Whilst he breakfasted, Victorine who, showing an active bravery amidst

her despair, had not been to bed at all, told him of what had taken place

in the house during the night and early morning. Donna Serafina, prude

that she was, had again made an attempt to have the bodies separated; but

this had proved an impossibility, as _rigor mortis_ had set in, and to

part the lovers it would have been necessary to break their limbs.

Moreover, the Cardinal, who had interposed once before, almost quarrelled

with his sister on the subject, unwilling as he was that any one should

disturb the lovers’ last slumber, their union of eternity. Beneath his

priestly garb there coursed the blood of his race, a pride in the

passions of former times; and he remarked that if the family counted two

popes among its forerunners, it had also been rendered illustrious by

great captains and ardent lovers. Never would he allow any one to touch

those two children, whose dolorous lives had been so pure and whom the

grave alone had united. He was the master in his house, and they should

be sewn together in the same shroud, and nailed together in the same

coffin. Then too the religious service should take place at the

neighbouring church of San Carlo, of which he was Cardinal-priest and

where again he was the master. And if needful he would address himself to

the Pope. And such being his sovereign will, so authoritatively

expressed, everybody in the house had to bow submissively.

Donna Serafina at once occupied herself with the laying-out. According to

the Roman custom the servants were present, and Victorine as the oldest

and most appreciated of them, assisted the relatives. All that could be

done in the first instance was to envelop both corpses in Benedetta’s

unbound hair, thick and odorous hair, which spread out into a royal

mantle; and they were then laid together in one shroud of white silk,

fastened about their necks in such wise that they formed but one being in

death. And again the Cardinal imperatively ordered that they should be

brought into his apartments and placed on a state bed in the centre of

the throne-room, so that a supreme homage might be rendered to them as to

the last scions of the name, the two tragic lovers with whom the once

resounding glory of the Boccaneras was about to return to earth. The

story which had been arranged was already circulating through Rome; folks

related how Dario had been carried off in a few hours by infectious

fever, and how Benedetta, maddened by grief, had expired whilst clasping

him in her arms to bid him a last farewell; and there was talk too of the

royal honours which the bodies were to receive, the superb funeral

nuptials which were to be accorded them as they lay clasped on their bed

of eternal rest. All Rome, quite overcome by this tragic story of love

and death, would talk of nothing else for several weeks.

Pierre would have started for France that same night, eager as he was to

quit the city of disaster where he had lost the last shreds of his faith,

but he desired to attend the obsequies, and therefore postponed his

departure until the following evening. And thus he would spend one more

day in that old crumbling palace, near the corpse of that unhappy young

woman to whom he had been so much attached and for whom he would try to

find some prayers in the depths of his empty and lacerated heart.

When he reached the threshold of the Cardinal’s reception-rooms, he

suddenly remembered his first visit to them. They still presented the

same aspect of ancient princely pomp falling into decay and dust. The

doors of the three large ante-rooms were wide open, and the rooms

themselves were at that early hour still empty. In the first one, the

servants’ anteroom, there was nobody but Giacomo who stood motionless in

his black livery in front of the old red hat hanging under the

_baldacchino_ where spiders spun their webs between the crumbling

tassels. In the second room, which the secretary formerly had occupied,

Abbe Paparelli, the train-bearer, was softly walking up and down whilst

waiting for visitors; and with his conquering humility, his all-powerful

obsequiousness, he had never before so closely resembled an old maid,

whitened and wrinkled by excess of devout observances. Finally, in the

third ante-room, the _anticamera nobile_, where the red cap lay on a

credence facing the large imperious portrait of the Cardinal in

ceremonial costume, there was Don Vigilio who had left his little

work-table to station himself at the door of the throne-room and there

bow to those who crossed the threshold. And on that gloomy winter morning

the rooms appeared more mournful and dilapidated than ever, the hangings

frayed and ragged, the few articles of furniture covered with dust, the

old wood-work crumbling beneath the continuous onslaught of worms, and

the ceilings alone retaining their pompous show of gilding and painting.

However, Pierre, to whom Abbe Paparelli addressed a profound bow, in

which one divined the irony of a sort of dismissal given to one who was

vanquished, felt more impressed by the mournful grandeur which those

three dilapidated rooms presented that day, conducting as they did to the

old throne-room, now a chamber of death, where the two last children of

the house slept their last sleep. What a superb and sorrowful _gala_ of

death! Every door wide open and all the emptiness of those over-spacious

rooms, void of the throngs of ancient days and leading to the supreme

affliction--the end of a race! The Cardinal had shut himself up in his

little work-room where he received the relatives and intimates who

desired to present their condolences to him, whilst Donna Serafina had

chosen an adjoining apartment to await her lady friends who would come in

procession until evening. And Pierre, informed of the ceremonial by

Victorine, had in the first place to enter the throne-room, greeted as he

passed by a deep bow from Don Vigilio who, pale and silent, did not seem

to recognise him.

A surprise awaited the young priest. He had expected such a

lying-in-state as is seen in France and elsewhere, all windows closed so

as to steep the room in night, and hundreds of candles burning round a

_catafalco_, whilst from ceiling to floor the walls were hung with black

drapery. He had been told that the bodies would lie in the throne-room

because the antique chapel on the ground floor of the palazzo had been

shut up for half a century and was in no condition to be used, whilst the

Cardinal’s little private chapel was altogether too small for any such

ceremony. And thus it had been necessary to improvise an altar in the

throne-room, an altar at which masses had been said ever since dawn.

Masses and other religious services were moreover to be celebrated all

day long in the private chapel; and two additional altars had even been

set up, one in a small room adjoining the _anticamera nobile_ and the

other in a sort of alcove communicating with the second anteroom: and in

this wise priests, Franciscans, and members of other Orders bound by the

vow of poverty, would simultaneously and without intermission celebrate

the divine sacrifice on those four altars. The Cardinal, indeed, had

desired that the Divine Blood should flow without pause under his roof

for the redemption of those two dear souls which had flown away together.

And thus in that mourning mansion, through those funeral halls the bells

scarcely stopped tinkling for the elevation of the host, whilst the

quivering murmur of Latin words ever continued, and consecrated wafers

were continually broken and chalices drained, in such wise that the

Divine Presence could not for a moment quit the heavy atmosphere all

redolent of death.

On the other hand, however, Pierre, to his great astonishment, found the

throne-room much as it had been on the day of his first visit. The

curtains of the four large windows had not even been drawn, and the grey,

cold, subdued light of the gloomy winter morning freely entered. Under

the ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work there were the customary red

wall-hangings of _brocatelle_, worn away by long usage; and there was the

old throne with the arm-chair turned to the wall, uselessly waiting for a

visit from the Pope which would never more come. The principal changes in

the aspect of the room were that its seats and tables had been removed,

and that, in addition to the improvised altar arranged beside the throne,

it now contained the state bed on which lay the bodies of Benedetta and

Dario, amidst a profusion of flowers. The bed stood in the centre of the

room on a low platform, and at its head were two lighted candles, one on

either side. There was nothing else, nothing but that wealth of flowers,

such a harvest of white roses that one wondered in what fairy garden they

had been culled, sheaves of them on the bed, sheaves of them toppling

from the bed, sheaves of them covering the step of the platform, and

falling from that step on to the magnificent marble paving of the room.

Pierre drew near to the bed, his heart faint with emotion. Those tapers

whose little yellow flamelets scarcely showed in the pale daylight, that

continuous low murmur of the mass being said at the altar, that

penetrating perfume of roses which rendered the atmosphere so heavy,

filled the antiquated, dusty room with a spirit of infinite woe, a

lamentation of boundless mourning. And there was not a gesture, not a

word spoken, save by the priest officiating at the altar, nothing but an

occasional faint sound of stifled sobbing among the few persons present.

Servants of the house constantly relieved one another, four always

standing erect and motionless at the head of the bed, like faithful,

familiar guards. From time to time Consistorial-Advocate Morano who,

since early morning had been attending to everything, crossed the room

with a silent step and the air of a man in a hurry. And at the edge of

the platform all who entered, knelt, prayed, and wept. Pierre perceived

three ladies there, their faces hidden by their handkerchiefs; and there

was also an old priest who trembled with grief and hung his head in such

wise that his face could not be distinguished. However, the young man was

most moved by the sight of a poorly clad girl, whom he took for a

servant, and whom sorrow had utterly prostrated on the marble slabs.

Then in his turn he knelt down, and with the professional murmur of the

lips sought to repeat the Latin prayers which, as a priest, he had so

often said at the bedside of the departed. But his growing emotion

confused his memory, and he became wrapt in contemplation of the lovers

whom his eyes were unable to quit. Under the wealth of flowers which

covered them the clasped bodies could scarcely be distinguished, but the

two heads emerged from the silken shroud, and lying there on the same

cushion, with their hair mingling, they were still beautiful, beautiful

as with satisfied passion. Benedetta had kept her divinely gay, loving,

and faithful face for eternity, transported with rapture at having

rendered up her last breath in a kiss of love; whilst Dario retained a

more dolorous expression amidst his final joy. And their eyes were still

wide open, gazing at one another with a persistent and caressing

sweetness which nothing would ever more disturb.

Oh! God, was it true that yonder lay that Benedetta whom he, Pierre, had

loved with such pure, brotherly affection? He was stirred to the very

depths of his soul by the recollection of the delightful hours which he

had spent with her. She had been so beautiful, so sensible, yet so full

of passion! And he had indulged in so beautiful a dream, that of

animating with his own liberating fraternal feelings that admirable

creature with soul of fire and indolent air, in whom he had pictured all

ancient Rome, and whom he would have liked to awaken and win over to the

Italy of to-morrow. He had dreamt of enlarging her brain and heart by

filling her with love for the lowly and the poor, with all present-day

compassion for things and beings. How he would now have smiled at such a

dream had not his tears been flowing! Yet how charming she had shown

herself in striving to content him despite the invincible obstacles of

race, education, and environment. She had been a docile pupil, but was

incapable of any real progress. One day she had certainly seemed to draw

nearer to him, as though her own sufferings had opened her soul to every

charity; but the illusion of happiness had come back, and then she had

lost all understanding of the woes of others, and had gone off in the

egotism of her own hope and joy. Did that mean then that this Roman race

must finish in that fashion, beautiful as it still often is, and fondly

adored but so closed to all love for others, to those laws of charity and

justice which, by regulating labour, can henceforth alone save this world

of ours?

