XIII

WHEN Pierre awoke he was much surprised to hear eleven o'clock striking.

Fatigued as he was by that ball where he had lingered so long, he had

slept like a child in delightful peacefulness, and as soon as he opened

his eyes the radiant sunshine filled him with hope. His first thought was

that he would see the Pope that evening at nine o'clock. Ten more hours

to wait! What would he be able to do with himself during that lovely day,

whose radiant sky seemed to him of such happy augury? He rose and opened

the windows to admit the warm air which, as he had noticed on the day of

his arrival, had a savour of fruit and flowers, a blending, as it were,

of the perfume of rose and orange. Could this possibly be December? What

a delightful land, that the spring should seem to flower on the very

threshold of winter! Then, having dressed, he was leaning out of the

window to glance across the golden Tiber at the evergreen slopes of the

Janiculum, when he espied Benedetta seated in the abandoned garden of the

mansion. And thereupon, unable to keep still, full of a desire for life,

gaiety, and beauty, he went down to join her.

With radiant visage and outstretched hands, she at once vented the cry he

had expected: "Ah! my dear Abbe, how happy I am!"

They had often spent their mornings in that quiet, forsaken nook; but

what sad mornings those had been, hopeless as they both were! To-day,

however, the weed-grown paths, the box-plants growing in the old basin,

the orange-trees which alone marked the outline of the beds--all seemed

full of charm, instinct with a sweet and dreamy cosiness in which it was

very pleasant to lull one's joy. And it was so warm, too, beside the big

laurel-bush, in the corner where the streamlet of water ever fell with

flute-like music from the gaping, tragic mask.

"Ah!" repeated Benedetta, "how happy I am! I was stifling upstairs, and

my heart felt such a need of space, and air, and sunlight, that I came

down here!"

She was seated on the fallen column beside the old marble sarcophagus,

and desired the priest to place himself beside her. Never had he seen her

looking so beautiful, with her black hair encompassing her pure face,

which in the sunshine appeared pinky and delicate as a flower. Her large,

fathomless eyes showed in the light like braziers rolling gold, and her

childish mouth, all candour and good sense, laughed the laugh of one who

was at last free to love as her heart listed, without offending either

God or man. And, dreaming aloud, she built up plans for the future. "It's

all simple enough," said she; "I have already obtained a separation, and

shall easily get that changed into civil divorce now that the Church has

annulled my marriage. And I shall marry Dario next spring, perhaps

sooner, if the formalities can be hastened. He is going to Naples this

evening about the sale of some property which we still possess there, but

which must now be sold, for all this business has cost us a lot of money.

Still, that doesn't matter since we now belong to one another. And when

he comes back in a few days, what a happy time we shall have! I could not

sleep when I got back from that splendid ball last night, for my head was

so full of plans--oh! splendid plans, as you shall see, for I mean to

keep you in Rome until our marriage."

Like herself, Pierre began to laugh, so gained upon by this explosion of

youth and happiness that he had to make a great effort to refrain from

speaking of his own delight, his hopefulness at the thought of his coming

interview with the Pope. Of that, however, he had sworn to speak to

nobody.

Every now and again, amidst the quivering silence of the sunlit garden,

the cry of a bird persistently rang out; and Benedetta, raising her head

and looking at a cage hanging beside one of the first-floor windows,

jestingly exclaimed: "Yes, yes, Tata, make a good noise, show that you

are pleased, my dear. Everybody in the house must be pleased now." Then,

turning towards Pierre, she added gaily: "You know Tata, don't you? What!

No? Why, Tata is my uncle's parrot. I gave her to him last spring; he's

very fond of her, and lets her help herself out of his plate. And he

himself attends to her, puts her out and takes her in, and keeps her in

his dining-room, for fear lest she should take cold, as that is the only

room of his which is at all warm."

Pierre in his turn looked up and saw the bird, one of those pretty little

parrots with soft, silky, dull-green plumage. It was hanging by the beak

from a bar of its cage, swinging itself and flapping its wings, all mirth

in the bright sunshine.

"Does the bird talk?" he asked.

"No, she only screams," replied Benedetta, laughing. "Still my uncle

pretends that he understands her." And then the young woman abruptly

darted to another subject, as if this mention of her uncle the Cardinal

had made her think of the uncle by marriage whom she had in Paris. "I

suppose you have heard from Viscount de la Choue," said she. "I had a

letter from him yesterday, in which he said how grieved he was that you

were unable to see the Holy Father, as he had counted on you for the

triumph of his ideas."

Pierre indeed frequently heard from the Viscount, who was greatly

distressed by the importance which his adversary, Baron de Fouras, had

acquired since his success with the International Pilgrimage of the

Peter's Pence. The old, uncompromising Catholic party would awaken, said

the Viscount, and all the conquests of Neo-Catholicism would be

threatened, if one could not obtain the Holy Father's formal adhesion to

the proposed system of free guilds, in order to overcome the demand for

closed guilds which was brought forward by the Conservatives. And the

Viscount overwhelmed Pierre with injunctions, and sent him all sorts of

complicated plans in his eagerness to see him received at the Vatican.

"Yes, yes," muttered the young priest in reply to Benedetta. "I had a

letter on Sunday, and found another waiting for me on my return from

Frascati yesterday. Ah! it would make me very happy to be able to send

the Viscount some good news." Then again Pierre's joy overflowed at the

thought that he would that evening see the Pope, and, on opening his

loving heart to the Pontiff, receive the supreme encouragement which

would strengthen him in his mission to work social salvation in the name

of the lowly and the poor. And he could not restrain himself any longer,

but let his secret escape him: "It's settled, you know," said he. "My

audience is for this evening."

Benedetta did not understand at first. "What audience?" she asked.

"Oh! Monsignor Nani was good enough to tell me at the ball this morning,

that the Holy Father has read my book and desires to see me. I shall be

received this evening at nine o'clock."

At this the Contessina flushed with pleasure, participating in the

delight of the young priest to whom she had grown much attached. And this

success of his, coming in the midst of her own felicity, acquired

extraordinary importance in her eyes as if it were an augury of complete

success for one and all. Superstitious as she was, she raised a cry of

rapture and excitement: "Ah! /Dio/, that will bring us good luck. How

happy I am, my friend, to see happiness coming to you at the same time as

to me! You cannot think how pleased I am! And all will go well now, it's

certain, for a house where there is any one whom the Pope welcomes is

blessed, the thunder of Heaven falls on it no more!"

She laughed yet more loudly as she spoke, and clapped her hands with such

exuberant gaiety that Pierre became anxious. "Hush! hush!" said he, "it's

a secret. Pray don't mention it to any one, either your aunt or even his

Eminence. Monsignor Nani would be much annoyed."

She thereupon promised to say nothing, and in a kindly voice spoke of

Nani as a benefactor, for was she not indebted to him for the dissolution

of her marriage? Then, with a fresh explosion of gaiety, she went on:

"But come, my friend, is not happiness the only good thing? You don't ask

me to weep over the suffering poor to-day! Ah! the happiness of life,

that's everything. People don't suffer or feel cold or hungry when they

are happy."

