Whilst talking, the two men slowly followed the ascending road past the

newly erected villas, several of which were not yet finished. And when

Prada learned that the priest had come to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti,

he again laughed, with the laugh of a good-natured wolf, showing his

white fangs. “True,” he exclaimed, “the Cardinal has been here since the

Pope has been laid up. Ah! you’ll find him in a pretty fever.”

“Why?”

“Why, because there’s bad news about the Holy Father this morning. When I

left Rome it was rumoured that he had spent a fearful night.”

So speaking, Prada halted at a bend of the road, not far from an antique

chapel, a little church of solitary, mournful grace of aspect, on the

verge of an olive grove. Beside it stood a ruinous building, the old

parsonage, no doubt, whence there suddenly emerged a tall, knotty priest

with coarse and earthy face, who, after roughly locking the door, went

off in the direction of the town.

“Ah!” resumed the Count in a tone of raillery, “that fellow’s heart also

must be beating violently; he’s surely gone to your Cardinal in search of

news.”

Pierre had looked at the priest. “I know him,” he replied; “I saw him, I

remember, on the day after my arrival at Cardinal Boccanera’s. He brought

the Cardinal a basket of figs and asked him for a certificate in favour

of his young brother, who had been sent to prison for some deed of

violence--a knife thrust if I recollect rightly. However, the Cardinal

absolutely refused him the certificate.”

“It’s the same man,” said Prada, “you may depend on it. He was often at

the Villa Boccanera formerly; for his young brother was gardener there.

But he’s now the client, the creature of Cardinal Sanguinetti. Santobono

his name is, and he’s a curious character, such as you wouldn’t find in

France, I fancy. He lives all alone in that falling hovel, and officiates

at that old chapel of St. Mary in the Fields, where people don’t go to

hear mass three times in a year. Yes, it’s a perfect sinecure, which with

its stipend of a thousand francs enables him to live there like a peasant

philosopher, cultivating the somewhat extensive garden whose big walls

you see yonder.”

The close to which he called attention stretched down the slope behind

the parsonage, without an aperture, like some savage place of refuge into

which not even the eye could penetrate. And all that could be seen above

the left-hand wall was a superb, gigantic fig-tree, whose big leaves

showed blackly against the clear sky. Prada had moved on again, and

continued to speak of Santobono, who evidently interested him. Fancy, a

patriot priest, a Garibaldian! Born at Nemi, in that yet savage nook

among the Alban hills, he belonged to the people and was still near to

the soil. However, he had studied, and knew sufficient history to realise

the past greatness of Rome, and dream of the re-establishment of Roman

dominion as represented by young Italy. And he had come to believe, with

passionate fervour, that only a great pope could realise his dream by

seizing upon power, and then conquering all the other nations. And what

could be easier, since the Pope commanded millions of Catholics? Did not

half Europe belong to him? France, Spain, and Austria would give way as

soon as they should see him powerful, dictating laws to the world.

Germany and Great Britain, indeed all the Protestant countries, would

also inevitably be conquered, for the papacy was the only dike that could

be opposed to error, which must some day fatally succumb in its efforts

against such a barrier. Politically, however, Santobono had declared

himself for Germany, for he considered that France needed to be crushed

before she would throw herself into the arms of the Holy Father. And thus

contradictions and fancies clashed in his foggy brain, whose burning

ideas swiftly turned to violence under the influence of primitive, racial

fierceness. Briefly, the priest was a barbarian upholder of the Gospel, a

friend of the humble and woeful, a sectarian of that school which is

capable alike of great virtues and great crimes.

“Yes,” concluded Prada, “he is now devoted to Cardinal Sanguinetti

because he believes that the latter will prove the great pope of

to-morrow, who is to make Rome the one capital of the nations. At the

same time he doubtless harbours a lower personal ambition, that of

attaining to a canonry or of gaining assistance in the little worries of

life, as when he wished to extricate his brother from trouble. Here, you

know, people stake their luck on a cardinal just as they nurse a ‘trey’

in the lottery, and if their cardinal proves the winning number and

becomes pope they gain a fortune. And that’s why you now see Santobono

striding along yonder, all anxiety to know if Leo XIII will die and

Sanguinetti don the tiara.”

“Do you think the Pope so very ill, then?” asked Pierre, both anxious and

interested.

The Count smiled and raised both arms: “Ah!” said he, “can one ever tell?

They all get ill when their interest lies that way. However, I believe

that the Pope is this time really indisposed; a complaint of the bowels,

it is said; and at his age, you know, the slightest indisposition may

prove fatal.”

The two men took a few steps in silence, then the priest again asked a

question: “Would Cardinal Sanguinetti have a great chance if the Holy See

were vacant?”

“A great chance! Ah! that’s another of those things which one never

knows. The truth is people class Sanguinetti among the acceptable

candidates, and if personal desire sufficed he would certainly be the

next pope, for ambition consumes him to the marrow, and he displays

extraordinary passion and determination in his efforts to succeed. But

therein lies his very weakness; he is using himself up, and he knows it.

And so he must be resolved to every step during the last days of battle.

You may be quite sure that if he has shut himself up here at this

critical time, it is in order that he may the better direct his

operations from a distance, whilst at the same time feigning a retreat, a

disinterestedness which is bound to have a good effect.”

Then Prada began to expatiate on Sanguinetti with no little complacency,

for he liked the man’s spirit of intrigue, his keen, conquering appetite,

his excessive, and even somewhat blundering activity. He had become

acquainted with him on his return from the nunciature at Vienna, when he

had already resolved to win the tiara. That ambition explained

everything, his quarrels and reconciliations with the reigning pope, his

affection for Germany, followed by a sudden evolution in the direction of

France, his varying attitude with regard to Italy, at first a desire for

agreement, and then absolute rejection of all compromises, a refusal to

grant any concession, so long as Rome should not be evacuated. This,

indeed, seemed to be Sanguinetti’s definite position; he made a show of

disliking the wavering sway of Leo XIII, and of retaining a fervent

admiration for Pius IX, the great, heroic pope of the days of resistance,

whose goodness of heart had proved no impediment to unshakable firmness.

And all this was equivalent to a promise that he, Sanguinetti, would

again make kindliness exempt from weakness, the rule of the Church, and

would steer clear of the dangerous compounding of politics. At bottom,

however, politics were his only dream, and he had even formulated a

complete programme of intentional vagueness, which his clients and

creatures spread abroad with an air of rapturous mystery. However, since

a previous indisposition of the Pope’s, during the spring, he had been

living in mortal disquietude, for it had then been rumoured that the

Jesuits would resign themselves to support Cardinal Pio Boccanera,

although the latter scarcely favoured them. He was rough and stern, no

doubt, and his extreme bigotry might be a source of danger in this

tolerant age; but, on the other hand, was he not a patrician, and would

not his election imply that the papacy would never cease to claim the

temporal power? From that moment Boccanera had been the one man whom

Sanguinetti feared, for he beheld himself despoiled of his prize, and

spent his time in devising plans to rid himself of such a powerful rival,

repeating abominable stories of Cardinal Pio’s alleged complaisance with

regard to Benedetta and Dario, and incessantly representing him as

Antichrist, the man of sin, whose reign would consummate the ruin of the

papacy. Finally, to regain the support of the Jesuits, Sanguinetti’s last

idea was to repeat through his familiars that for his part he would not

merely maintain the principle of the temporal power intact, but would

even undertake to regain that power. And he had a full plan on the

subject, which folks confided to one another in whispers, a plan which,

in spite of its apparent concessions, would lead to the overwhelming

victory of the Church. It was to raise the prohibition which prevented

Catholics from voting or becoming candidates at the Italian elections; to

send a hundred, then two hundred, and then three hundred deputies to the

Chamber, and in that wise to overthrow the House of Savoy, and establish

a Federation of the Italian provinces, whereof the Holy Father, once more

placed in possession of Rome, would become the august and sovereign

President.

As Prada finished he again laughed, showing his white teeth--teeth which

would never readily relinquish the prey they held. “So you see,” he

added, “we need to defend ourselves, since it’s a question of turning us

out. Fortunately, there are some little obstacles in the way of that.

Nevertheless, such dreams naturally have great influence on excited

minds, such as that of Santobono, for instance. He’s a man whom one word

from Sanguinetti would lead far indeed. Ah! he has good legs. Look at him

up yonder, he has already reached the Cardinal’s little palace--that

white villa with the sculptured balconies.”

Pierre raised his eyes and perceived the episcopal residence, which was

one of the first houses of Frascati. Of modern construction and

Renascence style, it overlooked the immensity of the Roman Campagna.

It was now eleven o’clock, and as the young priest, before going up to

pay his own visit, bade the Count good-bye, the latter for a moment kept

hold of his hand. “Do you know,” said he, “it would be very kind of you

to lunch with me--will you? Come and join me at that restaurant yonder

with the pink front as soon as you are at liberty. I shall have settled

my own business in an hour’s time, and I shall be delighted to have your

company at table.”

Pierre began by declining, but he could offer no possible excuse, and at

last surrendered, won over, despite himself, by Prada’s real charm of

manner. When they had parted, the young priest only had to climb a street

in order to reach the Cardinal’s door. With his natural expansiveness and

craving for popularity, Sanguinetti was easy of access, and at Frascati

in particular his doors were flung open even to the most humble cassocks.

So Pierre was at once ushered in, a circumstance which somewhat surprised

him, for he remembered the bad humour of the servant whom he had seen on

calling at the Cardinal’s residence in Rome, when he had been advised to

forego the journey, as his Eminence did not like to be disturbed when he

was ill. However, nothing spoke of illness in that pleasant villa,

flooded with sunshine. True, the waiting-room, where he was momentarily

left alone, displayed neither luxury nor comfort; but it was brightened

by the finest light in the world, and overlooked that extraordinary

Campagna, so flat, so bare, and so unique in its beauty, for in front of

it one ever dreams and sees the past arise. And so, whilst waiting,

Pierre stationed himself at an open window, conducting on to a balcony,

and his eyes roamed over the endless sea of herbage to the far-away

whiteness of Rome, above which rose the dome of St. Peter’s, at that

distance a mere sparkling speck, barely as large as the nail of one’s

little finger.

However, the young man had scarcely taken up this position when he was

surprised to hear some people talking, their words reaching him with

great distinctness. And on leaning forward he realised that his Eminence

in person was standing on another balcony close by, and conversing with a

priest, only a portion of whose cassock could be seen. Still, this

sufficed for Pierre to recognise Santobono. His first impulse, dictated

by natural discretion, was to withdraw from the window, but the words he

next heard riveted him to the spot.

“We shall know in a moment,” his Eminence was saying in his full voice.

“I sent Eufemio to Rome, for he is the only person in whom I’ve any

confidence. And see, there is the train bringing him back.”

A train, still as small as a plaything, could in fact be seen approaching

over the vast plain, and doubtless it was to watch for its arrival that

Sanguinetti had stationed himself on the balcony. And there he lingered,

with his eyes fixed on distant Rome. Then Santobono, in a passionate

voice, spoke some words which Pierre imperfectly understood, but the

Cardinal with clear articulation rejoined, “Yes, yes, my dear fellow, a

catastrophe would be a great misfortune. Ah! may his Holiness long be

preserved to us.” Then he paused, and as he was no hypocrite, gave full

expression to the thoughts which were in his mind: “At least, I hope that

he will be preserved just now, for the times are bad, and I am in

frightful anguish. The partisans of Antichrist have lately gained much

ground.”

A cry escaped Santobono: “Oh! your Eminence will act and triumph.”

