第 101 页

you like a grandfather, wishing you all courage and peace, and that faith

in life which alone helps one to live."

Pierre was so touched that tears rose to his eyes, and when with all his

soul he kissed the stricken hero on either cheek, he felt that he

likewise was weeping. With a hand yet as vigorous as a vice, Orlando

detained him for a moment beside his arm-chair, whilst with his other

hand waving in a supreme gesture, he for the last time showed him Rome,

so immense and mournful under the ashen sky. And his voice came low,

quivering and suppliant. "For mercy's sake swear to me that you will love

her all the same, in spite of all, for she is the cradle, the mother!

Love her for all that she no longer is, love her for all that she desires

to be! Do not say that her end has come, love her, love her so that she

may live again, that she may live for ever!"

Pierre again embraced him, unable to find any other response, upset as he

was by all the passion displayed by that old warrior, who spoke of his

city as a man of thirty might speak of the woman he adores. And he found

him so handsome and so lofty with his old blanched, leonine mane and his

stubborn belief in approaching resurrection, that once more the other old

Roman, Cardinal Boccanera, arose before him, equally stubborn in his

faith and relinquishing nought of his dream, even though he might be

crushed on the spot by the fall of the heavens. These twain ever stood

face to face, at either end of their city, alone rearing their lofty

figures above the horizon, whilst awaiting the future.

Then, when Pierre had bowed to Count Luigi, and found himself outside

again in the Via Venti Settembre he was all eagerness to get back to the

Boccanera mansion so as to pack up his things and depart. His farewell

visits were made, and he now only had to take leave of Donna Serafina and

the Cardinal, and to thank them for all their kind hospitality. For him

alone did their doors open, for they had shut themselves up on returning

from the funeral, resolved to see nobody. At twilight, therefore, Pierre

had no one but Victorine to keep him company in the vast, black mansion,

for when he expressed a desire to take supper with Don Vigilio she told

him that the latter had also shut himself in his room. Desirous as he was

of at least shaking hands with the secretary for the last time, Pierre

went to knock at the door, which was so near his own, but could obtain no

reply, and divined that the poor fellow, overcome by a fresh attack of

fever and suspicion, desired not to see him again, in terror at the idea

that he might compromise himself yet more than he had done already.

Thereupon, it was settled that as the train only started at seventeen

minutes past ten Victorine should serve Pierre his supper on the little

table in his sitting-room at eight o'clock. She brought him a lamp and

spoke of putting his linen in order, but he absolutely declined her help,

and she had to leave him to pack up quietly by himself.

He had purchased a little box, since his valise could not possibly hold

all the linen and winter clothing which had been sent to him from Paris

as his stay in Rome became more and more protracted. However, the packing

was soon accomplished; the wardrobe was emptied, the drawers were

visited, the box and valise filled and securely locked by seven o'clock.

An hour remained to him before supper and he sat there resting, when his

eyes whilst travelling round the walls to make sure that he had forgotten

nothing, encountered that old painting by some unknown master, which had

so often filled him with emotion. The lamplight now shone full upon it;

and this time again as he gazed at it he felt a blow in the heart, a blow

which was all the deeper, as now, at his parting hour, he found a symbol

of his defeat at Rome in that dolent, tragic, half-naked woman, draped in

a shred of linen, and weeping between her clasped hands whilst seated on

the threshold of the palace whence she had been driven. Did not that

rejected one, that stubborn victim of love, who sobbed so bitterly, and

of whom one knew nothing, neither what her face was like, nor whence she

had come, nor what her fault had been--did she not personify all man's

useless efforts to force the doors of truth, and all the frightful

abandonment into which he falls as soon as he collides with the wall

which shuts the unknown off from him? For a long while did Pierre look at

her, again worried at being obliged to depart without having seen her

face behind her streaming golden hair, that face of dolorous beauty which

he pictured radiant with youth and delicious in its mystery. And as he

gazed he was just fancying that he could see it, that it was becoming his

at last, when there was a knock at the door and Narcisse Habert entered.

