XII

IT was ten o'clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe di

Roma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down the

Corso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficulty

to reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, and

the inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway,

in spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact that

even the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on the

first floor of the long monumental facade shone with an intense white

radiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street like

sunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whose

billows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinary

tumult.

And in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms

go by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre

soon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the

arrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball

given by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his

daughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his

Majesty's ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage,

the happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: to

begin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of a

lightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over all

obstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip to

lip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart.

It was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, who

already knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince had

ended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear of

seeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threaten

to do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contempt

for everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to be

capable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Only

indifference was manifested by the Prince's wife, a phlegmatic and still

beautiful Englishwoman, who considered that she had done quite enough for

the household by bringing her husband a dowry of five millions, and

bearing him five children. The Prince, anxious and weak despite his

violence, in which one found a trace of the old Roman blood, already

spoilt by mixture with that of a foreign race, was nowadays ever

influenced in his actions by the fear that his house and fortune--which

hitherto had remained intact amidst the accumulated ruins of the

/patriziato/--might suddenly collapse. And in finally yielding to Celia,

he must have been guided by the idea of rallying to the new /regime/

through his daughter, so as to have one foot firmly set at the Quirinal,

without withdrawing the other from the Vatican. It was galling, no doubt;

his pride must have bled at the idea of allying his name with that of

such low folks as the Saccos. But then Sacco was a minister, and had sped

so quickly from success to success that it seemed likely he would rise

yet higher, and, after the portfolio of Agriculture, secure that of

Finances, which he had long coveted. And an alliance with Sacco meant the

certain favour of the King, an assured retreat in that direction should

the papacy some day collapse. Then, too, the Prince had made inquiries

respecting the son, and was somewhat disarmed by the good looks, bravery,

and rectitude of young Attilio, who represented the future, and possibly

the glorious Italy of to-morrow. He was a soldier, and could be helped

forward to the highest rank. And people spitefully added that the last

reason which had influenced the Prince, who was very avaricious, and

greatly worried by the thought that his fortune must be divided among his

five children,* was that an opportunity presented itself for him to

bestow a ridiculously small dowry on Celia. However, having consented to

the marriage, he resolved to give a splendid /fete/, such as was now

seldom witnessed in Rome, throwing his doors open to all the rival

sections of society, inviting the sovereigns, and setting the palazzo

ablaze as in the grand days of old. In doing this he would necessarily

have to expend some of the money to which he clung, but a boastful spirit

incited him to show the world that he at any rate had not been vanquished

by the financial crisis, and that the Buongiovannis had nothing to hide

and nothing to blush for. To tell the truth, some people asserted that

this bravado had not originated with himself, but had been instilled into

him without his knowledge by the quiet and innocent Celia, who wished to

exhibit her happiness to all applauding Rome.

* The Italian succession law is similar to the French. Children

cannot be disinherited. All property is divided among them,

and thus the piling up of large hereditary fortunes is

prevented.--Trans.

"Dear me!" said Narcisse, whom the throng prevented from advancing. "We

shall never get in. Why, they seem to have invited the whole city." And

then, as Pierre seemed surprised to see a prelate drive up in his

carriage, the /attache/ added: "Oh! you will elbow more than one of them

upstairs. The cardinals won't like to come on account of the presence of

the King and Queen, but the prelates are sure to be here. This, you know,

is a neutral drawing-room where the black and the white worlds can

fraternise. And then too, there are so few /fetes/ that people rush on

them."

He went on to explain that there were two grand balls at Court every

winter, but that it was only under exceptional circumstances that the

/patriziato/ gave similar /galas/. Two or three of the black /salons/

were opened once in a way towards the close of the Carnival, but little

dances among intimates replaced the pompous entertainments of former

times. Some princesses moreover merely had their day. And as for the few

white /salons/ that existed, these likewise retained the same character

of intimacy, more or less mixed, for no lady had yet become the

undisputed queen of the new society.

"Well, here we are at last," resumed Narcisse as they eventually climbed

the stairs.

"Let us keep together," Pierre somewhat anxiously replied. "My only

acquaintance is with the /fiancee/, and I want you to introduce me."

However, a considerable effort was needed even to climb the monumental

staircase, so great was the crush of arriving guests. Never, in the old

days of wax candles and oil lamps, had this staircase offered such a

blaze of light. Electric lamps, burning in clusters in superb bronze

candelabra on the landings, steeped everything in a white radiance. The

cold stucco of the walls was hidden by a series of lofty tapestries

depicting the story of Cupid and Psyche, marvels which had remained in

the family since the days of the Renascence. And a thick carpet covered

the worn marble steps, whilst clumps of evergreens and tall spreading

palms decorated every corner. An affluence of new blood warmed the

antique mansion that evening; there was a resurrection of life, so to

say, as the women surged up the staircase, smiling and perfumed,

bare-shouldered, and sparkling with diamonds.

At the entrance of the first reception-room Pierre at once perceived

Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, standing side by side and receiving

their guests. The Prince, a tall, slim man with fair complexion and hair

turning grey, had the pale northern eyes of his American mother in an

energetic face such as became a former captain of the popes. The

Princess, with small, delicate, and rounded features, looked barely

thirty, though she had really passed her fortieth year. And still pretty,

displaying a smiling serenity which nothing could disconcert, she purely

and simply basked in self-adoration. Her gown was of pink satin, and a

marvellous parure of large rubies set flamelets about her dainty neck and

in her fine, fair hair. Of her five children, her son, the eldest, was

travelling, and three of the girls, mere children, were still at school,

so that only Celia was present, Celia in a modest gown of white muslin,

fair like her mother, quite bewitching with her large innocent eyes and

her candid lips, and retaining to the very end of her love story the

semblance of a closed lily of impenetrable, virginal mysteriousness. The

Saccos had but just arrived, and Attilio, in his simple lieutenant's

uniform, had remained near his betrothed, so naively and openly delighted

with his great happiness that his handsome face, with its caressing mouth

and brave eyes, was quite resplendent with youth and strength. Standing

there, near one another, in the triumph of their passion they appeared

like life's very joy and health, like the personification of hope in the

morrow's promises; and the entering guests who saw them could not refrain

from smiling and feeling moved, momentarily forgetting their loquacious

and malicious curiosity to give their hearts to those chosen ones of love

who looked so handsome and so enraptured.

Narcisse stepped forward in order to present Pierre, but Celia

anticipated him. Going to meet the young priest she led him to her father

and mother, saying: "Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre Froment, a friend of my dear

Benedetta." Ceremonious salutations followed. Then the young girl, whose

graciousness greatly touched Pierre, said to him: "Benedetta is coming

with her aunt and Dario. She must be very happy this evening! And you

will also see how beautiful she will be."

Pierre and Narcisse next began to congratulate her, but they could not

remain there, the throng was ever jostling them; and the Prince and

Princess, quite lost in the crush, had barely time to answer the many

salutations with amiable, continuous nods. And Celia, after conducting

the two friends to Attilio, was obliged to return to her parents so as to

take her place beside them as the little queen of the /fete/.