He looked at her in stupefaction at the idea of that strange solution of

the terrible question of human misery. And suddenly he realised that,

with that daughter of the sun who had inherited so many centuries of

sovereign aristocracy, all his endeavours at conversion were vain. He had

wished to bring her to a Christian love for the lowly and the wretched,

win her over to the new, enlightened, and compassionate Italy that he had

dreamt of; but if she had been moved by the sufferings of the multitude

at the time when she herself had suffered, when grievous wounds had made

her own heart bleed, she was no sooner healed than she proclaimed the

doctrine of universal felicity like a true daughter of a clime of burning

summers, and winters as mild as spring. "But everybody is not happy!"

said he.

"Yes, yes, they are!" she exclaimed. "You don't know the poor! Give a

girl of the Trastevere the lad she loves, and she becomes as radiant as a

queen, and finds her dry bread quite sweet. The mothers who save a child

from sickness, the men who conquer in a battle, or who win at the

lottery, one and all in fact are like that, people only ask for good

fortune and pleasure. And despite all your striving to be just and to

arrive at a more even distribution of fortune, the only satisfied ones

will be those whose hearts sing--often without their knowing the

cause--on a fine sunny day like this."

Pierre made a gesture of surrender, not wishing to sadden her by again

pleading the cause of all the poor ones who at that very moment were

somewhere agonising with physical or mental pain. But, all at once,

through the luminous mild atmosphere a shadow seemed to fall, tingeing

joy with sadness, the sunshine with despair. And the sight of the old

sarcophagus, with its bacchanal of satyrs and nymphs, brought back the

memory that death lurks even amidst the bliss of passion, the unsatiated

kisses of love. For a moment the clear song of the water sounded in

Pierre's ears like a long-drawn sob, and all seemed to crumble in the

terrible shadow which had fallen from the invisible.

Benedetta, however, caught hold of his hands and roused him once more to

the delight of being there beside her. "Your pupil is rebellious, is she

not, my friend?" said she. "But what would you have? There are ideas

which can't enter into our heads. No, you will never get those things

into the head of a Roman girl. So be content with loving us as we are,

beautiful with all our strength, as beautiful as we can be."

She herself, in her resplendent happiness, looked at that moment so

beautiful that he trembled as in presence of a divinity whose

all-powerfulness swayed the world. "Yes, yes," he stammered, "beauty,

beauty, still and ever sovereign. Ah! why can it not suffice to satisfy

the eternal longings of poor suffering men?"

"Never mind!" she gaily responded. "Do not distress yourself; it is

pleasant to live. And now let us go upstairs, my aunt must be waiting."

The midday meal was served at one o'clock, and on the few occasions when

Pierre did not eat at one or another restaurant a cover was laid for him

at the ladies' table in the little dining-room of the second floor,

overlooking the courtyard. At the same hour, in the sunlit dining-room of

the first floor, whose windows faced the Tiber, the Cardinal likewise sat

down to table, happy in the society of his nephew Dario, for his

secretary, Don Vigilio, who also was usually present, never opened his

mouth unless to reply to some question. And the two services were quite

distinct, each having its own kitchen and servants, the only thing at all

common to them both being a large room downstairs which served as a

pantry and store-place.

Although the second-floor dining-room was so gloomy, saddened by the

greeny half-light of the courtyard, the meal shared that day by the two

ladies and the young priest proved a very gay one. Even Donna Serafina,

usually so rigid, seemed to relax under the influence of great internal

felicity. She was no doubt still enjoying her triumph of the previous

evening, and it was she who first spoke of the ball and sung its praises,

though the presence of the King and Queen had much embarrassed her, said

she. According to her account, she had only avoided presentation by

skilful strategy; however she hoped that her well-known affection for

Celia, whose god-mother she was, would explain her presence in that

neutral mansion where Vatican and Quirinal had met. At the same time she

must have retained certain scruples, for she declared that directly after

dinner she was going to the Vatican to see the Cardinal Secretary, to

whom she desired to speak about an enterprise of which she was

lady-patroness. This visit would compensate for her attendance at the

Buongiovanni entertainment. And on the other hand never had Donna

Serafina seemed so zealous and hopeful of her brother's speedy accession

to the throne of St. Peter: therein lay a supreme triumph, an elevation

of her race, which her pride deemed both needful and inevitable; and

indeed during Leo XIII's last indisposition she had actually concerned

herself about the trousseau which would be needed and which would require

to be marked with the new Pontiff's arms.

On her side, Benedetta was all gaiety during the repast, laughing at

everything, and speaking of Celia and Attilio with the passionate

affection of a woman whose own happiness delights in that of her friends.

Then, just as the dessert had been served, she turned to the servant with

an air of surprise: "Well, and the figs, Giacomo?" she asked.

Giacomo, slow and sleepy of notion, looked at her without understanding.

However, Victorine was crossing the room, and Benedetta's next question

was for her: "Why are the figs not served, Victorine?" she inquired.

"What figs, Contessina?"

"Why the figs I saw in the pantry as I passed through it this morning on

my way to the garden. They were in a little basket and looked superb. I

was even astonished to see that there were still some fresh figs left at

this season. I'm very fond of them, and felt quite pleased at the thought

that I should eat some at dinner."

Victorine began to laugh: "Ah! yes, Contessina, I understand," she

replied. "They were some figs which that priest of Frascati, whom you

know very well, brought yesterday evening as a present for his Eminence.

I was there, and I heard him repeat three or four times that they were a

present, and were to be put on his Eminence's table without a leaf being

touched. And so one did as he said."

"Well, that's nice," retorted Benedetta with comical indignation. "What

/gourmands/ my uncle and Dario are to regale themselves without us! They

might have given us a share!"

Donna Serafina thereupon intervened, and asked Victorine: "You are

speaking, are you not, of that priest who used to come to the villa at

Frascati?"

"Yes, yes, Abbe Santobono his name is, he officiates at the little church

of St. Mary in the Fields. He always asks for Abbe Paparelli when he

calls; I think they were at the seminary together. And it was Abbe

Paparelli who brought him to the pantry with his basket last night. To

tell the truth, the basket was forgotten there in spite of all the

injunctions, so that nobody would have eaten the figs to-day if Abbe

Paparelli hadn't run down just now and carried them upstairs as piously

as if they were the Blessed Sacrament. It's true though that his Eminence

is so fond of them."

"My brother won't do them much honour to-day," remarked the Princess. "He

is slightly indisposed. He passed a bad night." The repeated mention of

Abbe Paparelli had made the old lady somewhat thoughtful. She had

regarded the train-bearer with displeasure ever since she had noticed the

extraordinary influence he was gaining over the Cardinal, despite all his

apparent humility and self-effacement. He was but a servant and

apparently a very insignificant one, yet he governed, and she could feel

that he combated her own influence, often undoing things which she had

done to further her brother's interests. Twice already, moreover, she had

suspected him of having urged the Cardinal to courses which she looked

upon as absolute blunders. But perhaps she was wrong; she did the

train-bearer the justice to admit that he had great merits and displayed

exemplary piety.