Pierre was surprised to see the young _attache_, for three days

previously he had started for Florence, impelled thither by one of the

sudden whims of his artistic fancy. However, he at once apologised for

his unceremonious intrusion. "Ah! there is your luggage!" he said; "I

heard that you were going away this evening, and I was unwilling to let

you leave Rome without coming to shake hands with you. But what frightful

things have happened since we met! I only returned this afternoon, so

that I could not attend the funeral. However, you may well imagine how

thunderstruck I was by the news of those frightful deaths."

Then, suspecting some unacknowledged tragedy, like a man well acquainted

with the legendary dark side of Rome, he put some questions to Pierre but

did not insist on them, being at bottom far too prudent to burden himself

uselessly with redoubtable secrets. And after Pierre had given him such

particulars as he thought fit, the conversation changed and they spoke at

length of Italy, Rome, Naples, and Florence. "Ah! Florence, Florence!"

Narcisse repeated languorously. He had lighted a cigarette and his words

fell more slowly, as he glanced round the room. "You were very well

lodged here," he said, "it is very quiet. I had never come up to this

floor before."

His eyes continued wandering over the walls until they were at last

arrested by the old painting which the lamp illumined, and thereupon he

remained for a moment blinking as if surprised. And all at once he rose

and approached the picture. "Dear me, dear me," said he, "but that's very

good, that's very fine."

"Isn't it?" rejoined Pierre. "I know nothing about painting but I was

stirred by that picture on the very day of my arrival, and over and over

again it has kept me here with my heart beating and full of indescribable

feelings."

Narcisse no longer spoke but examined the painting with the care of a

connoisseur, an expert, whose keen glance decides the question of

authenticity, and appraises commercial value. And the most extraordinary

delight appeared upon the young man's fair, rapturous face, whilst his

fingers began to quiver. "But it's a Botticelli, it's a Botticelli! There

can be no doubt about it," he exclaimed. "Just look at the hands, and

look at the folds of the drapery! And the colour of the hair, and the

technique, the flow of the whole composition. A Botticelli, ah! _mon

Dieu_, a Botticelli."

He became quite faint, overflowing with increasing admiration as he

penetrated more and more deeply into the subject, at once so simple and

so poignant. Was it not acutely modern? The artist had foreseen our

pain-fraught century, our anxiety in presence of the invisible, our

distress at being unable to cross the portal of mystery which was for

ever closed. And what an eternal symbol of the world's wretchedness was

that woman, whose face one could not see, and who sobbed so distractedly

without it being possible for one to wipe away her tears. Yes, a

Botticelli, unknown, uncatalogued, what a discovery! Then he paused to

inquire of Pierre: "Did you know it was a Botticelli?"

"Oh no! I spoke to Don Vigilio about it one day, but he seemed to think

it of no account. And Victorine, when I spoke to her, replied that all

those old things only served to harbour dust."

Narcisse protested, quite stupefied: "What! they have a Botticelli here

and don't know it! Ah! how well I recognise in that the Roman princes

who, unless their masterpieces have been labelled, are for the most part

utterly at sea among them! No doubt this one has suffered a little, but a

simple cleaning would make a marvel, a famous picture of it, for which a

museum would at least give--"

He abruptly stopped, completing his sentence with a wave of the hand and

not mentioning the figure which was on his lips. And then, as Victorine

came in followed by Giacomo to lay the little table for Pierre's supper,

he turned his back upon the Botticelli and said no more about it. The

young priest's attention was aroused, however, and he could well divine

what was passing in the other's mind. Under that make-believe Florentine,

all angelicalness, there was an experienced business man, who well knew

how to look after his pecuniary interests and was even reported to be

somewhat avaricious. Pierre, who was aware of it, could not help smiling

therefore when he saw him take his stand before another picture--a

frightful Virgin, badly copied from some eighteenth-century canvas--and

exclaim: "Dear me! that's not at all bad! I've a friend, I remember, who

asked me to buy him some old paintings. I say, Victorine, now that Donna

Serafina and the Cardinal are left alone do you think they would like to

rid themselves of a few valueless pictures?"