Narcisse was already slightly acquainted with Attilio, and so fresh

congratulations ensued. Then the two friends manoeuvred to find a spot

where they might momentarily tarry and contemplate the spectacle which

this first /salon/ presented. It was a vast hall, hung with green velvet

broidered with golden flowers, and contained a very remarkable collection

of weapons and armour, breast-plates, battle-axes, and swords, almost all

of which had belonged to the Buongiovannis of the fifteenth and sixteenth

centuries. And amidst those stern implements of war there was a lovely

sedan-chair of the last century, gilded and decorated with delicate

paintings. It was in this chair that the Prince's great-grandmother, the

celebrated Bettina, whose beauty was historical, had usually been carried

to mass. On the walls, moreover, there were numerous historical

paintings: battles, peace congresses, and royal receptions in which the

Buongiovannis had taken part, without counting the many family portraits,

tall and proud figures of sea-captains, commanders in the field, great

dignitaries of the Church, prelates and cardinals, amongst whom, in the

place of honour, appeared the family pope, the white-robed Buongiovanni

whose accession to the pontifical throne had enriched a long line of

descendants. And it was among those armours, near that coquettish sedan,

and below those antique portraits, that the Saccos, husband and wife, had

in their turn just halted, at a few steps from the master and mistress of

the house, in order to secure their share of congratulations and bows.

"Look over there!" Narcisse whispered to Pierre, "those are the Saccos in

front of us, that dark little fellow and the lady in mauve silk."

Pierre promptly recognised the bright face and pleasant smile of Stefana,

whom he had already met at old Orlando's. But he was more interested in

her husband, a dark dry man, with big eyes, sallow complexion, prominent

chin, and vulturine nose. Like some gay Neapolitan "Pulcinello," he was

dancing, shouting, and displaying such infectious good humour that it

spread to all around him. He possessed a wonderful gift of speech, with a

voice that was unrivalled as an instrument of fascination and conquest;

and on seeing how easily he ingratiated himself with the people in that

drawing-room, one could understand his lightning-like successes in the

political world. He had manoeuvered with rare skill in the matter of his

son's marriage, affecting such exaggerated delicacy of feeling as to set

himself against the lovers, and declare that he would never consent to

their union, as he had no desire to be accused of stealing a dowry and a

title. As a matter of fact, he had only yielded after the Buongiovannis

had given their consent, and even then he had desired to take the opinion

of old Orlando, whose lofty integrity was proverbial. However, he knew

right well that he would secure the old hero's approval in this

particular affair, for Orlando made no secret of his opinion that the

Buongiovannis ought to be glad to admit his grand-nephew into their

family, as that handsome young fellow, with brave and healthy heart,

would help to regenerate their impoverished blood. And throughout the

whole affair, Sacco had shrewdly availed himself of Orlando's famous

name, for ever talking of the relationship between them, and displaying

filial veneration for this glorious founder of the country, as if indeed

he had no suspicion that the latter despised and execrated him and

mourned his accession to power in the conviction that he would lead Italy

to shame and ruin.

"Ah!" resumed Narcisse addressing Pierre, "he's one of those supple,

practical men who care nothing for a smack in the face. It seems that

unscrupulous individuals like himself become necessary when states get

into trouble and have to pass through political, financial, and moral

crises. It is said that Sacco with his imperturbable assurance and

ingenious and resourceful mind has quite won the King's favour. Just look

at him! Why, with that crowd of courtiers round him, one might think him

the master of this palace!"

And indeed the guests, after passing the Prince and Princess with a bow,

at once congregated around Sacco, for he represented power, emoluments,

pensions, and crosses; and if folks still smiled at seeing his dark,

turbulent, and scraggy figure amidst that framework of family portraits

which proclaimed the mighty ancestry of the Buongiovannis, they none the

less worshipped him as the personification of the new power, the

democratic force which was confusedly rising even from the old Roman soil

where the /patriziato/ lay in ruins.

"What a crowd!" muttered Pierre. "Who are all these people?"

"Oh!" replied Narcisse, "it is a regular mixture. These people belong

neither to the black nor the white world; they form a grey world as it

were. The evolution was certain; a man like Cardinal Boccanera may retain

an uncompromising attitude, but a whole city, a nation can't. The Pope

alone will always say no and remain immutable. But everything around him

progresses and undergoes transformation, so that in spite of all

resistance, Rome will become Italian in a few years' time. Even now,

whenever a prince has two sons only one of them remains on the side of

the Vatican, the other goes over to the Quirinal. People must live, you

see; and the great families threatened with annihilation have not

sufficient heroism to carry obstinacy to the point of suicide. And I have

already told you that we are here on neutral ground, for Prince

Buongiovanni was one of the first to realise the necessity of

conciliation. He feels that his fortune is perishing, he does not care to

risk it either in industry or in speculation, and already sees it

portioned out among his five children, by whose descendants it will be

yet further divided; and this is why he prudently makes advances to the

King without, however, breaking with the Pope. In this /salon/,

therefore, you see a perfect picture of the /debacle/, the confusion

which reigns in the Prince's ideas and opinions." Narcisse paused, and

then began to name some of the persons who were coming in. "There's a

general," said he, "who has become very popular since his last campaign

in Africa. There will be a great many military men here this evening, for

all Attilio's superiors have been invited, so as to give the young man an

/entourage/ of glory. Ah! and there's the German ambassador. I fancy that

nearly all the Corps Diplomatique will come on account of their

Majesties' presence. But, by way of contrast, just look at that stout

fellow yonder. He's a very influential deputy, a /parvenu/ of the new

middle class. Thirty years ago he was merely one of Prince Albertini's

farmers, one of those /mercanti di campagna/ who go about the environs of

Rome in stout boots and a soft felt hat. And now look at that prelate

coming in--"

"Oh! I know him," Pierre interrupted. "He's Monsignor Fornaro."

"Exactly, Monsignor Fornaro, a personage of some importance. You told me,

I remember, that he is the reporter of the Congregation in that affair of

your book. A most delightful man! Did you see how he bowed to the

Princess? And what a noble and graceful bearing he has in his little

mantle of violet silk!"

Then Narcisse went on enumerating the princes and princesses, the dukes

and duchesses, the politicians and functionaries, the diplomatists and

ministers, and the officers and well-to-do middle-class people, who of

themselves made up a most wonderful medley of guests, to say nothing of

the representatives of the various foreign colonies, English people,

Americans, Germans, Spaniards, and Russians, in a word, all ancient

Europe, and both Americas. And afterwards the young man reverted to the

Saccos, to the little Signora Sacco in particular, in order to tell

Pierre of the heroic efforts which she had made to open a /salon/ for the

purpose of assisting her husband's ambition. Gentle and modest as she

seemed, she was also very shrewd, endowed with genuine qualities,

Piedmontese patience and strength of resistance, orderly habits and

thriftiness. And thus it was she who re-established the equilibrium in

household affairs which her husband by his exuberance so often disturbed.

He was indeed greatly indebted to her, though nobody suspected it. At the

same time, however, she had so far failed in her attempts to establish a

white /salon/ which should take the lead in influencing opinion. Only the

people of her own set visited her, not a single prince ever came, and her

Monday dances were the same as in a score of other middle-class homes,

having no brilliancy and no importance. In fact, the real white /salon/,

which should guide men and things and sway all Rome was still in

dreamland.

"Just notice her keen smile as she examines everything here," resumed

Narcisse. "She's teaching herself and forming plans, I'm sure of it. Now

that she is about to be connected with a princely family she probably

hopes to receive some of the best society."

Large as was the room, the crowd in it had by this time grown so dense

that the two friends were pressed back to a wall, and felt almost

stifled. The /attache/ therefore decided to lead the priest elsewhere,

and as they walked along he gave him some particulars concerning the

palace, which was one of the most sumptuous in Rome, and renowned for the

magnificence of its reception-rooms. Dancing took place in the picture

gallery, a superb apartment more than sixty feet long, with eight windows

overlooking the Corso; while the buffet was installed in the Hall of the

Antiques, a marble hall, which among other precious things contained a

statue of Venus, rivalling the one at the Capitol. Then there was a suite

of marvellous /salons/, still resplendent with ancient luxury, hung with

the rarest stuffs, and retaining some unique specimens of old-time

furniture, on which covetous antiquaries kept their eyes fixed, whilst

waiting and hoping for the inevitable future ruin. And one of these

apartments, the little Saloon of the Mirrors, was particularly famous. Of

circular shape and Louis XV style, it was surrounded by mirrors in

/rococo/ frames, extremely rich, and most exquisitely carved.