Then there came another great sorrow to Pierre which left him stammering,

unable to speak any precise prayer. He thought of the overwhelming

reassertion of Nature’s powers which had attended the death of those two

poor children. Was it not awful? To have taken that vow to the Virgin, to

have endured torment throughout life, and to end by plunging into death,

on the loved one’s neck, distracted by vain regret and eager for

self-bestowal! The brutal fact of impending separation had sufficed for

Benedetta to realise how she had duped herself, and to revert to the

universal instinct of love. And therein, again once more, was the Church

vanquished; therein again appeared the great god Pan, mating the sexes

and scattering life around! If in the days of the Renascence the Church

did not fall beneath the assault of the Venuses and Hercules then exhumed

from the old soil of Rome, the struggle at all events continued as

bitterly as ever; and at each and every hour new nations, overflowing

with sap, hungering for life, and warring against a religion which was

nothing more than an appetite for death, threatened to sweep away that

old Holy Apostolic Roman and Catholic edifice whose walls were already

tottering on all sides.

And at that moment Pierre felt that the death of that adorable Benedetta

was for him the supreme disaster. He was still looking at her and tears

were scorching his eyes. She was carrying off his chimera. This time

‘twas really the end. Rome the Catholic and the Princely was dead, lying

there like marble on that funeral bed. She had been unable to go to the

humble, the suffering ones of the world, and had just expired amidst the

impotent cry of her egotistical passion when it was too late either to

love or to create. Never more would children be born of her, the old

Roman house was henceforth empty, sterile, beyond possibility of

awakening. Pierre whose soul mourned such a splendid dream, was so

grieved at seeing her thus motionless and frigid, that he felt himself

fainting. He feared lest he might fall upon the step beside the bed, and

so struggled to his feet and drew aside.

Then, as he sought refuge in a window recess in order that he might try

to recover self-possession, he was astonished to perceive Victorine

seated there on a bench which the hangings half concealed. She had come

thither by Donna Serafina’s orders, and sat watching her two dear

children as she called them, whilst keeping an eye upon all who came in

and went out. And, on seeing the young priest so pale and nearly

swooning, she at once made room for him to sit down beside her. “Ah!” he

murmured after drawing a long breath, “may they at least have the joy of

being together elsewhere, of living a new life in another world.”

Victorine, however, shrugged her shoulders, and in an equally low voice

responded, “Oh! live again, Monsieur l’Abbe, why? When one’s dead the

best is to remain so and to sleep. Those poor children had enough

torments on earth, one mustn’t wish that they should begin again

elsewhere.”

This naive yet deep remark on the part of an ignorant unbelieving woman

sent a shudder through Pierre’s very bones. To think that his own teeth

had chattered with fear at night time at the sudden thought of

annihilation. He deemed her heroic at remaining so undisturbed by any

ideas of eternity and the infinite. And she, as she felt he was

quivering, went on: “What can you suppose there should be after death?

We’ve deserved a right to sleep, and nothing to my thinking can be more

desirable and consoling.”

“But those two did not live,” murmured Pierre, “so why not allow oneself

the joy of believing that they now live elsewhere, recompensed for all

their torments?”

Victorine, however, again shook her head; “No, no,” she replied. “Ah! I

was quite right in saying that my poor Benedetta did wrong in torturing

herself with all those superstitious ideas of hers when she was really so

fond of her lover. Yes, happiness is rarely found, and how one regrets

having missed it when it’s too late to turn back! That’s the whole story

of those poor little ones. It’s too late for them, they are dead.” Then

in her turn she broke down and began to sob. “Poor little ones! poor

little ones! Look how white they are, and think what they will be when

only the bones of their heads lie side by side on the cushion, and only

the bones of their arms still clasp one another. Ah! may they sleep, may

they sleep; at least they know nothing and feel nothing now.”

A long interval of silence followed. Pierre, amidst the quiver of his own

doubts, the anxious desire which in common with most men he felt for a

new life beyond the grave, gazed at this woman who did not find priests

to her fancy, and who retained all her Beauceronne frankness of speech,

with the tranquil, contented air of one who has ever done her duty in her

humble station as a servant, lost though she had been for five and twenty

years in a land of wolves, whose language she had not even been able to

learn. Ah! yes, tortured as the young man was by his doubts, he would

have liked to be as she was, a well-balanced, healthy, ignorant creature

who was quite content with what the world offered, and who, when she had

accomplished her daily task, went fully satisfied to bed, careless as to

whether she might never wake again!

However, as Pierre’s eyes once more sought the state bed, he suddenly

recognised the old priest, who was kneeling on the step of the platform,

and whose features he had hitherto been unable to distinguish. “Isn’t

that Abbe Pisoni, the priest of Santa Brigida, where I sometimes said

mass?” he inquired. “The poor old man, how he weeps!”

In her quiet yet desolate voice Victorine replied, “He has good reason to

weep. He did a fine thing when he took it into his head to marry my poor

Benedetta to Count Prada. All those abominations would never have

happened if the poor child had been given her Dario at once. But in this

idiotic city they are all mad with their politics; and that old priest,

who is none the less a very worthy man, thought he had accomplished a

real miracle and saved the world by marrying the Pope and the King as he

said with a soft laugh, poor old _savant_ that he is, who for his part

has never been in love with anything but old stones--you know, all that

antiquated rubbish of theirs of a hundred thousand years ago. And now,

you see, he can’t keep from weeping. The other one too came not twenty

minutes ago, Father Lorenza, the Jesuit who became the Contessina’s

confessor after Abbe Pisoni, and who undid what the other had done. Yes,

a handsome man he is, but a fine bungler all the same, a perfect killjoy

with all the crafty hindrances which he brought into that divorce affair.

I wish you had been here to see what a big sign of the cross he made

after he had knelt down. He didn’t cry, he didn’t: he seemed to be saying

that as things had ended so badly it was evident that God had withdrawn

from all share in the business. So much the worse for the dead!”

Victorine spoke gently and without a pause, as it relieved her, to empty

her heart after the terrible hours of bustle and suffocation which she

had spent since the previous day. “And that one yonder,” she resumed in a

lower voice, “don’t you recognise her?”

She glanced towards the poorly clad girl whom Pierre had taken for a

servant, and whom intensity of grief had prostrated beside the bed. With

a gesture of awful suffering this girl had just thrown back her head, a

head of extraordinary beauty, enveloped by superb black hair.

“La Pierina!” said Pierre. “Ah! poor girl.”

Victorine made a gesture of compassion and tolerance.

“What would you have?” said she, “I let her come up. I don’t know how she

heard of the trouble, but it’s true that she is always prowling round the

house. She sent and asked me to come down to her, and you should have

heard her sob and entreat me to let her see her Prince once more! Well,

she does no harm to anybody there on the floor, looking at them both with

her beautiful loving eyes full of tears. She’s been there for half an

hour already, and I had made up my mind to turn her out if she didn’t

behave properly. But since she’s so quiet and doesn’t even move, she may

well stop and fill her heart with the sight of them for her whole life

long.”

It was really sublime to see that ignorant, passionate, beautiful Pierina

thus overwhelmed below the nuptial couch on which the lovers slept for

all eternity. She had sunk down on her heels, her arms hanging heavily

beside her, and her hands open. And with raised face, motionless as in an

ecstasy of suffering, she did not take her eyes from that adorable and

tragic pair. Never had human face displayed such beauty, such a dazzling

splendour of suffering and love; never had there been such a portrayal of

ancient Grief, not however cold like marble but quivering with life. What

was she thinking of, what were her sufferings, as she thus fixedly gazed

at her Prince now and for ever locked in her rival’s arms? Was it some

jealousy which could have no end that chilled the blood of her veins? Or

was it mere suffering at having lost him, at realising that she was

looking at him for the last time, without thought of hatred for that

other woman who vainly sought to warm him with her arms as icy cold as

his own? There was still a soft gleam in the poor girl’s blurred eyes,

and her lips were still lips of love though curved in bitterness by

grief. She found the lovers so pure and beautiful as they lay there

amidst that profusion of flowers! And beautiful herself, beautiful like a

queen, ignorant of her own charms, she remained there breathless, a

humble servant, a loving slave as it were, whose heart had been wrenched

away and carried off by her dying master.

People were now constantly entering the room, slowly approaching with

mournful faces, then kneeling and praying for a few minutes, and

afterwards retiring with the same mute, desolate mien. A pang came to

Pierre’s heart when he saw Dario’s mother, the ever beautiful Flavia,

enter, accompanied by her husband, the handsome Jules Laporte, that

ex-sergeant of the Swiss Guard whom she had turned into a Marquis

Montefiori. Warned of the tragedy directly it had happened, she had

already come to the mansion on the previous evening; but now she returned

in grand ceremony and full mourning, looking superb in her black garments

which were well suited to her massive, Juno-like style of beauty. When

she had approached the bed with a queenly step, she remained for a moment

standing with two tears at the edges of her eyelids, tears which did not

fall. Then, at the moment of kneeling, she made sure that Jules was

beside her, and glanced at him as if to order him to kneel as well. They

both sank down beside the platform and remained in prayer for the proper

interval, she very dignified in her grief and he even surpassing her,

with the perfect sorrow-stricken bearing of a man who knew how to conduct

himself in every circumstance of life, even the gravest. And afterwards

they rose together, and slowly betook themselves to the entrance of the

private apartments where the Cardinal and Donna Serafina were receiving

their relatives and friends.

