little black cassocks gliding noiselessly along, two unobtrusive shadows

flitting about amidst the deep gloom of the lifeless rooms.

* 1,200 pounds.

** 880 pounds.

And Pierre now fully understood the haughty unconcern of the Cardinal,

who suffered time to complete its work of destruction in that ancestral

mansion, to which he was powerless to restore the glorious life of former

times! Built for that shining life, for the sovereign display of a

sixteenth-century prince, it was now deserted and empty, crumbling about

the head of its last master, who had no servants left him to fill it, and

would not have known how to pay for the materials which repairs would

have necessitated. And so, since the modern world was hostile, since

religion was no longer sovereign, since men had changed, and one was

drifting into the unknown, amidst the hatred and indifference of new

generations, why not allow the old world to collapse in the stubborn,

motionless pride born of its ancient glory? Heroes alone died standing,

without relinquishing aught of their past, preserving the same faith

until their final gasp, beholding, with pain-fraught bravery and infinite

sadness, the slow last agony of their divinity. And the Cardinal’s tall

figure, his pale, proud face, so full of sovereign despair and courage,

expressed that stubborn determination to perish beneath the ruins of the

old social edifice rather than change a single one of its stones.

Pierre was roused by a rustling of furtive steps, a little mouse-like

trot, which made him raise his head. A door in the wall had just opened,

and to his surprise there stood before him an abbe of some forty years,

fat and short, looking like an old maid in a black skirt, a very old maid

in fact, so numerous were the wrinkles on his flabby face. It was Abbe

Paparelli, the train-bearer and usher, and on seeing Pierre he was about

to question him, when Don Vigilio explained matters.

“Ah! very good, very good, Monsieur l’Abbe Froment. His Eminence will

condescend to receive you, but you must wait, you must wait.”

Then, with his silent rolling walk, he returned to the second ante-room,

where he usually stationed himself.

Pierre did not like his face--the face of an old female devotee, whitened

by celibacy, and ravaged by stern observance of the rites; and so, as Don

Vigilio--his head weary and his hands burning with fever--had not resumed

his work, the young man ventured to question him. Oh! Abbe Paparelli, he

was a man of the liveliest faith, who from simple humility remained in a

modest post in his Eminence’s service. On the other hand, his Eminence

was pleased to reward him for his devotion by occasionally condescending

to listen to his advice.

As Don Vigilio spoke, a faint gleam of irony, a kind of veiled anger

appeared in his ardent eyes. However, he continued to examine Pierre, and

gradually seemed reassured, appreciating the evident frankness of this

foreigner who could hardly belong to any clique. And so he ended by

departing somewhat from his continual sickly distrust, and even engaged

in a brief chat.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “there is a deal of work sometimes, and rather hard

work too. His Eminence belongs to several Congregations, the

Consistorial, the Holy Office, the Index, the Rites. And all the

documents concerning the business which falls to him come into my hands.

I have to study each affair, prepare a report on it, clear the way, so to

say. Besides which all the correspondence is carried on through me.

Fortunately his Eminence is a holy man, and intrigues neither for himself

nor for others, and this enables us to taste a little peace.”

Pierre took a keen interest in these particulars of the life led by a

prince of the Church. He learnt that the Cardinal rose at six o’clock,

summer and winter alike. He said his mass in his chapel, a little room

which simply contained an altar of painted wood, and which nobody but

himself ever entered. His private apartments were limited to three

rooms--a bed-room, dining-room, and study--all very modest and small,

contrived indeed by partitioning off portions of one large hall. And he

led a very retired life, exempt from all luxury, like one who is frugal

and poor. At eight in the morning he drank a cup of cold milk for his

breakfast. Then, when there were sittings of the Congregations to which

he belonged, he attended them; otherwise he remained at home and gave

audience. Dinner was served at one o’clock, and afterwards came the

siesta, lasting until five in summer and until four at other seasons--a

sacred moment when a servant would not have dared even to knock at the

door. On awaking, if it were fine, his Eminence drove out towards the

ancient Appian Way, returning at sunset when the _Ave Maria_ began to

ring. And finally, after again giving audience between seven and nine, he

supped and retired into his room, where he worked all alone or went to

bed. The cardinals wait upon the Pope on fixed days, two or three times

each month, for purposes connected with their functions. For nearly a

year, however, the Camerlingo had not been received in private audience

by his Holiness, and this was a sign of disgrace, a proof of secret

warfare, of which the entire black world spoke in prudent whispers.

“His Eminence is sometimes a little rough,” continued Don Vigilio in a

soft voice. “But you should see him smile when his niece the Contessina,

of whom he is very fond, comes down to kiss him. If you have a good

reception, you know, you will owe it to the Contessina.”

At this moment the secretary was interrupted. A sound of voices came from

the second ante-room, and forthwith he rose to his feet, and bent very

low at sight of a stout man in a black cassock, red sash, and black hat,

with twisted cord of red and gold, whom Abbe Paparelli was ushering in

with a great display of deferential genuflections. Pierre also had risen

at a sign from Don Vigilio, who found time to whisper to him, “Cardinal

Sanguinetti, Prefect of the Congregation of the Index.”

Meantime Abbe Paparelli was lavishing attentions on the prelate,

repeating with an expression of blissful satisfaction: “Your most

reverend Eminence was expected. I have orders to admit your most reverend

Eminence at once. His Eminence the Grand Penitentiary is already here.”

Sanguinetti, loud of voice and sonorous of tread, spoke out with sudden

familiarity, “Yes, yes, I know. A number of importunate people detained

me! One can never do as one desires. But I am here at last.”

He was a man of sixty, squat and fat, with a round and highly coloured

face distinguished by a huge nose, thick lips, and bright eyes which were

always on the move. But he more particularly struck one by his active,

almost turbulent, youthful vivacity, scarcely a white hair as yet showing

among his brown and carefully tended locks, which fell in curls about his

temples. Born at Viterbo, he had studied at the seminary there before

completing his education at the Universita Gregoriana in Rome. His

ecclesiastical appointments showed how rapidly he had made his way, how

supple was his mind: first of all secretary to the nunciature at Lisbon;

then created titular Bishop of Thebes, and entrusted with a delicate

mission in Brazil; on his return appointed nuncio first at Brussels and

next at Vienna; and finally raised to the cardinalate, to say nothing of

the fact that he had lately secured the suburban episcopal see of

Frascati.* Trained to business, having dealt with every nation in Europe,

he had nothing against him but his ambition, of which he made too open a

display, and his spirit of intrigue, which was ever restless. It was said

that he was now one of the irreconcilables who demanded that Italy should

surrender Rome, though formerly he had made advances to the Quirinal. In

his wild passion to become the next Pope he rushed from one opinion to

the other, giving himself no end of trouble to gain people from whom he

afterwards parted. He had twice already fallen out with Leo XIII, but had

deemed it politic to make his submission. In point of fact, given that he

was an almost openly declared candidate to the papacy, he was wearing

himself out by his perpetual efforts, dabbling in too many things, and

setting too many people agog.

* Cardinals York and Howard were Bishops of Frascati.--Trans.

Pierre, however, had only seen in him the Prefect of the Congregation of

the Index; and the one idea which struck him was that this man would

decide the fate of his book. And so, when the Cardinal had disappeared

and Abbe Paparelli had returned to the second ante-room, he could not

refrain from asking Don Vigilio, “Are their Eminences Cardinal

Sanguinetti and Cardinal Boccanera very intimate, then?”