However, Benedetta went on laughing and jesting, and as Victorine had now

withdrawn, she called the man-servant: "Listen, Giacomo, I have a

commission for you." Then she broke off to say to her aunt and Pierre:

"Pray let us assert our rights. I can see them at table almost underneath

us. Uncle is taking the leaves off the basket and serving himself with a

smile; then he passes the basket to Dario, who passes it on to Don

Vigilio. And all three of them eat and enjoy the figs. You can see them,

can't you?" She herself could see them well. And it was her desire to be

near Dario, the constant flight of her thoughts to him that now made her

picture him at table with the others. Her heart was down below, and there

was nothing there that she could not see, and hear, and smell, with such

keenness of the senses did her love endow her. "Giacomo," she resumed,

"you are to go down and tell his Eminence that we are longing to taste

his figs, and that it will be very kind of him if he will send us such as

he can spare."

Again, however, did Donna Serafina intervene, recalling her wonted

severity of voice: "Giacomo, you will please stay here." And to her niece

she added: "That's enough childishness! I dislike such silly freaks."

"Oh! aunt," Benedetta murmured. "But I'm so happy, it's so long since I

laughed so good-heartedly."

Pierre had hitherto remained listening, enlivened by the sight of her

gaiety. But now, as a little chill fell, he raised his voice to say that

on the previous day he himself had been astonished to see the famous

fig-tree of Frascati still bearing fruit so late in the year. This was

doubtless due, however, to the tree's position and the protection of a

high wall.

"Ah! so you saw the tree?" said Benedetta.

"Yes, and I even travelled with those figs which you would so much like

to taste."

"Why, how was that?"

The young man already regretted the reply which had escaped him. However,

having gone so far, he preferred to say everything. "I met somebody at

Frascati who had come there in a carriage and who insisted on driving me

back to Rome," said he. "On the way we picked up Abbe Santobono, who was

bravely making the journey on foot with his basket in his hand. And

afterwards we stopped at an /osteria/--" Then he went on to describe the

drive and relate his impressions whilst crossing the Campagna amidst the

falling twilight. But Benedetta gazed at him fixedly, aware as she was of

Prada's frequent visits to the land and houses which he owned at

Frascati; and suddenly she murmured: "Somebody, somebody, it was the

Count, was it not?"

"Yes, madame, the Count," Pierre answered. "I saw him again last night;

he was overcome, and really deserves to be pitied."

The two women took no offence at this charitable remark which fell from

the young priest with such deep and natural emotion, full as he was of

overflowing love and compassion for one and all. Donna Serafina remained

motionless as if she had not even heard him, and Benedetta made a gesture

which seemed to imply that she had neither pity nor hatred to express for

a man who had become a perfect stranger to her. However, she no longer

laughed, but, thinking of the little basket which had travelled in

Prada's carriage, she said: "Ah! I don't care for those figs at all now,

I am even glad that I haven't eaten any of them."

Immediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she was

at once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves,

lingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. The

priest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audience

which he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o'clock, and he

had seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endless

afternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. "I'll

tell you what," said she, "as we are all in such good spirits we mustn't

leave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must have

finished lunch by now, and I'll ask him to take us for a long drive along

the Tiber."

This fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; but

just then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. "Isn't the

Princess here?" he inquired.

"No, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?"

"His Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising from

table. Oh! it's nothing--nothing serious, no doubt."

Benedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: "What, Dario!

Well, we'll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe. He mustn't get

ill if he is to take us for a drive!" Then, meeting Victorine on the

stairs, she bade her follow. "Dario isn't well," she said. "You may be

wanted."

They all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnished

bed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a whole

month. It was reached by way of a small /salon/, and from an adjoining

dressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal's apartments, the

relatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devised

by subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, the

passage gave access to his Eminence's private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted,

chairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar,

and the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray.

On entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, still

fully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera,

who, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and lofty

bearing--the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. "Why, what is the

matter, Dario /mio/?" asked the young woman.

He smiled, eager to reassure her. One only noticed that he was very pale,

with a look as of intoxication on his face.

"Oh! it's nothing, mere giddiness," he replied. "It's just as if I had

drunk too much. All at once things swam before my eyes, and I thought I

was going to fall. And then I only had time to come and fling myself on

the bed."

Then he drew a long breath, as though talking exhausted him, and the

Cardinal in his turn gave some details. "We had just finished our meal,"

said he, "I was giving Don Vigilio some orders for this afternoon, and

was about to rise when I saw Dario get up and reel. He wouldn't sit down

again, but came in here, staggering like a somnambulist, and fumbling at

the doors to open them. We followed him without understanding. And I

confess that I don't yet comprehend it."

So saying, the Cardinal punctuated his surprise by waving his arm towards

the rooms, through which a gust of misfortune seemed to have suddenly

swept. All the doors had remained wide open: the dressing-room could be

seen, and then the passage, at the end of which appeared the dining-room,

in a disorderly state, like an apartment suddenly vacated; the table

still laid, the napkins flung here and there, and the chairs pushed back.

As yet, however, there was no alarm.

Benedetta made the remark which is usually made in such cases: "I hope

you haven't eaten anything which has disagreed with you."

The Cardinal, smiling, again waved his hand as if to attest the frugality

of his table. "Oh!" said he, "there were only some eggs, some lamb

cutlets, and a dish of sorrel--they couldn't have overloaded his stomach.

I myself only drink water; he takes just a sip of white wine. No, no, the

food has nothing to do with it."

"Besides, in that case his Eminence and I would also have felt

indisposed," Don Vigilio made bold to remark.

Dario, after momentarily closing his eyes, opened them again, and once

more drew a long breath, whilst endeavouring to laugh. "Oh, it will be

nothing;" he said. "I feel more at ease already. I must get up and stir

myself."

"In that case," said Benedetta, "this is what I had thought of. You will

take Monsieur l'Abbe Froment and me for a long drive in the Campagna."

"Willingly. It's a nice idea. Victorine, help me."

Whilst speaking he had raised himself by means of one arm; but, before

the servant could approach, a slight convulsion seized him, and he fell

back again as if overcome by a fainting fit. It was the Cardinal, still

standing by the bedside, who caught him in his arms, whilst the

Contessina this time lost her head: "/Dio, Dio/! It has come on him

again. Quick, quick, a doctor!"

"Shall I run for one?" asked Pierre, whom the scene was also beginning to

upset.

"No, no, not you; stay with me. Victorine will go at once. She knows the

address. Doctor Giordano, Victorine."