Five ladies then came in one after the other, while two Capuchins and the

Spanish ambassador to the Holy See went off. And Victorine, who for a few

minutes had remained silent, suddenly resumed. “Ah! there’s the little

Princess, she’s much afflicted too, and, no wonder, she was so fond of

our Benedetta.”

Pierre himself had just noticed Celia coming in. She also had attired

herself in full mourning for this abominable visit of farewell. Behind

her was a maid, who carried on either arm a huge sheaf of white roses.

“The dear girl!” murmured Victorine, “she wanted her wedding with her

Attilio to take place on the same day as that of the poor lovers who lie

there. And they, alas! have forestalled her, their wedding’s over; there

they sleep in their bridal bed.”

Celia had at once crossed herself and knelt down beside the bed, but it

was evident that she was not praying. She was indeed looking at the

lovers with desolate stupefaction at finding them so white and cold with

a beauty as of marble. What! had a few hours sufficed, had life departed,

would those lips never more exchange a kiss! She could again see them at

the ball of that other night, so resplendent and triumphant with their

living love. And a feeling of furious protest rose from her young heart,

so open to life, so eager for joy and sunlight, so angry with the hateful

idiocy of death. And her anger and affright and grief, as she thus found

herself face to face with the annihilation which chills every passion,

could be read on her ingenuous, candid, lily-like face. She herself stood

on the threshold of a life of passion of which she yet knew nothing, and

behold! on that very threshold she encountered the corpses of those

dearly loved ones, the loss of whom racked her soul with grief.

She gently closed her eyes and tried to pray, whilst big tears fell from

under her lowered eyelids. Some time went by amidst the quivering

silence, which only the murmur of the mass near by disturbed. At last she

rose and took the sheaves of flowers from her maid; and standing on the

platform she hesitated for a moment, then placed the roses to the right

and left of the cushion on which the lovers’ heads were resting, as if

she wished to crown them with those blossoms, perfume their young brows

with that sweet and powerful aroma. Then, though her hands remained empty

she did not retire, but remained there leaning over the dead ones,

trembling and seeking what she might yet say to them, what she might

leave them of herself for ever more. An inspiration came to her, and she

stooped forward, and with her whole, deep, loving soul set a long, long

kiss on the brow of either spouse.

“Ah! the dear girl!” said Victorine, whose tears were again flowing. “You

saw that she kissed them, and nobody had yet thought of that, not even

the poor young Prince’s mother. Ah! the dear little heart, she surely

thought of her Attilio.”

However, as Celia turned to descend from the platform she perceived La

Pierina, whose figure was still thrown back in an attitude of mute and

dolorous adoration. And she recognised the girl and melted with pity on

seeing such a fit of sobbing come over her that her whole body, her

goddess-like hips and bosom, shook as with frightful anguish. That agony

of love quite upset the little Princess, and she could be heard murmuring

in a tone of infinite compassion, “Calm yourself, my dear, calm yourself.

Be reasonable, my dear, I beg you.”

Then as La Pierina, thunderstruck at thus being pitied and succoured,

began to sob yet more loudly so as to create quite a stir in the room,

Celia raised her and held her up with both arms, for fear lest she should

fall again. And she led her away in a sisterly clasp, like a sister of

affection and despair, lavishing the most gentle, consoling words upon

her as they went.

“Follow them, go and see what becomes of them,” Victorine said to Pierre.

“I do not want to stir from here, it quiets me to watch over my two poor

children.”

A Capuchin was just beginning a fresh mass at the improvised altar, and

the low Latin psalmody went on again, while in the adjoining

ante-chamber, where another mass was being celebrated, a bell was heard

tinkling for the elevation of the host. The perfume of the flowers was

becoming more violent and oppressive amidst the motionless and mournful

atmosphere of the spacious throne-room. The four servants standing at the

head of the bed, as for a _gala_ reception, did not stir, and the

procession of visitors ever continued, men and women entering in silence,

suffocating there for a moment, and then withdrawing, carrying away with

them the never-to-be-forgotten vision of the two tragic lovers sleeping

their eternal sleep.

Pierre joined Celia and La Pierina in the _anticamera nobile_, where

stood Don Vigilio. The few seats belonging to the throne-room had there

been placed in a corner, and the little Princess had just compelled the

work-girl to sit down in an arm-chair, in order that she might recover

self-possession. Celia was in ecstasy before her, enraptured at finding

her so beautiful, more beautiful than any other, as she said. Then she

spoke of the two dead ones, who also had seemed to her very beautiful,

endowed with an extraordinary beauty, at once superb and sweet; and

despite all her tears, she still remained in a transport of admiration.

On speaking with La Pierina, Pierre learnt that her brother Tito was at

the hospital in great danger from the effects of a terrible knife thrust

dealt him in the side; and since the beginning of the winter, said the

girl, the misery in the district of the castle fields had become

frightful. It was a source of great suffering to every one, and those

whom death carried off had reason to rejoice.

Celia, however, with a gesture of invincible hopefulness, brushed all

idea of suffering, even of death, aside. “No, no, we must live,” she

said. “And beauty is sufficient for life. Come, my dear, do not remain

here, do not weep any more; live for the delight of being beautiful.”

Then she led La Pierina away, and Pierre remained seated in one of the

arm-chairs, overcome by such sorrow and weariness that he would have

liked to remain there for ever. Don Vigilio was still bowing to each

fresh visitor that arrived. A severe attack of fever had come on him

during the night, and he was shivering from it, with his face very

yellow, and his eyes ablaze and haggard. He constantly glanced at Pierre,

as if anxious to speak to him, but his dread lest he should be seen by

Abbe Paparelli, who stood in the next ante-room, the door of which was

wide open, doubtless restrained him, for he did not cease to watch the

train-bearer. At last the latter was compelled to absent himself for a

moment, and the secretary thereupon approached the young Frenchman.

“You saw his Holiness last night,” he said; and as Pierre gazed at him in

stupefaction he added: “Oh! everything gets known, I told you so before.

Well, and you purely and simply withdrew your book, did you not?” The

young priest’s increasing stupor was sufficient answer, and without

leaving him time to reply, Don Vigilio went on: “I suspected it, but I

wished to make certain. Ah! that’s just the way they work! Do you believe

me now, have you realised that they stifle those whom they don’t poison?”

He was no doubt referring to the Jesuits. However, after glancing into

the adjoining room to make sure that Abbe Paparelli had not returned

thither, he resumed: “And what has Monsignor Nani just told you?”

“But I have not yet seen Monsignor Nani,” was Pierre’s reply.

“Oh! I thought you had. He passed through before you arrived. If you did

not see him in the throne-room he must have gone to pay his respects to

Donna Serafina and his Eminence. However, he will certainly pass this way

again; you will see him by and by.” Then with the bitterness of one who

was weak, ever terror-smitten and vanquished, Don Vigilio added: “I told

you that you would end by doing what Monsignor Nani desired.”

With these words, fancying that he heard the light footfall of Abbe

Paparelli, he hastily returned to his place and bowed to two old ladies

who just then walked in. And Pierre, still seated, overcome, his eyes

wearily closing, at last saw the figure of Nani arise before him in all

its reality so typical of sovereign intelligence and address. He

remembered what Don Vigilio, on the famous night of his revelations, had

told him of this man who was far too shrewd to have labelled himself, so

to say, with an unpopular robe, and who, withal, was a charming prelate

with thorough knowledge of the world, acquired by long experience at

different nunciatures and at the Holy Office, mixed up in everything,

informed with regard to everything, one of the heads, one of the chief

minds in fact of that modern black army, which by dint of Opportunism

hopes to bring this century back to the Church. And all at once, full

enlightenment fell on Pierre, he realised by what supple, clever strategy

that man had led him to the act which he desired of him, the pure and

simple withdrawal of his book, accomplished with every appearance of free

will. First there had been great annoyance on Nani’s part on learning

that the book was being prosecuted, for he feared lest its excitable

author might be prompted to some dangerous revolt; then plans had at once

been formed, information had been collected concerning this young priest

who seemed so capable of schism, he had been urged to come to Rome,

invited to stay in an ancient mansion whose very walls would chill and

enlighten him. And afterwards had come the ever recurring obstacles, the

system of prolonging his sojourn in Rome by preventing him from seeing

the Pope, but promising him the much-desired interview when the proper

time should come, that is after he had been sent hither and thither and

brought into collision with one and all. And finally, when every one and

everything had shaken, wearied, and disgusted him, and he was restored

once more to his old doubts, there had come the audience for which he had

undergone all this preparation, that visit to the Pope which was destined

to shatter whatever remained to him of his dream. Pierre could picture

Nani smiling at him and speaking to him, declaring that the repeated

delays were a favour of Providence, which would enable him to visit Rome,

study and understand things, reflect, and avoid blunders. How delicate

and how profound had been the prelate’s diplomacy in thus crushing his

feelings beneath his reason, appealing to his intelligence to suppress

his work without any scandalous struggle as soon as his knowledge of the

real Rome should have shown him how supremely ridiculous it was to dream

of a new one!

At that moment Pierre perceived Nani in person just coming from the

throne-room, and did not feel the irritation and rancour which he had

anticipated. On the contrary he was glad when the prelate, in his turn

seeing him, drew near and held out his hand. Nani, however, did not wear

his wonted smile, but looked very grave, quite grief-stricken. “Ah! my

dear son,” he said, “what a frightful catastrophe! I have just left his

Eminence, he is in tears. It is horrible, horrible!”

He seated himself on one of the chairs, inviting the young priest, who

had risen, to do the same; and for a moment he remained silent, weary

with emotion no doubt, and needing a brief rest to free himself of the

weight of thoughts which visibly darkened his usually bright face. Then,

with a gesture, he strove to dismiss that gloom, and recover his amiable

cordiality. “Well, my dear son,” he began, “you saw his Holiness?”

“Yes, Monseigneur, yesterday evening; and I thank you for your great

kindness in satisfying my desire.”

