XI

ALTHOUGH Pierre knew that he would be unable to see Cardinal Sanguinetti

before eleven o'clock, he nevertheless availed himself of an early train,

so that it was barely nine when he alighted at the little station of

Frascati. He had already visited the place during his enforced idleness,

when he had made the classical excursion to the Roman castles which

extend from Frascati to Rocco di Papa, and from Rocco di Papa to Monte

Cavo, and he was now delighted with the prospect of strolling for a

couple of hours along those first slopes of the Alban hills, where,

amidst rushes, olives, and vines, Frascati, like a promontory, overlooks

the immense ruddy sea of the Campagna even as far as Rome, which, six

full leagues away, wears the whitish aspect of a marble isle.

Ah! that charming Frascati, on its greeny knoll at the foot of the wooded

Tusculan heights, with its famous terrace whence one enjoys the finest

view in the world, its old patrician villas with proud and elegant

Renascence facades and magnificent parks, which, planted with cypress,

pine, and ilex, are for ever green! There was a sweetness, a delight, a

fascination about the spot, of which Pierre would have never wearied. And

for more than an hour he had wandered blissfully along roads edged with

ancient, knotty olive-trees, along dingle ways shaded by the spreading

foliage of neighbouring estates, and along perfumed paths, at each turn

of which the Campagna was seen stretching far away, when all at once he

was accosted by a person whom he was both surprised and annoyed to meet.

He had strolled down to some low ground near the railway station, some

old vineyards where a number of new houses had been built of recent

years, and suddenly saw a stylish pair-horse victoria, coming from the

direction of Rome, draw up close by, whilst its occupant called to him:

"What! Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, are you taking a walk here, at this early

hour?"

Thereupon Pierre recognised Count Luigi Prada, who alighted, shook hands

with him and began to walk beside him, whilst the empty carriage went on

in advance. And forthwith the Count explained his tastes: "I seldom take

the train," he said, "I drive over. It gives my horses an outing. I have

interests over here as you may know, a big building enterprise which is

unfortunately not progressing very well. And so, although the season is

advanced, I'm obliged to come rather more frequently than I care to do."

As Prada suggested, Pierre was acquainted with the story. The Boccaneras

had been obliged to sell a sumptuous villa which a cardinal of their

family had built at Frascati in accordance with the plans of Giacomo

della Porta, during the latter part of the sixteenth century: a regal

summer-residence it had been, finely wooded, with groves and basins and

cascades, and in particular a famous terrace projecting like a cape above

the Roman Campagna whose expanse stretches from the Sabine mountains to

the Mediterranean sands. Through the division of the property, Benedetta

had inherited from her mother some very extensive vineyards below

Frascati, and these she had brought as dowry to Prada at the very moment

when the building mania was extending from Rome into the provinces. And

thereupon Prada had conceived the idea of erecting on the spot a number

of middle-class villas like those which litter the suburbs of Paris. Few

purchasers, however, had come forward, the financial crash had

supervened, and he was now with difficulty liquidating this unlucky

business, having indemnified his wife at the time of their separation.

"And then," he continued, addressing Pierre, "one can come and go as one

likes with a carriage, whereas, on taking the train, one is at the mercy

of the time table. This morning, for instance, I have appointments with

contractors, experts, and lawyers, and I have no notion how long they

will keep me. It's a wonderful country, isn't it? And we are quite right

to be proud of it in Rome. Although I may have some worries just now, I

can never set foot here without my heart beating with delight."

A circumstance which he did not mention, was that his /amica/, Lisbeth

Kauffmann, had spent the summer in one of the newly erected villas, where

she had installed her studio and had been visited by all the foreign

colony, which tolerated her irregular position on account of her gay

spirits and artistic talent. Indeed, people had even ended by accepting

the outcome of her connection with Prada, and a fortnight previously she

had returned to Rome, and there given birth to a son--an event which had

again revived all the scandalous tittle-tattle respecting Benedetta's

divorce suit. And Prada's attachment to Frascati doubtless sprang from

the recollection of the happy hours he had spent there, and the joyful

pride with which the birth of the boy inspired him.

Pierre, for his part, felt ill at ease in the young Count's presence, for

he had an instinctive hatred of money-mongers and men of prey.

Nevertheless, he desired to respond to his amiability, and so inquired

after his father, old Orlando, the hero of the Liberation.

"Oh!" replied Prada, "excepting for his legs he's in wonderfully good

health. He'll live a hundred years. Poor father! I should so much have

liked to install him in one of these little houses, last summer. But I

could not get him to consent; he's determined not to leave Rome; he's

afraid, perhaps, that it might be taken away from him during his

absence." Then the young Count burst into a laugh, quite merry at the

thought of jeering at the heroic but no longer fashionable age of

independence. And afterwards he said, "My father was speaking of you

again only yesterday, Monsieur l'Abbe. He is astonished that he has not

seen you lately."

This distressed Pierre, for he had begun to regard Orlando with

respectful affection. Since his first visit, he had twice called on the

old hero, but the latter had refused to broach the subject of Rome so

long as his young friend should not have seen, felt, and understood

everything. There would be time for a talk later on, said he, when they

were both in a position to formulate their conclusions.

"Pray tell Count Orlando," responded Pierre, "that I have not forgotten

him, and that, if I have deferred a fresh visit, it is because I desire

to satisfy him. However, I certainly will not leave Rome without going to

tell him how deeply his kind greeting has touched me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

off in the direction of the town.

"Ah!" resumed the Count in a tone of raillery, "that fellow's heart also

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

news."

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

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

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

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

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

absolutely refused him the certificate."

"It's the same man," said Prada, "you may depend on it. He was often at

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

philosopher, cultivating the somewhat extensive garden whose big walls

you see yonder."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

contradictions and fancies clashed in his foggy brain, whose burning

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

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

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

capable alike of great virtues and great crimes.

"Yes," concluded Prada, "he is now devoted to Cardinal Sanguinetti

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanguinetti don the tiara."

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

interested.

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

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

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

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

prove fatal."

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

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

were vacant?"

"A great chance! Ah! that's another of those things which one never

knows. The truth is people class Sanguinetti among the acceptable

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

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

extraordinary passion and determination in his efforts to succeed. But

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

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

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

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

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

disinterestedness which is bound to have a good effect."

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

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

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

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

had already resolved to win the tiara. That ambition explained

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

complete programme of intentional vagueness, which his clients and

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

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

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

Jesuits would resign themselves to support Cardinal Pio Boccanera,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

repeating abominable stories of Cardinal Pio's alleged complaisance with

regard to Benedetta and Dario, and incessantly representing him as

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

President.

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

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

added, "we need to defend ourselves, since it's a question of turning us

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

Nevertheless, such dreams naturally have great influence on excited

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

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

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

white villa with the sculptured balconies."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

company at table."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

little finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

next heard riveted him to the spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

frightful anguish. The partisans of Antichrist have lately gained much

ground."