The servant hurried away, and a heavy silence fell on the room where the

anxiety became more pronounced every moment. Benedetta, now quite pale,

had again approached the bed, whilst the Cardinal looked down at Dario,

whom he still held in his arms. And a terrible suspicion, vague,

indeterminate as yet, had just awoke in the old man's mind: Dario's face

seemed to him to be ashen, to wear that mask of terrified anguish which

he had already remarked on the countenance of his dearest friend,

Monsignor Gallo, when he had held him in his arms, in like manner, two

hours before his death. There was also the same swoon and the same

sensation of clasping a cold form whose heart ceases to beat. And above

everything else there was in Boccanera's mind the same growing thought of

poison, poison coming one knew not whence or how, but mysteriously

striking down those around him with the suddenness of lightning. And for

a long time he remained with his head bent over the face of his nephew,

that last scion of his race, seeking, studying, and recognising the signs

of the mysterious, implacable disorder which once already had rent his

heart atwain.

But Benedetta addressed him in a low, entreating voice: "You will tire

yourself, uncle. Let me take him a little, I beg you. Have no fear, I'll

hold him very gently, he will feel that it is I, and perhaps that will

rouse him."

At last the Cardinal raised his head and looked at her, and allowed her

to take his place after kissing her with distracted passion, his eyes the

while full of tears--a sudden burst of emotion in which his great love

for the young woman melted the stern frigidity which he usually affected.

"Ah! my poor child, my poor child!" he stammered, trembling from head to

foot like an oak-tree about to fall. Immediately afterwards, however, he

mastered himself, and whilst Pierre and Don Vigilio, mute and motionless,

regretted that they could be of no help, he walked slowly to and fro.

Soon, moreover, that bed-chamber became too small for all the thoughts

revolving in his mind, and he strayed first into the dressing-room and

then down the passage as far as the dining-room. And again and again he

went to and fro, grave and impassible, his head low, ever lost in the

same gloomy reverie. What were the multitudinous thoughts stirring in the

brain of that believer, that haughty Prince who had given himself to God

and could do naught to stay inevitable Destiny? From time to time he

returned to the bedside, observed the progress of the disorder, and then

started off again at the same slow regular pace, disappearing and

reappearing, carried along as it were by the monotonous alternations of

forces which man cannot control. Possibly he was mistaken, possibly this

was some mere indisposition at which the doctor would smile. One must

hope and wait. And again he went off and again he came back; and amidst

the heavy silence nothing more clearly bespoke the torture of anxious

fear than the rhythmical footsteps of that tall old man who was thus

awaiting Destiny.

The door opened, and Victorine came in breathless. "I found the doctor,

here he is," she gasped.

With his little pink face and white curls, his discreet paternal bearing

which gave him the air of an amiable prelate, Doctor Giordano came in

smiling; but on seeing that room and all the anxious people waiting in

it, he turned very grave, at once assuming the expression of profound

respect for all ecclesiastical secrets which he had acquired by long

practice among the clergy. And when he had glanced at the sufferer he let

but a low murmur escape him: "What, again! Is it beginning again!"

He was probably alluding to the knife thrust for which he had recently

tended Dario. Who could be thus relentlessly pursuing that poor and

inoffensive young prince? However no one heard the doctor unless it were

Benedetta, and she was so full of feverish impatience, so eager to be

tranquillised, that she did not listen but burst into fresh entreaties:

"Oh! doctor, pray look at him, examine him, tell us that it is nothing.

It can't be anything serious, since he was so well and gay but a little

while ago. It's nothing serious, is it?"

"You are right no doubt, Contessina, it can be nothing dangerous. We will

see."

However, on turning round, Doctor Giordano perceived the Cardinal, who

with regular, thoughtful footsteps had come back from the dining-room to

place himself at the foot of the bed. And while bowing, the doctor

doubtless detected a gleam of mortal anxiety in the dark eyes fixed upon

his own, for he added nothing but began to examine Dario like a man who

realises that time is precious. And as his examination progressed the

affable optimism which usually appeared upon his countenance gave place

to ashen gravity, a covert terror which made his lips slightly tremble.

It was he who had attended Monsignor Gallo when the latter had been

carried off so mysteriously; it was he who for imperative reasons had

then delivered a certificate stating the cause of death to be infectious

fever; and doubtless he now found the same terrible symptoms as in that

case, a leaden hue overspreading the sufferer's features, a stupor as of

excessive intoxication; and, old Roman practitioner that he was,

accustomed to sudden deaths, he realised that the /malaria/ which kills

was passing, that /malaria/ which science does not yet fully understand,

which may come from the putrescent exhalations of the Tiber unless it be

but a name for the ancient poison of the legends.

As the doctor raised his head his glance again encountered the black eyes

of the Cardinal, which never left him. "Signor Giordano," said his

Eminence, "you are not over-anxious, I hope? It is only some case of

indigestion, is it not?"

The doctor again bowed. By the slight quiver of the Cardinal's voice he

understood how acute was the anxiety of that powerful man, who once more

was stricken in his dearest affections.

"Your Eminence must be right," he said, "there's a bad digestion

certainly. Such accidents sometimes become dangerous when fever

supervenes. I need not tell your Eminence how thoroughly you may rely on

my prudence and zeal." Then he broke off and added in a clear

professional voice: "We must lose no time; the Prince must be undressed.

I should prefer to remain alone with him for a moment."

Whilst speaking in this way, however, Doctor Giordano detained Victorine,

who would be able to help him, said he; should he need any further

assistance he would take Giacomo. His evident desire was to get rid of

the members of the family in order that he might have more freedom of

action. And the Cardinal, who understood him, gently led Benedetta into

the dining-room, whither Pierre and Don Vigilio followed.

When the doors had been closed, the most mournful and oppressive silence

reigned in that dining-room, which the bright sun of winter filled with

such delightful warmth and radiance. The table was still laid, its cloth

strewn here and there with bread-crumbs; and a coffee cup had remained

half full. In the centre stood the basket of figs, whose covering of

leaves had been removed. However, only two or three of the figs were

missing. And in front of the window was Tata, the female parrot, who had

flown out of her cage and perched herself on her stand, where she

remained, dazzled and enraptured, amidst the dancing dust of a broad

yellow sunray. In her astonishment however, at seeing so many people

enter, she had ceased to scream and smooth her feathers, and had turned

her head the better to examine the newcomers with her round and

scrutinising eye.

The minutes went by slowly amidst all the feverish anxiety as to what

might be occurring in the neighbouring room. Don Vigilio had taken a

corner seat in silence, whilst Benedetta and Pierre, who had remained

standing, preserved similar muteness, and immobility. But the Cardinal

had reverted to that instinctive, lulling tramp by which he apparently

hoped to quiet his impatience and arrive the sooner at the explanation

for which he was groping through a tumultuous maze of ideas. And whilst

his rhythmical footsteps resounded with mechanical regularity, dark fury

was taking possession of his mind, exasperation at being unable to

understand the why and wherefore of that sickness. As he passed the table

he had twice glanced at the things lying on it in confusion, as if

seeking some explanation from them. Perhaps the harm had been done by

that unfinished coffee, or by that bread whose crumbs lay here and there,

or by those cutlets, a bone of which remained? Then as for the third time

he passed by, again glancing, his eyes fell upon the basket of figs, and

at once he stopped, as if beneath the shock of a revelation. An idea

seized upon him and mastered him, without any plan, however, occurring to

him by which he might change his sudden suspicion into certainty. For a

moment he remained puzzled with his eyes fixed upon the basket. Then he

took a fig and examined it, but, noticing nothing strange, was about to

put it back when Tata, the parrot, who was very fond of figs, raised a

strident cry. And this was like a ray of light; the means of changing

suspicion into certainty was found.