“I, my dear fellow? What would you have me do? I am simply at the

disposal of my friends, those who are willing to believe in me, with the

sole object of ensuring the victory of the Holy See. It is they who ought

to act, it is they--each according to the measure of his means--who ought

to bar the road to the wicked in order that the righteous may succeed.

Ah! if Antichrist should reign--”

The recurrence of this word Antichrist greatly disturbed Pierre; but he

suddenly remembered what the Count had told him: Antichrist was Cardinal

Boccanera.

“Think of that, my dear fellow,” continued Sanguinetti. “Picture

Antichrist at the Vatican, consummating the ruin of religion by his

implacable pride, his iron will, his gloomy passion for nihility; for

there can be no doubt of it, he is the Beast of Death announced by the

prophecies, the Beast who will expose one and all to the danger of being

swallowed up with him in his furious rush into abysmal darkness. I know

him; he only dreams of obstinacy and destruction, he will seize the

pillars of the temple and shake them in order that he may sink beneath

the ruins, he and the whole Catholic world! In less than six months he

will be driven from Rome, at strife with all the nations, execrated by

Italy, and roaming the world like the phantom of the last pope!”

It was with a low growl, suggestive of a stifled oath, that Santobono

responded to this frightful prediction. But the train had now reached the

station, and among the few passengers who had alighted, Pierre could

distinguish a little Abbe, who was walking so fast that his cassock

flapped against his hips. It was Abbe Eufemio, the Cardinal’s secretary,

and when he had perceived his Eminence on the balcony he lost all

self-respect, and broke into a run, in order that he might the sooner

ascend the sloping street. “Ah! here’s Eufemio,” exclaimed the Cardinal,

quivering with anxiety. “We shall know now, we shall know now.”

The secretary had plunged into the doorway below, and he climbed the

stairs with such rapidity that almost immediately afterwards Pierre saw

him rush breathlessly across the waiting-room, and vanish into the

Cardinal’s sanctum. Sanguinetti had quitted the balcony to meet his

messenger, but soon afterwards he returned to it asking questions,

venting exclamations, raising, in fact, quite a tumult over the news

which he had received. “And so it’s really true, the night was a bad one.

His Holiness scarcely slept! Colic, you were told? But nothing could be

worse at his age; it might carry him off in a couple of hours. And the

doctors, what do they say?”

The answer did not reach Pierre, but he understood its purport as the

Cardinal in his naturally loud voice resumed: “Oh! the doctors never

know. Besides, when they refuse to speak death is never far off. _Dio_!

what a misfortune if the catastrophe cannot be deferred for a few days!”

Then he became silent, and Pierre realised that his eyes were once more

travelling towards Rome, gazing with ambitious anguish at the dome of St.

Peter’s, that little, sparkling speck above the vast, ruddy plain. What a

commotion, what agitation if the Pope were dead! And he wished that it

had merely been necessary for him to stretch forth his arm in order to

take and hold the Eternal City, the Holy City, which, yonder on the

horizon, occupied no more space than a heap of gravel cast there by a

child’s spade. And he was already dreaming of the coming Conclave, when

the canopy of each other cardinal would fall, and his own, motionless and

sovereign, would crown him with purple.

“But you are right, my friend!” he suddenly exclaimed, addressing

Santobono, “one must act, the salvation of the Church is at stake. And,

besides, it is impossible that Heaven should not be with us, since our

sole desire is its triumph. If necessary, at the supreme moment, Heaven

will know how to crush Antichrist.”

Then, for the first time, Pierre distinctly heard the voice of Santobono,

who, gruffly, with a sort of savage decision, responded: “Oh! if Heaven

is tardy it shall be helped.”

That was all; the young man heard nothing further save a confused murmur

of voices. The speakers quitted the balcony, and his spell of waiting

began afresh in the sunlit _salon_ so peaceful and delightful in its

brightness. But all at once the door of his Eminence’s private room was

thrown wide open and a servant ushered him in; and he was surprised to

find the Cardinal alone, for he had not witnessed the departure of the

two priests, who had gone off by another door. The Cardinal, with his

highly coloured face, big nose, thick lips, square-set, vigorous figure,

which still looked young despite his sixty years, was standing near a

window in the bright golden light. He had put on the paternal smile with

which he greeted even the humblest from motives of good policy, and as

soon as Pierre had knelt and kissed his ring, he motioned him to a chair.

“Sit down, dear son, sit down. You have come of course about that

unfortunate affair of your book. I am very pleased indeed to be able to

speak with you about it.”

He himself then took a chair in front of that window overlooking Rome

whence he seemed unable to drag himself. And the young priest, whilst

apologising for coming to disturb his rest, perceived that he scarcely

listened, for his eyes again sought the prey which he so ardently

coveted. Yet the semblance of good-natured attention was perfect, and

Pierre marvelled at the force of will which this man must possess to

appear so calm, so interested in the affairs of others, when such a

tempest was raging in him.

“Your Eminence will, I hope, kindly forgive me,” continued the young

priest.

“But you have done right to come, since I am kept here by my failing

health,” said the Cardinal. “Besides, I am somewhat better, and it is

only natural that you should wish to give me some explanations and defend

your work and enlighten my judgment. In fact, I was astonished at not yet

having seen you, for I know that your faith in your cause is great and

that you spare no steps to convert your judges. So speak, my dear son, I

am listening and shall be pleased indeed if I can absolve you.”

Pierre was caught by these kind words, and a hope returned to him, that

of winning the support of the all-powerful Prefect of the Index. He

already regarded this ex-nuncio--who at Brussels and Vienna had acquired

the worldly art of sending people away satisfied with indefinite promises

though he meant to grant them nothing--as a man of rare intelligence and

exquisite cordiality. And so once more he regained the fervour of his

apostolate to express his views respecting the future Rome, the Rome he

dreamt of, which was destined yet again to become the mistress of the

world if she would return to the Christianity of Jesus, to an ardent love

for the weak and the humble.

Sanguinetti smiled, wagged his head, and raised exclamations of rapture:

“Very good, very good indeed, perfect! Oh! I agree with you, dear son.

One cannot put things better. It is quite evident; all good minds must

agree with you.” And then, said he, the poetic side deeply touched him.

Like Leo XIII--and doubtless in a spirit of rivalry--he courted the

reputation of being a very distinguished Latinist, and professed a

special and boundless affection for Virgil. “I know, I know,” he

exclaimed, “I remember your page on the return of spring, which consoles

the poor whom winter has frozen. Oh! I read it three times over! And are

you aware that your writing is full of Latin turns of style. I noticed

more than fifty expressions which could be found in the ‘Bucolics.’ Your

book is a charm, a perfect charm!”

As he was no fool, and realised that the little priest before him was a

man of high intelligence, he ended by interesting himself, not in Pierre

personally, but in the profit which he might possibly derive from him.

Amidst his feverish intrigues, he unceasingly sought to utilise all the

qualities possessed by those whom God sent to him that might in any way

be conducive to his own triumph. So, for a moment, he turned away from

Rome and looked his companion in the face, listening to him and asking

himself in what way he might employ him--either at once in the crisis

through which he was passing, or later on when he should be pope. But the

young priest again made the mistake of attacking the temporal power, and

of employing that unfortunate expression, “a new religion.” Thereupon the

Cardinal stopped him with a gesture, still smiling, still retaining all

his amiability, although the resolution which he had long since formed

became from that moment definitive. “You are certainly in the right on

many points, my dear son,” he said, “and I often share your views--share

them completely. But come, you are doubtless not aware that I am the

protector of Lourdes here at Rome. And so, after the page which you have

written about the Grotto, how can I possibly pronounce in your favour and

against the Fathers?”

Pierre was utterly overcome by this announcement, for he was indeed

unaware of the Cardinal’s position with respect to Lourdes, nobody having

taken the precaution to warn him. However, each of the Catholic

enterprises distributed throughout the world has a protector at Rome, a

cardinal who is designated by the Pope to represent it and, if need be,

to defend it.

“Those good Fathers!” Sanguinetti continued in a gentle voice, “you have

caused them great grief, and really our hands are tied, we cannot add to

their sorrow. If you only knew what a number of masses they send us! I

know more than one of our poor priests who would die of hunger if it were

not for them.”

Pierre could only bow beneath the blow. Once more he found himself in

presence of the pecuniary question, the necessity in which the Holy See

is placed to secure the revenue it requires one year with another. And

thus the Pope was ever in servitude, for if the loss of Rome had freed

him of the cares of state, his enforced gratitude for the alms he

received still riveted him to earth. So great, indeed, were the

requirements, that money was the ruler, the sovereign power, before which

all bowed at the Court of Rome.

And now Sanguinetti rose to dismiss his visitor. “You must not despair,

dear son,” he said effusively. “I have only my own vote, you know, and I

promise you that I will take into account the excellent explanations

which you have just given me. And who can tell? If God be with you, He

will save you even in spite of all!” This speech formed part of the

Cardinal’s usual tactics; for one of his principles was never to drive

people to extremes by sending them away hopeless. What good, indeed,

would it do to tell this one that the condemnation of his book was a

foregone conclusion, and that his only prudent course would be to disavow

it? Only a savage like Boccanera breathed anger upon fiery souls and

plunged them into rebellion. “You must hope, hope!” repeated Sanguinetti

with a smile, as if implying a multitude of fortunate things which he

could not plainly express.

Thereupon Pierre, who was deeply touched, felt born anew. He even forgot

the conversation he had surprised, the Cardinal’s keen ambition and

covert rage with his redoubtable rival. Besides, might not intelligence

take the place of heart among the powerful? If this man should some day

become pope, and had understood him, might he not prove the pope who was

awaited, the pope who would accept the task of reorganising the Church of

the United States of Europe, and making it the spiritual sovereign of the

world? So he thanked him with emotion, bowed, and left him to his dream,

standing before that widely open window whence Rome appeared to him,

glittering like a jewel, even indeed as the tiara of gold and gems, in

the splendour of the autumn sun.

It was nearly one o’clock when Pierre and Count Prada were at last able

to sit down to _dejeuner_ in the little restaurant where they had agreed

to meet. They had both been delayed by their affairs. However, the Count,

having settled some worrying matters to his own advantage, was very

lively, whilst the priest on his side was again hopeful, and yielded to

the delightful charm of that last fine day. And so the meal proved a very

pleasant one in the large, bright room, which, as usual at that season of

the year, was quite deserted. Pink and blue predominated in the

decoration, but Cupids fluttered on the ceiling, and landscapes, vaguely

recalling the Roman castles, adorned the walls. The things they ate were

fresh, and they drank the wine of Frascati, to which the soil imparts a

kind of burnt flavour as if the old volcanoes of the region had left some

little of their fire behind.

For a long while the conversation ranged over those wild and graceful

Alban hills, which, fortunately for the pleasure of the eye, overlook the

flat Roman Campagna. Pierre, who had made the customary carriage

excursion from Frascati to Nemi, still felt its charm and spoke of it in

glowing language. First came the lovely road from Frascati to Albano,

ascending and descending hillsides planted with reeds, vines, and

olive-trees, amongst which one obtained frequent glimpses of the

Campagna’s wavy immensity. On the right-hand the village of Rocca di Papa

arose in amphitheatrical fashion, showing whitely on a knoll below Monte

Cavo, which was crowned by lofty and ancient trees. And from this point

of the road, on looking back towards Frascati, one saw high up, on the

verge of a pine wood the ruins of Tusculum, large ruddy ruins, baked by

centuries of sunshine, and whence the boundless panorama must have been

superb. Next one passed through Marino, with its sloping streets, its

large cathedral, and its black decaying palace belonging to the Colonnas.