An irrepressible smile contracted the secretary’s lips, while his eyes

gleamed with an irony which he could no longer subdue: “Very

intimate--oh! no, no--they see one another when they can’t do otherwise.”

Then he explained that considerable deference was shown to Cardinal

Boccanera’s high birth, and that his colleagues often met at his

residence, when, as happened to be the case that morning, any grave

affair presented itself, requiring an interview apart from the usual

official meetings. Cardinal Sanguinetti, he added, was the son of a petty

medical man of Viterbo. “No, no,” he concluded, “their Eminences are not

at all intimate. It is difficult for men to agree when they have neither

the same ideas nor the same character, especially too when they are in

each other’s way.”

Don Vigilio spoke these last words in a lower tone, as if talking to

himself and still retaining his sharp smile. But Pierre scarcely

listened, absorbed as he was in his own worries. “Perhaps they have met

to discuss some affair connected with the Index?” said he.

Don Vigilio must have known the object of the meeting. However, he merely

replied that, if the Index had been in question, the meeting would have

taken place at the residence of the Prefect of that Congregation.

Thereupon Pierre, yielding to his impatience, was obliged to put a

straight question. “You know of my affair--the affair of my book,” he

said. “Well, as his Eminence is a member of the Congregation, and all the

documents pass through your hands, you might be able to give me some

useful information. I know nothing as yet and am so anxious to know!”

At this Don Vigilio relapsed into scared disquietude. He stammered,

saying that he had not seen any documents, which was true. “Nothing has

yet reached us,” he added; “I assure you I know nothing.”

Then, as the other persisted, he signed to him to keep quiet, and again

turned to his writing, glancing furtively towards the second ante-room as

if he believed that Abbe Paparelli was listening. He had certainly said

too much, he thought, and he made himself very small, crouching over the

table, and melting, fading away in his dim corner.

Pierre again fell into a reverie, a prey to all the mystery which

enveloped him--the sleepy, antique sadness of his surroundings. Long

minutes went by; it was nearly eleven when the sound of a door opening

and a buzz of voices roused him. Then he bowed respectfully to Cardinal

Sanguinetti, who went off accompanied by another cardinal, a very thin

and tall man, with a grey, bony, ascetic face. Neither of them, however,

seemed even to see the petty foreign priest who bent low as they went by.

They were chatting aloud in familiar fashion.

“Yes! the wind is falling; it is warmer than yesterday.”

“We shall certainly have the sirocco to-morrow.”

Then solemn silence again fell on the large, dim room. Don Vigilio was

still writing, but his pen made no noise as it travelled over the stiff

yellow paper. However, the faint tinkle of a cracked bell was suddenly

heard, and Abbe Paparelli, after hastening into the throne-room for a

moment, returned to summon Pierre, whom he announced in a restrained

voice: “Monsieur l’Abbe Pierre Froment.”

The spacious throne-room was like the other apartments, a virtual ruin.

Under the fine ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work, the red

wall-hangings of _brocatelle_, with a large palm pattern, were falling

into tatters. A few holes had been patched, but long wear had streaked

the dark purple of the silk--once of dazzling magnificence--with pale

hues. The curiosity of the room was its old throne, an arm-chair

upholstered in red silk, on which the Holy Father had sat when visiting

Cardinal Pio’s grand-uncle. This chair was surmounted by a canopy,

likewise of red silk, under which hung the portrait of the reigning Pope.

And, according to custom, the chair was turned towards the wall, to show

that none might sit on it. The other furniture of the apartment was made

up of sofas, arm-chairs, and chairs, with a marvellous Louis Quatorze

table of gilded wood, having a top of mosaic-work representing the rape

of Europa.

But at first Pierre only saw Cardinal Boccanera standing by the table

which he used for writing. In his simple black cassock, with red edging

and red buttons, the Cardinal seemed to him yet taller and prouder than

in the portrait which showed him in ceremonial costume. There was the

same curly white hair, the same long, strongly marked face, with large

nose and thin lips, and the same ardent eyes, illumining the pale

countenance from under bushy brows which had remained black. But the

portrait did not express the lofty tranquil faith which shone in this

handsome face, a complete certainty of what truth was, and an absolute

determination to abide by it for ever.

Boccanera had not stirred, but with black, fixed glance remained watching

his visitor’s approach; and the young priest, acquainted with the usual

ceremonial, knelt and kissed the large ruby which the prelate wore on his

hand. However, the Cardinal immediately raised him.

“You are welcome here, my dear son. My niece spoke to me about you with

so much sympathy that I am happy to receive you.” With these words Pio

seated himself near the table, as yet not telling Pierre to take a chair,

but still examining him whilst speaking slowly and with studied

politeness: “You arrived yesterday morning, did you not, and were very

tired?”

“Your Eminence is too kind--yes, I was worn out, as much through emotion

as fatigue. This journey is one of such gravity for me.”

The Cardinal seemed indisposed to speak of serious matters so soon. “No

doubt; it is a long way from Paris to Rome,” he replied. “Nowadays the

journey may be accomplished with fair rapidity, but formerly how

interminable it was!” Then speaking yet more slowly: “I went to Paris

once--oh! a long time ago, nearly fifty years ago--and then for barely a

week. A large and handsome city; yes, yes, a great many people in the

streets, extremely well-bred people, a nation which has accomplished

great and admirable things. Even in these sad times one cannot forget

that France was the eldest daughter of the Church. But since that one

journey I have not left Rome--”

Then he made a gesture of quiet disdain, expressive of all he left

unsaid. What was the use of journeying to a land of doubt and rebellion?

Did not Rome suffice--Rome, which governed the world--the Eternal City

which, when the times should be accomplished, would become the capital of

the world once more?

Silently glancing at the Cardinal’s lofty stature, the stature of one of

the violent war-like princes of long ago, now reduced to wearing that

simple cassock, Pierre deemed him superb with his proud conviction that

Rome sufficed unto herself. But that stubborn resolve to remain in

ignorance, that determination to take no account of other nations

excepting to treat them as vassals, disquieted him when he reflected on

the motives that had brought him there. And as silence had again fallen

he thought it politic to approach the subject he had at heart by words of

homage.

“Before taking any other steps,” said he, “I desired to express my

profound respect for your Eminence; for in your Eminence I place my only

hope; and I beg your Eminence to be good enough to advise and guide me.”

With a wave of the hand Boccanera thereupon invited Pierre to take a

chair in front of him. “I certainly do not refuse you my counsel, my dear

son,” he replied. “I owe my counsel to every Christian who desires to do

well. But it would be wrong for you to rely on my influence. I have none.

I live entirely apart from others; I cannot and will not ask for

anything. However, this will not prevent us from chatting.” Then,

approaching the question in all frankness, without the slightest

artifice, like one of brave and absolute mind who fears no responsibility

however great, he continued: “You have written a book, have you

not?--‘New Rome,’ I believe--and you have come to defend this book which

has been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. For my own part I

have not yet read it. You will understand that I cannot read everything.

I only see the works that are sent to me by the Congregation which I have

belonged to since last year; and, besides, I often content myself with

the reports which my secretary draws up for me. However, my niece

Benedetta has read your book, and has told me that it is not lacking in

interest. It first astonished her somewhat, and then greatly moved her.