"You will see all that by and by," continued Narcisse. "At present we had

better go in here if we want to breathe a little. It is here that the

arm-chairs from the adjacent gallery have been brought for the

accommodation of the ladies who desire to sit down and be seen and

admired."

The apartment they entered was a spacious one, draped with the most

superb Genoese velvet, that antique /jardiniere/ velvet with pale satin

ground, and flowers once of dazzling brightness, whose greens and blues

and reds had now become exquisitely soft, with the subdued, faded tones

of old floral love-tokens. On the pier tables and in the cabinets all

around were some of the most precious curios in the palace, ivory

caskets, gilt and painted wood carvings, pieces of antique

plate--briefly, a collection of marvels. And several ladies, fleeing the

crush, had already taken refuge on the numerous seats, clustering in

little groups, and laughing and chatting with the few gentlemen who had

discovered this retreat of grace and /galanterie/. In the bright glow of

the lamps nothing could be more delightful than the sight of all those

bare, sheeny shoulders, and those supple necks, above whose napes were

coiled tresses of fair or raven hair. Bare arms emerged like living

flowers of flesh from amidst the mingling lace and silk of soft-hued

bodices. The fans played slowly, as if to heighten the fires of the

precious stones, and at each beat wafted around an /odore di femina/

blended with a predominating perfume of violets.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Narcisse, "there's our good friend Monsignor Nani

bowing to the Austrian ambassadress."

As soon as Nani perceived the young priest and his companion he came

towards them, and the trio then withdrew into the embrasure of a window

in order that they might chat for a moment at their ease. The prelate was

smiling like one enchanted with the beauty of the /fete/, but at the same

time he retained all the serenity of innocence, as if he had not even

noticed the exhibition of bare shoulders by which he was surrounded. "Ah,

my dear son!" he said to Pierre, "I am very pleased to see you! Well, and

what do you think of our Rome when she makes up her mind to give

/fetes/?"

"Why, it is superb, Monseigneur."

Then, in an emotional manner, Nani spoke of Celia's lofty piety; and, in

order to give the Vatican the credit of this sumptuous /gala/, affected

to regard the Prince and Princess as staunch adherents of the Church, as

if he were altogether unaware that the King and Queen were presently

coming. And afterwards he abruptly exclaimed: "I have been thinking of

you all day, my dear son. Yes, I heard that you had gone to see his

Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. Well, and how did he receive you?"

"Oh! in a most paternal manner," Pierre replied. "At first he made me

understand the embarrassment in which he was placed by his position as

protector of Lourdes; but just as I was going off he showed himself

charming, and promised me his help with a delicacy which deeply touched

me."

"Did he indeed, my dear son? But it doesn't surprise me, his Eminence is

so good-hearted!"

"And I must add, Monseigneur, that I came back with a light and hopeful

heart. It now seems to me as if my suit were half gained."

"Naturally, I understand it," replied Nani, who was still smiling with

that keen, intelligent smile of his, sharpened by a touch of almost

imperceptible irony. And after a short pause he added in a very simple

way: "The misfortune is that on the day before yesterday your book was

condemned by the Congregation of the Index, which was convoked by its

Secretary expressly for that purpose. And the judgment will be laid

before his Holiness, for him to sign it, on the day after to-morrow."

Pierre looked at the prelate in bewilderment. Had the old mansion fallen

on his head he would not have felt more overcome. What! was it all over?

His journey to Rome, the experiment he had come to attempt there, had

resulted in that defeat, of which he was thus suddenly apprised amidst

that betrothal /fete/. And he had not even been able to defend himself,

he had sacrificed his time without finding any one to whom he might

speak, before whom he might plead his cause! Anger was rising within him,

and he could not prevent himself from muttering bitterly: "Ah! how I have

been duped! And that Cardinal who said to me only this morning: 'If God

be with you he will save you in spite of everything.' Yes, yes, I now

understand him; he was juggling with words, he only desired a disaster in

order that submission might lead me to Heaven! Submit, indeed, ah! I

cannot, I cannot yet! My heart is too full of indignation and grief."

Nani examined and studied him with curiosity. "But my dear son," he said,

"nothing is final so long as the Holy Father has not signed the judgment.

You have all to-morrow and even the morning of the day after before you.

A miracle is always possible." Then, lowering his voice and drawing

Pierre on one side whilst Narcisse in an aesthetical spirit examined the

ladies, he added: "Listen, I have a communication to make to you in great

secrecy. Come and join me in the little Saloon of the Mirrors by and by,

during the Cotillon. We shall be able to talk there at our ease."

Pierre nodded, and thereupon the prelate discreetly withdrew and

disappeared in the crowd. However, the young man's ears were buzzing; he

could no longer hope; what indeed could he accomplish in one day since he

had lost three months without even being able to secure an audience with

the Pope? And his bewilderment increased as he suddenly heard Narcisse

speaking to him of art. "It's astonishing how the feminine figure has

deteriorated in these dreadful democratic days. It's all fat and horribly

common. Not one of those women yonder shows the Florentine contour, with

small bosom and slender, elegant neck. Ah! that one yonder isn't so bad

perhaps, the fair one with her hair coiled up, whom Monsignor Fornaro has

just approached."

For a few minutes indeed Monsignor Fornaro had been fluttering from

beauty to beauty, with an amiable air of conquest. He looked superb that

evening with his lofty decorative figure, blooming cheeks, and victorious

affability. No unpleasant scandal was associated with his name; he was

simply regarded as a prelate of gallant ways who took pleasure in the

society of ladies. And he paused and chatted, and leant over their bare

shoulders with laughing eyes and humid lips as if experiencing a sort of

devout rapture. However, on perceiving Narcisse whom he occasionally met,

he at once came forward and the /attache/ had to bow to him. "You have

been in good health I hope, Monseigneur, since I had the honour of seeing

you at the embassy."

"Oh! yes, I am very well, very well indeed. What a delightful /fete/, is

it not?"

Pierre also had bowed. This was the man whose report had brought about

the condemnation of his book; and it was with resentment that he recalled

his caressing air and charming greeting, instinct with such lying

promise. However, the prelate, who was very shrewd, must have guessed

that the young priest was already acquainted with the decision of the

Congregation, and have thought it more dignified to abstain from open

recognition; for on his side he merely nodded and smiled at him. "What a

number of people!" he went on, "and how many charming persons there are!

It will soon be impossible for one to move in this room."

All the seats in fact were now occupied by ladies, and what with the

strong perfume of violets and the exhalations of warm necks and shoulders

the atmosphere was becoming most oppressive. The fans flapped more

briskly, and clear laughter rang out amidst a growing hubbub of

conversation in which the same words constantly recurred. Some news,

doubtless, had just arrived, some rumour was being whispered from group

to group, throwing them all into feverish excitement. As it happened,

Monsignor Fornaro, who was always well informed, desired to be the

proclaimer of this news, which nobody as yet had ventured to announce

aloud.

"Do you know what is exciting them all?" he inquired.

"Is it the Holy Father's illness?" asked Pierre in his anxiety. "Is he

worse this evening?"

The prelate looked at him in astonishment, and then somewhat impatiently

replied: "Oh, no, no. His Holiness is much better, thank Heaven. A person

belonging to the Vatican was telling me just now that he was able to get

up this afternoon and receive his intimates as usual."