Then, beyond a wood of ilex-trees, the lake of Albano was skirted with

scenery which has no parallel in the world. In front, beyond the clear

mirror of motionless water, were the ruins of Alba Longa; on the left

rose Monte Cavo with Rocca di Papa and Palazzuolo; whilst on the right

Castel Gandolfo overlooked the lake as from the summit of a cliff. Down

below in the extinct crater, as in the depths of a gigantic cup of

verdure, the lake slept heavy and lifeless: a sheet of molten metal,

which the sun on one side streaked with gold, whilst the other was black

with shade. And the road then ascended all the way to Castel Gandolfo,

which was perched on its rock, like a white bird betwixt the lake and the

sea. Ever refreshed by breezes, even in the most burning hours of summer,

the little place was once famous for its papal villa, where Pius IX loved

to spend hours of indolence, and whither Leo XIII has never come. And

next the road dipped down, and the ilex-trees appeared again, ilex-trees

famous for their size, a double row of monsters with twisted limbs, two

and three hundred years old. Then one at last reached Albano, a small

town less modernised and less cleansed than Frascati, a patch of the old

land which has retained some of its ancient wildness; and afterwards

there was Ariccia with the Palazzo Chigi, and hills covered with forests

and viaducts spanning ravines which overflowed with foliage; and there

was yet Genzano, and yet Nemi, growing still wilder and more remote, lost

in the midst of rocks and trees.

Ah! how ineffaceable was the recollection which Pierre had retained of

Nemi, Nemi on the shore of its lake, Nemi so delicious and fascinating

from afar, conjuring up all the ancient legends of fairy towns springing

from amidst the greenery of mysterious waters, but so repulsively filthy

when one at last reaches it, crumbling on all sides but yet dominated by

the Orsini tower, as by the evil genius of the middle ages, which there

seems to perpetuate the ferocious habits, the violent passions, the knife

thrusts of the past! Thence came that Santobono whose brother had killed,

and who himself, with his eyes of crime glittering like live embers,

seemed to be consumed by a murderous flame. And the lake, that lake round

like an extinguished moon fallen into the depths of a former crater, a

deeper and less open cup than that of the lake of Albano, a cup rimmed

with trees of wondrous vigour and density! Pines, elms, and willows

descend to the very margin, with a green mass of tangled branches which

weigh each other down. This formidable fecundity springs from the vapour

which constantly arises from the water under the parching action of the

sun, whose rays accumulate in this hollow till it becomes like a furnace.

There is a warm, heavy dampness, the paths of the adjacent gardens grow

green with moss, and in the morning dense mists often fill the large cup

with white vapour, as with the steaming milk of some sorceress of

malevolent craft. And Pierre well remembered how uncomfortable he had

felt before that lake where ancient atrocities, a mysterious religion

with abominable rites, seemed to slumber amidst the superb scenery. He

had seen it at the approach of evening, looking, in the shade of its

forest girdle, like a plate of dull metal, black and silver, motionless

by reason of its weight. And that water, clear and yet so deep, that

water deserted, without a bark upon its surface, that water august,

lifeless, and sepulchral, had left him a feeling of inexpressible

sadness, of mortal melancholy, the hopelessness of great solitary

passion, earth and water alike swollen by the mute spasms of germs,

troublous in their fecundity. Ah! those black and plunging banks, and

that black mournful lake prone at the bottom!*

* Some literary interest attaches to M. Zola’s account of Nemi,

whose praises have been sung by a hundred poets. It will be

observed that he makes no mention of Egeria. The religion

distinguished by abominable practices to which he alludes,

may perhaps be the worship of the Egyptian Diana, who had a

famous temple near Nemi, which was excavated by Lord Savile

some ten years ago, when all the smaller objects discovered

were presented to the town of Nottingham. At this temple,

according to some classical writers, the chief priest was

required to murder his predecessor, and there were other

abominable usages.--Trans.

Count Prada began to laugh when Pierre told him of these impressions.

“Yes, yes,” said he, “it’s true, Nemi isn’t always gay. In dull weather I

have seen the lake looking like lead, and even the full sunshine scarcely

animates it. For my part, I know I should die of _ennui_ if I had to live

face to face with that bare water. But it is admired by poets and

romantic women, those who adore great tragedies of passion.”

Then, as he and Pierre rose from the table to go and take coffee on the

terrace of the restaurant, the conversation changed: “Do you mean to

attend Prince Buongiovanni’s reception this evening?” the Count inquired.

“It will be a curious sight, especially for a foreigner, and I advise you

not to miss it.”

“Yes, I have an invitation,” Pierre replied. “A friend of mine, Monsieur

Narcisse Habert, an _attache_ at our embassy, procured it for me, and I

am going with him.”

That evening, indeed, there was to be a _fete_ at the Palazzo

Buongiovanni on the Corso, one of the few galas that take place in Rome

each winter. People said that this one would surpass all others in

magnificence, for it was to be given in honour of the betrothal of little

Princess Celia. The Prince, her father, after boxing her ears, it was

rumoured, and narrowly escaping an attack of apoplexy as the result of a

frightful fit of anger, had, all at once, yielded to her quiet, gentle

stubbornness, and consented to her marriage with Lieutenant Attilio, the

son of Minister Sacco. And all the drawing-rooms of Rome, those of the

white world quite as much as those of the black, were thoroughly upset by

the tidings.

Count Prada made merry over the affair. “Ah! you’ll see a fine sight!” he

exclaimed. “Personally, I’m delighted with it all for the sake of my good

cousin Attilio, who is really a very nice and worthy fellow. And nothing

in the world would keep me from going to see my dear uncle Sacco make his

entry into the ancient _salons_ of the Buongiovanni. It will be something

extraordinary and superb. He has at last become Minister of Agriculture,

you know. My father, who always takes things so seriously, told me this

morning that the affair so worried him he hadn’t closed his eyes all

night.”

The Count paused, but almost immediately added: “I say, it is half-past

two and you won’t have a train before five o’clock. Do you know what you

ought to do? Why, drive back to Rome with me in my carriage.”

“No, no,” rejoined Pierre, “I’m deeply obliged to you but I’m to dine

with my friend Narcisse this evening, and I mustn’t be late.”

“But you won’t be late--on the contrary! We shall start at three and

reach Rome before five o’clock. There can’t be a more pleasant promenade

when the light falls; and, come, I promise you a splendid sunset.”

He was so pressing that the young priest had to accept, quite subjugated

by so much amiability and good humour. They spent another half-hour very

pleasantly in chatting about Rome, Italy, and France. Then, for a moment,

they went up into Frascati where the Count wished to say a few words to a

contractor, and just as three o’clock was striking they started off,

seated side by side on the soft cushions and gently rocked by the motion

of the victoria as the two horses broke into a light trot. As Prada had

predicted, that return to Rome across the bare Campagna under the vast

limpid heavens at the close of such a mild autumn day proved most

delightful. First of all, however, the victoria had to descend the slopes

of Frascati between vineyards and olive-trees. The paved road snaked, and

was but little frequented; they merely saw a few peasants in old felt

hats, a white mule, and a cart drawn by a donkey, for it is only upon

Sundays that the _osterie_ or wine-shops are filled and that artisans in

easy circumstances come to eat a dish of kid at the surrounding

_bastides_. However, at one turn of the road they passed a monumental

fountain. Then a flock of sheep momentarily barred the way before

defiling past. And beyond the gentle undulations of the ruddy Campagna

Rome appeared amidst the violet vapours of evening, sinking by degrees as

the carriage itself descended to a lower and lower level. There came a

moment when the city was a mere thin grey streak, speckled whitely here

and there by a few sunlit house-fronts. And then it seemed to plunge

below the ground--to be submerged by the swell of the far-spreading

fields.

The victoria was now rolling over the plain, leaving the Alban hills

behind, whilst before it and on either hand came the expanse of meadows

and stubbles. And then it was that the Count, after leaning forward,

exclaimed: “Just look ahead, yonder, there’s our man of this morning,

Santobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast he

walks! My horses can scarcely overtake him.”

Pierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St.

Mary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with a

bill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigorous

splotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and he

was walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggested

Destiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished,

was hanging from his right arm.

When the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman to

slacken speed, and then entered into conversation.

“Good-day, Abbe; you are well, I hope?” he asked.

“Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you.”

“And where are you going so bravely?”

“Signor Conte, I am going to Rome.”

“What! to Rome, at this late hour?”

“Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn’t

frighten me, and money’s quickly earned by walking.”

Scarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels,

Santobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting,

whispered to Pierre: “Wait a bit, he’ll amuse us.” Then he added aloud:

“Since you are going to Rome, Abbe, you had better get in here; there’s

room for you.”

Santobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer.

“Willingly; a thousand thanks,” he said. “It’s still better to save one’s

shoe leather.”

Then he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with

abrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the

Count. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was

carrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered

with leaves.

The horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and

on over the superb, flat plain. “So you are going to Rome?” the Count

resumed in order to make Santobono talk.

“Yes,” the other replied, “I am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera

these few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I had

promised him.” He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding it

between his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile.

“Ah! some of the famous figs of your garden,” said Prada. “It’s quite

true, they are like honey. But why don’t you rid yourself of them. You

surely don’t mean to keep them on your knees all the way to Rome. Give

them to me, I’ll put them in the hood.”

However, Santobono became quite agitated, and vigorously declined the

offer. “No, no, a thousand thanks! They don’t embarrass me in the least;

they are very well here; and in this way I shall be sure that no accident

will befall them.”

His passion for the fruit he grew quite amused Prada, who nudged Pierre,

and then inquired: “Is the Cardinal fond of your figs?”

“Oh! his Eminence condescends to adore them. In former years, when he

spent the summer at the villa, he would never touch the figs from other

trees. And so, you see, knowing his tastes, it costs me very little to

gratify him.”

Whilst making this reply Santobono had shot such a keen glance in the

direction of Pierre that the Count felt it necessary to introduce them to

one another. This he did saying: “As it happens, Monsieur l’Abbe Froment

is stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three months

or so.”

“Yes, I’m aware of it,” Santobono quietly replied; “I found Monsieur

l’Abbe with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo.

Those were less ripe, but these are perfect.” So speaking he gave the

little basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet more

closely between his huge and hairy fingers.

Then came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spread

out as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;

there was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expanse

whose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginning

to turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came into

sight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat,

boundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance.

Then, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses were

seen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen,

still yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer,

cantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a final

look round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A

_biroccino_, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a small

seat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From time

to time also the victoria passed a _carrotino_, one of the low carts in

which peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine,

vegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling of

horses’ bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-known

road of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being sound

asleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirts

caught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then the

road again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete,

without a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilst

yonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful in

its monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault of

heaven.

“And the Pope, Abbe, is he dead?” Prada suddenly inquired.

Santobono did not even start. “I trust,” he replied in all simplicity,

“that his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph of

the Church.”

“So you had good news this morning when you called on your bishop,

Cardinal Sanguinetti?”

This time the priest was unable to restrain a slight start. Had he been

seen, then? In his haste he had failed to notice the two men following

the road behind him. However, he at once regained self-possession, and

replied: “Oh! one can never tell exactly whether news is good or bad. It

seems that his Holiness passed a somewhat painful night, but I devoutly

hope that the next will be a better one.” Then he seemed to meditate for

a moment, and added: “Moreover, if God should have deemed it time to call

his Holiness to Himself, He would not leave His flock without a shepherd.