So I promise you that I will go through it and study the incriminated

passages with the greatest care.”

Pierre profited by the opportunity to begin pleading his cause. And it

occurred to him that it would be best to give his references at once.

“Your Eminence will realise how stupefied I was when I learnt that

proceedings were being taken against my book,” he said. “Monsieur le

Vicomte Philibert de la Choue, who is good enough to show me some

friendship, does not cease repeating that such a book is worth the best

of armies to the Holy See.”

“Oh! De la Choue, De la Choue!” repeated the Cardinal with a pout of

good-natured disdain. “I know that De la Choue considers himself a good

Catholic. He is in a slight degree our relative, as you know. And when he

comes to Rome and stays here, I willingly see him, on condition however

that no mention is made of certain subjects on which it would be

impossible for us to agree. To tell the truth, the Catholicism preached

by De la Choue--worthy, clever man though he is--his Catholicism, I say,

with his corporations, his working-class clubs, his cleansed democracy

and his vague socialism, is after all merely so much literature!”

This pronouncement struck Pierre, for he realised all the disdainful

irony contained in it--an irony which touched himself. And so he hastened

to name his other reference, whose authority he imagined to be above

discussion: “His Eminence Cardinal Bergerot has been kind enough to

signify his full approval of my book.”

At this Boccanera’s face suddenly changed. It no longer wore an

expression of derisive blame, tinged with the pity that is prompted by a

child’s ill-considered action fated to certain failure. A flash of anger

now lighted up the Cardinal’s dark eyes, and a pugnacious impulse

hardened his entire countenance. “In France,” he slowly resumed,

“Cardinal Bergerot no doubt has a reputation for great piety. We know

little of him in Rome. Personally, I have only seen him once, when he

came to receive his hat. And I would not therefore allow myself to judge

him if his writings and actions had not recently saddened my believing

soul. Unhappily, I am not the only one; you will find nobody here, of the

Sacred College, who approves of his doings.” Boccanera paused, then in a

firm voice concluded: “Cardinal Bergerot is a Revolutionary!”

This time Pierre’s surprise for a moment forced him to silence. A

Revolutionary--good heavens! a Revolutionary--that gentle pastor of

souls, whose charity was inexhaustible, whose one dream was that Jesus

might return to earth to ensure at last the reign of peace and justice!

So words did not have the same signification in all places; into what

religion had he now tumbled that the faith of the poor and the humble

should be looked upon as a mere insurrectional, condemnable passion? As

yet unable to understand things aright, Pierre nevertheless realised that

discussion would be both discourteous and futile, and his only remaining

desire was to give an account of his book, explain and vindicate it. But

at his first words the Cardinal interposed.

“No, no, my dear son. It would take us too long and I wish to read the

passages. Besides, there is an absolute rule. All books which meddle with

the faith are condemnable and pernicious. Does your book show perfect

respect for dogma?”

“I believe so, and I assure your Eminence that I have had no intention of

writing a work of negation.”

“Good: I may be on your side if that is true. Only, in the contrary case,

I have but one course to advise you, which is to withdraw your work,

condemn it, and destroy it without waiting until a decision of the Index

compels you to do so. Whosoever has given birth to scandal must stifle it

and expiate it, even if he have to cut into his own flesh. The only

duties of a priest are humility and obedience, the complete annihilation

of self before the sovereign will of the Church. And, besides, why write

at all? For there is already rebellion in expressing an opinion of one’s

own. It is always the temptation of the devil which puts a pen in an

author’s hand. Why, then, incur the risk of being for ever damned by

yielding to the pride of intelligence and domination? Your book again, my

dear son--your book is literature, literature!”

This expression again repeated was instinct with so much contempt that

Pierre realised all the wretchedness that would fall upon the poor pages

of his apostolate on meeting the eyes of this prince who had become a

saintly man. With increasing fear and admiration he listened to him, and

beheld him growing greater and greater.

“Ah! faith, my dear son, everything is in faith--perfect, disinterested

faith--which believes for the sole happiness of believing! How restful it

is to bow down before the mysteries without seeking to penetrate them,

full of the tranquil conviction that, in accepting them, one possesses

both the certain and the final! Is not the highest intellectual

satisfaction that which is derived from the victory of the divine over

the mind, which it disciplines, and contents so completely that it knows

desire no more? And apart from that perfect equilibrium, that explanation

of the unknown by the divine, no durable peace is possible for man. If

one desires that truth and justice should reign upon earth, it is in God

that one must place them. He that does not believe is like a battlefield,

the scene of every disaster. Faith alone can tranquillise and deliver.”

For an instant Pierre remained silent before the great figure rising up

in front of him. At Lourdes he had only seen suffering humanity rushing

thither for health of the body and consolation of the soul; but here was

the intellectual believer, the mind that needs certainty, finding

satisfaction, tasting the supreme enjoyment of doubting no more. He had

never previously heard such a cry of joy at living in obedience without

anxiety as to the morrow of death. He knew that Boccanera’s youth had

been somewhat stormy, traversed by acute attacks of sensuality, a flaring

of the red blood of his ancestors; and he marvelled at the calm majesty

which faith had at last implanted in this descendant of so violent a

race, who had no passion remaining in him but that of pride.

“And yet,” Pierre at last ventured to say in a timid, gentle voice, “if

faith remains essential and immutable, forms change. From hour to hour

evolution goes on in all things--the world changes.”

“That is not true!” exclaimed the Cardinal, “the world does not change.

It continually tramps over the same ground, loses itself, strays into the

most abominable courses, and it continually has to be brought back into

the right path. That is the truth. In order that the promises of Christ

may be fulfilled, is it not necessary that the world should return to its

starting point, its original innocence? Is not the end of time fixed for

the day when men shall be in possession of the full truth of the Gospel?

Yes, truth is in the past, and it is always to the past that one must

cling if one would avoid the pitfalls which evil imaginations create. All

those fine novelties, those mirages of that famous so-called progress,

are simply traps and snares of the eternal tempter, causes of perdition

and death. Why seek any further, why constantly incur the risk of error,

when for eighteen hundred years the truth has been known? Truth! why it

is in Apostolic and Roman Catholicism as created by a long succession of

generations! What madness to desire to change it when so many lofty

minds, so many pious souls have made of it the most admirable of

monuments, the one instrument of order in this world, and of salvation in

the next!”

Pierre, whose heart had contracted, refrained from further protest, for

he could no longer doubt that he had before him an implacable adversary

of his most cherished ideas. Chilled by a covert fear, as though he felt

a faint breath, as of a distant wind from a land of ruins, pass over his

face, bringing with it the mortal cold of a sepulchre, he bowed

respectfully whilst the Cardinal, rising to his full height, continued in

his obstinate voice, resonant with proud courage: “And if Catholicism, as

its enemies pretend, be really stricken unto death, it must die standing

and in all its glorious integrality. You hear me, Monsieur l’Abbe--not

one concession, not one surrender, not a single act of cowardice!

Catholicism is such as it is, and cannot be otherwise. No modification of

the divine certainty, the entire truth, is possible. The removal of the

smallest stone from the edifice could only prove a cause of instability.