"All the same, people have been alarmed," interrupted Narcisse. "I must

confess that we did not feel easy at the embassy, for a Conclave at the

present time would be a great worry for France. She would exercise no

influence at it. It is a great mistake on the part of our Republican

Government to treat the Holy See as of no importance! However, can one

ever tell whether the Pope is ill or not? I know for a certainty that he

was nearly carried off last winter when nobody breathed a word about any

illness, whereas on the last occasion when the newspapers killed him and

talked about a dreadful attack of bronchitis, I myself saw him quite

strong and in the best of spirits! His reported illnesses are mere

matters of policy, I fancy."*

* There is much truth in this; but the reader must not imagine

that the Pope is never ill. At his great age, indispositions

are only natural.--Trans.

With a hasty gesture, however, Monsignor Fornaro brushed this importunate

subject aside. "No, no," said he, "people are tranquillised and no longer

talk of it. What excites all those ladies is that the Congregation of the

Council to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a great

majority."

Again did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see any

members of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he feared

that the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave his

word of honour that things were as he stated. "The news is certain," he

declared. "I had it from a member of the Congregation." And then, all at

once, he apologised and hurried off: "Excuse me but I see a lady whom I

had not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her."

He at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sit

down, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallant

courtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with a

pearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin.

"You know that person, don't you?" Narcisse inquired of Pierre. "No!

Really? Why, that is Count Prada's /inamorata/, the charming Lisbeth

Kauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It's her first appearance in

society since that event. She's a German, you know, and lost her husband

here. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal is

forgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one is

particularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which she

receives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As you

may imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuse

her!"

She looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, with

satiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, which

was renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silk

spangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, so

securely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and was

loved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarks

exchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to her

personal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talked

of the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood the

Church solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there came

stifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolent

serenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of Monsignor

Fornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily,

which she had lately sent to a fine-art show.

Ah! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Rome

with scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of its

termination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds had

long chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander,

endless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;

the Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage null

and void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome would

laugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed as

soon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. The

incidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada's feelings

revolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, the

Boccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the money

which they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinals

in order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they had

indirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma.

People said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs had

been expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known French

countess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount to

secure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father's need

was so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; it

merely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued waving

in the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as the

whispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders.

"Oh! how pleased the Contessina must be!" Pierre resumed. "I did not

understand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying when

we came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It is

doubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloistering

herself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning."

However, Lisbeth's eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as she

smiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her,

for, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her through

having visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a fresh

outburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowers

adorning the ladies' hair. People turned to see what was the matter, and

again did the hubbub increase. "Ah! it's Count Prada in person!" murmured

Narcisse, with an admiring glance. "He has a fine bearing, whatever folks

may say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid,

unscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!"

Prada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant.

And above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, he

really had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, stern

eyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Never

had a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth of

his voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, dived

into their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, and

fair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up to

her, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent,

inquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornaro

had made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a low

tone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for as

he again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and made

an involuntary gesture.

However, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasure

of the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he said

to the young priest with all his wonted /bravura/: "You recollect what I

told you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it's done, it seems,

they've annulled my marriage. It's such an impudent, such an imbecile

decision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!"

"Oh! the news is certain," Pierre made bold to reply. "It has just been

confirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of the

Congregation. And it is said that the majority was very large."

Prada again shook with laughter. "No, no," said he, "such a farce is

beyond belief! It's the finest smack given to justice and common-sense

that I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civil

courts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shall

amuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I'd marry her at Santa Maria

Maggiore with all possible pomp. And there's a dear little being in the

world who would take part in the /fete/ in his nurse's arms!"

He laughed too loud as he spoke, alluded in too brutal a fashion to his

child, that living proof of his manhood. Was it suffering that made his

lips curve upwards and reveal his white teeth? It could be divined that

he was quivering, fighting against an awakening of covert, tumultuous

passion, which he would not acknowledge even to himself.

"And you, my dear Abbe?" he hastily resumed. "Do you know the other

report? Do you know that the Countess is coming here?" It was thus, by

force of habit, that he designated Benedetta, forgetting that she was no

longer his wife.

"Yes, I have just been told so," Pierre replied; and then he hesitated

for a moment before adding, with a desire to prevent any disagreeable

surprise: "And we shall no doubt see Prince Dario also, for he has not

started for Naples as I told you. Something prevented his departure at

the last moment, I believe. At least so I gathered from a servant."

Prada no longer laughed. His face suddenly became grave, and he contented

himself with murmuring: "Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well,

we shall see them, we shall see them both!"

Then, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if

serious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making a

gesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he

stood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on

which, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly

enlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: "A legend avers that the fig

tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him

who may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give them

either to your servants or your fowls." Then he folded the paper,

fastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: "To his

most Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera." And

when he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breath

and once more called back his laugh.

A kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozen

him. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had felt

the need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, any

possible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas had

induced him to write those four lines without a moment's delay, on the

very spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a great

catastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that on

leaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note into

the letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was once

more easy in mind.

"Why, what is the matter with you, my dear Abbe?" he inquired on again

joining in the conversation of the two friends. "You are quite gloomy."

And on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, the

condemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him for

action if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, he

began to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in order

to continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. "Never mind, never mind,

don't worry yourself," said he, "one loses all one's strength by

worrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day.

An hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat into

victory!" He grew feverish as he spoke, and all at once added, "Come,

let's go to the ball-room. It seems that the scene there is something

prodigious."

Then he exchanged a last loving glance with Lisbeth whilst Pierre and

Narcisse followed him, the three of them extricating themselves from

their corner with the greatest difficulty, and then wending their way

towards the adjoining gallery through a sea of serried skirts, a billowy

expanse of necks and shoulders whence ascended the passion which makes

life, the odour alike of love and of death.

With its eight windows overlooking the Corso, their panes uncurtained and

throwing a blaze of light upon the houses across the road, the picture

gallery, sixty-five feet in length and more than thirty in breadth,

spread out with incomparable splendour. The illumination was dazzling.

Clusters of electric lamps had changed seven pairs of huge marble

candelabra into gigantic /torcheres/, akin to constellations; and all

along the cornice up above, other lamps set in bright-hued floral glasses

formed a marvellous garland of flaming flowers: tulips, paeonies, and

roses. The antique red velvet worked with gold, which draped the walls,

glowed like a furnace fire. About the doors and windows there were

hangings of old lace broidered with flowers in coloured silk whose hues

had the very intensity of life. But the sight of sights beneath the

sumptuous panelled ceiling adorned with golden roses, the unique

spectacle of a richness not to be equalled, was the collection of

masterpieces such as no museum could excel. There were works of Raffaelle

and Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, Velasquez and Ribera, famous works

which in this unexpected illumination suddenly showed forth, triumphant

with youth regained, as if awakened to the immortal life of genius. And,

as their Majesties would not arrive before midnight, the ball had just

been opened, and flights of soft-hued gowns were whirling in a waltz past

all the pompous throng, the glittering jewels and decorations, the

gold-broidered uniforms and the pearl-broidered robes, whilst silk and

satin and velvet spread and overflowed upon every side.

"It is prodigious, really!" declared Prada with his excited air; "let us

go this way and place ourselves in a window recess again. There is no

better spot for getting a good view without being too much jostled."