He would have already chosen and designated the Sovereign Pontiff of

to-morrow.”

This superb answer increased Prada’s gaiety. “You are really

extraordinary, Abbe,” he said. “So you think that popes are solely

created by the grace of the Divinity! The pope of to-morrow is chosen up

in heaven, eh, and simply waits? Well, I fancied that men had something

to do with the matter. But perhaps you already know which cardinal it is

that the divine favour has thus elected in advance?”

Then, like the unbeliever he was, he went on with his facile jests, which

left the priest unruffled. In fact, the latter also ended by laughing

when the Count, after alluding to the gambling passion which at each

fresh Conclave sets wellnigh the whole population of Rome betting for or

against this or that candidate, told him that he might easily make his

fortune if he were in the divine secret. Next the talk turned on the

three white cassocks of different sizes which are always kept in

readiness in a cupboard at the Vatican. Which of them would be required

on this occasion?--the short one, the long one, or the one of medium

size? Each time that the reigning pope falls somewhat seriously ill there

is in this wise an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a keen awakening of

all ambitions and intrigues, to such a point that not merely in the black

world, but throughout the city, people have no other subject of

curiosity, conversation, and occupation than that of discussing the

relative claims of the cardinals and predicting which of them will be

elected.

“Come, come,” Prada resumed, “since you know the truth, I’m determined

that you shall tell me. Will it be Cardinal Moretta?”

Santobono, in spite of his evident desire to remain dignified and

disinterested, like a good, pious priest, was gradually growing

impassioned, yielding to the hidden fire which consumed him. And this

interrogatory finished him off; he could no longer restrain himself, but

replied: “Moretta! What an idea! Why, he is sold to all Europe!”

“Well, will it be Cardinal Bartolini?”

“Oh! you can’t think that. Bartolini has used himself up in striving for

everything and getting nothing.”

“Will it be Cardinal Dozio, then?”

“Dozio, Dozio! Why, if Dozio were to win one might altogether despair of

our Holy Church, for no man can have a baser mind than he!”

Prada raised his hands, as if he had exhausted the serious candidates. In

order to increase the priest’s exasperation he maliciously refrained from

naming Cardinal Sanguinetti, who was certainly Santobono’s nominee. All

at once, however, he pretended to make a good guess, and gaily exclaimed:

“Ah! I have it; I know your man--Cardinal Boccanera!”

The blow struck Santobono full in the heart, wounding him both in his

rancour and his patriotic faith. His terrible mouth was already opening,

and he was about to shout “No! no!” with all his strength, but he managed

to restrain the cry, compelled as he was to silence by the present on his

knees--that little basket of figs which he pressed so convulsively with

both hands; and the effort which he was obliged to make left him

quivering to such a point that he had to wait some time before he could

reply in a calm voice: “His most reverend Eminence Cardinal Boccanera is

a saintly man, well worthy of the throne, and my only fear is that, with

his hatred of new Italy, he might bring us warfare.”

Prada, however, desired to enlarge the wound. “At all events,” said he,

“you accept him and love him too much not to rejoice over his chances of

success. And I really think that we have arrived at the truth, for

everybody is convinced that the Conclave’s choice cannot fall elsewhere.

Come, come; Boccanera is a very tall man, so it’s the long white cassock

which will be required.”

“The long cassock, the long cassock,” growled Santobono, despite himself;

“that’s all very well, but--”

Then he stopped short, and, again overcoming his passion, left his

sentence unfinished. Pierre, listening in silence, marvelled at the man’s

self-restraint, for he remembered the conversation which he had overheard

at Cardinal Sanguinetti’s. Those figs were evidently a mere pretext for

gaining admission to the Boccanera mansion, where some friend--Abbe

Paparelli, no doubt--could alone supply certain positive information

which was needed. But how great was the command which the hot-blooded

priest exercised over himself amidst the riotous impulses of his soul!

On either side of the road the Campagna still and ever spread its expanse

of verdure, and Prada, who had become grave and dreamy, gazed before him

without seeing anything. At last, however, he gave expression to his

thoughts. “You know, Abbe, what will be said if the Pope should die this

time. That sudden illness, those colics, those refusals to make any

information public, mean nothing good--Yes, yes, poison, just as for the

others!”

Pierre gave a start of stupefaction. The Pope poisoned! “What! Poison?

Again?” he exclaimed as he gazed at his companions with dilated eyes.

Poison at the end of the nineteenth century, as in the days of the

Borgias, as on the stage in a romanticist melodrama! To him the idea

appeared both monstrous and ridiculous.

Santobono, whose features had become motionless and impenetrable, made no

reply. But Prada nodded, and the conversation was henceforth confined to

him and the young priest. “Why, yes, poison,” he replied. “The fear of it

has remained very great in Rome. Whenever a death seems inexplicable,

either by reason of its suddenness or the tragic circumstances which

attend it, the unanimous thought is poison. And remark this: in no city,

I believe, are sudden deaths so frequent. The causes I don’t exactly

know, but some doctors put everything down to the fevers. Among the

people, however, the one thought is poison, poison with all its legends,

poison which kills like lightning and leaves no trace, the famous recipe

bequeathed from age to age, through the emperors and the popes, down to

these present times of middle-class democracy.”

As he spoke he ended by smiling, for he was inclined to be somewhat

sceptical on the point, despite the covert terror with which he was

inspired by racial and educational causes. However, he quoted instances.

The Roman matrons had rid themselves of their husbands and lovers by

employing the venom of red toads. Locusta, in a more practical spirit,

sought poison in plants, one of which, probably aconite, she was wont to

boil. Then, long afterwards, came the age of the Borgias, and

subsequently, at Naples, La Toffana sold a famous water, doubtless some

preparation of arsenic, in phials decorated with a representation of St.

Nicholas of Bari. There were also extraordinary stories of pins, a prick

from which killed one like lightning, of cups of wine poisoned by the

infusion of rose petals, of woodcocks cut in half with prepared knives,

which poisoned but one-half of the bird, so that he who partook of that

half was killed. “I myself, in my younger days,” continued Prada, “had a

friend whose bride fell dead in church during the marriage service

through simply inhaling a bouquet of flowers. And so isn’t it possible

that the famous recipe may really have been handed down, and have

remained known to a few adepts?”

“But chemistry has made too much progress,” Pierre replied. “If

mysterious poisons were believed in by the ancients and remained

undetected in their time it was because there were no means of analysis.

But the drug of the Borgias would now lead the simpleton who might employ

it straight to the Assizes. Such stories are mere nonsense, and at the

present day people scarcely tolerate them in newspaper serials and

shockers.”

“Perhaps so,” resumed the Count with his uneasy smile. “You are right, no

doubt--only go and tell that to your host, for instance, Cardinal

Boccanera, who last summer held in his arms an old and deeply-loved

friend, Monsignor Gallo, who died after a seizure of a couple of hours.”

“But apoplexy may kill one in two hours, and aneurism only takes two

minutes.”

“True, but ask the Cardinal what he thought of his friend’s prolonged

shudders, the leaden hue which overcame his face, the sinking of his

eyes, and the expression of terror which made him quite unrecognisable.

The Cardinal is convinced that Monsignor Gallo was poisoned, because he

was his dearest confidant, the counsellor to whom he always listened, and

whose wise advice was a guarantee of success.”

Pierre’s bewilderment was increasing, and, irritated by the impassibility

of Santobono, he addressed him direct. “It’s idiotic, it’s awful! Does

your reverence also believe in these frightful stories?”

But the priest of Frascati gave no sign. His thick, passionate lips

remained closed while his black glowing eyes never ceased to gaze at

Prada. The latter, moreover, was quoting other instances. There was the

case of Monsignor Nazzarelli, who had been found in bed, shrunken and

calcined like carbon. And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck down

in his sacerdotal vestments at St. Peter’s itself, in the very sacristy,

during vespers!

“Ah! _Mon Dieu_!” sighed Pierre, “you will tell me so much that I myself

shall end by trembling, and sha’n’t dare to eat anything but boiled eggs

as long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours.”

For a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre.

But it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under a

terrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the city

of poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, ever

since the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, the

frantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men’s hands,

ensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and the

ground. Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings and

assassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominations

strew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun.

“All the same,” said the Count, “those who take precautions are perhaps

not ill advised. It is said that more than one cardinal shudders and

mistrusts people. One whom I know will never eat anything that has not

been bought and prepared by his own cook. And as for the Pope, if he is

anxious--”

Pierre again raised a cry of stupefaction. “What, the Pope himself! The

Pope afraid of being poisoned!”

“Well, my dear Abbe, people commonly assert it. There are certainly days

when he considers himself more menaced than anybody else. And are you not

aware of the old Roman view that a pope ought never to live till too

great an age, and that when he is so obstinate as not to die at the right

time he ought to be assisted? As soon as a pope begins to fall into

second childhood, and by reason of his senility becomes a source of

embarrassment, and possibly even danger, to the Church, his right place

is heaven. Moreover, matters are managed in a discreet manner; a slight

cold becomes a decent pretext to prevent him from tarrying any longer on

the throne of St. Peter.”

Prada then gave some curious details. One prelate, it was said, wishing

to dispel his Holiness’s fears, had devised an elaborate precautionary

system which, among other things, was to comprise a little padlocked

vehicle, in which the food destined for the frugal pontifical table was

to be securely placed before leaving the kitchen, so that it might not be

tampered with on its way to the Pope’s apartments. However, this project

had not yet been carried into effect.

“After all,” the Count concluded with a laugh, “every pope has to die

some day, especially when his death is needful for the welfare of the

Church. Isn’t that so, Abbe?”

Santobono, whom he addressed, had a moment previously lowered his eyes as

if to contemplate the little basket of figs which he held on his lap with

as much care as if it had been the Blessed Sacrament. On being questioned

in such a direct, sharp fashion he could not do otherwise than look up.

However, he did not depart from his prolonged silence, but limited his

answer to a slow nod.

“And it is God alone, and not poison, who causes one to die. Is that not

so, Abbe?” repeated Prada. “It is said that those were the last words of

poor Monsignor Gallo before he expired in the arms of his friend Cardinal

Boccanera.”

For the second time Santobono nodded without speaking. And then silence

fell, all three sinking into a dreamy mood.

Meantime, without a pause, the carriage rolled on across the immensity of

the Campagna. The road, straight as an arrow, seemed to extend into the

infinite. As the sun descended towards the horizon the play of light and

shade became more marked on the broad undulations of the ground which

stretched away, alternately of a pinky green and a violet grey, till they

reached the distant fringe of the sky. At the roadside on either hand

there were still and ever tall withered thistles and giant fennel with

yellow umbels. Then, after a time, came a team of four oxen, that had

been kept ploughing until late, and stood forth black and huge in the

pale atmosphere and mournful solitude. Farther on some flocks of sheep,

whence the breeze wafted a tallowy odour, set patches of brown amidst the

herbage, which once more was becoming verdant; whilst at intervals a dog

was heard to bark, his voice the only distinct sound amidst the low

quivering of that silent desert where the sovereign peacefulness of death

seemed to reign. But all at once a light melody arose and some larks flew

up, one of them soaring into the limpid golden heavens. And ahead, at the

far extremity of the pure sky, Rome, with her towers and domes, grew

larger and larger, like a city of white marble springing from a mirage

amidst the greenery of some enchanted garden.

“Matteo!” Prada called to his coachman, “pull up at the Osteria Romana.”

And to his companions he added: “Pray excuse me, but I want to see if I

can get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them.”