The servant raised her arms as if to say that if it depended on her,

everything might be carried away. Then she replied: "Not to a dealer,

sir, on account of the nasty rumours which would at once spread about,

but I'm sure they would be happy to please a friend. The house costs a

lot to keep up, and money would be welcome."

Pierre then vainly endeavoured to persuade Narcisse to stay and sup with

him, but the young man gave his word of honour that he was expected

elsewhere and was even late. And thereupon he ran off, after pressing the

priest's hands and affectionately wishing him a good journey.

Eight o'clock was striking, and Pierre seated himself at the little

table, Victorine remaining to serve him after dismissing Giacomo, who had

brought the supper things upstairs in a basket. "The people here make me

wild," said the worthy woman after the other had gone, "they are so slow.

And besides, it's a pleasure for me to serve you your last meal, Monsieur

l'Abbe. I've had a little French dinner cooked for you, a _sole au

gratin_ and a roast fowl."

Pierre was touched by this attention, and pleased to have the company of

a compatriot whilst he partook of his final meal amidst the deep silence

of the old, black, deserted mansion. The buxom figure of Victorine was

still instinct with mourning, with grief for the loss of her dear

Contessina, but her daily toil was already setting her erect again,

restoring her quick activity; and she spoke almost cheerfully whilst

passing plates and dishes to Pierre. "And to think Monsieur l'Abbe," said

she, "that you'll be in Paris on the morning of the day after to-morrow!

As for me, you know, it seems as if I only left Auneau yesterday. Ah!

what fine soil there is there; rich soil yellow like gold, not like their

poor stuff here which smells of sulphur! And the pretty fresh willows

beside our stream, too, and the little wood so full of moss! They've no

moss here, their trees look like tin under that stupid sun of theirs

which burns up the grass. _Mon Dieu_! in the early times I would have

given I don't know what for a good fall of rain to soak me and wash away

all the dust. Ah! I shall never get used to their awful Rome. What a

country and what people!"

Pierre was quite enlivened by her stubborn fidelity to her own nook,

which after five and twenty years of absence still left her horrified

with that city of crude light and black vegetation, true daughter as she

was of a smiling and temperate clime which of a morning was steeped in

rosy mist. "But now that your young mistress is dead," said he, "what

keeps you here? Why don't you take the train with me?"

She looked at him in surprise: "Go off with you, go back to Auneau! Oh!

it's impossible, Monsieur l'Abbe. It would be too ungrateful to begin

with, for Donna Serafina is accustomed to me, and it would be bad on my

part to forsake her and his Eminence now that they are in trouble. And

besides, what could I do elsewhere? No, my little hole is here now."

"So you will never see Auneau again?"

"No, never, that's certain."

"And you don't mind being buried here, in their ground which smells of

sulphur?"

She burst into a frank laugh. "Oh!" she said, "I don't mind where I am

when I'm dead. One sleeps well everywhere. And it's funny that you should

be so anxious as to what there may be when one's dead. There's nothing,

I'm sure. That's what tranquillises me, to feel that it will be all over

and that I shall have a rest. The good God owes us that after we've

worked so hard. You know that I'm not devout, oh! dear no. Still that

doesn't prevent me from behaving properly, and, true as I stand here,

I've never had a lover. It seems foolish to say such a thing at my age,

still I say it because it's the sober truth."

She continued laughing like the worthy woman she was, having no belief in

priests and yet without a sin upon her conscience. And Pierre once more

marvelled at the simple courage and great practical common sense of this

laborious and devoted creature, who for him personified the whole

unbelieving lowly class of France, those who no longer believe and will

believe never more. Ah! to be as she was, to do one's work and lie down