Nani looked at him fixedly, and his invincible smile again returned to

his lips. “You thank me.... I can well see that you behaved sensibly

and laid your full submission at his Holiness’s feet. I was certain of

it, I did not expect less of your fine intelligence. But, all the same,

you render me very happy, for I am delighted to find that I was not

mistaken concerning you.” And then, setting aside his reserve, the

prelate went on: “I never discussed things with you. What would have been

the good of it, since facts were there to convince you? And now that you

have withdrawn your book a discussion would be still more futile.

However, just reflect that if it were possible for you to bring the

Church back to her early period, to that Christian community which you

have sketched so delightfully, she could only again follow the same

evolutions as those in which God the first time guided her; so that, at

the end of a similar number of centuries, she would find herself exactly

in the position which she occupies to-day. No, what God has done has been

well done, the Church such as she is must govern the world, such as it

is; it is for her alone to know how she will end by firmly establishing

her reign here below. And this is why your attack upon the temporal power

was an unpardonable fault, a crime even, for by dispossessing the papacy

of her domains you hand her over to the mercy of the nations. Your new

religion is but the final downfall of all religion, moral anarchy, the

liberty of schism, in a word, the destruction of the divine edifice, that

ancient Catholicism which has shown such prodigious wisdom and solidity,

which has sufficed for the salvation of mankind till now, and will alone

be able to save it to-morrow and always.”

Pierre felt that Nani was sincere, pious even, and really unshakable in

his faith, loving the Church like a grateful son, and convinced that she

was the only social organisation which could render mankind happy. And if

he were bent on governing the world, it was doubtless for the pleasure of

governing, but also in the conviction that no one could do so better than

himself.

“Oh! certainly,” said he, “methods are open to discussion. I desire them

to be as affable and humane as possible, as conciliatory as can be with

this present century, which seems to be escaping us, precisely because

there is a misunderstanding between us. But we shall bring it back, I am

sure of it. And that is why, my dear son, I am so pleased to see you

return to the fold, thinking as we think, and ready to battle on our

side, is that not so?”

In Nani’s words the young priest once more found the arguments of Leo

XIII. Desiring to avoid a direct reply, for although he now felt no anger

the wrenching away of his dream had left him a smarting wound, he bowed,

and replied slowly in order to conceal the bitter tremble of his voice:

“I repeat, Monseigneur, that I deeply thank you for having amputated my

vain illusions with the skill of an accomplished surgeon. A little later,

when I shall have ceased to suffer, I shall think of you with eternal

gratitude.”

Monsignor Nani still looked at him with a smile. He fully understood that

this young priest would remain on one side, that as an element of

strength he was lost to the Church. What would he do now? Something

foolish no doubt. However, the prelate had to content himself with having

helped him to repair his first folly; he could not foresee the future.

And he gracefully waved his hand as if to say that sufficient unto the

day was the evil thereof.

“Will you allow me to conclude, my dear son?” he at last exclaimed. “Be

sensible, your happiness as a priest and a man lies in humility. You will

be terribly unhappy if you use the great intelligence which God has given

you against Him.”

Then with another gesture he dismissed this affair, which was all over,

and with which he need busy himself no more. And thereupon the other

affair came back to make him gloomy, that other affair which also was

drawing to a close, but so tragically, with those two poor children

slumbering in the adjoining room. “Ah!” he resumed, “that poor Princess

and that poor Cardinal quite upset my heart! Never did catastrophe fall

so cruelly on a house. No, no, it is indeed too much, misfortune goes too

far--it revolts one’s soul!”

Just as he finished a sound of voices came from the second ante-room, and

Pierre was thunderstruck to see Cardinal Sanguinetti go by, escorted with

the greatest obsequiousness by Abbe Paparelli.

“If your most Reverend Eminence will have the extreme kindness to follow

me,” the train-bearer was saying, “I will conduct your most Reverend

Eminence myself.”

“Yes,” replied Sanguinetti, “I arrived yesterday evening from Frascati,

and when I heard the sad news, I at once desired to express my sorrow and

offer consolation.”

“Your Eminence will perhaps condescend to remain for a moment near the

bodies. I will afterwards escort your Eminence to the private

apartments.”

“Yes, by all means. I desire every one to know how greatly I participate

in the sorrow which has fallen on this illustrious house.”

Then Sanguinetti entered the throne-room, leaving Pierre quite aghast at

his quiet audacity. The young priest certainly did not accuse him of

direct complicity with Santobono, he did not even dare to measure how far

his moral complicity might go. But on seeing him pass by like that, his

brow so lofty, his speech so clear, he had suddenly felt convinced that

he knew the truth. How or through whom, he could not have told; but

doubtless crimes become known in those shady spheres by those whose

interest it is to know of them. And Pierre remained quite chilled by the

haughty fashion in which that man presented himself, perhaps to stifle

suspicion and certainly to accomplish an act of good policy by giving his

rival a public mark of esteem and affection.

“The Cardinal! Here!” Pierre murmured despite himself.

Nani, who followed the young man’s thoughts in his childish eyes, in

which all could be read, pretended to mistake the sense of his

exclamation. “Yes,” said he, “I learnt that the Cardinal returned to Rome

yesterday evening. He did not wish to remain away any longer; the Holy

Father being so much better that he might perhaps have need of him.”

Although these words were spoken with an air of perfect innocence, Pierre

was not for a moment deceived by them. And having in his turn glanced at

the prelate, he was convinced that the latter also knew the truth. Then,

all at once, the whole affair appeared to him in its intricacy, in the

ferocity which fate had imparted to it. Nani, an old intimate of the

Palazzo Boccanera, was not heartless, he had surely loved Benedetta with

affection, charmed by so much grace and beauty. One could thus explain

the victorious manner in which he had at last caused her marriage to be

annulled. But if Don Vigilio were to be believed, that divorce, obtained

by pecuniary outlay, and under pressure of the most notorious influences,

was simply a scandal which he, Nani, had in the first instance spun out,

and then precipitated towards a resounding finish with the sole object of

discrediting the Cardinal and destroying his chances of the tiara on the

eve of the Conclave which everybody thought imminent. It seemed certain,

too, that the Cardinal, uncompromising as he was, could not be the

candidate of Nani, who was so desirous of universal agreement, and so the

latter’s long labour in that house, whilst conducing to the happiness of

the Contessina, had been designed to frustrate Donna Serafina and

Cardinal Pio in their burning ambition, that third triumphant elevation

to the papacy which they sought to secure for their ancient family.

However, if Nani had always desired to baulk this ambition, and had even

at one moment placed his hopes in Sanguinetti and fought for him, he had

never imagined that Boccanera’s foes would go to the point of crime, to

such an abomination as poison which missed its mark and killed the

innocent. No, no, as he himself said, that was too much, and made one’s

soul rebel. He employed more gentle weapons; such brutality filled him

with indignation; and his face, so pinky and carefully tended, still wore

the grave expression of his revolt in presence of the tearful Cardinal

and those poor lovers stricken in his stead.

Believing that Sanguinetti was still the prelate’s secret candidate,

Pierre was worried to know how far their moral complicity in this baleful

affair might go. So he resumed the conversation by saying: “It is

asserted that his Holiness is on bad terms with his Eminence Cardinal

Sanguinetti. Of course the reigning pope cannot look on the future pope

with a very kindly eye.”

At this, Nani for a moment became quite gay in all frankness. “Oh,” said

he, “the Cardinal has quarrelled and made things up with the Vatican

three or four times already. And, in any event, the Holy Father has no

motive for posthumous jealousy; he knows very well that he can give his

Eminence a good greeting.” Then, regretting that he had thus expressed a

certainty, he added: “I am joking, his Eminence is altogether worthy of

the high fortune which perhaps awaits him.”

Pierre knew what to think however; Sanguinetti was certainly Nani’s

candidate no longer. It was doubtless considered that he had used himself

up too much by his impatient ambition, and was too dangerous by reason of

the equivocal alliances which in his feverishness he had concluded with

every party, even that of patriotic young Italy. And thus the situation

became clearer. Cardinals Sanguinetti and Boccanera devoured and

suppressed one another; the first, ever intriguing, accepting every

compromise, dreaming of winning Rome back by electoral methods; and the

other, erect and motionless in his stern maintenance of the past,

excommunicating the century, and awaiting from God alone the miracle

which would save the Church. And, indeed, why not leave the two theories,

thus placed face to face, to destroy one another, including all the

extreme, disquieting views which they respectively embodied? If Boccanera

had escaped the poison, he had none the less become an impossible

candidate, killed by all the stories which had set Rome buzzing; while if

Sanguinetti could say that he was rid of a rival, he had at the same time

dealt a mortal blow to his own candidature, by displaying such passion

for power, and such unscrupulousness with regard to the methods he

employed, as to be a danger for every one. Monsignor Nani was visibly

delighted with this result; neither candidate was left, it was like the

legendary story of the two wolves who fought and devoured one another so

completely that nothing of either of them was found left, not even their

tails! And in the depths of the prelate’s pale eyes, in the whole of his

discreet person, there remained nothing but redoubtable mystery: the

mystery of the yet unknown, but definitively selected candidate who would

be patronised by the all-powerful army of which he was one of the most

skilful leaders. A man like him always had a solution ready. Who, then,

who would be the next pope?

However, he now rose and cordially took leave of the young priest. “I

doubt if I shall see you again, my dear son,” he said; “I wish you a good

journey.”

Still he did not go off, but continued to look at Pierre with his

penetrating eyes, and finally made him sit down again and did the same

himself. “I feel sure,” he said, “that you will go to pay your respects

to Cardinal Bergerot as soon as you have returned to France. Kindly tell

him that I respectfully desired to be reminded to him. I knew him a

little at the time when he came here for his hat. He is one of the great

luminaries of the French clergy. Ah! a man of such intelligence would

only work for a good understanding in our holy Church. Unfortunately I

fear that race and environment have instilled prejudices into him, for he

does not always help us.”