Is this not evident? You cannot save old houses by attacking them with

the pickaxe under pretence of decorating them. You only enlarge the

fissures. Even if it were true that Rome were on the eve of falling into

dust, the only result of all the repairing and patching would be to

hasten the catastrophe. And instead of a noble death, met unflinchingly,

we should then behold the basest of agonies, the death throes of a coward

who struggles and begs for mercy! For my part I wait. I am convinced that

all that people say is but so much horrible falsehood, that Catholicism

has never been firmer, that it imbibes eternity from the one and only

source of life. But should the heavens indeed fall, on that day I should

be here, amidst these old and crumbling walls, under these old ceilings

whose beams are being devoured by the worms, and it is here, erect, among

the ruins, that I should meet my end, repeating my _credo_ for the last

time.”

His final words fell more slowly, full of haughty sadness, whilst with a

sweeping gesture he waved his arms towards the old, silent, deserted

palace around him, whence life was withdrawing day by day. Had an

involuntary presentiment come to him, did the faint cold breath from the

ruins also fan his own cheeks? All the neglect into which the vast rooms

had fallen was explained by his words; and a superb, despondent grandeur

enveloped this prince and cardinal, this uncompromising Catholic who,

withdrawing into the dim half-light of the past, braved with a soldier’s

heart the inevitable downfall of the olden world.

Deeply impressed, Pierre was about to take his leave when, to his

surprise, a little door opened in the hangings. “What is it? Can’t I be

left in peace for a moment?” exclaimed Boccanera with sudden impatience.

Nevertheless, Abbe Paparelli, fat and sleek, glided into the room without

the faintest sign of emotion. And he whispered a few words in the ear of

the Cardinal, who, on seeing him, had become calm again. “What curate?”

asked Boccanera. “Oh! yes, Santobono, the curate of Frascati. I

know--tell him I cannot see him just now.”

Paparelli, however, again began whispering in his soft voice, though not

in so low a key as previously, for some of his words could be overheard.

The affair was urgent, the curate was compelled to return home, and had

only a word or two to say. And then, without awaiting consent, the

train-bearer ushered in the visitor, a _protege_ of his, whom he had left

just outside the little door. And for his own part he withdrew with the

tranquillity of a retainer who, whatever the modesty of his office, knows

himself to be all powerful.

Pierre, who was momentarily forgotten, looked at the visitor--a big

fellow of a priest, the son of a peasant evidently, and still near to the

soil. He had an ungainly, bony figure, huge feet and knotted hands, with

a seamy tanned face lighted by extremely keen black eyes. Five and forty

and still robust, his chin and cheeks bristling, and his cassock,

overlarge, hanging loosely about his big projecting bones, he suggested a

bandit in disguise. Still there was nothing base about him; the

expression of his face was proud. And in one hand he carried a small

wicker basket carefully covered over with fig-leaves.

Santobono at once bent his knees and kissed the Cardinal’s ring, but with

hasty unconcern, as though only some ordinary piece of civility were in

question. Then, with that commingling of respect and familiarity which

the little ones of the world often evince towards the great, he said, “I

beg your most reverend Eminence’s forgiveness for having insisted. But

there were people waiting, and I should not have been received if my old

friend Paparelli had not brought me by way of that door. Oh! I have a

very great service to ask of your Eminence, a real service of the heart.

But first of all may I be allowed to offer your Eminence a little

present?”

The Cardinal listened with a grave expression. He had been well

acquainted with Santobono in the years when he had spent the summer at

Frascati, at a princely residence which the Boccaneras had possessed

there--a villa rebuilt in the seventeenth century, surrounded by a

wonderful park, whose famous terrace overlooked the Campagna, stretching

far and bare like the sea. This villa, however, had since been sold, and

on some vineyards, which had fallen to Benedetta’s share, Count Prada,

prior to the divorce proceedings, had begun to erect quite a district of

little pleasure houses. In former times, when walking out, the Cardinal

had condescended to enter and rest in the dwelling of Santobono, who

officiated at an antique chapel dedicated to St. Mary of the Fields,

without the town. The priest had his home in a half-ruined building

adjoining this chapel, and the charm of the place was a walled garden

which he cultivated himself with the passion of a true peasant.

“As is my rule every year,” said he, placing his basket on the table, “I

wished that your Eminence might taste my figs. They are the first of the

season. I gathered them expressly this morning. You used to be so fond of

them, your Eminence, when you condescended to gather them from the tree

itself. You were good enough to tell me that there wasn’t another tree in

the world that produced such fine figs.”

The Cardinal could not help smiling. He was indeed very fond of figs, and

Santobono spoke truly: his fig-tree was renowned throughout the district.

“Thank you, my dear Abbe,” said Boccanera, “you remember my little

failings. Well, and what can I do for you?”

Again he became grave, for, in former times, there had been unpleasant

discussions between him and the curate, a lack of agreement which had

angered him. Born at Nemi, in the core of a fierce district, Santobono

belonged to a violent family, and his eldest brother had died of a stab.

He himself had always professed ardently patriotic opinions. It was said

that he had all but taken up arms for Garibaldi; and, on the day when the

Italians had entered Rome, force had been needed to prevent him from

raising the flag of Italian unity above his roof. His passionate dream

was to behold Rome mistress of the world, when the Pope and the King

should have embraced and made cause together. Thus the Cardinal looked on

him as a dangerous revolutionary, a renegade who imperilled Catholicism.

“Oh! what your Eminence can do for me, what your Eminence can do if only

condescending and willing!” repeated Santobono in an ardent voice,

clasping his big knotty hands. And then, breaking off, he inquired, “Did

not his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti explain my affair to your most

reverend Eminence?”

“No, the Cardinal simply advised me of your visit, saying that you had

something to ask of me.”

Whilst speaking Boccanera’s face had clouded over, and it was with

increased sternness of manner that he again waited. He was aware that the

priest had become Sanguinetti’s “client” since the latter had been in the

habit of spending weeks together at his suburban see of Frascati. Walking

in the shadow of every cardinal who is a candidate to the papacy, there

are familiars of low degree who stake the ambition of their life on the

possibility of that cardinal’s election. If he becomes Pope some day, if

they themselves help him to the throne, they enter the great pontifical

family in his train. It was related that Sanguinetti had once already

extricated Santobono from a nasty difficulty: the priest having one day

caught a marauding urchin in the act of climbing his wall, had beaten the

little fellow with such severity that he had ultimately died of it.

However, to Santobono’s credit it must be added that his fanatical

devotion to the Cardinal was largely based upon the hope that he would

prove the Pope whom men awaited, the Pope who would make Italy the

sovereign nation of the world.

“Well, this is my misfortune,” he said. “Your Eminence knows my brother

Agostino, who was gardener at the villa for two years in your Eminence’s

time. He is certainly a very pleasant and gentle young fellow, of whom

nobody has ever complained. And so it is hard to understand how such an

accident can have happened to him, but it seems that he has killed a man

with a knife at Genzano, while walking in the street in the evening. I am

dreadfully distressed about it, and would willingly give two fingers of

my right hand to extricate him from prison. However, it occurred to me

that your Eminence would not refuse me a certificate stating that

Agostino was formerly in your Eminence’s service, and that your Eminence

was always well pleased with his quiet disposition.”

But the Cardinal flatly protested: “I was not at all pleased with

Agostino. He was wildly violent, and I had to dismiss him precisely

because he was always quarrelling with the other servants.”