A few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of the

road stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous name

of “Antica Osteria Romana.” It had now become a mere house of call for

carters and chance sportsmen, who ventured to drink a flagon of white

wine whilst eating an omelet and a slice of ham. Occasionally, on

Sundays, some of the humble classes would walk over from Rome and make

merry there; but the week days often went by without a soul entering the

place, such was its isolation amidst the bare Campagna.

The Count was already springing from the carriage. “I shall only be a

minute,” said he as he turned away.

The _osteria_ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upper

storey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of large

blocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entire

place, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On the

ground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable with

adjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the only

trees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour of

reeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as a

background to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment

of an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space,

alone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.

All at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing

Santobono, exclaimed: “I say, Abbe, you’ll surely accept a glass of white

wine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little

white wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with.”

Santobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. “Oh! I know

it,” said he; “it’s a wine from Marino; it’s grown in a lighter soil than

ours at Frascati.”

Then, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now

carried it along with him, the Count lost patience. “Come, you don’t want

that basket,” said he; “leave it in the carriage.”

The priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up

his mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban

_osteria_ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman,

tall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had

at once presented herself. On the last occasion when the Count had called

she had managed to find half a dozen eggs. This time she said she would

go to see, but could promise nothing, for the hens laid here and there

all over the place, and she could never tell what eggs there might be.

“All right!” Prada answered, “go and look; and meantime we will have a

_caraffa_ of white wine.”

The three men entered the common room, which was already quite dark.

Although the hot weather was now over, one heard the buzzing of

innumerable flies immediately one reached the threshold, and a pungent

odour of acidulous wine and rancid oil caught one at the throat. As soon

as their eyes became accustomed to the dimness they were able to

distinguish the spacious, blackened, malodorous chamber, whose only

furniture consisted of some roughly made tables and benches. It seemed to

be quite empty, so complete was the silence, apart from the buzz of the

flies. However, two men were seated there, two wayfarers who remained

mute and motionless before their untouched, brimming glasses. Moreover,

on a low chair near the door, in the little light which penetrated from

without, a thin, sallow girl, the daughter of the house, sat idle,

trembling with fever, her hands close pressed between her knees.

Realising that Pierre felt uncomfortable there, the Count proposed that

they should drink their wine outside. “We shall be better out of doors,”

said he, “it’s so very in mild this evening.”

Accordingly, whilst the mother looked for the eggs, and the father mended

a wheel in an adjacent shed, the daughter was obliged to get up shivering

to carry the flagon of wine and the three glasses to the arbour, where

she placed them on one of the tables. And, having pocketed the price of

the wine--threepence--in silence, she went back to her seat with a sullen

look, as if annoyed at having been compelled to make such a long journey.

Meanwhile the three men had sat down, and Prada gaily filled each of the

glasses, although Pierre declared that he was quite unable to drink wine

between his meals. “Pooh, pooh,” said the Count, “you can always clink

glasses with us. And now, Abbe, isn’t this little wine droll? Come,

here’s to the Pope’s better health, since he’s unwell!”

Santobono at one gulp emptied his glass and clacked his tongue. With

gentle, paternal care he had deposited his basket on the ground beside

him: and, taking off his hat, he drew a long breath. The evening was

really delightful. A superb sky of a soft golden hue stretched over that

endless sea of the Campagna which was soon to fall asleep with sovereign

quiescence. And the light breeze which went by amidst the deep silence

brought with it an exquisite odour of wild herbs and flowers.

“How pleasant it is!” muttered Pierre, affected by the surrounding charm.

“And what a desert for eternal rest, forgetfulness of all the world!”

Prada, who had emptied the flagon by filling Santobono’s glass a second

time, made no reply; he was silently amusing himself with an occurrence

which at first he was the only one to observe. However, with a merry

expression of complicity, he gave the young priest a wink, and then they

both watched the dramatic incidents of the affair. Some scraggy fowls

were wandering round them searching the yellow turf for grasshoppers; and

one of these birds, a little shiny black hen with an impudent manner, had

caught sight of the basket of figs and was boldly approaching it. When

she got near, however, she took fright, and retreated somewhat, with neck

stiffened and head turned, so as to cast suspicious glances at the basket

with her round sparkling eye. But at last covetousness gained the

victory, for she could see one of the figs between the leaves, and so she

slowly advanced, lifting her feet very high at each step; and, all at

once, stretching out her neck, she gave the fig a formidable peck, which

ripped it open and made the juice exude.

Prada, who felt as happy as a child, was then able to give vent to the

laughter which he had scarcely been able to restrain: “Look out, Abbe,”

he called, “mind your figs!”

At that very moment Santobono was finishing his second glass of wine with

his head thrown back and his eyes blissfully raised to heaven. He gave a

start, looked round, and on seeing the hen at once understood the

position. And then came a terrible outburst of anger, with sweeping

gestures and terrible invectives. But the hen, who was again pecking,

would not be denied; she dug her beak into the fig and carried it off,

flapping her wings, so quick and so comical that Prada, and Pierre as

well, laughed till tears came into their eyes, their merriment increasing

at sight of the impotent fury of Santobono, who, for a moment, pursued

the thief, threatening her with his fist.

“Ah!” said the Count, “that’s what comes of not leaving the basket in the

carriage. If I hadn’t warned you the hen would have eaten all the figs.”

The priest did not reply, but, growling out vague imprecations, placed

the basket on the table, where he raised the leaves and artistically

rearranged the fruit so as to fill up the void. Then, the harm having

been repaired as far as was possible, he at last calmed down.

It was now time for them to resume their journey, for the sun was sinking

towards the horizon, and night would soon fall. Thus the Count ended by

getting impatient. “Well, and those eggs?” he called.

Then, as the woman did not return, he went to seek her. He entered the

stable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here nor

there. Next he went towards the rear of the _osteria_ in order to look in

the sheds. But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short.

The little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as by

lightning. She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a little

streamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak. Prada was at

first merely astonished. He stooped and touched the hen. She was still

warm and soft like a rag. Doubtless some apoplectic stroke had killed

her. But immediately afterwards he became fearfully pale; the truth

appeared to him, and turned him as cold as ice. In a moment he conjured

up everything: Leo XIII attacked by illness, Santobono hurrying to

Cardinal Sanguinetti for tidings, and then starting for Rome to present a

basket of figs to Cardinal Boccanera. And Prada also remembered the

conversation in the carriage: the possibility of the Pope’s demise, the

candidates for the tiara, the legendary stories of poison which still

fostered terror in and around the Vatican; and he once more saw the

priest, with his little basket on his knees, lavishing paternal attention

on it, and he saw the little black hen pecking at the fruit and fleeing

with a fig on her beak. And now that little black hen lay there, suddenly

struck down, dead!

His conviction was immediate and absolute. But he did not have time to

decide what course he should take, for a voice behind him exclaimed:

“Why, it’s the little hen; what’s the matter with her?”

The voice was that of Pierre, who, letting Santobono climb into the

carriage alone, had in his turn come round to the rear of the house in

order to obtain a better view of the ruined aqueduct among the parasol

pines.

Prada, who shuddered as if he himself were the culprit, answered him with

a lie, a lie which he did not premeditate, but to which he was impelled

by a sort of instinct. “But she’s dead,” he said.... “Just fancy,

there was a fight. At the moment when I got here that other hen, which

you see yonder, sprang upon this one to get the fig, which she was still

holding, and with a thrust of the beak split her head open.... The

blood’s flowing, as you can see yourself.”

Why did he say these things? He himself was astonished at them whilst he

went on inventing them. Was it then that he wished to remain master of

the situation, keep the abominable secret entirely to himself, in order

that he might afterwards act in accordance with his own desires?

Certainly his feelings partook of shame and embarrassment in presence of

that foreigner, whilst his personal inclination for violence set some

admiration amidst the revolt of his conscience, and a covert desire arose

within him to examine the matter from the standpoint of his interests

before he came to a decision. But, on the other hand, he claimed to be a

man of integrity, and would assuredly not allow people to be poisoned.

Pierre, who was compassionately inclined towards all creation, looked at

the hen with the emotion which he always felt at the sudden severance of

life. However, he at once accepted Prada’s story. “Ah! those fowls!” said

he. “They treat one another with an idiotic ferocity which even men can

scarcely equal. I kept fowls at home at one time, and one of the hens no

sooner hurt her leg than all the others, on seeing the blood oozing,

would flock round and peck at the limb till they stripped it to the

bone.”

Prada, however, did not listen, but at once went off; and it so happened

that the woman was, on her side, looking for him in order to hand him

four eggs which, after a deal of searching, she had discovered in odd

corners about the house. The Count made haste to pay for them, and called

to Pierre, who was lingering behind: “We must look sharp! We sha’n’t

reach Rome now until it is quite dark.”

They found Santobono quietly waiting in the carriage, where he had again

installed himself on the bracket with his spine resting against the

box-seat and his long legs drawn back under him, and he again had the

little basket of figs on his knees, and clasped it with his big knotty

hands as though it were something fragile and rare which the slightest

jolting might damage. His cassock showed like a huge blot, and in his

coarse ashen face, that of a peasant yet near to the wild soil and but

slightly polished by a few years of theological studies, his eyes alone

seemed to live, glowing with the dark flame of a devouring passion. On

seeing him seated there in such composure Prada could not restrain a

slight shudder. Then, as soon as the victoria was again rolling along the

road, he exclaimed: “Well, Abbe, that glass of wine will guarantee us

against the malaria. The Pope would soon be cured if he could imitate our

example.”

Santobono’s only reply was a growl. He was in no mood for conversation,

but wrapped himself in perfect silence, as in the night which was slowly

falling. And Prada in his turn ceased to speak, and, with his eyes still

fixed upon the other, reflected on the course that he should follow.

The road turned, and then the carriage rolled on and on over another

interminable straight highway with white paving, whose brilliancy made

the road look like a ribbon of snow stretching across the Campagna, where

delicate shadows were slowly falling. Gloom gathered in the hollows of

the broad undulations whence a tide of violet hue seemed to spread over

the short herbage until all mingled and the expanse became an indistinct

swell of neutral hue from one to the other horizon. And the solitude was

now yet more complete; a last indolent cart had gone by and a last

tinkling of horses’ bells had subsided in the distance. There was no

longer a passer-by, no longer a beast of the fields to be seen, colour

and sound died away, all forms of life sank into slumber, into the serene

stillness of nihility. Some fragments of an aqueduct were still to be

seen at intervals on the right hand, where they looked like portions of

gigantic millepeds severed by the scythe of time; next, on the left, came

another tower, whose dark and ruined pile barred the sky as with a huge

black stake; and then the remains of another aqueduct spanned the road,

assuming yet greater dimensions against the sunset glow. Ah! that unique

hour, the hour of twilight in the Campagna, when all is blotted out and

simplified, the hour of bare immensity, of the infinite in its simplest

expression! There is nothing, nothing all around you, but the flat line

of the horizon with the one splotch of an isolated tower, and yet that

nothing is instinct with sovereign majesty.

However, on the left, towards the sea, the sun was setting, descending in

the limpid sky like a globe of fire of blinding redness. It slowly

plunged beneath the horizon, and the only sign of cloud was some fiery

vapour, as if indeed the distant sea had seethed at contact with that

royal and flaming visit. And directly the sun had disappeared the heavens

above it purpled and became a lake of blood, whilst the Campagna turned

to grey. At the far end of the fading plain there remained only that

purple lake whose brasier slowly died out behind the black arches of the

aqueduct, while in the opposite direction the scattered arches remained

bright and rosy against a pewter-like sky. Then the fiery vapour was

dissipated, and the sunset ended by fading away. One by one the stars

came out in the pacified vault, now of an ashen blue, while the lights of

Rome, still far away on the verge of the horizon, scintillated like the

lamps of light-houses.