Slowly, with grave air and gloomy visage, the Cardinal carried the fig to

the parrot and gave it to her without hesitation or regret. She was a

very pretty bird, the only being of the lower order of creation to which

he had ever really been attached. Stretching out her supple, delicate

form, whose silken feathers of dull green here and there assumed a pinky

tinge in the sunlight, she took hold of the fig with her claws, then

ripped it open with her beak. But when she had raked it she ate but

little, and let all the rest fall upon the floor. Still grave and

impassible, the Cardinal looked at her and waited. Quite three minutes

went by, and then feeling reassured, he began to scratch the bird's poll,

whilst she, taking pleasure in the caress, turned her neck and fixed her

bright ruby eye upon her master. But all at once she sank back without

even a flap of the wings, and fell like a bullet. She was dead, killed as

by a thunderbolt.

Boccanera made but a gesture, raising both hands to heaven as if in

horror at what he now knew. Great God! such a terrible crime, and such a

fearful mistake, such an abominable trick of Destiny! No cry of grief

came from him, but the gloom upon his face grew black and fierce. Yet

there was a cry, a piercing cry from Benedetta, who like Pierre and Don

Vigilio had watched the Cardinal with an astonishment which had changed

into terror: "Poison! poison! Ah! Dario, my heart, my soul!"

But the Cardinal violently caught his niece by the wrist, whilst darting

a suspicious glance at the two petty priests, the secretary and the

foreigner, who were present: "Be quiet, be quiet!" said he.

She shook herself free, rebelling, frantic with rage and hatred: "Why

should I be quiet!" she cried. "It is Prada's work, I shall denounce him,

he shall die as well! I tell you it is Prada, I know it, for yesterday

Abbe Froment came back with him from Frascati in his carriage with that

priest Santobono and that basket of figs! Yes, yes, I have witnesses, it

is Prada, Prada!"

"No, no, you are mad, be quiet!" said the Cardinal, who had again taken

hold of the young woman's hands and sought to master her with all his

sovereign authority. He, who knew the influence which Cardinal

Sanguinetti exercised over Santobono's excitable mind, had just

understood the whole affair; no direct complicity but covert propulsion,

the animal excited and then let loose upon the troublesome rival at the

moment when the pontifical throne seemed likely to be vacant. The

probability, the certainty of all this flashed upon Boccanera who, though

some points remained obscure, did not seek to penetrate them. It was not

necessary indeed that he should know every particular: the thing was as

he said, since it was bound to be so. "No, no, it was not Prada," he

exclaimed, addressing Benedetta. "That man can bear me no personal

grudge, and I alone was aimed at, it was to me that those figs were

given. Come, think it out! Only an unforeseen indisposition prevented me

from eating the greater part of the fruit, for it is known that I am very

fond of figs, and while my poor Dario was tasting them, I jested and told

him to leave the finer ones for me to-morrow. Yes, the abominable blow

was meant for me, and it is on him that it has fallen by the most

atrocious of chances, the most monstrous of the follies of fate. Ah! Lord

God, Lord God, have you then forsaken us!"

Tears came into the old man's eyes, whilst she still quivered and seemed

unconvinced: "But you have no enemies, uncle," she said. "Why should that

Santobono try to take your life?"

For a moment he found no fitting reply. With supreme grandeur he had

already resolved to keep the truth secret. Then a recollection came to

him, and he resigned himself to the telling of a lie: "Santobono's mind

has always been somewhat unhinged," said he, "and I know that he has

hated me ever since I refused to help him to get a brother of his, one of

our former gardeners, out of prison. Deadly spite often has no more

serious cause. He must have thought that he had reason to be revenged on

me."

Thereupon Benedetta, exhausted, unable to argue any further, sank upon a

chair with a despairing gesture: "Ah! God, God! I no longer know--and

what matters it now that my Dario is in such danger? There's only one

thing to be done, he must be saved. How long they are over what they are

doing in that room--why does not Victorine come for us!"

The silence again fell, full of terror. Without speaking the Cardinal

took the basket of figs from the table and carried it to a cupboard in

which he locked it. Then he put the key in his pocket. No doubt, when

night had fallen, he himself would throw the proofs of the crime into the

Tiber. However, on coming back from the cupboard he noticed the two

priests, who naturally had watched him; and with mingled grandeur and

simplicity he said to them: "Gentlemen, I need not ask you to be

discreet. There are scandals which we must spare the Church, which is

not, cannot be guilty. To deliver one of ourselves, even when he is a

criminal, to the civil tribunals, often means a blow for the whole

Church, for men of evil mind may lay hold of the affair and seek to

impute the responsibility of the crime even to the Church itself. We

therefore have but to commit the murderer to the hands of God, who will

know more surely how to punish him. Ah! for my part, whether I be struck

in my own person or whether the blow be directed against my family, my

dearest affections, I declare in the name of the Christ who died upon the

cross, that I feel neither anger, nor desire for vengeance, that I efface

the murderer's name from my memory and bury his abominable act in the

eternal silence of the grave."

Tall as he was, he seemed of yet loftier stature whilst with hand

upraised he took that oath to leave his enemies to the justice of God

alone; for he did not refer merely to Santobono, but to Cardinal

Sanguinetti, whose evil influence he had divined. And amidst all the

heroism of his pride, he was rent by tragic dolour at thought of the dark

battle which was waged around the tiara, all the evil hatred and

voracious appetite which stirred in the depths of the gloom. Then, as

Pierre and Don Vigilio bowed to him as a sign that they would preserve

silence, he almost choked with invincible emotion, a sob of loving grief

which he strove to keep down rising to his throat, whilst he stammered:

"Ah! my poor child, my poor child, the only scion of our race, the only

love and hope of my heart! Ah! to die, to die like this!"

But Benedetta, again all violence, sprang up: "Die! Who, Dario? I won't

have it! We'll nurse him, we'll go back to him. We will take him in our

arms and save him. Come, uncle, come at once! I won't, I won't, I won't

have him die!"

She was going towards the door, and nothing would have prevented her from

re-entering the bed-room, when, as it happened, Victorine appeared with a

wild look on her face, for, despite her wonted serenity, all her courage

was now exhausted. "The doctor begs madame and his Eminence to come at

once, at once," said she.