“Oh! how grieved I am to hear your Eminence say that! So it is true,

then, my poor little Agostino’s disposition has really changed! Still

there is always a way out of a difficulty, is there not? You can still

give me a certificate, first arranging the wording of it. A certificate

from your Eminence would have such a favourable effect upon the law

officers.”

“No doubt,” replied Boccanera; “I can understand that, but I will give no

certificate.”

“What! does your most reverend Eminence refuse my prayer?”

“Absolutely! I know that you are a priest of perfect morality, that you

discharge the duties of your ministry with strict punctuality, and that

you would be deserving of high commendation were it not for your

political fancies. Only your fraternal affection is now leading you

astray. I cannot tell a lie to please you.”

Santobono gazed at him in real stupefaction, unable to understand that a

prince, an all-powerful cardinal, should be influenced by such petty

scruples, when the entire question was a mere knife thrust, the most

commonplace and frequent of incidents in the yet wild land of the old

Roman castles.

“A lie! a lie!” he muttered; “but surely it isn’t lying just to say what

is good of a man, leaving out all the rest, especially when a man has

good points as Agostino certainly has. In a certificate, too, everything

depends on the words one uses.”

He stubbornly clung to that idea; he could not conceive that a person

should refuse to soften the rigour of justice by an ingenious

presentation of the facts. However, on acquiring a certainty that he

would obtain nothing, he made a gesture of despair, his livid face

assuming an expression of violent rancour, whilst his black eyes flamed

with restrained passion.

“Well, well! each looks on truth in his own way,” he said. “I shall go

back to tell his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. And I beg your Eminence

not to be displeased with me for having disturbed your Eminence to no

purpose. By the way, perhaps the figs are not yet quite ripe; but I will

take the liberty to bring another basketful towards the end of the

season, when they will be quite nice and sweet. A thousand thanks and a

thousand felicities to your most reverend Eminence.”

Santobono went off backwards, his big bony figure bending double with

repeated genuflections. Pierre, whom the scene had greatly interested, in

him beheld a specimen of the petty clergy of Rome and its environs, of

whom people had told him before his departure from Paris. This was not

the _scagnozzo_, the wretched famished priest whom some nasty affair

brings from the provinces, who seeks his daily bread on the pavements of

Rome; one of the herd of begowned beggars searching for a livelihood

among the crumbs of Church life, voraciously fighting for chance masses,

and mingling with the lowest orders in taverns of the worst repute. Nor

was this the country priest of distant parts, a man of crass ignorance

and superstition, a peasant among the peasants, treated as an equal by

his pious flock, which is careful not to mistake him for the Divinity,

and which, whilst kneeling in all humility before the parish saint, does

not bend before the man who from that saint derives his livelihood. At

Frascati the officiating minister of a little church may receive a

stipend of some nine hundred _lire_ a year,* and he has only bread and

meat to buy if his garden yields him wine and fruit and vegetables. This

one, Santobono, was not without education; he knew a little theology and

a little history, especially the history of the past grandeur of Rome,

which had inflamed his patriotic heart with the mad dream that universal

domination would soon fall to the portion of renascent Rome, the capital

of united Italy. But what an insuperable distance still remained between

this petty Roman clergy, often very worthy and intelligent, and the high

clergy, the high dignitaries of the Vatican! Nobody that was not at least

a prelate seemed to count.

* About 36 pounds. One is reminded of Goldsmith’s line: “And

passing rich with forty pounds a year.”--Trans.

“A thousand thanks to your most reverend Eminence, and may success attend

all your Eminence’s desires.”

With these words Santobono finally disappeared, and the Cardinal returned

to Pierre, who also bowed preparatory to taking his leave.

“To sum up the matter, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said Boccanera, “the affair of

your book presents certain difficulties. As I have told you, I have no

precise information, I have seen no documents. But knowing that my niece

took an interest in you, I said a few words on the subject to Cardinal

Sanguinetti, the Prefect of the Index, who was here just now. And he

knows little more than I do, for nothing has yet left the Secretary’s

hands. Still he told me that the denunciation emanated from personages of

rank and influence, and applied to numerous pages of your work, in which

it was said there were passages of the most deplorable character as

regards both discipline and dogma.”

Greatly moved by the idea that he had hidden foes, secret adversaries who

pursued him in the dark, the young priest responded: “Oh! denounced,

denounced! If your Eminence only knew how that word pains my heart! And

denounced, too, for offences which were certainly involuntary, since my

one ardent desire was the triumph of the Church! All I can do, then, is

to fling myself at the feet of the Holy Father and entreat him to hear my

defence.”

Boccanera suddenly became very grave again. A stern look rested on his

lofty brow as he drew his haughty figure to its full height. “His

Holiness,” said he, “can do everything, even receive you, if such be his

good pleasure, and absolve you also. But listen to me. I again advise you

to withdraw your book yourself, to destroy it, simply and courageously,

before embarking in a struggle in which you will reap the shame of being

overwhelmed. Reflect on that.”

Pierre, however, had no sooner spoken of the Pope than he had regretted

it, for he realised that an appeal to the sovereign authority was

calculated to wound the Cardinal’s feelings. Moreover, there was no

further room for doubt. Boccanera would be against his book, and the

utmost that he could hope for was to gain his neutrality by bringing

pressure to bear on him through those about him. At the same time he had

found the Cardinal very plain spoken, very frank, far removed from all

the secret intriguing in which the affair of his book was involved, as he

now began to realise; and so it was with deep respect and genuine

admiration for the prelate’s strong and lofty character that he took

leave of him.

“I am infinitely obliged to your Eminence,” he said, “and I promise that

I will carefully reflect upon all that your Eminence has been kind enough

to say to me.”

On returning to the ante-room, Pierre there found five or six persons who

had arrived during his audience, and were now waiting. There was a

bishop, a domestic prelate, and two old ladies, and as he drew near to

Don Vigilio before retiring, he was surprised to find him conversing with

a tall, fair young fellow, a Frenchman, who, also in astonishment,

exclaimed, “What! are you here in Rome, Monsieur l’Abbe?”

For a moment Pierre had hesitated. “Ah! I must ask your pardon, Monsieur

Narcisse Habert,” he replied, “I did not at first recognise you! It was

the less excusable as I knew that you had been an _attache_ at our

embassy here ever since last year.”

Tall, slim, and elegant of appearance, Narcisse Habert had a clear

complexion, with eyes of a bluish, almost mauvish, hue, a fair frizzy

beard, and long curling fair hair cut short over the forehead in the

Florentine fashion. Of a wealthy family of militant Catholics, chiefly

members of the bar or bench, he had an uncle in the diplomatic

profession, and this had decided his own career. Moreover, a place at

Rome was marked out for him, for he there had powerful connections. He

was a nephew by marriage of Cardinal Sarno, whose sister had married

another of his uncles, a Paris notary; and he was also cousin german of

Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, a _Cameriere segreto_, and son of one of his

aunts, who had married an Italian colonel. And in some measure for these

reasons he had been attached to the embassy to the Holy See, his

superiors tolerating his somewhat fantastic ways, his everlasting passion

for art which sent him wandering hither and thither through Rome. He was

moreover very amiable and extremely well-bred; and it occasionally

happened, as was the case that morning, that with his weary and somewhat

mysterious air he came to speak to one or another of the cardinals on

some real matter of business in the ambassador’s name.

