第 11 页

strange room, in that palace whose deep, death-like silence encompassed

him. As he lay there, his limbs still overpowered and his brain seemingly

empty, a flash of light suddenly came to him, and he realised that there

must be certain circumstances that he knew nothing of that, simple though

things appeared, they must really hide some complicated intrigue.

However, it was only a fugitive gleam of enlightenment; his suspicions

faded; and he rose up shaking himself and accusing the gloomy twilight of

being the sole cause of the shivering and the despondency of which he

felt ashamed.

In order to bestir himself, Pierre began to examine the two rooms. They

were furnished simply, almost meagrely, in mahogany, there being scarcely

any two articles alike, though all dated from the beginning of the

century. Neither the bed nor the windows nor the doors had any hangings.

On the floor of bare tiles, coloured red and polished, there were merely

some little foot-mats in front of the various seats. And at sight of this

middle-class bareness and coldness Pierre ended by remembering a room

where he had slept in childhood--a room at Versailles, at the abode of

his grandmother, who had kept a little grocer's shop there in the days of

Louis Philippe. However, he became interested in an old painting which

hung in the bed-room, on the wall facing the bed, amidst some childish

and valueless engravings. But partially discernible in the waning light,

this painting represented a woman seated on some projecting stone-work,

on the threshold of a great stern building, whence she seemed to have

been driven forth. The folding doors of bronze had for ever closed behind

her, yet she remained there in a mere drapery of white linen; whilst

scattered articles of clothing, thrown forth chance-wise with a violent

hand, lay upon the massive granite steps. Her feet were bare, her arms

were bare, and her hands, distorted by bitter agony, were pressed to her

face--a face which one saw not, veiled as it was by the tawny gold of her

rippling, streaming hair. What nameless grief, what fearful shame, what

hateful abandonment was thus being hidden by that rejected one, that

lingering victim of love, of whose unknown story one might for ever dream

with tortured heart? It could be divined that she was adorably young and

beautiful in her wretchedness, in the shred of linen draped about her

shoulders; but a mystery enveloped everything else--her passion, possibly

her misfortune, perhaps even her transgression--unless, indeed, she were

there merely as a symbol of all that shivers and that weeps visageless

before the ever closed portals of the unknown. For a long time Pierre

looked at her, and so intently that he at last imagined he could

distinguish her profile, divine in its purity and expression of

suffering. But this was only an illusion; the painting had greatly

suffered, blackened by time and neglect; and he asked himself whose work

it might be that it should move him so intensely. On the adjoining wall a

picture of a Madonna, a bad copy of an eighteenth-century painting,

irritated him by the banality of its smile.

Night was falling faster and faster, and, opening the sitting-room

window, Pierre leant out. On the other bank of the Tiber facing him arose

the Janiculum, the height whence he had gazed upon Rome that morning. But

at this dim hour Rome was no longer the city of youth and dreamland

soaring into the early sunshine. The night was raining down, grey and

ashen; the horizon was becoming blurred, vague, and mournful. Yonder, to

the left, beyond the sea of roofs, Pierre could still divine the presence

of the Palatine; and yonder, to the right, there still arose the Dome of

St. Peter's, now grey like slate against the leaden sky; whilst behind

him the Quirinal, which he could not see, must also be fading away into

the misty night. A few minutes went by, and everything became yet more

blurred; he realised that Rome was fading, departing in its immensity of

which he knew nothing. Then his causeless doubt and disquietude again

came on him so painfully that he could no longer remain at the window. He

closed it and sat down, letting the darkness submerge him with its flood

of infinite sadness. And his despairing reverie only ceased when the door

gently opened and the glow of a lamp enlivened the room.

It was Victorine who came in quietly, bringing the light. "Ah! so you are

up, Monsieur l'Abbe," said she; "I came in at about four o'clock but I

let you sleep on. You have done quite right to take all the rest you

required."