They lost Narcisse somehow or other, and on reaching the desired recess

found themselves but two, Pierre and the Count. The orchestra, installed

on a little platform at the far end of the gallery, had just finished the

waltz, and the dancers, with an air of giddy rapture, were slowly walking

through the crowd when a fresh arrival caused every head to turn. Donna

Serafina, arrayed in a robe of purple silk as if she had worn the colours

of her brother the Cardinal, was making a royal entry on the arm of

Consistorial-Advocate Morano. And never before had she laced herself so

tightly, never had her waist looked so slim and girlish; and never had

her stern, wrinkled face, which her white hair scarcely softened,

expressed such stubborn and victorious domination. A discreet murmur of

approval ran round, a murmur of public relief as it were, for all Roman

society had condemned the unworthy conduct of Morano in severing a

connection of thirty years to which the drawing-rooms had grown as

accustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted for

two months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long and

faithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched every

heart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victory

which the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta's

marriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm,

nothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorum

was preserved and good order re-established.

But there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seen

to enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference for

the ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage with

Prada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebrated

before one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of the

bravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst a

murmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio,

all hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondrous

happiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale after

his long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with the

fine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god,

bore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood of

the Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under her

casque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile,

that smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistibly

fascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to her

somewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomless

eyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth and

happiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown,

a plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that she

had remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of her

choice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom or

shoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, the

sovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled with

white. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. There

was simply a necklace falling about her /corsage/, but a necklace fit for

royalty, the famous pearl necklace of the Boccaneras, which she had

inherited from her mother, and which was known to all Rome--pearls of

fabulous size cast negligently about her neck, and sufficing, simply as

she was gowned, to make her queen of all.

"Oh!" murmured Pierre in ecstasy, "how happy and how beautiful she is!"

But he at once regretted that he had expressed his thoughts aloud, for

beside him he heard a low plaint, an involuntary growl which reminded him

of the Count's presence. However, Prada promptly stifled this cry of

returning anguish, and found strength enough to affect a brutish gaiety:

"The devil!" said he, "they have plenty of impudence. I hope we shall see

them married and bedded at once!" Then regretting this coarse jest which

had been prompted by the revolt of passion, he sought to appear

indifferent: "She looks very nice this evening," he said; "she has the

finest shoulders in the world, you know, and its a real success for her

to hide them and yet appear more beautiful than ever."

He went on speaking, contriving to assume an easy tone, and giving

various little particulars about the Countess as he still obstinately

called the young woman. However, he had drawn rather further into the

recess, for fear, no doubt, that people might remark his pallor, and the

painful twitch which contracted his mouth. He was in no state to fight,

to show himself gay and insolent in presence of the joy which the lovers

so openly and naively expressed. And he was glad of the respite which the

arrival of the King and Queen at this moment offered him. "Ah! here are

their Majesties!" he exclaimed, turning towards the window. "Look at the

scramble in the street!"

Although the windows were closed, a tumult could be heard rising from the

footways. And Pierre on looking down saw, by the light of the electric

lamps, a sea of human heads pour over the road and encompass the

carriages. He had several times already seen the King during the latter's

daily drives to the grounds of the Villa Borghese, whither he came like

any private gentleman--unguarded, unescorted, with merely an aide-de-camp

accompanying him in his victoria. At other times he drove a light phaeton

with only a footman in black livery to attend him. And on one occasion

Pierre had seen him with the Queen, the pair of them seated side by side

like worthy middle-class folks driving abroad for pleasure. And, as the

royal couple went by, the busy people in the streets and the promenaders

in the public gardens contented themselves with wafting them an

affectionate wave of the hand, the most expansive simply approaching to

smile at them, and no one importuning them with acclamations. Pierre, who

harboured the traditional idea of kings closely guarded and passing

processionally with all the accompaniment of military pomp, was therefore

greatly surprised and touched by the amiable /bonhomie/ of this royal

pair, who went wherever they listed in full security amidst the smiling

affection of their people. Everybody, moreover, had told him of the

King's kindliness and simplicity, his desire for peace, and his passion

for sport, solitude, and the open air, which, amidst the worries of

power, must often have made him dream of a life of freedom far from the

imperious duties of royalty for which he seemed unfitted.* But the Queen

was yet more tenderly loved. So naturally and serenely virtuous that she

alone remained ignorant of the scandals of Rome, she was also a woman of

great culture and great refinement, conversant with every field of

literature, and very happy in being so intelligent, so superior to those

around her--a pre-eminence which she realised and which she was fond of

showing, but in the most natural and most graceful of ways.

* King Humbert inherited these tastes from his father Victor

Emanuel, who was likewise a great sportsman and had a perfect

horror of court life, pageantry, and the exigencies of

politics.--Trans.

Like Pierre, Prada had remained with his face to the window, and suddenly

pointing to the crowd he said: "Now that they have seen the Queen they

will go to bed well pleased. And there isn't a single police agent there,

I'm sure. Ah! to be loved, to be loved!" Plainly enough his distress of

spirit was coming back, and so, turning towards the gallery again, he

tried to play the jester. "Attention, my dear Abbe, we mustn't miss their

Majesties' entry. That will be the finest part of the /fete/!"

A few minutes went by, and then, in the very midst of a polka, the

orchestra suddenly ceased playing. But a moment afterwards, with all the

blare of its brass instruments, it struck up the Royal March. The dancers

fled in confusion, the centre of the gallery was cleared, and the King

and Queen entered, escorted by the Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, who

had received them at the foot of the staircase. The King was in ordinary

evening dress, while the Queen wore a robe of straw-coloured satin,

covered with superb white lace; and under the diadem of brilliants which

encircled her beautiful fair hair, she looked still young, with a fresh

and rounded face, whose expression was all amiability, gentleness, and

wit. The music was still sounding with the enthusiastic violence of

welcome. Behind her father and mother, Celia appeared amidst the press of

people who were following to see the sight; and then came Attilio, the

Saccos, and various relatives and official personages. And, pending the

termination of the Royal March, only salutations, glances, and smiles

were exchanged amidst the sonorous music and dazzling light; whilst all

the guests crowded around on tip-toe, with outstretched necks and

glittering eyes--a rising tide of heads and shoulders, flashing with the

fires of precious stones.

At last the march ended and the presentations began. Their Majesties were

already acquainted with Celia, and congratulated her with quite

affectionate kindliness. However, Sacco, both as minister and father, was

particularly desirous of presenting his son Attilio. He bent his supple

spine, and summoned to his lips the fine words which were appropriate, in

such wise that he contrived to make the young man bow to the King in the

capacity of a lieutenant in his Majesty's army, whilst his homage as a

handsome young man, so passionately loved by his betrothed was reserved

for Queen Margherita. Again did their Majesties show themselves very

gracious, even towards the Signora Sacco who, ever modest and prudent,

had remained in the background. And then occurred an incident that was

destined to give rise to endless gossip. Catching sight of Benedetta,

whom Count Prada had presented to her after his marriage, the Queen, who

greatly admired her beauty and charm of manner, addressed her a smile in

such wise that the young woman was compelled to approach. A conversation

of some minutes' duration ensued, and the Contessina was favoured with

some extremely amiable expressions which were perfectly audible to all

around. Most certainly the Queen was ignorant of the event of the day,

the dissolution of Benedetta's marriage with Prada, and her coming union

with Dario so publicly announced at this /gala/, which now seemed to have

been given to celebrate a double betrothal. Nevertheless that

conversation caused a deep impression; the guests talked of nothing but

the compliments which Benedetta had received from the most virtuous and

intelligent of queens, and her triumph was increased by it all, she

became yet more beautiful and more victorious amidst the happiness she

felt at being at last able to bestow herself on the spouse of her choice,

that happiness which made her look so radiant.