Pierre, who was surprised to hear Nani speak of the Cardinal for the

first time at this moment of farewell, listened with curiosity. Then in

all frankness he replied: “Yes, his Eminence has very decided ideas about

our old Church of France. For instance, he professes perfect horror of

the Jesuits.”

With a light exclamation Nani stopped the young man. And he wore the most

sincerely, frankly astonished air that could be imagined. “What! horror

of the Jesuits! In what way can the Jesuits disquiet him? The Jesuits,

there are none, that’s all over! Have you seen any in Rome? Have they

troubled you in any way, those poor Jesuits who haven’t even a stone of

their own left here on which to lay their heads? No, no, that bogey

mustn’t be brought up again, it’s childish.”

Pierre in his turn looked at him, marvelling at his perfect ease, his

quiet courage in dealing with this burning subject. He did not avert his

eyes, but displayed an open face like a book of truth. “Ah!” he

continued, “if by Jesuits you mean the sensible priests who, instead of

entering into sterile and dangerous struggles with modern society, seek

by human methods to bring it back to the Church, why, then of course we

are all of us more or less Jesuits, for it would be madness not to take

into account the times in which one lives. And besides, I won’t haggle

over words; they are of no consequence! Jesuits, well, yes, if you like,

Jesuits!” He was again smiling with that shrewd smile of his in which

there was so much raillery and so much intelligence. “Well, when you see

Cardinal Bergerot tell him that it is unreasonable to track the Jesuits

and treat them as enemies of the nation. The contrary is the truth. The

Jesuits are for France, because they are for wealth, strength, and

courage. France is the only great Catholic country which has yet remained

erect and sovereign, the only one on which the papacy can some day lean.

Thus the Holy Father, after momentarily dreaming of obtaining support

from victorious Germany, has allied himself with France, the vanquished,

because he has understood that apart from France there can be no

salvation for the Church. And in this he has only followed the policy of

the Jesuits, those frightful Jesuits, whom your Parisians execrate. And

tell Cardinal Bergerot also that it would be grand of him to work for

pacification by making people understand how wrong it is for your

Republic to help the Holy Father so little in his conciliatory efforts.

It pretends to regard him as an element in the world’s affairs that may

be neglected; and that is dangerous, for although he may seem to have no

political means of action he remains an immense moral force, and can at

any moment raise consciences in rebellion and provoke a religious

agitation of the most far-reaching consequences. It is still he who

disposes of the nations, since he disposes of their souls, and the

Republic acts most inconsiderately, from the standpoint of its own

interests, in showing that it no longer even suspects it. And tell the

Cardinal too, that it is really pitiful to see in what a wretched way

your Republic selects its bishops, as though it intentionally desired to

weaken its episcopacy. Leaving out a few fortunate exceptions, your

bishops are men of small brains, and as a result your cardinals, likewise

mere mediocrities, have no influence, play no part here in Rome. Ah! what

a sorry figure you Frenchmen will cut at the next Conclave! And so why do

you show such blind and foolish hatred of those Jesuits, who,

politically, are your friends? Why don’t you employ their intelligent

zeal, which is ready to serve you, so that you may assure yourselves the

help of the next, the coming pope? It is necessary for you that he should

be on your side, that he should continue the work of Leo XIII, which is

so badly judged and so much opposed, but which cares little for the petty

results of to-day, since its purpose lies in the future, in the union of

all the nations under their holy mother the Church. Tell Cardinal

Bergerot, tell him plainly that he ought to be with us, that he ought to

work for his country by working for us. The coming pope, why the whole

question lies in that, and woe to France if in him she does not find a

continuator of Leo XIII!”

Nani had again risen, and this time he was going off. Never before had he

unbosomed himself at such length. But most assuredly he had only said

what he desired to say, for a purpose that he alone knew of, and in a

firm, gentle, and deliberate voice by which one could tell that each word

had been weighed and determined beforehand. “Farewell, my dear son,” he

said, “and once again think over all you have seen and heard in Rome. Be

as sensible as you can, and do not spoil your life.”

Pierre bowed, and pressed the small, plump, supple hand which the prelate

offered him. “Monseigneur,” he replied, “I again thank you for all your

kindness; you may be sure that I shall forget nothing of my journey.”

Then he watched Nani as he went off, with a light and conquering step as

if marching to all the victories of the future. No, no, he, Pierre, would

forget nothing of his journey! He well knew that union of all the nations

under their holy mother the Church, that temporal bondage in which the

law of Christ would become the dictatorship of Augustus, master of the

world! And as for those Jesuits, he had no doubt that they did love

France, the eldest daughter of the Church, and the only daughter that

could yet help her mother to reconquer universal sovereignty, but they

loved her even as the black swarms of locusts love the harvests which

they swoop upon and devour. Infinite sadness had returned to the young

man’s heart as he dimly realised that in that sorely-stricken mansion, in

all that mourning and downfall, it was they, they again, who must have

been the artisans of grief and disaster.

As this thought came to him he turned round and perceived Don Vigilio

leaning against the credence in front of the large portrait of the

Cardinal. Holding his hands to his face as if he desired to annihilate

himself, the secretary was shivering in every limb as much with fear as

with fever. At a moment when no fresh visitors were arriving he had

succumbed to an attack of terrified despair.

“_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter with you?” asked Pierre stepping forward,

“are you ill, can I help you?”

But Don Vigilio, suffocating and still hiding his face, could only gasp

between his close-pressed hands “Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!”

“What is it? What has he done to you?” asked the other astonished.

Then the secretary disclosed his face, and again yielded to his quivering

desire to confide in some one. “Eh? what he has done to me? Can’t you

feel anything, can’t you see anything then? Didn’t you notice the manner

in which he took possession of Cardinal Sanguinetti so as to conduct him

to his Eminence? To impose that suspected, hateful rival on his Eminence

at such a moment as this, what insolent audacity! And a few minutes

previously did you notice with what wicked cunning he bowed out an old

lady, a very old family friend, who only desired to kiss his Eminence’s

hand and show a little real affection which would have made his Eminence

so happy! Ah! I tell you that he’s the master here, he opens or closes

the door as he pleases, and holds us all between his fingers like a pinch

of dust which one throws to the wind!”

Pierre became anxious, seeing how yellow and feverish Don Vigilio was:

“Come, come, my dear fellow,” he said, “you are exaggerating!”

“Exaggerating? Do you know what happened last night, what I myself

unwillingly witnessed? No, you don’t know it; well, I will tell you.”

Thereupon he related that Donna Serafina, on returning home on the

previous day to face the terrible catastrophe awaiting her, had already

been overcome by the bad news which she had learnt when calling on the

Cardinal Secretary and various prelates of her acquaintance. She had then

acquired a certainty that her brother’s position was becoming extremely

bad, for he had made so many fresh enemies among his colleagues of the

Sacred College, that his election to the pontifical throne, which a year

previously had seemed probable, now appeared an impossibility. Thus, all

at once, the dream of her life collapsed, the ambition which she had so

long nourished lay in dust at her feet. On despairingly seeking the why

and wherefore of this change, she had been told of all sorts of blunders

committed by the Cardinal, acts of rough sternness, unseasonable

manifestations of opinion, inconsiderate words or actions which had

sufficed to wound people, in fact such provoking demeanour that one might

have thought it adopted with the express intention of spoiling

everything. And the worst was that in each of the blunders she had

recognised errors of judgment which she herself had blamed, but which her

brother had obstinately insisted on perpetrating under the unacknowledged

influence of Abbe Paparelli, that humble and insignificant train-bearer,

in whom she detected a baneful and powerful adviser who destroyed her own

vigilant and devoted influence. And so, in spite of the mourning in which

the house was plunged, she did not wish to delay the punishment of the

traitor, particularly as his old friendship with that terrible Santobono,

and the story of that basket of figs which had passed from the hands of

the one to those of the other, chilled her blood with a suspicion which

she even recoiled from elucidating. However, at the first words she

spoke, directly she made a formal request that the traitor should be

immediately turned out of the house, she was confronted by invincible

resistance on her brother’s part. He would not listen to her, but flew

into one of those hurricane-like passions which swept everything away,

reproaching her for laying blame on so modest, pious, and saintly a man,

and accusing her of playing into the hands of his enemies, who, after

killing Monsignor Gallo, were seeking to poison his sole remaining

affection for that poor, insignificant priest. He treated all the stories

he was told as abominable inventions, and swore that he would keep the

train-bearer in his service if only to show his disdain for calumny. And

she was thereupon obliged to hold her peace.

However, Don Vigilio’s shuddering fit had again come back; he carried his

hands to his face stammering: “Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!” And muttered

invectives followed: the train-bearer was an artful hypocrite who feigned

modesty and humility, a vile spy appointed to pry into everything, listen

to everything, and pervert everything that went on in the palace; he was

a loathsome, destructive insect, feeding on the most noble prey,

devouring the lion’s mane, a Jesuit--the Jesuit who is at once lackey and

tyrant, in all his base horror as he accomplishes the work of vermin.

“Calm yourself, calm yourself,” repeated Pierre, who whilst allowing for

foolish exaggeration on the secretary’s part could not help shivering at

thought of all the threatening things which he himself could divine astir

in the gloom.

However, since Don Vigilio had so narrowly escaped eating those horrible

figs, his fright was such that nothing could calm it. Even when he was

alone at night, in bed, with his door locked and bolted, sudden terror

fell on him and made him hide his head under the sheet and vent stifled

cries as if he thought that men were coming through the wall to strangle

him. In a faint, breathless voice, as if just emerging from a struggle,

he now resumed: “I told you what would happen on the evening when we had

a talk together in your room. Although all the doors were securely shut,

I did wrong to speak of them to you, I did wrong to ease my heart by

telling you all that they were capable of. I was sure they would learn

it, and you see they did learn it, since they tried to kill me.... Why

it’s even wrong of me to tell you this, for it will reach their ears and

they won’t miss me the next time. Ah! it’s all over, I’m as good as dead;

this house which I thought so safe will be my tomb.”