Then, as he complained of pains and shivering, she became anxious. "Don't

go catching their nasty fevers," she said. "It isn't at all healthy near

their river, you know. Don Vigilio, his Eminence's secretary, is always

having the fever, and I assure you that it isn't pleasant."

She accordingly advised him to remain upstairs and lie down again. She

would excuse his absence to the Princess and the Contessina. And he ended

by letting her do as she desired, for he was in no state to have any will

of his own. By her advice he dined, partaking of some soup, a wing of a

chicken, and some preserves, which Giaccomo, the big lackey, brought up

to him. And the food did him a great deal of good; he felt so restored

that he refused to go to bed, desiring, said he, to thank the ladies that

very evening for their kindly hospitality. As Donna Serafina received on

Mondays he would present himself before her.

"Very good," said Victorine approvingly. "As you are all right again it

can do you no harm, it will even enliven you. The best thing will be for

Don Vigilio to come for you at nine o'clock and accompany you. Wait for

him here."

Pierre had just washed and put on the new cassock he had brought with

him, when, at nine o'clock precisely, he heard a discreet knock at his

door. A little priest came in, a man scarcely thirty years of age, but

thin and debile of build, with a long, seared, saffron-coloured face. For

two years past attacks of fever, coming on every day at the same hour,

had been consuming him. Nevertheless, whenever he forgot to control the

black eyes which lighted his yellow face, they shone out ardently with

the glow of his fiery soul. He bowed, and then in fluent French

introduced himself in this simple fashion: "Don Vigilio, Monsieur l'Abbe,

who is entirely at your service. If you are willing, we will go down."

Pierre immediately followed him, expressing his thanks, and Don Vigilio,

relapsing into silence, answered his remarks with a smile. Having

descended the small staircase, they found themselves on the second floor,

on the spacious landing of the grand staircase. And Pierre was surprised

and saddened by the scanty illumination, which, as in some dingy

lodging-house, was limited to a few gas-jets, placed far apart, their

yellow splotches but faintly relieving the deep gloom of the lofty,

endless corridors. All was gigantic and funereal. Even on the landing,

where was the entrance to Donna Serafina's apartments, facing those

occupied by her niece, nothing indicated that a reception was being held

that evening. The door remained closed, not a sound came from the rooms,

a death-like silence arose from the whole palace. And Don Vigilio did not

even ring, but, after a fresh bow, discreetly turned the door-handle.

A single petroleum lamp, placed on a table, lighted the ante-room, a

large apartment with bare fresco-painted walls, simulating hangings of

red and gold, draped regularly all around in the antique fashion. A few

men's overcoats and two ladies' mantles lay on the chairs, whilst a pier

table was littered with hats, and a servant sat there dozing, with his

back to the wall.

However, as Don Vigilio stepped aside to allow Pierre to enter a first

reception-room, hung with red _brocatelle_, a room but dimly lighted and

which he imagined to be empty, the young priest found himself face to

face with an apparition in black, a woman whose features he could not at

first distinguish. Fortunately he heard his companion say, with a low

bow, "Contessina, I have the honour to present to you Monsieur l'Abbe

Pierre Froment, who arrived from France this morning."

Then, for a moment, Pierre remained alone with Benedetta in that deserted

_salon_, in the sleepy glimmer of two lace-veiled lamps. At present,

however, a sound of voices came from a room beyond, a larger apartment

whose doorway, with folding doors thrown wide open, described a

parallelogram of brighter light.

The young woman at once showed herself very affable, with perfect

simplicity of manner: "Ah! I am happy to see you, Monsieur l'Abbe. I was

afraid that your indisposition might be serious. You are quite recovered

now, are you not?"

Pierre listened to her, fascinated by her slow and rather thick voice, in

which restrained passion seemed to mingle with much prudent good sense.

And at last he saw her, with her hair so heavy and so dark, her skin so

white, the whiteness of ivory. She had a round face, with somewhat full

lips, a small refined nose, features as delicate as a child's. But it was

especially her eyes that lived, immense eyes, whose infinite depths none

could fathom. Was she slumbering? Was she dreaming? Did her motionless

face conceal the ardent tension of a great saint and a great _amorosa_?