And Prada, amidst the dreamy silence of his companions and the infinite

melancholy of the evening and the inexpressible distress which even he

experienced, continued to ask himself what course he should adopt. Again

and again he mentally repeated that he could not allow people to be

poisoned. The figs were certainly intended for Cardinal Boccanera, and on

the whole it mattered little to him whether there were a cardinal the

more or the fewer in the world. Moreover, it had always seemed to him

best to let Destiny follow its course; and, infidel that he was, he saw

no harm in one priest devouring another. Again, it might be dangerous for

him to intervene in that abominable affair, to mix himself up in the

base, fathomless intrigues of the black world. But on the other hand the

Cardinal was not the only person who lived in the Boccanera mansion, and

might not the figs go to others, might they not be eaten by people to

whom no harm was intended? This idea of a treacherous chance haunted him,

and in spite of every effort the figures of Benedetta and Dario rose up

before him, returned and imposed themselves on him though he again and

again sought to banish them from his mind. What if Benedetta, what if

Dario should partake of that fruit? For Benedetta he felt no fear, for he

knew that she and her aunt ate their meals by themselves, and that their

cuisine and the Cardinal’s had nothing in common. But Dario sat at his

uncle’s table every day, and for a moment Prada, pictured the young

Prince suddenly seized with a spasm, then falling, like poor Monsignor

Gallo, into the Cardinal’s arms with livid face and receding eyes, and

dying within two hours.

But no, no! That would be frightful, he could not suffer such an

abomination. And thereupon he made up his mind. He would wait till the

night had completely gathered round and would then simply take the basket

from Santobono’s lap and fling it into some dark hollow without saying a

word. The priest would understand him. The other one, the young

Frenchman, would perhaps not even notice the incident. Besides, that

mattered little, for he would not even attempt to explain his action. And

he felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw the

basket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a couple

of miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in the

darkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen.

“We stopped too long at that _osteria_,” he suddenly exclaimed aloud,

turning towards Pierre. “We sha’n’t reach Rome much before six o’clock.

Still you will have time to dress and join your friend.” And then without

awaiting the young man’s reply he said to Santobono: “Your figs will

arrive very late, Abbe.”

“Oh!” answered the priest, “his Eminence receives until eight o’clock.

And, besides, the figs are not for this evening. People don’t eat figs in

the evening. They will be for to-morrow morning.” And thereupon he again

relapsed into silence.

“For to-morrow morning--yes, yes, no doubt,” repeated Prada. “And the

Cardinal will be able to thoroughly regale himself if nobody helps him to

eat the fruit.”

Thereupon Pierre, without pausing to reflect, exclaimed: “He will no

doubt eat it by himself, for his nephew, Prince Dario, must have started

to-day for Naples on a little convalescence trip to rid himself of the

effects of the accident which laid him up during the last month.” Then,

having got so far, the young priest remembered to whom he was speaking,

and abruptly stopped short.

The Count noticed his embarrassment. “Oh! speak on, my dear Monsieur

Froment,” said he, “you don’t offend me. It’s an old affair now. So that

young man has left, you say?”

“Yes, unless he has postponed his departure. However, I don’t expect to

find him at the palazzo when I get there.”

For a moment the only sound was that of the continuous rumble of the

wheels. Prada again felt worried, a prey to the discomfort of

uncertainty. Why should he mix himself up in the affair if Dario were

really absent? All the ideas which came to him tired his brain, and he

ended by thinking aloud: “If he has gone away it must be for propriety’s

sake, so as to avoid attending the Buongiovanni reception, for the

Congregation of the Council met this morning to give its decision in the

suit which the Countess has brought against me. Yes, I shall know by and

by whether our marriage is to be dissolved.”

It was in a somewhat hoarse voice that he spoke these words, and one

could realise that the old wound was again bleeding within him. Although

Lisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in his

wife’s petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each time

that he thought of it. And all at once he shuddered violently, as if an

icy blast had darted through his frame. Then, turning the conversation,

he added: “It’s not at all warm this evening. This is the dangerous hour

of the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it’s easy to catch a

terrible fever if one isn’t prudent. Here, pull the rug over your legs,

wrap it round you as carefully as you can.”

Then, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, more

profound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over the

Campagna, now steeped in night. And at last, in the bright starlight,

appeared the gate, an arch of the Acqua Felice, under which the road

passed. From a distance, this fragment seemed to bar the way with its

mass of ancient half-fallen walls. But afterwards the gigantic arch where

all was black opened like a gaping porch. And the carriage passed under

it in darkness whilst the wheels rumbled with increased sonority.

When the victoria emerged on the other side, Santobono still had the

little basket of figs upon his knees and Prada looked at it, quite

overcome, asking himself what sudden paralysis of the hands had prevented

him from seizing it and throwing it into the darkness. Such had still

been his intention but a few seconds before they passed under the arch.

He had even given the basket a final glance in order that he might the

better realise what movements he should make. What had taken place within

him then? At present he was yielding to increasing irresolution,

henceforth incapable of decisive action, feeling a need of delay in order

that he might, before everything else, fully satisfy himself as to what

was likely to happen. And as Dario had doubtless gone away and the figs

would certainly not be eaten until the following morning, what reason was

there for him to hurry? He would know that evening if the Congregation of

the Council had annulled his marriage, he would know how far the

so-called “Justice of God” was venal and mendacious! Certainly he would

suffer nobody to be poisoned, not even Cardinal Boccanera, though the

latter’s life was of little account to him personally. But had not that

little basket, ever since leaving Frascati, been like Destiny on the

march? And was it not enjoyment, the enjoyment of omnipotence, to be able

to say to himself that he was the master who could stay that basket’s

course, or allow it to go onward and accomplish its deadly purpose?

Moreover, he yielded to the dimmest of mental struggles, ceasing to

reason, unable to raise his hand, and yet convinced that he would drop a

warning note into the letter-box at the palazzo before he went to bed,

though at the same time he felt happy in the thought that if his interest

directed otherwise he would not do so.

And the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silent weariness,

amidst the shiver of evening which seemed to have chilled all three men.

In vain did the Count endeavour to escape from the battle of his

thoughts, by reverting to the Buongiovanni reception, and giving

particulars of the splendours which would be witnessed at it: his words

fell sparsely in an embarrassed and absent-minded way. Then he sought to

inspirit Pierre by speaking to him of Cardinal Sanguinetti’s amiable

manner and fair words, but although the young priest was returning home

well pleased with his journey, in the idea that with a little help he

might yet triumph, he scarcely answered the Count, so wrapt he was in his

reverie. And Santobono, on his side, neither spoke nor moved. Black like

the night itself, he seemed to have vanished. However, the lights of Rome

were increasing in number, and houses again appeared on either hand, at

first at long intervals, and then in close succession. They were suburban

houses, and there were yet more fields of reeds, quickset hedges,

olive-trees overtopping long walls, and big gateways with vase-surmounted

pillars; but at last came the city with its rows of small grey houses,

its petty shops and its dingy taverns, whence at times came shouts and

rumours of battle.

Prada insisted on setting his companions down in the Via Giulia, at fifty

paces from the palazzo. “It doesn’t inconvenience me at all,” said he to

Pierre. “Besides, with the little time you have before you, it would

never do for you to go on foot.”

The Via Giulia was already steeped in slumber, and wore a melancholy

aspect of abandonment in the dreary light of the gas lamps standing on

either hand. And as soon as Santobono had alighted from the carriage, he

took himself off without waiting for Pierre, who, moreover, always went

in by the little door in the side lane.

“Good-bye, Abbe,” exclaimed Prada.

“Good-bye, Count, a thousand thanks,” was Santobono’s response.

Then the two others stood watching him as he went towards the Boccanera

mansion, whose old, monumental entrance, full of gloom, was still wide

open. For a moment they saw his tall, rugged figure erect against that

gloom. Then in he plunged, he and his little basket, bearing Destiny.

XII.

IT was ten o’clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe di

Roma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down the

Corso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficulty

to reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, and

the inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway,

in spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact that

even the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on the

first floor of the long monumental facade shone with an intense white

radiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street like

sunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whose

billows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinary

tumult.

And in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms

go by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre

soon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the

arrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball

given by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his

daughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his

Majesty’s ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage,

the happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: to

begin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of a

lightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over all

obstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip to

lip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart.

It was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, who

already knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince had

ended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear of

seeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threaten

to do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contempt

for everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to be

capable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Only

indifference was manifested by the Prince’s wife, a phlegmatic and still

beautiful Englishwoman, who considered that she had done quite enough for

the household by bringing her husband a dowry of five millions, and

bearing him five children. The Prince, anxious and weak despite his

violence, in which one found a trace of the old Roman blood, already

spoilt by mixture with that of a foreign race, was nowadays ever

influenced in his actions by the fear that his house and fortune--which

hitherto had remained intact amidst the accumulated ruins of the

_patriziato_--might suddenly collapse. And in finally yielding to Celia,

he must have been guided by the idea of rallying to the new _regime_

through his daughter, so as to have one foot firmly set at the Quirinal,

without withdrawing the other from the Vatican. It was galling, no doubt;

his pride must have bled at the idea of allying his name with that of

such low folks as the Saccos. But then Sacco was a minister, and had sped

so quickly from success to success that it seemed likely he would rise

yet higher, and, after the portfolio of Agriculture, secure that of

Finances, which he had long coveted. And an alliance with Sacco meant the

certain favour of the King, an assured retreat in that direction should

the papacy some day collapse. Then, too, the Prince had made inquiries

respecting the son, and was somewhat disarmed by the good looks, bravery,

and rectitude of young Attilio, who represented the future, and possibly

the glorious Italy of to-morrow. He was a soldier, and could be helped

forward to the highest rank. And people spitefully added that the last

reason which had influenced the Prince, who was very avaricious, and

greatly worried by the thought that his fortune must be divided among his

five children,* was that an opportunity presented itself for him to

bestow a ridiculously small dowry on Celia. However, having consented to

the marriage, he resolved to give a splendid _fete_, such as was now

seldom witnessed in Rome, throwing his doors open to all the rival

sections of society, inviting the sovereigns, and setting the palazzo

ablaze as in the grand days of old. In doing this he would necessarily

have to expend some of the money to which he clung, but a boastful spirit

incited him to show the world that he at any rate had not been vanquished

by the financial crisis, and that the Buongiovannis had nothing to hide

and nothing to blush for. To tell the truth, some people asserted that

this bravado had not originated with himself, but had been instilled into

him without his knowledge by the quiet and innocent Celia, who wished to

exhibit her happiness to all applauding Rome.

* The Italian succession law is similar to the French. Children

cannot be disinherited. All property is divided among them,

and thus the piling up of large hereditary fortunes is

prevented.--Trans.

“Dear me!” said Narcisse, whom the throng prevented from advancing. “We

shall never get in. Why, they seem to have invited the whole city.” And

then, as Pierre seemed surprised to see a prelate drive up in his

carriage, the _attache_ added: “Oh! you will elbow more than one of them

upstairs. The cardinals won’t like to come on account of the presence of

the King and Queen, but the prelates are sure to be here. This, you know,

is a neutral drawing-room where the black and the white worlds can

fraternise. And then too, there are so few _fetes_ that people rush on

them.”