Pierre began to feel deep compassion for this ailing man, whose feverish

brain was haunted by nightmares, and whose life was being finally wrecked

by the anguish of persecution mania. “But you must run away in that

case!” he said. “Don’t stop here; come to France.”

Don Vigilio looked at him, momentarily calmed by surprise. “Run away,

why? Go to France? Why, they are there! No matter where I might go, they

would be there. They are everywhere, I should always be surrounded by

them! No, no, I prefer to stay here and would rather die at once if his

Eminence can no longer defend me.” With an expression of ardent entreaty

in which a last gleam of hope tried to assert itself, he raised his eyes

to the large painting in which the Cardinal stood forth resplendent in

his cassock of red moire; but his attack came back again and overwhelmed

him with increased intensity of fever. “Leave me, I beg you, leave me,”

he gasped. “Don’t make me talk any more. Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli! If he

should come back and see us and hear me speak.... Oh! I’ll never say

anything again. I’ll tie up my tongue, I’ll cut it off. Leave me, you are

killing me, I tell you, he’ll be coming back and that will mean my death.

Go away, oh! for mercy’s sake, go away!”

Thereupon Don Vigilio turned towards the wall as if to flatten his face

against it, and immure his lips in tomb-like silence; and Pierre resolved

to leave him to himself, fearing lest he should provoke a yet more

serious attack if he went on endeavouring to succour him.

On returning to the throne-room the young priest again found himself

amidst all the frightful mourning. Mass was following mass; without

cessation murmured prayers entreated the divine mercy to receive the two

dear departed souls with loving kindness. And amidst the dying perfume of

the fading roses, in front of the pale stars of the lighted candles,

Pierre thought of that supreme downfall of the Boccaneras. Dario was the

last of the name, and one could well understand that the Cardinal, whose

only sin was family pride, should have loved that one remaining scion by

whom alone the old stock might yet blossom afresh. And indeed, if he and

Donna Serafina had desired the divorce, and then the marriage of the

cousins, it had been less with the view of putting an end to scandal than

with the hope of seeing a new line of Boccaneras spring up. But the

lovers were dead, and the last remains of a long series of dazzling

princes of sword and of gown lay there on that bed, soon to rot in the

grave. It was all over; that old maid and that aged Cardinal could leave

no posterity. They remained face to face like two withered oaks, sole

remnants of a vanished forest, and their fall would soon leave the plain

quite clear. And how terrible the grief of surviving in impotence, what

anguish to have to tell oneself that one is the end of everything, that

with oneself all life, all hope for the morrow will depart! Amidst the

murmur of the prayers, the dying perfume of the roses, the pale gleams of

the two candies, Pierre realised what a downfall was that bereavement,

how heavy was the gravestone which fell for ever on an extinct house, a

vanished world.

He well understood that as one of the familiars of the mansion he must

pay his respects to Donna Serafina and the Cardinal, and he at once

sought admission to the neighbouring room where the Princess was

receiving her friends. He found her robed in black, very slim and very

erect in her arm-chair, whence she rose with slow dignity to respond to

the bow of each person that entered. She listened to the condolences but

answered never a word, overcoming her physical pain by rigidity of

bearing. Pierre, who had learnt to know her, could divine, however, by

the hollowness of her cheeks, the emptiness of her eyes, and the bitter

twinge of her mouth, how frightful was the collapse within her. Not only

was her race ended, but her brother would never be pope, never secure the

elevation which she had so long fancied she was winning for him by dint

of devotion, dint of feminine renunciation, giving brain and heart, care

and money, foregoing even wifehood and motherhood, spoiling her whole

life, in order to realise that dream. And amidst all the ruin of hope, it

was perhaps the nonfulfilment of that ambition which most made her heart

bleed. She rose for the young priest, her guest, as she rose for the

other persons who presented themselves; but she contrived to introduce

shades of meaning into the manner in which she quitted her chair, and

Pierre fully realised that he had remained in her eyes a mere petty

French priest, an insignificant domestic of the Divinity who had not

known how to acquire even the title of prelate. When she had again seated

herself after acknowledging his compliment with a slight inclination of

the head, he remained for a moment standing, out of politeness. Not a

word, not a sound disturbed the mournful quiescence of the room, for

although there were four or five lady visitors seated there they remained

motionless and silent as with grief. Pierre was most struck, however, by

the sight of Cardinal Sarno, who was lying back in an arm-chair with his

eyes closed. The poor puny lopsided old man had lingered there

forgetfully after expressing his condolences, and, overcome by the heavy

silence and close atmosphere, had just fallen asleep. And everybody

respected his slumber. Was he dreaming as he dozed of that map of

Christendom which he carried behind his low obtuse-looking brow? Was he

continuing in dreamland his terrible work of conquest, that task of

subjecting and governing the earth which he directed from his dark room

at the Propaganda? The ladies glanced at him affectionately and

deferentially; he was gently scolded at times for over-working himself,

the sleepiness which nowadays frequently overtook him in all sorts of

places being attributed to excess of genius and zeal. And of this

all-powerful Eminence Pierre was destined to carry off only this last

impression: an exhausted old man, resting amidst the emotion of a

mourning-gathering, sleeping there like a candid child, without any one

knowing whether this were due to the approach of senile imbecility, or to

the fatigues of a night spent in organising the reign of God over some

distant continent.

Two ladies went off and three more arrived. Donna Serafina rose, bowed,

and then reseated herself, reverting to her rigid attitude, her bust

erect, her face stern and full of despair. Cardinal Sarno was still

asleep. Then Pierre felt as if he would stifle, a kind of vertigo came on

him, and his heart beat violently. So he bowed and withdrew: and on

passing through the dining-room on his way to the little study where

Cardinal Boccanera received his visitors, he found himself in the

presence of Paparelli who was jealously guarding the door. When the

train-bearer had sniffed at the young man, he seemed to realise that he

could not refuse him admittance. Moreover, as this intruder was going

away the very next day, defeated and covered with shame, there was

nothing to be feared from him.

“You wish to see his Eminence?” said Paparelli. “Good, good. By and by,

wait.” And opining that Pierre was too near the door, he pushed him back

to the other end of the room, for fear no doubt lest he should overhear

anything. “His Eminence is still engaged with his Eminence Cardinal

Sanguinetti. Wait, wait there!”

Sanguinetti indeed had made a point of kneeling for a long time in front

of the bodies in the throne-room, and had then spun out his visit to

Donna Serafina in order to mark how largely he shared the family sorrow.

And for more than ten minutes now he had been closeted with Cardinal

Boccanera, nothing but an occasional murmur of their voices being heard

through the closed door.

Pierre, however, on finding Paparelli there, was again haunted by all

that Don Vigilio had told him. He looked at the train-bearer, so fat and

short, puffed out with bad fat in his dirty cassock, his face flabby and

wrinkled, and his whole person at forty years of age suggestive of that

of a very old maid: and he felt astonished. How was it that Cardinal

Boccanera, that superb prince who carried his head so high, and who was

so supremely proud of his name, had allowed himself to be captured and

swayed by such a frightful creature reeking of baseness and abomination?

Was it not the man’s very physical degradation and profound humility that

had struck him, disturbed him, and finally fascinated him, as wondrous

gifts conducing to salvation, which he himself lacked? Paparelli’s person

and disposition were like blows dealt to his own handsome presence and

his own pride. He, who could not be so deformed, he who could not

vanquish his passion for glory, must, by an effort of faith, have grown

jealous of that man who was so extremely ugly and so extremely

insignificant, he must have come to admire him as a superior force of

penitence and human abasement which threw the portals of heaven wide

open. Who can ever tell what ascendency is exercised by the monster over

the hero; by the horrid-looking saint covered with vermin over the

powerful of this world in their terror at having to endure everlasting

flames in payment of their terrestrial joys? And ‘twas indeed the lion

devoured by the insect, vast strength and splendour destroyed by the

invisible. Ah! to have that fine soul which was so certain of paradise,

which for its welfare was enclosed in such a disgusting body, to possess

the happy humility of that wide intelligence, that remarkable theologian,

who scourged himself with rods each morning on rising, and was content to

be the lowest of servants.

Standing there a heap of livid fat, Paparelli on his side watched Pierre

with his little grey eyes blinking amidst the myriad wrinkles of his

face. And the young priest began to feel uneasy, wondering what their

Eminences could be saying to one another, shut up together like that for

so long a time. And what an interview it must be if Boccanera suspected

Sanguinetti of counting Santobono among his clients. What serene audacity

it was on Sanguinetti’s part to have dared to present himself in that

house, and what strength of soul there must be on Boccanera’s part, what

empire over himself, to prevent all scandal by remaining silent and

accepting the visit as a simple mark of esteem and affection! What could

they be saying to one another, however? How interesting it would have

been to have seen them face to face, and have heard them exchange the

diplomatic phrases suited to such an interview, whilst their souls were

raging with furious hatred!

All at once the door opened and Cardinal Sanguinetti appeared with calm

face, no ruddier than usual, indeed a trifle paler, and retaining the

fitting measure of sorrow which he had thought it right to assume. His

restless eyes alone revealed his delight at being rid of a difficult

task. And he was going off, all hope, in the conviction that he was the

only eligible candidate to the papacy that remained.

Abbe Paparelli had darted forward: “If your Eminence will kindly follow

me--I will escort your Eminence to the door.” Then, turning towards

Pierre, he added: “You may go in now.”

Pierre watched them walk away, the one so humble behind the other, who

was so triumphant. Then he entered the little work-room, furnished simply

with a table and three chairs, and in the centre of it he at once

perceived Cardinal Boccanera still standing in the lofty, noble attitude

which he had assumed to take leave of Sanguinetti, his hated rival to the

pontifical throne. And, visibly, Boccanera also believed himself the only

possible pope, the one whom the coming Conclave would elect.