But, on the other hand, the torture which Prada experienced now became

intense. Whilst the sovereigns continued conversing, the Queen with the

ladies who came to pay her their respects, the King with the officers,

diplomatists, and other important personages who approached him, Prada

saw none but Benedetta--Benedetta congratulated, caressed, exalted by

affection and glory. Dario was near her, flushing with pleasure, radiant

like herself. It was for them that this ball had been given, for them

that the lamps shone out, for them that the music played, for them that

the most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned them

with precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered to

the strains of the Royal March, for them that the /fete/ was becoming

like an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling,

appearing at that betrothal /gala/ like the good fairy of the nursery

tales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, this

wondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained their

apogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that woman

who had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who now

was about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insulting

victory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely did

his pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of the

Saccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the rough

conquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightful

climate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such a

sensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati in

connection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised that

his millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things were

going badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening,

amidst that /fete/ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the day

like one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pounced

upon under the flaming sun.

And the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King,

allying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Roman

aristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the national

funds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome and

Italy--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey,

for the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he were

being pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled and

escaped him, Sacco stole his millions, and Benedetta tortured his flesh,

stirring up that awful wound of unsatisfied passion which never would be

healed.

Again did Pierre hear that dull plaint, that involuntary despairing

growl, which had upset him once before. And he looked at the Count, and

asked him: "Are you suffering?" But on seeing how livid was the face of

Prada, who only retained his calmness by a superhuman effort, he

regretted his indiscreet question, which, moreover, remained unanswered.

And then to put the other more at ease, the young priest went on

speaking, venting the thoughts which the sight before him inspired: "Your

father was right," said he, "we Frenchmen whose education is so full of

the Catholic spirit, even in these days of universal doubt, we never

think of Rome otherwise than as the old Rome of the popes. We scarcely

know, we can scarcely understand the great changes which, year by year,

have brought about the Italian Rome of the present day. Why, when I

arrived here, the King and his government and the young nation working to

make a great capital for itself, seemed to me of no account whatever!

Yes, I dismissed all that, thought nothing of it, in my dream of

resuscitating a Christian and evangelical Rome, which should assure the

happiness of the world."

He laughed as he spoke, pitying his own artlessness, and then pointed

towards the gallery where Prince Buongiovanni was bowing to the King

whilst the Princess listened to the gallant remarks of Sacco: a scene

full of symbolism, the old papal aristocracy struck down, the /parvenus/

accepted, the black and white worlds so mixed together that one and all

were little else than subjects, on the eve of forming but one united

nation. That conciliation between the Quirinal and the Vatican which in

principle was regarded as impossible, was it not in practice fatal, in

face of the evolution which went on day by day? People must go on living,

loving, and creating life throughout the ages. And the marriage of

Attilio and Celia would be the symbol of the needful union: youth and

love triumphing over ancient hatred, all quarrels forgotten as a handsome

lad goes by, wins a lovely girl, and carries her off in his arms in order

that the world may last.

"Look at them!" resumed Pierre, "how handsome and young and gay both the

/fiances/ are, all confidence in the future. Ah! I well understand that

your King should have come here to please his minister and win one of the

old Roman families over to his throne; it is good, brave, and fatherly

policy. But I like to think that he has also realised the touching

significance of that marriage--old Rome, in the person of that candid,

loving child giving herself to young Italy, that upright, enthusiastic

young man who wears his uniform so jauntily. And may their nuptials be

definitive and fruitful; from them and from all the others may there

arise the great nation which, now that I begin to know you, I trust you

will soon become!"

Amidst the tottering of his former dream of an evangelical and universal

Rome, Pierre expressed these good wishes for the Eternal City's future

fortune with such keen and deep emotion that Prada could not help

replying: "I thank you; that wish of yours is in the heart of every good

Italian."

But his voice quavered, for even whilst he was looking at Celia and

Attilio, who stood smiling and talking together, he saw Benedetta and

Dario approach them, wearing the same joyful expression of perfect

happiness. And when the two couples were united, so radiant and so

triumphant, so full of superb and happy life, he no longer had strength

to stay there, see them, and suffer.

"I am frightfully thirsty," he hoarsely exclaimed. "Let's go to the

buffet to drink something." And, thereupon, in order to avoid notice, he

so manoeuvred as to glide behind the throng, skirting the windows in the

direction of the entrance to the Hall of the Antiques, which was beyond

the gallery.

Whilst Pierre was following him they were parted by an eddy of the crowd,

and the young priest found himself carried towards the two loving couples

who still stood chatting together. And Celia, on recognising him,

beckoned to him in a friendly way. With her passionate cult for beauty,

she was enraptured with the appearance of Benedetta, before whom she

joined her little lily hands as before the image of the Madonna. "Oh!

Monsieur l'Abbe," said she, "to please me now, do tell her how beautiful

she is, more beautiful than anything on earth, more beautiful than even

the sun, and the moon and stars. If you only knew, my dear, it makes me

quiver to see you so beautiful as that, as beautiful as happiness, as

beautiful as love itself!"

Benedetta began to laugh, while the two young men made merry. "But you

are as beautiful as I am, darling," said the Contessina. "And if we are

beautiful it is because we are happy."

"Yes, yes, happy," Celia gently responded. "Do you remember the evening

when you told me that one didn't succeed in marrying the Pope and the

King? But Attilio and I are marrying them, and yet we are very happy."

"But we don't marry them, Dario and I! On the contrary!" said Benedetta

gaily. "No matter; as you answered me that same evening, it is sufficient

that we should love one another, love saves the world."

When Pierre at last succeeded in reaching the door of the Hall of the

Antiques, where the buffet was installed, he found Prada there,

motionless, gazing despite himself on the galling spectacle which he

desired to flee. A power stronger than his will had kept him there,

forcing him to turn round and look, and look again. And thus, with a

bleeding heart, he still lingered and witnessed the resumption of the

dancing, the first figure of a quadrille which the orchestra began to

play with a lively flourish of its brass instruments. Benedetta and

Dario, Celia and Attilio were /vis-à-vis/. And so charming and

delightful was the sight which the two couples presented dancing in the

white blaze, all youth and joy, that the King and Queen drew near to them

and became interested. And soon bravos of admiration rang out, while from

every heart spread a feeling of infinite tenderness.

"I'm dying of thirst, let's go!" repeated Prada, at last managing to

wrench himself away from the torturing sight.

He called for some iced lemonade and drank the glassful at one draught,

gulping it down with the greedy eagerness of a man stricken with fever,

who will never more be able to quench the burning fire within him.

The Hall of the Antiques was a spacious room with mosaic pavement, and

decorations of stucco; and a famous collection of vases, bas-reliefs, and

statues, was disposed along its walls. The marbles predominated, but

there were a few bronzes, and among them a dying gladiator of extreme

beauty. The marvel however was the famous statue of Venus, a companion to

that of the Capitol, but with a more elegant and supple figure and with

the left arm falling loosely in a gesture of voluptuous surrender. That

evening a powerful electric reflector threw a dazzling light upon the

statue, which, in its divine and pure nudity, seemed to be endowed with

superhuman, immortal life. Against the end-wall was the buffet, a long

table covered with an embroidered cloth and laden with fruit, pastry, and

cold meats. Sheaves of flowers rose up amidst bottles of champagne, hot

punch, and iced /sorbetto/, and here and there were marshalled armies of

glasses, tea-cups, and broth-bowls, a perfect wealth of sparkling

crystal, porcelain, and silver. And a happy innovation had been to fill

half of the hall with rows of little tables, at which the guests, in lieu

of being obliged to refresh themselves standing, were able to sit down

and order what they desired as in a cafe.

At one of these little tables, Pierre perceived Narcisse seated near a

young woman, whom Prada, on approaching, recognised to be Lisbeth. "You

find me, you see, in delightful company," gallantly exclaimed the

/attache/. "As we lost one another, I could think of nothing better than

of offering madame my arm to bring her here."

"It was, in fact, a good idea," said Lisbeth with her pretty laugh, "for

I was feeling very thirsty."