Stupefied by all these things, Pierre did not follow the others, but

lingered for a moment in the sunlit dining-room with Don Vigilio. What!

poison? Poison as in the time of the Borgias, elegantly hidden away,

served up with luscious fruit by a crafty traitor, whom one dared not

even denounce! And he recalled the conversation on his way back from

Frascati, and his Parisian scepticism with respect to those legendary

drugs, which to his mind had no place save in the fifth acts of

melodramas. Yet those abominable stories were true, those tales of

poisoned knives and flowers, of prelates and even dilatory popes being

suppressed by a drop or a grain of something administered to them in

their morning chocolate. That passionate tragical Santobono was really a

poisoner, Pierre could no longer doubt it, for a lurid light now

illumined the whole of the previous day: there were the words of ambition

and menace which had been spoken by Cardinal Sanguinetti, the eagerness

to act in presence of the probable death of the reigning pope, the

suggestion of a crime for the sake of the Church's salvation, then that

priest with his little basket of figs encountered on the road, then that

basket carried for hours so carefully, so devoutly, on the priest's

knees, that basket which now haunted Pierre like a nightmare, and whose

colour, and odour, and shape he would ever recall with a shudder. Aye,

poison, poison, there was truth in it; it existed and still circulated in

the depths of the black world, amidst all the ravenous, rival longings

for conquest and sovereignty.

And all at once the figure of Prada likewise arose in Pierre's mind. A

little while previously, when Benedetta had so violently accused the

Count, he, Pierre, had stepped forward to defend him and cry aloud what

he knew, whence the poison had come, and what hand had offered it. But a

sudden thought had made him shiver: though Prada had not devised the

crime, he had allowed it to be perpetrated. Another memory darted keen

like steel through the young priest's mind--that of the little black hen

lying lifeless beside the shed, amidst the dismal surroundings of the

/osteria/, with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.

And here again, Tata, the parrot, lay still soft and warm at the foot of

her stand, with her beak stained by oozing blood. Why had Prada told that

lie about a battle between two fowls? All the dim intricacy of passion

and contention bewildered Pierre, he could not thread his way through it;

nor was he better able to follow the frightful combat which must have

been waged in that man's mind during the night of the ball. At the same

time he could not again picture him by his side during their nocturnal

walk towards the Boccanera mansion without shuddering, dimly divining

what a frightful decision had been taken before that mansion's door.

Moreover, whatever the obscurities, whether Prada had expected that the

Cardinal alone would be killed, or had hoped that some chance stroke of

fate might avenge him on others, the terrible fact remained--he had

known, he had been able to stay Destiny on the march, but had allowed it

to go onward and blindly accomplish its work of death.

Turning his head Pierre perceived Don Vigilio still seated on the corner

chair whence he had not stirred, and looking so pale and haggard that

perhaps he also had swallowed some of the poison. "Do you feel unwell?"

the young priest asked.

At first the secretary could not reply, for terror had gripped him at the

throat. Then in a low voice he said: "No, no, I didn't eat any. Ah,

Heaven, when I think that I so much wanted to taste them, and that merely

deference kept me back on seeing that his Eminence did not take any!" Don

Vigilio's whole body shivered at the thought that his humility alone had

saved him; and on his face and his hands there remained the icy chill of

death which had fallen so near and grazed him as it passed.

Then twice he heaved a sigh, and with a gesture of affright sought to

brush the horrid thing away while murmuring: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!"

Pierre, deeply stirred, and knowing what he thought of the train-bearer,

tried to extract some information from him: "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Do you accuse him too? Do you think they urged him on, and that it was

they at bottom?"

The word Jesuits was not even spoken, but a big black shadow passed

athwart the gay sunlight of the dining-room, and for a moment seemed to

fill it with darkness. "They! ah yes!" exclaimed Don Vigilio, "they are

everywhere; it is always they! As soon as one weeps, as soon as one dies,

they are mixed up in it. And this is intended for me too; I am quite

surprised that I haven't been carried off." Then again he raised a dull

moan of fear, hatred, and anger: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!" And he

refused to reply any further, but darted scared glances at the walls as

if from one or another of them he expected to see the train-bearer

emerge, with his wrinkled flabby face like that of an old maid, his

furtive mouse-like trot, and his mysterious, invading hands which had

gone expressly to bring the forgotten figs from the pantry and deposit

them on the table.

At last the two priests decided to return to the bedroom, where perhaps

they might be required; and Pierre on entering was overcome by the

heart-rending scene which the chamber now presented. Doctor Giordano,

suspecting poison, had for half an hour been trying the usual remedies,

an emetic and then magnesia. Just then, too, he had made Victorine whip

some whites of eggs in water. But the disorder was progressing with such

lightning-like rapidity that all succour was becoming futile. Undressed

and lying on his back, his bust propped up by pillows and his arms lying

outstretched over the sheets, Dario looked quite frightful in the sort of

painful intoxication which characterised that redoubtable and mysterious

disorder to which already Monsignor Gallo and others had succumbed. The

young man seemed to be stricken with a sort of dizzy stupor, his eyes

receded farther and farther into the depth of their dark sockets, whilst

his whole face became withered, aged as it were, and covered with an

earthy pallor. A moment previously he had closed his eyes, and the only

sign that he still lived was the heaving of his chest induced by painful

respiration. And leaning over his poor dying face stood Benedetta,

sharing his sufferings, and mastered by such impotent grief that she also

was unrecognisable, so white, so distracted by anguish, that it seemed as

if death were gradually taking her at the same time as it was taking him.

In the recess by the window whither Cardinal Boccanera had led Doctor

Giordano, a few words were exchanged in low tones. "He is lost, is he

not?"

The doctor made the despairing gesture of one who is vanquished: "Alas!

yes. I must warn your Eminence that in an hour all will be over."

A short interval of silence followed. "And the same malady as Gallo, is

it not?" asked the Cardinal; and as the doctor trembling and averting his

eyes did not answer he added: "At all events of an infectious fever!"

Giordano well understood what the Cardinal thus asked of him: silence,

the crime for ever hidden away for the sake of the good renown of his

mother, the Church. And there could be no loftier, no more tragical

grandeur than that of this old man of seventy, still so erect and

sovereign, who would neither suffer a slur to be cast upon his spiritual

family, nor consent to his human family being dragged into the inevitable

mire of a sensational murder trial. No, no, there must be none of that,

there must be silence, the eternal silence in which all becomes

forgotten.

At last the doctor bowed with his gentle air of discretion. "Evidently,

of an infectious fever as your Eminence so well says," he replied.

Two big tears then again appeared in Boccanera's eyes. Now that he had

screened the Deity from attack in the person of the Church, his heart as

a man again bled. He begged the doctor to make a supreme effort, to

attempt the impossible; but, pointing to the dying man with trembling

hands, Giordano shook his head. For his own father, his own mother he

could have done nothing. Death was there. So why weary, why torture a

dying man, whose sufferings he would only have increased? And then, as

the Cardinal, finding the end so near at hand, thought of his sister

Serafina, and lamented that she would not be able to kiss her nephew for

the last time if she lingered at the Vatican, the doctor offered to fetch

her in his carriage which was waiting below. It would not take him more

than twenty minutes, said he, and he would be back in time for the end,

should he then be needed.