However, when the door had been closed, and the Cardinal beheld that

young priest, his guest, who had witnessed the death of those two dear

children lying in the adjoining room, he was again mastered by emotion,

an unexpected attack of weakness in which all his energy collapsed. His

human feelings were taking their revenge now that his rival was no longer

there to see him. He staggered like an old tree smitten with the axe, and

sank upon a chair, stifling with sobs.

And as Pierre, according to usage, was about to stoop and kiss his ring,

he raised him and at once made him sit down, stammering in a halting

voice: “No, no, my dear son! Seat yourself there, wait--Excuse me, leave

me to myself for a moment, my heart is bursting.”

He sobbed with his hands to his face, unable to master himself, unable to

drive back his grief with those yet vigorous fingers which were pressed

to his cheeks and temples.

Tears came into Pierre’s eyes, for he also lived through all that woe

afresh, and was much upset by the weeping of that tall old man, that

saint and prince, usually so haughty, so fully master of himself, but now

only a poor, suffering, agonising man, as weak and as lost as a child.

However, although the young priest was likewise stifling with grief, he

desired to present his condolences, and sought for kindly words by which

he might soothe the other’s despair. “I beg your Eminence to believe in

my profound grief,” he said. “I have been overwhelmed with kindness here,

and desired at once to tell your Eminence how much that irreparable

loss--”

But with a brave gesture the Cardinal silenced him. “No, no, say nothing,

for mercy’s sake say nothing!”

And silence reigned while he continued weeping, shaken by the struggle he

was waging, his efforts to regain sufficient strength to overcome

himself. At last he mastered his quiver and slowly uncovered his face,

which had again become calm, like that of a believer strong in his faith,

and submissive to the will of God. In refusing a miracle, in dealing so

hard a blow to that house, God had doubtless had His reasons, and he, the

Cardinal, one of God’s ministers, one of the high dignitaries of His

terrestrial court, was in duty bound to bow to it. The silence lasted for

another moment, and then, in a voice which he managed to render natural

and cordial, Boccanera said: “You are leaving us, you are going back to

France to-morrow, are you not, my dear son?”

“Yes, I shall have the honour to take leave of your Eminence to-morrow,

again thanking your Eminence for your inexhaustible kindness.”

“And you have learnt that the Congregation of the Index has condemned

your book, as was inevitable?”

“Yes, I obtained the signal favour of being received by his Holiness, and

in his presence made my submission and reprobated my book.”

The Cardinal’s moist eyes again began to sparkle. “Ah! you did that, ah!

you did well, my dear son,” he said. “It was only your strict duty as a

priest, but there are so many nowadays who do not even do their duty! As

a member of the Congregation I kept the promise I gave you to read your

book, particularly the incriminated pages. And if I afterwards remained

neutral, to such a point even as to miss the sitting in which judgment

was pronounced, it was only to please my poor, dear niece, who was so

fond of you, and who pleaded your cause to me.”

Tears were coming into his eyes again, and he paused, feeling that he

would once more be overcome if he evoked the memory of that adored and

lamented Benedetta. And so it was with a pugnacious bitterness that he

resumed: “But what an execrable book it was, my dear son, allow me to

tell you so. You told me that you had shown respect for dogma, and I

still wonder what aberration can have come over you that you should have

been so blind to all consciousness of your offences. Respect for

dogma--good Lord! when the entire work is the negation of our holy

religion! Did you not realise that by asking for a new religion you

absolutely condemned the old one, the only true one, the only good one,

the only one that can be eternal? And that sufficed to make your book the

most deadly of poisons, one of those infamous books which in former times

were burnt by the hangman, and which one is nowadays compelled to leave

in circulation after interdicting them and thereby designating them to

evil curiosity, which explains the contagious rottenness of the century.

Ah! I well recognised there some of the ideas of our distinguished and

poetical relative, that dear Viscount Philibert de la Choue. A man of

letters, yes! a man of letters! Literature, mere literature! I beg God to

forgive him, for he most surely does not know what he is doing, or

whither he is going with his elegiac Christianity for talkative working

men and young persons of either sex, to whom scientific notions have

given vagueness of soul. And I only feel angry with his Eminence Cardinal

Bergerot, for he at any rate knows what he does, and does as he pleases.

No, say nothing, do not defend him. He personifies Revolution in the

Church, and is against God.”

Although Pierre had resolved that he would not reply or argue, he had

allowed a gesture of protest to escape him on hearing this furious attack

upon the man whom he most respected in the whole world. However, he

yielded to Cardinal Boccanera’s injunction and again bowed.

“I cannot sufficiently express my horror,” the Cardinal roughly

continued; “yes, my horror for all that hollow dream of a new religion!

That appeal to the most hideous passions which stir up the poor against

the rich, by promising them I know not what division of wealth, what

community of possession which is nowadays impossible! That base flattery

shown to the lower orders to whom equality and justice are promised but

never given, for these can come from God alone, it is only He who can

finally make them reign on the day appointed by His almighty power! And

there is even that interested charity which people abuse of to rail

against Heaven itself and accuse it of iniquity and indifference, that

lackadaisical weakening charity and compassion, unworthy of strong firm

hearts, for it is as if human suffering were not necessary for salvation,

as if we did not become more pure, greater and nearer to the supreme

happiness, the more and more we suffer!”

He was growing excited, full of anguish, and superb. It was his

bereavement, his heart wound, which thus exasperated him, the great blow

which had felled him for a moment, but against which he again rose erect,

defying grief, and stubborn in his stoic belief in an omnipotent God, who

was the master of mankind, and reserved felicity to those whom He

selected. Again, however, he made an effort to calm himself, and resumed

in a more gentle voice: “At all events the fold is always open, my dear

son, and here you are back in it since you have repented. You cannot

imagine how happy it makes me.”

In his turn Pierre strove to show himself conciliatory in order that he

might not further ulcerate that violent, grief-stricken soul: “Your

Eminence,” said he, “may be sure that I shall endeavour to remember every

one of the kind words which your Eminence has spoken to me, in the same

way as I shall remember the fatherly greeting of his Holiness Leo XIII.”

This sentence seemed to throw Boccanera into agitation again. At first

only murmured, restrained words came from him, as if he were struggling

against a desire to question the young priest. “Ah yes! you saw his

Holiness, you spoke to him, and he told you I suppose, as he tells all

the foreigners who go to pay their respects to him, that he desires

conciliation and peace. For my part I now only see him when it is

absolutely necessary; for more than a year I have not been received in

private audience.”

This proof of disfavour, of the covert struggle which as in the days of

Pius IX kept the Holy Father and the _Camerlingo_ at variance, filled the

latter with bitterness. He was unable to restrain himself and spoke out,

reflecting no doubt that he had a familiar before him, one whose

discretion was certain, and who moreover was leaving Rome on the morrow.

“One may go a long way,” said he, “with those fine words, peace and

conciliation, which are so often void of real wisdom and courage. The

terrible truth is that Leo XIII’s eighteen years of concessions have

shaken everything in the Church, and should he long continue to reign

Catholicism would topple over and crumble into dust like a building whose

pillars have been undermined.”

Interested by this remark, Pierre in his desire for knowledge began to

raise objections. “But hasn’t his Holiness shown himself very prudent?”

he asked; “has he not placed dogma on one side in an impregnable

fortress? If he seems to have made concessions on many points, have they

not always been concessions in mere matters of form?”

“Matters of form; ah, yes!” the Cardinal resumed with increasing passion.

“He told you, no doubt, as he tells others, that whilst in substance he

will make no surrender, he will readily yield in matters of form! It’s a

deplorable axiom, an equivocal form of diplomacy even when it isn’t so

much low hypocrisy! My soul revolts at the thought of that Opportunism,

that Jesuitism which makes artifice its weapon, and only serves to cast

doubt among true believers, the confusion of a _sauve-qui-peut_, which by

and by must lead to inevitable defeat. It is cowardice, the worst form of

cowardice, abandonment of one’s weapons in order that one may retreat the

more speedily, shame of oneself, assumption of a mask in the hope of

deceiving the enemy, penetrating into his camp, and overcoming him by

treachery! No, no, form is everything in a traditional and immutable

religion, which for eighteen hundred years has been, is now, and till the

end of time will be the very law of God!”

The Cardinal’s feelings so stirred him that he was unable to remain

seated, and began to walk about the little room. And it was the whole

reign, the whole policy of Leo XIII which he discussed and condemned.

“Unity too,” he continued, “that famous unity of the Christian Church

which his Holiness talks of bringing about, and his desire for which

people turn to his great glory, why, it is only the blind ambition of a

conqueror enlarging his empire without asking himself if the new nations

that he subjects may not disorganise, adulterate, and impregnate his old

and hitherto faithful people with every error. What if all the

schismatical nations on returning to the Catholic Church should so

transform it as to kill it and make it a new Church? There is only one

wise course, which is to be what one is, and that firmly. Again, isn’t

there both shame and danger in that pretended alliance with the democracy

which in itself gives the lie to the ancient spirit of the papacy? The

right of kings is divine, and to abandon the monarchical principle is to

set oneself against God, to compound with revolution, and harbour a

monstrous scheme of utilising the madness of men the better to establish

one’s power over them. All republics are forms of anarchy, and there can

be no more criminal act, one which must for ever shake the principle of

authority, order, and religion itself, than that of recognising a

republic as legitimate for the sole purpose of indulging a dream of

impossible conciliation. And observe how this bears on the question of

the temporal power. He continues to claim it, he makes a point of no

surrender on that question of the restoration of Rome; but in reality,

has he not made the loss irreparable, has he not definitively renounced

Rome, by admitting that nations have the right to drive away their kings

and live like wild beasts in the depths of the forest?”

All at once the Cardinal stopped short and raised his arms to Heaven in a

burst of holy anger. “Ah! that man, ah! that man who by his vanity and

craving for success will have proved the ruin of the Church, that man who

has never ceased corrupting everything, dissolving everything, crumbling

everything in order to reign over the world which he fancies he will

reconquer by those means, why, Almighty God, why hast Thou not already

called him to Thee?”