So white, so young, and so calm, her every movement was harmonious, her

appearance at once very staid, very noble, and very rhythmical. In her

ears she wore two large pearls of matchless purity, pearls which had come

from a famous necklace of her mother's, known throughout Rome.

Pierre apologised and thanked her. "You see me in confusion, madame,"

said he; "I should have liked to express to you this morning my gratitude

for your great kindness."

He had hesitated to call her madame, remembering the plea brought forward

in the suit for the dissolution of her marriage. But plainly enough

everybody must call her madame. Moreover, her face had retained its calm

and kindly expression.

"Consider yourself at home here, Monsieur l'Abbe," she responded, wishing

to put him at his ease. "It is sufficient that our relative, Monsieur de

la Choue, should be fond of you, and take interest in your work. I have,

you know, much affection for him." Then her voice faltered slightly, for

she realised that she ought to speak of the book, the one reason of

Pierre's journey and her proffered hospitality. "Yes," she added, "the

Viscount sent me your book. I read it and found it very beautiful. It

disturbed me. But I am only an ignoramus, and certainly failed to

understand everything in it. We must talk it over together; you will

explain your ideas to me, won't you, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

In her large clear eyes, which did not know how to lie, Pierre then read

the surprise and emotion of a child's soul when confronted by disquieting

and undreamt-of problems. So it was not she who had become impassioned

and had desired to have him near her that she might sustain him and

assist his victory. Once again, and this time very keenly, he suspected a

secret influence, a hidden hand which was directing everything towards

some unknown goal. However, he was charmed by so much simplicity and

frankness in so beautiful, young, and noble a creature; and he gave

himself to her after the exchange of those few words, and was about to

tell her that she might absolutely dispose of him, when he was

interrupted by the advent of another woman, whose tall, slight figure,

also clad in black, stood out strongly against the luminous background of

the further reception-room as seen through the open doorway.

"Well, Benedetta, have you sent Giaccomo up to see?" asked the newcomer.

"Don Vigilio has just come down and he is quite alone. It is improper."

"No, no, aunt. Monsieur l'Abbe is here," was the reply of Benedetta,

hastening to introduce the young priest. "Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre

Froment--The Princess Boccanera."

Ceremonious salutations were exchanged. The Princess must have been

nearly sixty, but she laced herself so tightly that from behind one might

have taken her for a young woman. This tight lacing, however, was her

last coquetry. Her hair, though still plentiful, was quite white, her

eyebrows alone remaining black in her long, wrinkled face, from which

projected the large obstinate nose of the family. She had never been

beautiful, and had remained a spinster, wounded to the heart by the

selection of Count Brandini, who had preferred her younger sister,

Ernesta. From that moment she had resolved to seek consolation and

satisfaction in family pride alone, the hereditary pride of the great

name which she bore. The Boccaneras had already supplied two Popes to the

Church, and she hoped that before she died her brother would become the

third. She had transformed herself into his housekeeper, as it were,

remaining with him, watching over him, and advising him, managing all the

household affairs herself, and accomplishing miracles in order to conceal

the slow ruin which was bringing the ceilings about their heads. If every

Monday for thirty years past she had continued receiving a few intimates,

all of them folks of the Vatican, it was from high political

considerations, so that her drawing-room might remain a meeting-place of

the black world, a power and a threat.

And Pierre divined by her greeting that she deemed him of little account,

petty foreign priest that he was, not even a prelate. This too again

surprised him, again brought the puzzling question to the fore: Why had

he been invited, what was expected of him in this society from which the

humble were usually excluded? Knowing the Princess to be austerely

devout, he at last fancied that she received him solely out of regard for

her kinsman, the Viscount, for in her turn she only found these words of

welcome: "We are so pleased to receive good news of Monsieur de la Choue!