So as to converse with Pierre at his ease, he drew him into the deep

embrasure of one of the windows. “Ah! my dear Abbe, how pleased I am to

see you!” said he. “You must remember what pleasant chats we had when we

met at Cardinal Bergerot’s! I told you about some paintings which you

were to see for your book, some miniatures of the fourteenth and

fifteenth centuries. And now, you know, I mean to take possession of you.

I’ll show you Rome as nobody else could show it to you. I’ve seen and

explored everything. Ah! there are treasures, such treasures! But in

truth there is only one supreme work; one always comes back to one’s

particular passion. The Botticelli in the Sixtine Chapel--ah, the

Botticelli!”

His voice died away, and he made a faint gesture as if overcome by

admiration. Then Pierre had to promise that he would place himself in his

hands and accompany him to the Sixtine Chapel. “You know why I am here,”

at last said the young priest. “Proceedings have been taken against my

book; it has been denounced to the Congregation of the Index.”

“Your book! is it possible?” exclaimed Narcisse: “a book like that with

pages recalling the delightful St. Francis of Assisi!” And thereupon he

obligingly placed himself at Pierre’s disposal. “But our ambassador will

be very useful to you,” he said. “He is the best man in the world, of

charming affability, and full of the old French spirit. I will present

you to him this afternoon or to-morrow morning at the latest; and since

you desire an immediate audience with the Pope, he will endeavour to

obtain one for you. His position naturally designates him as your

intermediary. Still, I must confess that things are not always easily

managed. Although the Holy Father is very fond of him, there are times

when his Excellency fails, for the approaches are so extremely

intricate.”

Pierre had not thought of employing the ambassador’s good offices, for he

had naively imagined that an accused priest who came to defend himself

would find every door open. However, he was delighted with Narcisse’s

offer, and thanked him as warmly as if the audience were already

obtained.

“Besides,” the young man continued, “if we encounter any difficulties I

have relatives at the Vatican, as you know. I don’t mean my uncle the

Cardinal, who would be of no use to us, for he never stirs out of his

office at the Propaganda, and will never apply for anything. But my

cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, is very obliging, and he lives in

intimacy with the Pope, his duties requiring his constant attendance on

him. So, if necessary, I will take you to see him, and he will no doubt

find a means of procuring you an interview, though his extreme prudence

keeps him perpetually afraid of compromising himself. However, it’s

understood, you may rely on me in every respect.”

“Ah! my dear sir,” exclaimed Pierre, relieved and happy, “I heartily

accept your offer. You don’t know what balm your words have brought me;

for ever since my arrival everybody has been discouraging me, and you are

the first to restore my strength by looking at things in the true French

way.”

Then, lowering his voice, he told the _attache_ of his interview with

Cardinal Boccanera, of his conviction that the latter would not help him,

of the unfavourable information which had been given by Cardinal

Sanguinetti, and of the rivalry which he had divined between the two

prelates. Narcisse listened, smiling, and in his turn began to gossip

confidentially. The rivalry which Pierre had mentioned, the premature

contest for the tiara which Sanguinetti and Boccanera were waging,

impelled to it by a furious desire to become the next Pope, had for a

long time been revolutionising the black world. There was incredible

intricacy in the depths of the affair; none could exactly tell who was

pulling the strings, conducting the vast intrigue. As regards

generalities it was simply known that Boccanera represented

absolutism--the Church freed from all compromises with modern society,

and waiting in immobility for the Deity to triumph over Satan, for Rome

to be restored to the Holy Father, and for repentant Italy to perform

penance for its sacrilege; whereas Sanguinetti, extremely politic and

supple, was reported to harbour bold and novel ideas: permission to vote

to be granted to all true Catholics,* a majority to be gained by this

means in the Legislature; then, as a fatal corollary, the downfall of the

House of Savoy, and the proclamation of a kind of republican federation

of all the former petty States of Italy under the august protectorate of

the Pope. On the whole, the struggle was between these two antagonistic

elements--the first bent on upholding the Church by a rigorous

maintenance of the old traditions, and the other predicting the fall of

the Church if it did not follow the bent of the coming century. But all

was steeped in so much mystery that people ended by thinking that, if the

present Pope should live a few years longer, his successor would

certainly be neither Boccanera nor Sanguinetti.

* Since the occupation of Rome by the Italian authorities, the

supporters of the Church, obedient to the prohibition of the

Vatican, have abstained from taking part in the political

elections, this being their protest against the new order of

things which they do not recognise. Various attempts have been

made, however, to induce the Pope to give them permission to

vote, many members of the Roman aristocracy considering the

present course impolitic and even harmful to the interests of

the Church.--Trans.

All at once Pierre interrupted Narcisse: “And Monsignor Nani, do you know

him? I spoke with him yesterday evening. And there he is coming in now!”

Nani was indeed just entering the ante-room with his usual smile on his

amiable pink face. His cassock of fine texture, and his sash of violet

silk shone with discreet soft luxury. And he showed himself very amiable

to Abbe Paparelli, who, accompanying him in all humility, begged him to

be kind enough to wait until his Eminence should be able to receive him.

“Oh! Monsignor Nani,” muttered Narcisse, becoming serious, “he is a man

whom it is advisable to have for a friend.”

Then, knowing Nani’s history, he related it in an undertone. Born at

Venice, of a noble but ruined family which had produced heroes, Nani,

after first studying under the Jesuits, had come to Rome to perfect

himself in philosophy and theology at the Collegio Romano, which was then

also under Jesuit management. Ordained when three and twenty, he had at

once followed a nuncio to Bavaria as private secretary; and then had gone

as _auditore_ to the nunciatures of Brussels and Paris, in which latter

city he had lived for five years. Everything seemed to predestine him to

diplomacy, his brilliant beginnings and his keen and encyclopaedical

intelligence; but all at once he had been recalled to Rome, where he was

soon afterwards appointed Assessor to the Holy Office. It was asserted at

the time that this was done by the Pope himself, who, being well

acquainted with Nani, and desirous of having a person he could depend

upon at the Holy Office, had given instructions for his recall, saying

that he could render far more services at Rome than abroad. Already a

domestic prelate, Nani had also lately become a Canon of St. Peter’s and

an apostolic prothonotary, with the prospect of obtaining a cardinal’s

hat whenever the Pope should find some other favourite who would please

him better as assessor.

“Oh, Monsignor Nani!” continued Narcisse. “He’s a superior man,

thoroughly well acquainted with modern Europe, and at the same time a

very saintly priest, a sincere believer, absolutely devoted to the

Church, with the substantial faith of an intelligent politician--a belief

different, it is true, from the narrow gloomy theological faith which we

know so well in France. And this is one of the reasons why you will

hardly understand things here at first. The Roman prelates leave the

Deity in the sanctuary and reign in His name, convinced that Catholicism

is the human expression of the government of God, the only perfect and

eternal government, beyond the pales of which nothing but falsehood and

social danger can be found. While we in our country lag behind, furiously

arguing whether there be a God or not, they do not admit that God’s

existence can be doubted, since they themselves are his delegated

ministers; and they entirely devote themselves to playing their parts as

ministers whom none can dispossess, exercising their power for the

greatest good of humanity, and devoting all their intelligence, all their

energy to maintaining themselves as the accepted masters of the nations.