So sincere was the accent in which that appeal to Death was raised, to

such a point was hatred magnified by a real desire to save the Deity

imperilled here below, that a great shudder swept through Pierre also. He

now understood that Cardinal Boccanera who religiously and passionately

hated Leo XIII; he saw him in the depths of his black palace, waiting and

watching for the Pope’s death, that death which as _Camerlingo_ he must

officially certify. How feverishly he must wait, how impatiently he must

desire the advent of the hour, when with his little silver hammer he

would deal the three symbolic taps on the skull of Leo XIII, while the

latter lay cold and rigid on his bed surrounded by his pontifical Court.

Ah! to strike that wall of the brain, to make sure that nothing more

would answer from within, that nothing beyond night and silence was left

there. And the three calls would ring out: “Gioachino! Gioachino!

Gioachino!” And, the corpse making no answer, the _Camerlingo_ after

waiting for a few seconds would turn and say: “The Pope is dead!”

“Conciliation, however, is the weapon of the times,” remarked Pierre,

wishing to bring the Cardinal back to the present, “and it is in order to

make sure of conquering that the Holy Father yields in matters of form.”

“He will not conquer, he will be conquered,” cried Boccanera. “Never has

the Church been victorious save in stubbornly clinging to its

integrality, the immutable eternity of its divine essence. And it would

for a certainty fall on the day when it should allow a single stone of

its edifice to be touched. Remember the terrible period through which it

passed at the time of the Council of Trent. The Reformation had just

deeply shaken it, laxity of discipline and morals was everywhere

increasing, there was a rising tide of novelties, ideas suggested by the

spirit of evil, unhealthy projects born of the pride of man, running riot

in full license. And at the Council itself many members were disturbed,

poisoned, ready to vote for the wildest changes, a fresh schism added to

all the others. Well, if Catholicism was saved at that critical period,

under the threat of such great danger, it was because the majority,

enlightened by God, maintained the old edifice intact, it was because

with divinely inspired obstinacy it kept itself within the narrow limits

of dogma, it was because it made no concession, none, whether in

substance or in form! Nowadays the situation is certainly not worse than

it was at the time of the Council of Trent. Let us suppose it to be much

the same, and tell me if it is not nobler, braver, and safer for the

Church to show the courage which she showed before and declare aloud what

she is, what she has been, and what she will be. There is no salvation

for her otherwise than in her complete, indisputable sovereignty; and

since she has always conquered by non-surrender, all attempts to

conciliate her with the century are tantamount to killing her!”

The Cardinal had again begun to walk to and fro with thoughtful step.

“No, no,” said he, “no compounding, no surrender, no weakness! Rather the

wall of steel which bars the road, the block of granite which marks the

limit of a world! As I told you, my dear son, on the day of your arrival,

to try to accommodate Catholicism to the new times is to hasten its end,

if really it be threatened, as atheists pretend. And in that way it would

die basely and shamefully instead of dying erect, proud, and dignified in

its old glorious royalty! Ah! to die standing, denying nought of the

past, braving the future and confessing one’s whole faith!”

That old man of seventy seemed to grow yet loftier as he spoke, free from

all dread of final annihilation, and making the gesture of a hero who

defies futurity. Faith had given him serenity of peace; he believed, he

knew, he had neither doubt nor fear of the morrow of death. Still his

voice was tinged with haughty sadness as he resumed, “God can do all,

even destroy His own work should it seem evil in His eyes. But though all

should crumble to-morrow, though the Holy Church should disappear among

the ruins, though the most venerated sanctuaries should be crushed by the

falling stars, it would still be necessary for us to bow and adore God,

who after creating the world might thus annihilate it for His own glory.

And I wait, submissive to His will, for nothing happens unless He wills

it. If really the temples be shaken, if Catholicism be fated to fall

to-morrow into dust, I shall be here to act as the minister of death,

even as I have been the minister of life! It is certain, I confess it,

that there are hours when terrible signs appear to me. Perhaps, indeed,

the end of time is nigh, and we shall witness that fall of the old world

with which others threaten us. The worthiest, the loftiest are struck

down as if Heaven erred, and in them punished the crimes of the world.

Have I not myself felt the blast from the abyss into which all must sink,

since my house, for transgressions that I am ignorant of, has been

stricken with that frightful bereavement which precipitates it into the

gulf which casts it back into night everlasting!”

He again evoked those two dear dead ones who were always present in his

mind. Sobs were once more rising in his throat, his hands trembled, his

lofty figure quivered with the last revolt of grief. Yes, if God had

stricken him so severely by suppressing his race, if the greatest and

most faithful were thus punished, it must be that the world was

definitively condemned. Did not the end of his house mean the approaching

end of all? And in his sovereign pride as priest and as prince, he found

a cry of supreme resignation, once more raising his hands on high:

“Almighty God, Thy will be done! May all die, all fall, all return to the

night of chaos! I shall remain standing in this ruined palace, waiting to

be buried beneath its fragments. And if Thy will should summon me to bury

Thy holy religion, be without fear, I shall do nothing unworthy to

prolong its life for a few days! I will maintain it erect, like myself,

as proud, as uncompromising as in the days of all its power. I will yield

nothing, whether in discipline, or in rite, or in dogma. And when the day

shall come I will bury it with myself, carrying it whole into the grave

rather than yielding aught of it, encompassing it with my cold arms to

restore it to Thee, even as Thou didst commit it to the keeping of Thy

Church. O mighty God and sovereign Master, dispose of me, make me if such

be Thy good pleasure the pontiff of destruction, the pontiff of the death

of the world.”

Pierre, who was thunderstruck, quivered with fear and admiration at the

extraordinary vision this evoked: the last of the popes interring

Catholicism. He understood that Boccanera must at times have made that

dream; he could see him in the Vatican, in St. Peter’s which the

thunderbolts had riven asunder, he could see him erect and alone in the

spacious halls whence his terrified, cowardly pontifical Court had fled.

Clad in his white cassock, thus wearing white mourning for the Church, he

once more descended to the sanctuary, there to wait for heaven to fall on

the evening of Time’s accomplishment and annihilate the earth. Thrice he

raised the large crucifix, overthrown by the supreme convulsions of the

soil. Then, when the final crack rent the steps apart, he caught it in

his arms and was annihilated with it beneath the falling vaults. And

nothing could be more instinct with fierce and kingly grandeur.

Voiceless, but without weakness, his lofty stature invincible and erect

in spite of all, Cardinal Boccanera made a gesture dismissing Pierre, who

yielding to his passion for truth and beauty found that he alone was

great and right, and respectfully kissed his hand.

It was in the throne-room, with closed doors, at nightfall, after the

visits had ceased, that the two bodies were laid in their coffin. The

religious services had come to an end, and in the close silent atmosphere

there only lingered the dying perfume of the roses and the warm odour of

the candles. As the latter’s pale stars scarcely lighted the spacious

room, some lamps had been brought, and servants held them in their hands

like torches. According to custom, all the servants of the house were

present to bid a last farewell to the departed.

There was a little delay. Morano, who had been giving himself no end of

trouble ever since morning, was forced to run off again as the triple

coffin did not arrive. At last it came, some servants brought it up, and

then they were able to begin. The Cardinal and Donna Serafina stood side

by side near the bed. Pierre also was present, as well as Don Vigilio. It

was Victorine who sewed the lovers up in the white silk shroud, which

seemed like a bridal robe, the gay pure robe of their union. Then two

servants came forward and helped Pierre and Don Vigilio to lay the bodies

in the first coffin, of pine wood lined with pink satin. It was scarcely

broader than an ordinary coffin, so young and slim were the lovers and so

tightly were they clasped in their last embrace. When they were stretched

inside they there continued their eternal slumber, their heads half

hidden by their odorous, mingling hair. And when this first coffin had

been placed in the second one, a leaden shell, and the second had been

enclosed in the third, of stout oak, and when the three lids had been

soldered and screwed down, the lovers’ faces could still be seen through

the circular opening, covered with thick glass, which in accordance with

the Roman custom had been left in each of the coffins. And then, for ever

parted from the living, alone together, they still gazed at one another

with their eyes obstinately open, having all eternity before them wherein

to exhaust their infinite love.

XVI.

ON the following day, on his return from the funeral Pierre lunched alone

in his room, having decided to take leave of the Cardinal and Donna

Serafina during the afternoon. He was quitting Rome that evening by the

train which started at seventeen minutes past ten. There was nothing to

detain him any longer; there was only one visit which he desired to make,

a visit to old Orlando, with whom he had promised to have a long chat

prior to his departure. And so a little before two o’clock he sent for a

cab which took him to the Via Venti Settembre. A fine rain had fallen all

night, its moisture steeping the city in grey vapour; and though this

rain had now ceased the sky remained very dark, and the huge new mansions

of the Via Venti Settembre were quite livid, interminably mournful with

their balconies ever of the same pattern and their regular and endless

rows of windows. The Ministry of Finances, that colossal pile of masonry

and sculpture, looked in particular like a dead town, a huge bloodless

body whence all life had withdrawn. On the other hand, although all was

so gloomy the rain had made the atmosphere milder, in fact it was almost

warm, damply and feverishly warm.

In the hall of Prada’s little palazzo Pierre was surprised to find four

or five gentlemen taking off their overcoats; however he learnt from a

servant that Count Luigi had a meeting that day with some contractors. As

he, Pierre, wished to see the Count’s father he had only to ascend to the

third floor, added the servant. He must knock at the little door on the

right-hand side of the landing there.

On the very first landing, however, the priest found himself face to face

with the young Count who was there receiving the contractors, and who on

recognising him became frightfully pale. They had not met since the

tragedy at the Boccanera mansion, and Pierre well realised how greatly

his glance disturbed that man, what a troublesome recollection of moral

complicity it evoked, and what mortal dread lest he should have guessed

the truth.

“Have you come to see me, have you something to tell me?” the Count

inquired.

“No, I am leaving Rome, I have come to wish your father good-bye.”