They had ordered some iced coffee, which they were slowly sipping out of

little silver-gilt spoons.

"I have a terrible thirst, too," declared the Count, "and I can't quench

it. You will allow us to join you, will you not, my dear sir? Some of

that coffee will perhaps calm me." And then to Lisbeth he added, "Ah! my

dear, allow me to introduce to you Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, a young

French priest of great distinction."

Then for a long time they all four remained seated at that table,

chatting and making merry over certain of the guests who went by. Prada,

however, in spite of his usual gallantry towards Lisbeth, frequently

became absent-minded; at times he quite forgot her, being again mastered

by his anguish, and, in spite of all his efforts, his eyes ever turned

towards the neighbouring gallery whence the sound of music and dancing

reached him.

"Why, what are you thinking of, /caro mio/?" Lisbeth asked in her pretty

way, on seeing him at one moment so pale and lost. "Are you indisposed?"

He did not reply, however, but suddenly exclaimed, "Ah! look there,

that's the real pair, there's real love and happiness for you!"

With a jerk of the hand he designated Dario's mother, the Marchioness

Montefiori and her second husband, Jules Laporte--that ex-sergeant of the

papal Swiss Guard, her junior by fifteen years, whom she had one day

hooked at the Corso with her eyes of fire, which yet had remained superb,

and whom she had afterwards triumphantly transformed into a Marquis

Montefiori in order to have him entirely to herself. Such was her passion

that she never relaxed her hold on him whether at ball or reception, but,

despite all usages, kept him beside her, and even made him escort her to

the buffet, so much did she delight in being able to exhibit him and say

that this handsome man was her own exclusive property. And standing there

side by side, the pair of them began to drink champagne and eat

sandwiches, she yet a marvel of massive beauty although she was over

fifty, and he with long wavy moustaches, and proud bearing, like a

fortunate adventurer whose jovial impudence pleased the ladies.

"You know that she had to extricate him from a nasty affair," resumed the

Count in a lower tone. "Yes, he travelled in relics; he picked up a

living by supplying relics on commission to convents in France and

Switzerland; and he had launched quite a business in false relics with

the help of some Jews here who concocted little ancient reliquaries out

of mutton bones, with everything sealed and signed by the most genuine

authorities. The affair was hushed up, as three prelates were also

compromised in it! Ah! the happy man! Do you see how she devours him with

her eyes? And he, doesn't he look quite a /grand seigneur/ by the mere

way in which he holds that plate for her whilst she eats the breast of a

fowl out of it!"

Then, in a rough way and with biting irony, he went on to speak of the

/amours/ of Rome. The Roman women, said he, were ignorant, obstinate, and

jealous. When a woman had managed to win a man, she kept him for ever, he

became her property, and she disposed of him as she pleased. By way of

proof, he cited many interminable /liaisons/, such as that of Donna

Serafina and Morano which, in time became virtual marriages; and he

sneered at such a lack of fancy, such an excess of fidelity whose only

ending, when it did end, was some very disagreeable unpleasantness.

At this, Lisbeth interrupted him. "But what is the matter with you this

evening, my dear?" she asked with a laugh. "What you speak of is on the

contrary very nice and pretty! When a man and a woman love one another

they ought to do so for ever!"

She looked delightful as she spoke, with her fine wavy blonde hair and

delicate fair complexion; and Narcisse with a languorous expression in

his half-closed eyes compared her to a Botticelli which he had seen at

Florence. However, the night was now far advanced, and Pierre had once

more sunk into gloomy thoughtfulness when he heard a passing lady remark

that they had already begun to dance the Cotillon in the gallery; and

thereupon he suddenly remembered that Monsignor Nani had given him an

appointment in the little Saloon of the Mirrors.

"Are you leaving?" hastily inquired Prada on seeing him rise and bow to

Lisbeth.

"No, no, not yet," Pierre answered.

"Oh! all right. Don't go away without me. I want to walk a little, and

I'll see you home. It's agreed, eh? You will find me here."

The young priest had to cross two rooms, one hung with yellow and the

other with blue, before he at last reached the mirrored /salon/. This was

really an exquisite example of the /rococo/ style, a rotunda as it were

of pale mirrors framed with superb gilded carvings. Even the ceiling was

covered with mirrors disposed slantwise so that on every side things

multiplied, mingled, and appeared under all possible aspects. Discreetly

enough no electric lights had been placed in the room, the only

illumination being that of some pink tapers burning in a pair of

candelabra. The hangings and upholstery were of soft blue silk, and the

impression on entering was very sweet and charming, as if one had found

oneself in the abode of some fairy queen of the rills, a palace of limpid

water, illumined to its farthest depths by clusters of stars.

Pierre at once perceived Monsignor Nani, who was sitting on a low couch,

and, as the prelate had hoped, he was quite alone, for the Cotillon had

attracted almost everybody to the picture gallery. And the silence in the

little /salon/ was nearly perfect, for at that distance the blare of the

orchestra subsided into a faint, flute-like murmur. The young priest at

once apologised to the prelate for having kept him waiting.

"No, no, my dear son," said Nani, with his inexhaustible amiability. "I

was very comfortable in this retreat--when the press of the crowd became

over-threatening I took refuge here." He did not speak of the King and

Queen, but he allowed it to be understood that he had politely avoided

their company. If he had come to the /fete/ it was on account of his

sincere affection for Celia and also with a very delicate diplomatic

object, for the Church wished to avoid any appearance of having entirely

broken with the Buongiovanni family, that ancient house which was so

famous in the annals of the papacy. Doubtless the Vatican was unable to

subscribe to this marriage which seemed to unite old Rome with the young

Kingdom of Italy, but on the other hand it did not desire people to think

that it abandoned old and faithful supporters and took no interest in

what befell them.

"But come, my dear son," the prelate resumed, "it is you who are now in

question. I told you that although the Congregation of the Index had

pronounced itself for the condemnation of your book, the sentence would

only be submitted to the Holy Father and signed by him on the day after

to-morrow. So you still have a whole day before you."

At this Pierre could not refrain from a dolorous and vivacious

interruption.

"Alas! Monseigneur, what can I do?" said he; "I have thought it all over,

and I see no means, no opportunity of defending myself. How could I even

see his Holiness now that he is so ill?"

"Oh! ill, ill!" muttered Nani with his shrewd expression. "His Holiness

is ever so much better, for this very day, like every other Wednesday, I

had the honour to be received by him. When his Holiness is a little tired

and people say that he is very ill, he often lets them do so, for it

gives him a rest and enables him to judge certain ambitions and

manifestations of impatience around him."

Pierre, however, was too upset to listen attentively. "No, it's all

over," he continued, "I'm in despair. You spoke to me of the possibility

of a miracle, but I am no great believer in miracles. Since I am defeated

here at Rome, I shall go away, I shall return to Paris, and continue the

struggle there. Oh! I cannot resign myself, my hope in salvation by the

practice of love cannot die, and I shall answer my denouncers in a new

book, in which I shall tell in what new soil the new religion will grow

up!"

Silence fell. Nani looked at him with his clear eyes in which

intelligence shone distinct and sharp like steel. And amidst the deep

calm, the warm heavy atmosphere of the little /salon/, whose mirrors were

starred with countless reflections of candles, a more sonorous burst of

music was suddenly wafted from the gallery, a rhythmical waltz melody,

which slowly expanded, then died away.

"My dear son," said Nani, "anger is always harmful. You remember that on

your arrival here I promised that if your own efforts to obtain an

interview with the Holy Father should prove unavailing, I would myself

endeavour to secure an audience for you." Then, seeing how agitated the

young priest was getting, he went on: "Listen to me and don't excite

yourself. His Holiness, unfortunately, is not always prudently advised.