As for Monsignor Nani, after being mixed up in the politics of the whole

world, he has for ten years been discharging the most delicate functions

in Rome, taking part in the most varied and most important affairs. He

sees all the foreigners who come to Rome, knows everything, has a hand in

everything. Add to this that he is extremely discreet and amiable, with a

modesty which seems perfect, though none can tell whether, with his light

silent footstep, he is not really marching towards the highest ambition,

the purple of sovereignty.”

“Another candidate for the tiara,” thought Pierre, who had listened

passionately; for this man Nani interested him, caused him an instinctive

disquietude, as though behind his pink and smiling face he could divine

an infinity of obscure things. At the same time, however, the young

priest but ill understood his friend, for he again felt bewildered by all

this strange Roman world, so different from what he had expected.

Nani had perceived the two young men and came towards them with his hand

cordially outstretched “Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe Froment, I am happy to meet

you again. I won’t ask you if you have slept well, for people always

sleep well at Rome. Good-day, Monsieur Habert; your health has kept good

I hope, since I met you in front of Bernini’s Santa Teresa, which you

admire so much.* I see that you know one another. That is very nice. I

must tell you, Monsieur l’Abbe, that Monsieur Habert is a passionate

lover of our city; he will be able to show you all its finest sights.”

* The allusion is to a statue representing St. Theresa in ecstasy,

with the Angel of Death descending to transfix her with his dart.

It stands in a transept of Sta. Maria della Vittoria.--Trans.

Then, in his affectionate way, he at once asked for information

respecting Pierre’s interview with the Cardinal. He listened attentively

to the young man’s narrative, nodding his head at certain passages, and

occasionally restraining his sharp smile. The Cardinal’s severity and

Pierre’s conviction that he would accord him no support did not at all

astonish Nani. It seemed as if he had expected that result. However, on

hearing that Cardinal Sanguinetti had been there that morning, and had

pronounced the affair of the book to be very serious, he appeared to lose

his self-control for a moment, for he spoke out with sudden vivacity:

“It can’t be helped, my dear child, my intervention came too late.

Directly I heard of the proceedings I went to his Eminence Cardinal

Sanguinetti to tell him that the result would be an immense advertisement

for your book. Was it sensible? What was the use of it? We know that you

are inclined to be carried away by your ideas, that you are an

enthusiast, and are prompt to do battle. So what advantage should we gain

by embarrassing ourselves with the revolt of a young priest who might

wage war against us with a book of which some thousands of copies have

been sold already? For my part I desired that nothing should be done. And

I must say that the Cardinal, who is a man of sense, was of the same

mind. He raised his arms to heaven, went into a passion, and exclaimed

that he was never consulted, that the blunder was already committed

beyond recall, and that it was impossible to prevent process from taking

its course since the matter had already been brought before the

Congregation, in consequence of denunciations from authoritative sources,

based on the gravest motives. Briefly, as he said, the blunder was

committed, and I had to think of something else.”

All at once Nani paused. He had just noticed that Pierre’s ardent eyes

were fixed upon his own, striving to penetrate his meaning. A faint flush

then heightened the pinkiness of his complexion, whilst in an easy way he

continued, unwilling to reveal how annoyed he was at having said too

much: “Yes, I thought of helping you with all the little influence I

possess, in order to extricate you from the worries in which this affair

will certainly land you.”

An impulse of revolt was stirring Pierre, who vaguely felt that he was

perhaps being made game of. Why should he not be free to declare his

faith, which was so pure, so free from personal considerations, so full

of glowing Christian charity? “Never,” said he, “will I withdraw; never

will I myself suppress my book, as I am advised to do. It would be an act

of cowardice and falsehood, for I regret nothing, I disown nothing. If I

believe that my book brings a little truth to light I cannot destroy it

without acting criminally both towards myself and towards others. No,

never! You hear me--never!”

Silence fell. But almost immediately he resumed: “It is at the knees of

the Holy Father that I desire to make that declaration. He will

understand me, he will approve me.”

Nani no longer smiled; henceforth his face remained as it were closed. He

seemed to be studying the sudden violence of the young priest with

curiosity; then sought to calm him with his own tranquil kindliness. “No

doubt, no doubt,” said he. “There is certainly great sweetness in

obedience and humility. Still I can understand that, before anything

else, you should desire to speak to his Holiness. And afterwards you will

see--is that not so?--you will see--”

Then he evinced a lively interest in the suggested application for an

audience. He expressed keen regret that Pierre had not forwarded that

application from Paris, before even coming to Rome: in that course would

have rested the best chance of a favourable reply. Bother of any kind was

not liked at the Vatican, and if the news of the young priest’s presence

in Rome should only spread abroad, and the motives of his journey be

discussed, all would be lost. Then, on learning that Narcisse had offered

to present Pierre to the French ambassador, Nani seemed full of anxiety,

and deprecated any such proceeding: “No, no! don’t do that--it would be

most imprudent. In the first place you would run the risk of embarrassing

the ambassador, whose position is always delicate in affairs of this

kind. And then, too, if he failed--and my fear is that he might

fail--yes, if he failed it would be all over; you would no longer have

the slightest chance of obtaining an audience by any other means. For the

Vatican would not like to hurt the ambassador’s feelings by yielding to

other influence after resisting his.”

Pierre anxiously glanced at Narcisse, who wagged his head, embarrassed

and hesitating. “The fact is,” the _attache_ at last murmured, “we lately

solicited an audience for a high French personage and it was refused,

which was very unpleasant for us. Monsignor is right. We must keep our

ambassador in reserve, and only utilise him when we have exhausted all

other means.” Then, noticing Pierre’s disappointment, he added

obligingly: “Our first visit therefore shall be for my cousin at the

Vatican.”

Nani, his attention again roused, looked at the young man in

astonishment. “At the Vatican? You have a cousin there?”

“Why, yes--Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo.”

“Gamba! Gamba! Yes, yes, excuse me, I remember now. Ah! so you thought of

Gamba to bring influence to bear on his Holiness? That’s an idea, no

doubt; one must see--one must see.”

He repeated these words again and again as if to secure time to see into

the matter himself, to weigh the pros and cons of the suggestion.

Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo was a worthy man who played no part at the

Papal Court, whose nullity indeed had become a byword at the Vatican. His

childish stories, however, amused the Pope, whom he greatly flattered,

and who was fond of leaning on his arm while walking in the gardens. It

was during these strolls that Gamba easily secured all sorts of little

favours. However, he was a remarkable poltroon, and had such an intense

fear of losing his influence that he never risked a request without

having convinced himself by long meditation that no possible harm could

come to him through it.

“Well, do you know, the idea is not a bad one,” Nani at last declared.

“Yes, yes, Gamba can secure the audience for you, if he is willing. I

will see him myself and explain the matter.”

At the same time Nani did not cease advising extreme caution. He even

ventured to say that it was necessary to be on one’s guard with the papal

_entourage_, for, alas! it was a fact his Holiness was so good, and had

such a blind faith in the goodness of others, that he had not always

chosen his familiars with the critical care which he ought to have

displayed. Thus one never knew to what sort of man one might be applying,

or in what trap one might be setting one’s foot. Nani even allowed it to

be understood that on no account ought any direct application to be made

to his Eminence the Secretary of State, for even his Eminence was not a

free agent, but found himself encompassed by intrigues of such intricacy

that his best intentions were paralysed. And as Nani went on discoursing

in this fashion, in a very gentle, extremely unctuous manner, the Vatican

appeared like some enchanted castle, guarded by jealous and treacherous

dragons--a castle where one must not take a step, pass through a doorway,

risk a limb, without having carefully assured oneself that one would not

leave one’s whole body there to be devoured.