Left to himself in the window recess the Cardinal remained there

motionless for another moment. With eyes blurred by tears, he gazed

towards heaven. And his quivering arms were suddenly raised in a gesture

of ardent entreaty. O God, since the science of man was so limited and

vain, since that doctor had gone off happy to escape the embarrassment of

his impotence, O God, why not a miracle which should proclaim the

splendour of Thy Almighty Power! A miracle, a miracle! that was what the

Cardinal asked from the depths of his believing soul, with the

insistence, the imperious entreaty of a Prince of the Earth, who deemed

that he had rendered considerable services to Heaven by dedicating his

whole life to the Church. And he asked for that miracle in order that his

race might be perpetuated, in order that its last male scion might not

thus miserably perish, but be able to marry that fondly loved cousin, who

now stood there all woe and tears. A miracle, a miracle for the sake of

those two dear children! A miracle which would endow the family with

fresh life: a miracle which would eternise the glorious name of Boccanera

by enabling an innumerable posterity of valiant ones and faithful ones to

spring from that young couple!

When the Cardinal returned to the centre of the room he seemed

transfigured. Faith had dried his eyes, his soul had become strong and

submissive, exempt from all human weakness. He had placed himself in the

hands of God, and had resolved that he himself would administer extreme

unction to Dario. With a gesture he summoned Don Vigilio and led him into

the little room which served as a chapel, and the key of which he always

carried. A cupboard had been contrived behind the altar of painted wood,

and the Cardinal went to it to take both stole and surplice. The coffer

containing the Holy Oils was likewise there, a very ancient silver coffer

bearing the Boccanera arms. And on Don Vigilio following the Cardinal

back into the bed-room they in turn pronounced the Latin words:

"/Pax huic domui/."

"/Et omnibus habitantibus in ea/."*

* "Peace unto this house and unto all who dwell in it."--Trans.

Death was coming so fast and threatening, that all the usual preparations

were perforce dispensed with. Neither the two lighted tapers, nor the

little table covered with white cloth had been provided. And, in the same

way, Don Vigilio the assistant, having failed to bring the Holy Water

basin and sprinkler, the Cardinal, as officiating priest, could merely

make the gesture of blessing the room and the dying man, whilst

pronouncing the words of the ritual: "/Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et

mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor."*

* "Sprinkle me, Lord, with hyssop, and purify me; wash me, and

make me whiter than snow."--Trans.

Benedetta on seeing the Cardinal appear carrying the Holy Oils, had with

a long quiver fallen on her knees at the foot of the bed, whilst,

somewhat farther away, Pierre and Victorine likewise knelt, overcome by

the dolorous grandeur of the scene. And the dilated eyes of the

Contessina, whose face was pale as snow, never quitted her Dario, whom

she no longer recognised, so earthy was his face, its skin tanned and

wrinkled like that of an old man. And it was not for their marriage which

he so much desired that their uncle, the all-powerful Prince of the

Church, was bringing the Sacrament, but for the supreme rupture, the end

of all pride, Death which finishes off the haughtiest races, and sweeps

them away, even as the wind sweeps the dust of the roads.

It was needful that there should be no delay, so the Cardinal promptly

repeated the Credo in an undertone, "/Credo in unum Deum--/"

"/Amen/," responded Don Vigilio, who, after the prayers of the ritual,

stammered the Litanies in order that Heaven might take pity on the

wretched man who was about to appear before God, if God by a prodigy did

not spare him.

Then, without taking time to wash his fingers, the Cardinal opened the

case containing the Holy Oils, and limiting himself to one anointment, as

is permissible in pressing cases, he deposited a single drop of the oil

on Dario's parched mouth which was already withered by death. And in

doing so he repeated the words of the formula, his heart all aglow with

faith as he asked that the divine mercy might efface each and every sin

that the young man had committed by either of his five senses, those five

portals by which everlasting temptation assails the soul. And the

Cardinal's fervour was also instinct with the hope that if God had

smitten the poor sufferer for his offences, perhaps He would make His

indulgence entire and even restore him to life as soon as He should have

forgiven his sins. Life, O Lord, life in order that the ancient line of

the Boccaneras might yet multiply and continue to serve Thee in battle

and at the altar until the end of time!

For a moment the Cardinal remained with quivering hands, gazing at the

mute face, the closed eyes of the dying man, and waiting for the miracle.

But no sign appeared, not the faintest glimmer brightened that haggard

countenance, nor did a sigh of relief come from the withered lips as Don

Vigilio wiped them with a little cotton wool. And the last prayer was

said, and whilst the frightful silence fell once more the Cardinal,

followed by his assistant, returned to the chapel. There they both knelt,

the Cardinal plunging into ardent prayer upon the bare tiles. With his

eyes raised to the brass crucifix upon the altar he saw nothing, heard

nothing, but gave himself wholly to his entreaties, supplicating God to

take him in place of his nephew, if a sacrifice were necessary, and yet

clinging to the hope that so long as Dario retained a breath of life and

he himself thus remained on his knees addressing the Deity, he might

succeed in pacifying the wrath of Heaven. He was both so humble and so

great. Would not accord surely be established between God and a

Boccanera? The old palace might have fallen to the ground, he himself

would not even have felt the toppling of its beams.

In the bed-room, however, nothing had yet stirred beneath the weight of

tragic majesty which the ceremony had left there. It was only now that

Dario raised his eyelids, and when on looking at his hands he saw them so

aged and wasted the depths of his eyes kindled with an expression of

immense regretfulness that life should be departing. Doubtless it was at

this moment of lucidity amidst the kind of intoxication with which the

poison overwhelmed him, that he for the first time realised his perilous

condition. Ah! to die, amidst such pain, such physical degradation, what

a revolting horror for that frivolous and egotistical man, that lover of

beauty, joy, and light, who knew not how to suffer! In him ferocious fate

chastised racial degeneracy with too heavy a hand. He became horrified

with himself, seized with childish despair and terror, which lent him

strength enough to sit up and gaze wildly about the room, in order to see

if every one had not abandoned him. And when his eyes lighted on

Benedetta still kneeling at the foot of the bed, a supreme impulse

carried him towards her, he stretched forth both arms as passionately as

his strength allowed and stammered her name: "O Benedetta, Benedetta!"

She, motionless in the stupor of her anxiety, had not taken her eyes from

his face. The horrible disorder which was carrying off her lover, seemed

also to possess and annihilate her more and more, even as he himself grew

weaker and weaker. Her features were assuming an immaterial whiteness;

and through the void of her clear eyeballs one began to espy her soul.

However, when she perceived him thus resuscitating and calling her with

arms outstretched, she in her turn arose and standing beside the bed made

answer: "I am coming, my Dario, here I am."

And then Pierre and Victorine, still on their knees, beheld a sublime

deed of such extraordinary grandeur that they remained rooted to the

floor, spell-bound as in the presence of some supra-terrestrial spectacle

in which human beings may not intervene. Benedetta herself spoke and

acted like one freed from all social and conventional ties, already

beyond life, only seeing and addressing beings and things from a great

distance, from the depths of the unknown in which she was about to

disappear.