He went on to explain that there were two grand balls at Court every

winter, but that it was only under exceptional circumstances that the

_patriziato_ gave similar _galas_. Two or three of the black _salons_

were opened once in a way towards the close of the Carnival, but little

dances among intimates replaced the pompous entertainments of former

times. Some princesses moreover merely had their day. And as for the few

white _salons_ that existed, these likewise retained the same character

of intimacy, more or less mixed, for no lady had yet become the

undisputed queen of the new society.

“Well, here we are at last,” resumed Narcisse as they eventually climbed

the stairs.

“Let us keep together,” Pierre somewhat anxiously replied. “My only

acquaintance is with the _fiancee_, and I want you to introduce me.”

However, a considerable effort was needed even to climb the monumental

staircase, so great was the crush of arriving guests. Never, in the old

days of wax candles and oil lamps, had this staircase offered such a

blaze of light. Electric lamps, burning in clusters in superb bronze

candelabra on the landings, steeped everything in a white radiance. The

cold stucco of the walls was hidden by a series of lofty tapestries

depicting the story of Cupid and Psyche, marvels which had remained in

the family since the days of the Renascence. And a thick carpet covered

the worn marble steps, whilst clumps of evergreens and tall spreading

palms decorated every corner. An affluence of new blood warmed the

antique mansion that evening; there was a resurrection of life, so to

say, as the women surged up the staircase, smiling and perfumed,

bare-shouldered, and sparkling with diamonds.

At the entrance of the first reception-room Pierre at once perceived

Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, standing side by side and receiving

their guests. The Prince, a tall, slim man with fair complexion and hair

turning grey, had the pale northern eyes of his American mother in an

energetic face such as became a former captain of the popes. The

Princess, with small, delicate, and rounded features, looked barely

thirty, though she had really passed her fortieth year. And still pretty,

displaying a smiling serenity which nothing could disconcert, she purely

and simply basked in self-adoration. Her gown was of pink satin, and a

marvellous parure of large rubies set flamelets about her dainty neck and

in her fine, fair hair. Of her five children, her son, the eldest, was

travelling, and three of the girls, mere children, were still at school,

so that only Celia was present, Celia in a modest gown of white muslin,

fair like her mother, quite bewitching with her large innocent eyes and

her candid lips, and retaining to the very end of her love story the

semblance of a closed lily of impenetrable, virginal mysteriousness. The

Saccos had but just arrived, and Attilio, in his simple lieutenant’s

uniform, had remained near his betrothed, so naively and openly delighted

with his great happiness that his handsome face, with its caressing mouth

and brave eyes, was quite resplendent with youth and strength. Standing

there, near one another, in the triumph of their passion they appeared

like life’s very joy and health, like the personification of hope in the

morrow’s promises; and the entering guests who saw them could not refrain

from smiling and feeling moved, momentarily forgetting their loquacious

and malicious curiosity to give their hearts to those chosen ones of love

who looked so handsome and so enraptured.

Narcisse stepped forward in order to present Pierre, but Celia

anticipated him. Going to meet the young priest she led him to her father

and mother, saying: “Monsieur l’Abbe Pierre Froment, a friend of my dear

Benedetta.” Ceremonious salutations followed. Then the young girl, whose

graciousness greatly touched Pierre, said to him: “Benedetta is coming

with her aunt and Dario. She must be very happy this evening! And you

will also see how beautiful she will be.”

Pierre and Narcisse next began to congratulate her, but they could not

remain there, the throng was ever jostling them; and the Prince and

Princess, quite lost in the crush, had barely time to answer the many

salutations with amiable, continuous nods. And Celia, after conducting

the two friends to Attilio, was obliged to return to her parents so as to

take her place beside them as the little queen of the _fete_.

Narcisse was already slightly acquainted with Attilio, and so fresh

congratulations ensued. Then the two friends manoeuvred to find a spot

where they might momentarily tarry and contemplate the spectacle which

this first _salon_ presented. It was a vast hall, hung with green velvet

broidered with golden flowers, and contained a very remarkable collection

of weapons and armour, breast-plates, battle-axes, and swords, almost all

of which had belonged to the Buongiovannis of the fifteenth and sixteenth

centuries. And amidst those stern implements of war there was a lovely

sedan-chair of the last century, gilded and decorated with delicate

paintings. It was in this chair that the Prince’s great-grandmother, the

celebrated Bettina, whose beauty was historical, had usually been carried

to mass. On the walls, moreover, there were numerous historical

paintings: battles, peace congresses, and royal receptions in which the

Buongiovannis had taken part, without counting the many family portraits,

tall and proud figures of sea-captains, commanders in the field, great

dignitaries of the Church, prelates and cardinals, amongst whom, in the

place of honour, appeared the family pope, the white-robed Buongiovanni

whose accession to the pontifical throne had enriched a long line of

descendants. And it was among those armours, near that coquettish sedan,

and below those antique portraits, that the Saccos, husband and wife, had

in their turn just halted, at a few steps from the master and mistress of

the house, in order to secure their share of congratulations and bows.

“Look over there!” Narcisse whispered to Pierre, “those are the Saccos in

front of us, that dark little fellow and the lady in mauve silk.”

Pierre promptly recognised the bright face and pleasant smile of Stefana,

whom he had already met at old Orlando’s. But he was more interested in

her husband, a dark dry man, with big eyes, sallow complexion, prominent

chin, and vulturine nose. Like some gay Neapolitan “Pulcinello,” he was

dancing, shouting, and displaying such infectious good humour that it

spread to all around him. He possessed a wonderful gift of speech, with a

voice that was unrivalled as an instrument of fascination and conquest;

and on seeing how easily he ingratiated himself with the people in that

drawing-room, one could understand his lightning-like successes in the

political world. He had manoeuvered with rare skill in the matter of his

son’s marriage, affecting such exaggerated delicacy of feeling as to set

himself against the lovers, and declare that he would never consent to

their union, as he had no desire to be accused of stealing a dowry and a

title. As a matter of fact, he had only yielded after the Buongiovannis

had given their consent, and even then he had desired to take the opinion

of old Orlando, whose lofty integrity was proverbial. However, he knew

right well that he would secure the old hero’s approval in this

particular affair, for Orlando made no secret of his opinion that the

Buongiovannis ought to be glad to admit his grand-nephew into their

family, as that handsome young fellow, with brave and healthy heart,

would help to regenerate their impoverished blood. And throughout the

whole affair, Sacco had shrewdly availed himself of Orlando’s famous

name, for ever talking of the relationship between them, and displaying

filial veneration for this glorious founder of the country, as if indeed

he had no suspicion that the latter despised and execrated him and

mourned his accession to power in the conviction that he would lead Italy

to shame and ruin.

“Ah!” resumed Narcisse addressing Pierre, “he’s one of those supple,

practical men who care nothing for a smack in the face. It seems that

unscrupulous individuals like himself become necessary when states get

into trouble and have to pass through political, financial, and moral

crises. It is said that Sacco with his imperturbable assurance and

ingenious and resourceful mind has quite won the King’s favour. Just look

at him! Why, with that crowd of courtiers round him, one might think him

the master of this palace!”

And indeed the guests, after passing the Prince and Princess with a bow,

at once congregated around Sacco, for he represented power, emoluments,

pensions, and crosses; and if folks still smiled at seeing his dark,

turbulent, and scraggy figure amidst that framework of family portraits

which proclaimed the mighty ancestry of the Buongiovannis, they none the

less worshipped him as the personification of the new power, the

democratic force which was confusedly rising even from the old Roman soil

where the _patriziato_ lay in ruins.

“What a crowd!” muttered Pierre. “Who are all these people?”

“Oh!” replied Narcisse, “it is a regular mixture. These people belong

neither to the black nor the white world; they form a grey world as it

were. The evolution was certain; a man like Cardinal Boccanera may retain

an uncompromising attitude, but a whole city, a nation can’t. The Pope

alone will always say no and remain immutable. But everything around him

progresses and undergoes transformation, so that in spite of all

resistance, Rome will become Italian in a few years’ time. Even now,

whenever a prince has two sons only one of them remains on the side of

the Vatican, the other goes over to the Quirinal. People must live, you

see; and the great families threatened with annihilation have not

sufficient heroism to carry obstinacy to the point of suicide. And I have

already told you that we are here on neutral ground, for Prince

Buongiovanni was one of the first to realise the necessity of

conciliation. He feels that his fortune is perishing, he does not care to

risk it either in industry or in speculation, and already sees it

portioned out among his five children, by whose descendants it will be

yet further divided; and this is why he prudently makes advances to the

King without, however, breaking with the Pope. In this _salon_,

therefore, you see a perfect picture of the _debacle_, the confusion

which reigns in the Prince’s ideas and opinions.” Narcisse paused, and

then began to name some of the persons who were coming in. “There’s a

general,” said he, “who has become very popular since his last campaign

in Africa. There will be a great many military men here this evening, for

all Attilio’s superiors have been invited, so as to give the young man an

_entourage_ of glory. Ah! and there’s the German ambassador. I fancy that

nearly all the Corps Diplomatique will come on account of their

Majesties’ presence. But, by way of contrast, just look at that stout

fellow yonder. He’s a very influential deputy, a _parvenu_ of the new

middle class. Thirty years ago he was merely one of Prince Albertini’s

farmers, one of those _mercanti di campagna_ who go about the environs of

Rome in stout boots and a soft felt hat. And now look at that prelate

coming in--”

“Oh! I know him,” Pierre interrupted. “He’s Monsignor Fornaro.”

“Exactly, Monsignor Fornaro, a personage of some importance. You told me,

I remember, that he is the reporter of the Congregation in that affair of

your book. A most delightful man! Did you see how he bowed to the

Princess? And what a noble and graceful bearing he has in his little

mantle of violet silk!”

Then Narcisse went on enumerating the princes and princesses, the dukes

and duchesses, the politicians and functionaries, the diplomatists and

ministers, and the officers and well-to-do middle-class people, who of

themselves made up a most wonderful medley of guests, to say nothing of

the representatives of the various foreign colonies, English people,

Americans, Germans, Spaniards, and Russians, in a word, all ancient

Europe, and both Americas. And afterwards the young man reverted to the

Saccos, to the little Signora Sacco in particular, in order to tell

Pierre of the heroic efforts which she had made to open a _salon_ for the

purpose of assisting her husband’s ambition. Gentle and modest as she

seemed, she was also very shrewd, endowed with genuine qualities,

Piedmontese patience and strength of resistance, orderly habits and

thriftiness. And thus it was she who re-established the equilibrium in

household affairs which her husband by his exuberance so often disturbed.

He was indeed greatly indebted to her, though nobody suspected it. At the

same time, however, she had so far failed in her attempts to establish a

white _salon_ which should take the lead in influencing opinion. Only the

people of her own set visited her, not a single prince ever came, and her

Monday dances were the same as in a score of other middle-class homes,

having no brilliancy and no importance. In fact, the real white _salon_,

which should guide men and things and sway all Rome was still in

dreamland.

“Just notice her keen smile as she examines everything here,” resumed

Narcisse. “She’s teaching herself and forming plans, I’m sure of it. Now

that she is about to be connected with a princely family she probably

hopes to receive some of the best society.”