Pierre continued listening, feeling colder and colder at heart, and again

sinking into uncertainty. “_Mon Dieu_!” he exclaimed, “I shall never know

how to act. You discourage me, Monsignor.”

At this Nani’s cordial smile reappeared. “I, my dear child? I should be

sorry to do so. I only want to repeat to you that you must wait and do

nothing. Avoid all feverishness especially. There is no hurry, I assure

you, for it was only yesterday that a _consultore_ was chosen to report

upon your book, so you have a good full month before you. Avoid

everybody, live in such a way that people shall be virtually ignorant of

your existence, visit Rome in peace and quietness--that is the best

course you can adopt to forward your interests.” Then, taking one of the

priest’s hands between both his own, so aristocratic, soft, and plump, he

added: “You will understand that I have my reasons for speaking to you

like this. I should have offered my own services; I should have made it a

point of honour to take you straight to his Holiness, had I thought it

advisable. But I do not wish to mix myself up in the matter at this

stage; I realise only too well that at the present moment we should

simply make sad work of it. Later on--you hear me--later on, in the event

of nobody else succeeding, I myself will obtain you an audience; I

formally promise it. But meanwhile, I entreat you, refrain from using

those words ‘a new religion,’ which, unfortunately, occur in your book,

and which I heard you repeat again only last night. There can be no new

religion, my dear child; there is but one eternal religion, which is

beyond all surrender and compromise--the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman

religion. And at the same time leave your Paris friends to themselves.

Don’t rely too much on Cardinal Bergerot, whose lofty piety is not

sufficiently appreciated in Rome. I assure you that I am speaking to you

as a friend.”

Then, seeing how disabled Pierre appeared to be, half overcome already,

no longer knowing in what direction to begin his campaign, he again

strove to comfort him: “Come, come, things will right themselves;

everything will end for the best, both for the welfare of the Church and

your own. And now you must excuse me, I must leave you; I shall not be

able to see his Eminence to-day, for it is impossible for me to wait any

longer.”

Abbe Paparelli, whom Pierre had noticed prowling around with his ears

cocked, now hastened forward and declared to Monsignor Nani that there

were only two persons to be received before him. But the prelate very

graciously replied that he would come back again at another time, for the

affair which he wished to lay before his Eminence was in no wise

pressing. Then he withdrew, courteously bowing to everybody.

Narcisse Habert’s turn came almost immediately afterwards. However,

before entering the throne-room he pressed Pierre’s hand, repeating, “So

it is understood. I will go to see my cousin at the Vatican to-morrow,

and directly I get a reply I will let you know. We shall meet again soon

I hope.”

It was now past twelve o’clock, and the only remaining visitor was one of

the two old ladies who seemed to have fallen asleep. At his little

secretarial table Don Vigilio still sat covering huge sheets of yellow

paper with fine handwriting, from which he only lifted his eyes at

intervals to glance about him distrustfully, and make sure that nothing

threatened him.

In the mournful silence which fell around, Pierre lingered for yet

another moment in the deep embrasure of the window. Ah! what anxiety

consumed his poor, tender, enthusiastic heart! On leaving Paris things

had seemed so simple, so natural to him! He was unjustly accused, and he

started off to defend himself, arrived and flung himself at the feet of

the Holy Father, who listened to him indulgently. Did not the Pope

personify living religion, intelligence to understand, justice based upon

truth? And was he not, before aught else, the Father, the delegate of

divine forgiveness and mercy, with arms outstretched towards all the

children of the Church, even the guilty ones? Was it not meet, then, that

he should leave his door wide open so that the humblest of his sons might

freely enter to relate their troubles, confess their transgressions,

explain their conduct, imbibe comfort from the source of eternal loving

kindness? And yet on the very first day of his, Pierre’s, arrival, the

doors closed upon him with a bang; he felt himself sinking into a hostile

sphere, full of traps and pitfalls. One and all cried out to him

“Beware!” as if he were incurring the greatest dangers in setting one

foot before the other. His desire to see the Pope became an extraordinary

pretension, so difficult of achievement that it set the interests and

passions and influences of the whole Vatican agog. And there was endless

conflicting advice, long-discussed manoeuvring, all the strategy of

generals leading an army to victory, and fresh complications ever arising

in the midst of a dim stealthy swarming of intrigues. Ah! good Lord! how

different all this was from the charitable reception that Pierre had

anticipated: the pastor’s house standing open beside the high road for

the admission of all the sheep of the flock, both those that were docile

and those that had gone astray.

That which began to frighten Pierre, however, was the evil, the

wickedness, which he could divine vaguely stirring in the gloom: Cardinal

Bergerot suspected, dubbed a Revolutionary, deemed so compromising that

he, Pierre, was advised not to mention his name again! The young priest

once more saw Cardinal Boccanera’s pout of disdain while speaking of his

colleague. And then Monsignor Nani had warned him not to repeat those

words “a new religion,” as if it were not clear to everybody that they

simply signified the return of Catholicism to the primitive purity of

Christianity! Was that one of the crimes denounced to the Congregation of

the Index? He had begun to suspect who his accusers were, and felt

alarmed, for he was now conscious of secret subterranean plotting, a

great stealthy effort to strike him down and suppress his work. All that

surrounded him became suspicious. If he listened to advice and

temporised, it was solely to follow the same politic course as his

adversaries, to learn to know them before acting. He would spend a few

days in meditation, in surveying and studying that black world of Rome

which to him had proved so unexpected. But, at the same time, in the

revolt of his apostle-like faith, he swore, even as he had said to Nani,

that he would never yield, never change either a page or a line of his

book, but maintain it in its integrity in the broad daylight as the

unshakable testimony of his belief. Even were the book condemned by the

Index, he would not tender submission, withdraw aught of it. And should

it become necessary he would quit the Church, he would go even as far as

schism, continuing to preach the new religion and writing a new book,

_Real Rome_, such as he now vaguely began to espy.

However, Don Vigilio had ceased writing, and gazed so fixedly at Pierre

that the latter at last stepped up to him politely in order to take

leave. And then the secretary, yielding, despite his fears, to a desire

to confide in him, murmured, “He came simply on your account, you know;

he wanted to ascertain the result of your interview with his Eminence.”

It was not necessary for Don Vigilio to mention Nani by name; Pierre

understood. “Really, do you think so?” he asked.

“Oh! there is no doubt of it. And if you take my advice you will do what

he desires with a good grace, for it is absolutely certain that you will

do it later on.”

These words brought Pierre’s disquietude and exasperation to a climax. He

went off with a gesture of defiance. They would see if he would ever

yield.

The three ante-rooms which he again crossed appeared to him blacker,

emptier, more lifeless than ever. In the second one Abbe Paparelli

saluted him with a little silent bow; in the first the sleepy lackey did

not even seem to see him. A spider was weaving its web between the

tassels of the great red hat under the _baldacchino_. Would not the

better course have been to set the pick at work amongst all that rotting

past, now crumbling into dust, so that the sunlight might stream in

freely and restore to the purified soil the fruitfulness of youth?