Around him are persons whose devotion, however great, is at times

deficient in intelligence. I told you that, and warned you against

inconsiderate applications. And this is why, already three weeks ago, I

myself handed your book to his Holiness in the hope that he would deign

to glance at it. I rightly suspected that it had not been allowed to

reach him. And this is what I am instructed to tell you: his Holiness,

who has had the great kindness to read your book, expressly desires to

see you."

A cry of joy and gratitude died away in Pierre's throat: "Ah!

Monseigneur. Ah! Monseigneur!"

But Nani quickly silenced him and glanced around with an expression of

keen anxiety as if he feared that some one might hear them. "Hush! Hush!"

said he, "it is a secret. His Holiness wishes to see you privately,

without taking anybody else into his confidence. Listen attentively. It

is now two o'clock in the morning. Well, this very day, at nine in the

evening precisely, you must present yourself at the Vatican and at every

door ask for Signor Squadra. You will invariably be allowed to pass.

Signor Squadra will be waiting for you upstairs, and will introduce you.

And not a word, mind; not a soul must have the faintest suspicion of

these things."

Pierre's happiness and gratitude at last flowed forth. He had caught hold

of the prelate's soft, plump hands, and stammered, "Ah! Monseigneur, how

can I express my gratitude to you? If you only knew how full my soul was

of night and rebellion since I realised that I had been a mere plaything

in the hands of those powerful cardinals. But you have saved me, and

again I feel sure that I shall win the victory, for I shall at last be

able to fling myself at the feet of his Holiness the father of all truth

and all justice. He can but absolve me, I who love him, I who admire him,

I who have never battled for aught but his own policy and most cherished

ideas. No, no, it is impossible; he will not sign that judgment; he will

not condemn my book!"

Releasing his hands, Nani sought to calm him with a fatherly gesture,

whilst retaining a faint smile of contempt for such a useless expenditure

of enthusiasm. At last he succeeded, and begged him to retire. The

orchestra was again playing more loudly in the distance. And when the

young priest at last withdrew, thanking him once more, he said very

simply, "Remember, my dear son, that only obedience is great."

Pierre, whose one desire now was to take himself off, found Prada almost

immediately afterwards in the first reception-room. Their Majesties had

just left the ball in grand ceremony, escorted to the threshold by the

Buongiovannis and the Saccos. And before departing the Queen had

maternally kissed Celia, whilst the King shook hands with

Attilio--honours instinct with a charming good nature which made the

members of both families quite radiant. However, a good many of the

guests were following the example of the sovereigns and disappearing in

small batches. And the Count, who seemed strangely nervous, and showed

more sternness and bitterness than ever, was, on his side, also eager to

be gone. "Ah! it's you at last. I was waiting for you," he said to

Pierre. "Well, let's get off at once, eh? Your compatriot Monsieur

Narcisse Habert asked me to tell you not to look for him. The fact is, he

has gone to see my friend Lisbeth to her carriage. I myself want a breath

of fresh air, a stroll, and so I'll go with you as far as the Via

Giulia."

Then, as they took their things from the cloak-room, he could not help

sneering and saying in his brutal way: "I saw your good friends go off,

all four together. It's lucky that you prefer to go home on foot, for

there was no room for you in the carriage. What superb impudence it was

on the part of that Donna Serafina to drag herself here, at her age, with

that Morano of hers, so as to triumph over the return of the fickle one!

And the two others, the two young ones--ah! I confess that I can hardly

speak calmly of /them/, for in parading here together as they did this

evening, they have shown an impudence and a cruelty such as is rarely

seen!" Prada's hands trembled, and he murmured: "A good journey, a good

journey to the young man, since he is going to Naples. Yes, I heard Celia

say that he was starting for Naples this evening at six o'clock. Well, my

wishes go with him; a good journey!"

The two men found the change delightful when they at last emerged from

the stifling heat of the reception-rooms into the lovely, cool, and

limpid night. It was a night illumined by a superb full moon, one of

those matchless Roman nights when the city slumbers in Elysian radiance,

steeped in a dream of the Infinite, under the vast vault of heaven. And

they took the most agreeable route, going down the Corso proper and then

turning into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

Prada had grown somewhat calmer, but remained full of irony. To divert

his mind, no doubt, he talked on in the most voluble manner, reverting to

the women of Rome and to that /fete/ which he had at first found

splendid, but at which he now began to rail.

"Oh! of course they have very fine gowns," said he, speaking of the

women; "but gowns which don't fit them, gowns which are sent them from

Paris, and which, of course, they can't try on. It's just the same with

their jewels; they still have diamonds and pearls, in particular, which

are very fine, but they are so wretchedly, so heavily mounted that they

look frightful. And if you only knew how ignorant and frivolous these

women are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface with

them, even religion: there's nothing beneath. I looked at them eating at

the buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening some

decorum was observed, there wasn't too much gorging. But at one of the

Court balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, and

everything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!"

To all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He was

wrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with the

Pope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrange

and picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantime

the footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear,

broad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlined

by the moonlight.

All at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious /bravura/ was

exhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessed

and paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coat

pocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:

"A legend avers that the fig-tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and

that its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become pope. Eat not

the poisoned figs, nor give them either to your servants or your fowls."

The note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompany

Pierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at the

Palazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that within

another ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power in

the world could prevent it, since such was his express determination.

Never would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned.

But he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and that

Dario had raised such a tempest of jealous hatred within him! For them he

forgot Lisbeth whom he loved, and even that flesh of his flesh, the child

of whom he was so proud. All sex as he was, eager to conquer and subdue,

he had never cared for facile loves. His passion was to overcome. And now

there was a woman in the world who defied him, a woman forsooth whom he

had bought, whom he had married, who had been handed over to him, but who

would never, never be his. Ah! in the old days, to subdue her, he would

if needful have fired Rome like a Nero; but now he asked himself what he

could possibly do to prevent her from belonging to another. That galling

thought made the blood gush from his gaping wound. How that woman and her

lover must deride him! And to think that they had sought to turn him to

ridicule by a baseless charge, an arrant lie which still and ever made

him smart, all proof of its falsity to the contrary. He, on his side, had

accused them in the past without much belief in what he said, but now the

charges he had imputed to them must come true, for they were free, freed

at all events of the religious bond, and that no doubt was their only

care. And then visions of their happiness passed before his eyes,

infuriating him. Ah! no, ah! no, it was impossible, he would rather

destroy the world!

Then, as he and Pierre turned out of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele to

thread the old narrow tortuous streets leading to the Via Giulia, he

pictured himself dropping the note into the letter-box at the palazzo.

And next he conjured up what would follow. The note would lie in the

letter-box till morning. At an early hour Don Vigilio, the secretary, who

by the Cardinal's express orders kept the key of the box, would come

down, find the note, and hand it to his Eminence, who never allowed

another to open any communication addressed to him. And then the figs

would be thrown away, there would be no further possibility of crime, the

black world would in all prudence keep silent. But if the note should not

be in the letter-box, what would happen then? And admitting that

supposition he pictured the figs placed on the table at the one o'clock

meal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there as

usual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples till

the evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, or

would only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would that

be? At this point Prada's clearness of vision failed him; again he

conjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on the

road from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart all

obstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figs

went ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand in

the world had power enough to prevent.

And at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretched

away in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as if

from a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under the

silver sky. Three o'clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felt

himself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorous

moan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which the

Count, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the third

time allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into a

sneering laugh, and pressing the priest's hands, exclaimed: "No, no, I am

not going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would think

that I had fallen in love with my wife again."

And thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clear

night, without once looking round.