Large as was the room, the crowd in it had by this time grown so dense

that the two friends were pressed back to a wall, and felt almost

stifled. The _attache_ therefore decided to lead the priest elsewhere,

and as they walked along he gave him some particulars concerning the

palace, which was one of the most sumptuous in Rome, and renowned for the

magnificence of its reception-rooms. Dancing took place in the picture

gallery, a superb apartment more than sixty feet long, with eight windows

overlooking the Corso; while the buffet was installed in the Hall of the

Antiques, a marble hall, which among other precious things contained a

statue of Venus, rivalling the one at the Capitol. Then there was a suite

of marvellous _salons_, still resplendent with ancient luxury, hung with

the rarest stuffs, and retaining some unique specimens of old-time

furniture, on which covetous antiquaries kept their eyes fixed, whilst

waiting and hoping for the inevitable future ruin. And one of these

apartments, the little Saloon of the Mirrors, was particularly famous. Of

circular shape and Louis XV style, it was surrounded by mirrors in

_rococo_ frames, extremely rich, and most exquisitely carved.

“You will see all that by and by,” continued Narcisse. “At present we had

better go in here if we want to breathe a little. It is here that the

arm-chairs from the adjacent gallery have been brought for the

accommodation of the ladies who desire to sit down and be seen and

admired.”

The apartment they entered was a spacious one, draped with the most

superb Genoese velvet, that antique _jardiniere_ velvet with pale satin

ground, and flowers once of dazzling brightness, whose greens and blues

and reds had now become exquisitely soft, with the subdued, faded tones

of old floral love-tokens. On the pier tables and in the cabinets all

around were some of the most precious curios in the palace, ivory

caskets, gilt and painted wood carvings, pieces of antique

plate--briefly, a collection of marvels. And several ladies, fleeing the

crush, had already taken refuge on the numerous seats, clustering in

little groups, and laughing and chatting with the few gentlemen who had

discovered this retreat of grace and _galanterie_. In the bright glow of

the lamps nothing could be more delightful than the sight of all those

bare, sheeny shoulders, and those supple necks, above whose napes were

coiled tresses of fair or raven hair. Bare arms emerged like living

flowers of flesh from amidst the mingling lace and silk of soft-hued

bodices. The fans played slowly, as if to heighten the fires of the

precious stones, and at each beat wafted around an _odore di femina_

blended with a predominating perfume of violets.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Narcisse, “there’s our good friend Monsignor Nani

bowing to the Austrian ambassadress.”

As soon as Nani perceived the young priest and his companion he came

towards them, and the trio then withdrew into the embrasure of a window

in order that they might chat for a moment at their ease. The prelate was

smiling like one enchanted with the beauty of the _fete_, but at the same

time he retained all the serenity of innocence, as if he had not even

noticed the exhibition of bare shoulders by which he was surrounded. “Ah,

my dear son!” he said to Pierre, “I am very pleased to see you! Well, and

what do you think of our Rome when she makes up her mind to give

_fetes_?”

“Why, it is superb, Monseigneur.”

Then, in an emotional manner, Nani spoke of Celia’s lofty piety; and, in

order to give the Vatican the credit of this sumptuous _gala_, affected

to regard the Prince and Princess as staunch adherents of the Church, as

if he were altogether unaware that the King and Queen were presently

coming. And afterwards he abruptly exclaimed: “I have been thinking of

you all day, my dear son. Yes, I heard that you had gone to see his

Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. Well, and how did he receive you?”

“Oh! in a most paternal manner,” Pierre replied. “At first he made me

understand the embarrassment in which he was placed by his position as

protector of Lourdes; but just as I was going off he showed himself

charming, and promised me his help with a delicacy which deeply touched

me.”

“Did he indeed, my dear son? But it doesn’t surprise me, his Eminence is

so good-hearted!”

“And I must add, Monseigneur, that I came back with a light and hopeful

heart. It now seems to me as if my suit were half gained.”

“Naturally, I understand it,” replied Nani, who was still smiling with

that keen, intelligent smile of his, sharpened by a touch of almost

imperceptible irony. And after a short pause he added in a very simple

way: “The misfortune is that on the day before yesterday your book was

condemned by the Congregation of the Index, which was convoked by its

Secretary expressly for that purpose. And the judgment will be laid

before his Holiness, for him to sign it, on the day after to-morrow.”

Pierre looked at the prelate in bewilderment. Had the old mansion fallen

on his head he would not have felt more overcome. What! was it all over?

His journey to Rome, the experiment he had come to attempt there, had

resulted in that defeat, of which he was thus suddenly apprised amidst

that betrothal _fete_. And he had not even been able to defend himself,

he had sacrificed his time without finding any one to whom he might

speak, before whom he might plead his cause! Anger was rising within him,

and he could not prevent himself from muttering bitterly: “Ah! how I have

been duped! And that Cardinal who said to me only this morning: ‘If God

be with you he will save you in spite of everything.’ Yes, yes, I now

understand him; he was juggling with words, he only desired a disaster in

order that submission might lead me to Heaven! Submit, indeed, ah! I

cannot, I cannot yet! My heart is too full of indignation and grief.”

Nani examined and studied him with curiosity. “But my dear son,” he said,

“nothing is final so long as the Holy Father has not signed the judgment.

You have all to-morrow and even the morning of the day after before you.

A miracle is always possible.” Then, lowering his voice and drawing

Pierre on one side whilst Narcisse in an aesthetical spirit examined the

ladies, he added: “Listen, I have a communication to make to you in great

secrecy. Come and join me in the little Saloon of the Mirrors by and by,

during the Cotillon. We shall be able to talk there at our ease.”

Pierre nodded, and thereupon the prelate discreetly withdrew and

disappeared in the crowd. However, the young man’s ears were buzzing; he

could no longer hope; what indeed could he accomplish in one day since he

had lost three months without even being able to secure an audience with

the Pope? And his bewilderment increased as he suddenly heard Narcisse

speaking to him of art. “It’s astonishing how the feminine figure has

deteriorated in these dreadful democratic days. It’s all fat and horribly

common. Not one of those women yonder shows the Florentine contour, with

small bosom and slender, elegant neck. Ah! that one yonder isn’t so bad

perhaps, the fair one with her hair coiled up, whom Monsignor Fornaro has

just approached.”

For a few minutes indeed Monsignor Fornaro had been fluttering from

beauty to beauty, with an amiable air of conquest. He looked superb that

evening with his lofty decorative figure, blooming cheeks, and victorious

affability. No unpleasant scandal was associated with his name; he was

simply regarded as a prelate of gallant ways who took pleasure in the

society of ladies. And he paused and chatted, and leant over their bare

shoulders with laughing eyes and humid lips as if experiencing a sort of

devout rapture. However, on perceiving Narcisse whom he occasionally met,

he at once came forward and the _attache_ had to bow to him. “You have

been in good health I hope, Monseigneur, since I had the honour of seeing

you at the embassy.”

“Oh! yes, I am very well, very well indeed. What a delightful _fete_, is

it not?”

Pierre also had bowed. This was the man whose report had brought about

the condemnation of his book; and it was with resentment that he recalled

his caressing air and charming greeting, instinct with such lying

promise. However, the prelate, who was very shrewd, must have guessed

that the young priest was already acquainted with the decision of the

Congregation, and have thought it more dignified to abstain from open

recognition; for on his side he merely nodded and smiled at him. “What a

number of people!” he went on, “and how many charming persons there are!

It will soon be impossible for one to move in this room.”

All the seats in fact were now occupied by ladies, and what with the

strong perfume of violets and the exhalations of warm necks and shoulders

the atmosphere was becoming most oppressive. The fans flapped more

briskly, and clear laughter rang out amidst a growing hubbub of

conversation in which the same words constantly recurred. Some news,

doubtless, had just arrived, some rumour was being whispered from group

to group, throwing them all into feverish excitement. As it happened,

Monsignor Fornaro, who was always well informed, desired to be the

proclaimer of this news, which nobody as yet had ventured to announce

aloud.

“Do you know what is exciting them all?” he inquired.

“Is it the Holy Father’s illness?” asked Pierre in his anxiety. “Is he

worse this evening?”

The prelate looked at him in astonishment, and then somewhat impatiently

replied: “Oh, no, no. His Holiness is much better, thank Heaven. A person

belonging to the Vatican was telling me just now that he was able to get

up this afternoon and receive his intimates as usual.”

“All the same, people have been alarmed,” interrupted Narcisse. “I must

confess that we did not feel easy at the embassy, for a Conclave at the

present time would be a great worry for France. She would exercise no

influence at it. It is a great mistake on the part of our Republican

Government to treat the Holy See as of no importance! However, can one

ever tell whether the Pope is ill or not? I know for a certainty that he

was nearly carried off last winter when nobody breathed a word about any

illness, whereas on the last occasion when the newspapers killed him and

talked about a dreadful attack of bronchitis, I myself saw him quite

strong and in the best of spirits! His reported illnesses are mere

matters of policy, I fancy.” *

* There is much truth in this; but the reader must not imagine

that the Pope is never ill. At his great age, indispositions

are only natural.--Trans.

With a hasty gesture, however, Monsignor Fornaro brushed this importunate

subject aside. “No, no,” said he, “people are tranquillised and no longer

talk of it. What excites all those ladies is that the Congregation of the

Council to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a great

majority.”

Again did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see any

members of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he feared

that the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave his

word of honour that things were as he stated. “The news is certain,” he

declared. “I had it from a member of the Congregation.” And then, all at

once, he apologised and hurried off: “Excuse me but I see a lady whom I

had not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her.”

He at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sit

down, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallant

courtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with a

pearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin.

“You know that person, don’t you?” Narcisse inquired of Pierre. “No!

Really? Why, that is Count Prada’s _inamorata_, the charming Lisbeth

Kauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It’s her first appearance in

society since that event. She’s a German, you know, and lost her husband

here. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal is

forgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one is

particularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which she

receives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As you

may imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuse

her!”

She looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, with

satiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, which

was renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silk

spangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, so

securely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and was

loved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarks

exchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to her

personal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talked

of the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood the

Church solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there came

stifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolent

serenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of Monsignor

Fornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily,

which she had lately sent to a fine-art show.

Ah! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Rome

with scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of its

termination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds had

long chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander,

endless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;

the Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage null

and void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome would

laugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed as

soon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. The

incidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada’s feelings

revolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, the

Boccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the money

which they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinals

in order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they had

indirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma.

People said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs had

been expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known French

countess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount to

secure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father’s need

was so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; it

merely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued waving

in the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as the

whispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders.

“Oh! how pleased the Contessina must be!” Pierre resumed. “I did not

understand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying when

we came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It is

doubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloistering

herself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning.”

However, Lisbeth’s eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as she

smiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her,

for, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her through

having visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a fresh

outburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowers

adorning the ladies’ hair. People turned to see what was the matter, and

again did the hubbub increase. “Ah! it’s Count Prada in person!” murmured

Narcisse, with an admiring glance. “He has a fine bearing, whatever folks

may say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid,

unscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!”

Prada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant.

And above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, he

really had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, stern

eyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Never

had a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth of

his voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, dived

into their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, and

fair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up to

her, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent,

inquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornaro

had made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a low

tone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for as

he again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and made

an involuntary gesture.

However, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasure

of the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he said

to the young priest with all his wonted _bravura_: “You recollect what I

told you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it’s done, it seems,

they’ve annulled my marriage. It’s such an impudent, such an imbecile

decision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!”

“Oh! the news is certain,” Pierre made bold to reply. “It has just been

confirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of the

Congregation. And it is said that the majority was very large.”

Prada again shook with laughter. “No, no,” said he, “such a farce is

beyond belief! It’s the finest smack given to justice and common-sense

that I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civil

courts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shall

amuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I’d marry her at Santa Maria

Maggiore with all possible pomp. And there’s a dear little being in the

world who would take part in the _fete_ in his nurse’s arms!”