"Ah! my Dario, so an attempt has been made to part us! It was in order

that I might never belong to you--that we might never be happy, that your

death was resolved upon, and it was known that with your life my own must

cease! And it is that man who is killing you! Yes, he is your murderer,

even if the actual blow has been dealt by another. He is the first

cause--he who stole me from you when I was about to become yours, he who

ravaged our lives, and who breathed around us the hateful poison which is

killing us. Ah! how I hate him, how I hate him; how I should like to

crush him with my hate before I die with you!"

She did not raise her voice, but spoke those terrible words in a deep

murmur, simply and passionately. Prada was not even named, and she

scarcely turned towards Pierre--who knelt, paralysed, behind her--to add

with a commanding air: "You will see his father, I charge you to tell him

that I cursed his son! That kind-hearted hero loved me well--I love him

even now, and the words you will carry to him from me will rend his

heart. But I desire that he should know--he must know, for the sake of

truth and justice."

Distracted by terror, sobbing amidst a last convulsion, Dario again

stretched forth his arms, feeling that she was no longer looking at him,

that her clear eyes were no longer fixed upon his own: "Benedetta,

Benedetta!"

"I am coming, I am coming, my Dario--I am here!" she responded, drawing

yet nearer to the bedside and almost touching him. "Ah!" she went on,

"that vow which I made to the Madonna to belong to none, not even you,

until God should allow it by the blessing of one of his priests! Ah! I

set a noble, a divine pride in remaining immaculate for him who should be

the one master of my soul and body. And that chastity which I was so

proud of, I defended it against the other as one defends oneself against

a wolf, and I defended it against you with tears for fear of sacrilege.

And if you only knew what terrible struggles I was forced to wage with

myself, for I loved you and longed to be yours, like a woman who accepts

the whole of love, the love that makes wife and mother! Ah! my vow to the

Madonna--with what difficulty did I keep it when the old blood of our

race arose in me like a tempest; and now what a disaster!" She drew yet

nearer, and her low voice became more ardent: "You remember that evening

when you came back with a knife-thrust in your shoulder. I thought you

dead, and cried aloud with rage at the idea of losing you like that. I

insulted the Madonna and regretted that I had not damned myself with you

that we might die together, so tightly clasped that we must needs be

buried together also. And to think that such a terrible warning was of no

avail! I was blind and foolish; and now you are again stricken, again

being taken from my love. Ah! my wretched pride, my idiotic dream!"

That which now rang out in her stifled voice was the anger of the

practical woman that she had ever been, all superstition notwithstanding.

Could the Madonna, who was so maternal, desire the woe of lovers? No,

assuredly not. Nor did the angels make the mere absence of a priest a

cause for weeping over the transports of true and mutual love. Was not

such love holy in itself, and did not the angels rather smile upon it and

burst into gladsome song! And ah! how one cheated oneself by not loving

to heart's content under the sun, when the blood of life coursed through

one's veins!

"Benedetta! Benedetta!" repeated the dying man, full of child-like terror

at thus going off all alone into the depths of the black and everlasting

night.

"Here I am, my Dario, I am coming!"

Then, as she fancied that the servant, albeit motionless, had stirred, as

if to rise and interfere, she added: "Leave me, leave me, Victorine,

nothing in the world can henceforth prevent it. A moment ago, when I was

on my knees, something roused me and urged me on. I know whither I am

going. And besides, did I not swear on the night of the knife thrust? Did

I not promise to belong to him alone, even in the earth if it were

necessary? I must embrace him, and he will carry me away! We shall be

dead, and we shall be wedded in spite of all, and for ever and for ever!"

She stepped back to the dying man, and touched him: "Here I am, my Dario,

here I am!"

Then came the apogee. Amidst growing exaltation, buoyed up by a blaze of

love, careless of glances, candid like a lily, she divested herself of

her garments and stood forth so white, that neither marble statue, nor

dove, nor snow itself was ever whiter. "Here I am, my Dario, here I am!"

Recoiling almost to the ground as at sight of an apparition, the glorious

flash of a holy vision, Pierre and Victorine gazed at her with dazzled

eyes. The servant had not stirred to prevent this extraordinary action,

seized as she was with that shrinking reverential terror which comes upon

one in presence of the wild, mad deeds of faith and passion. And the

priest, whose limbs were paralysed, felt that something so sublime was

passing that he could only quiver in distraction. And no thought of

impurity came to him on beholding that lily, snowy whiteness. All candour

and all nobility as she was, that virgin shocked him no more than some

sculptured masterpiece of genius.

"Here I am, my Dario, here I am."

She had lain herself down beside the spouse whom she had chosen, she had

clasped the dying man whose arms only had enough strength left to fold

themselves around her. Death was stealing him from her, but she would go

with him; and again she murmured: "My Dario, here I am."

And at that moment, against the wall at the head of the bed, Pierre

perceived the escutcheon of the Boccaneras, embroidered in gold and

coloured silks on a groundwork of violet velvet. There was the winged

dragon belching flames, there was the fierce and glowing motto "/Bocca

nera, Alma rossa/" (black mouth, red soul), the mouth darkened by a roar,

the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love. And behold! all that

old race of passion and violence with its tragic legends had reappeared,

its blood bubbling up afresh to urge that last and adorable daughter of

the line to those terrifying and prodigious nuptials in death. And to

Pierre that escutcheon recalled another memory, that of the portrait of

Cassia Boccanera the /amorosa/ and avengeress who had flung herself into

the Tiber with her brother Ercole and the corpse of her lover Flavio. Was

there not here even with Benedetta the same despairing clasp seeking to

vanquish death, the same savagery in hurling oneself into the abyss with

the corpse of the one's only love? Benedetta and Cassia were as sisters,

Cassia, who lived anew in the old painting in the /salon/ overhead,

Benedetta who was here dying of her lover's death, as though she were but

the other's spirit. Both had the same delicate childish features, the

same mouth of passion, the same large dreamy eyes set in the same round,

practical, and stubborn head.

"My Dario, here I am!"

For a second, which seemed an eternity, they clasped one another, she

neither repelled nor terrified by the disorder which made him so

unrecognisable, but displaying a delirious passion, a holy frenzy as if

to pass beyond life, to penetrate with him into the black Unknown. And

beneath the shock of the felicity at last offered to him he expired, with

his arms yet convulsively wound around her as though indeed to carry her

off. Then, whether from grief or from bliss amidst that embrace of death,

there came such a rush of blood to her heart that the organ burst: she

died on her lover's neck, both tightly and for ever clasped in one

another's arms.

There was a faint sigh. Victorine understood and drew near, while Pierre,

also erect, remained quivering with the tearful admiration of one who has

beheld the sublime.

"Look, look!" whispered the servant, "she no longer moves, she no longer

breathes. Ah! my poor child, my poor child, she is dead!"