第 13 页

that."

Pierre, however, was quite impassioned. "Well, for my part," he rejoined,

"I hope I shall see him. Have I not expressed his views? Have I not

defended his policy? Can he let my book be condemned when I believe that

I have taken inspiration from all that is best in him?"

"No doubt, no doubt," Nani again hastily replied, as if he feared that

the others might be too brusque with the young enthusiast. "The Holy

Father has such a lofty mind. And of course it would be necessary to see

him. Only, my dear child, you must not excite yourself so much; reflect a

little; take your time." And, turning to Benedetta, he added, "Of course

his Eminence has not seen Abbe Froment yet. It would be well, however,

that he should receive him to-morrow morning to guide him with his wise

counsel."

Cardinal Boccanera never attended his sister's Monday-evening receptions.

Still, he was always there in the spirit, like some absent sovereign

master.

"To tell the truth," replied the Contessina, hesitating, "I fear that my

uncle does not share Monsieur l'Abbe's views."

Nani again smiled. "Exactly; he will tell him things which it is good he

should hear."

Thereupon it was at once settled with Don Vigilio that the latter would

put down the young priest's name for an audience on the following morning

at ten o'clock.

However, at that moment a cardinal came in, clad in town costume--his

sash and his stockings red, but his simar black, with a red edging and

red buttons. It was Cardinal Sarno, a very old intimate of the

Boccaneras; and whilst he apologised for arriving so late, through press

of work, the company became silent and deferentially clustered round him.

This was the first cardinal Pierre had seen, and he felt greatly

disappointed, for the newcomer had none of the majesty, none of the fine

port and presence to which he had looked forward. On the contrary, he was

short and somewhat deformed, with the left shoulder higher than the

right, and a worn, ashen face with lifeless eyes. To Pierre he looked

like some old clerk of seventy, half stupefied by fifty years of office

work, dulled and bent by incessantly leaning over his writing desk ever

since his youth. And indeed that was Sarno's story. The puny child of a

petty middle-class family, he had been educated at the Seminario Romano.

Then later he had for ten years professed Canon Law at that same

seminary, afterwards becoming one of the secretaries of the Congregation

for the Propagation of the Faith. Finally, five and twenty years ago, he

had been created a cardinal, and the jubilee of his cardinalate had

recently been celebrated. Born in Rome, he had always lived there; he was

the perfect type of the prelate who, through growing up in the shade of

the Vatican, has become one of the masters of the world. Although he had

never occupied any diplomatic post, he had rendered such important

services to the Propaganda, by his methodical habits of work, that he had

become president of one of the two commissions which furthered the

interests of the Church in those vast countries of the west which are not

yet Catholic. And thus, in the depths of his dim eyes, behind his low,

dull-looking brow, the huge map of Christendom was stored away.

Nani himself had risen, full of covert respect for the unobtrusive but

terrible man whose hand was everywhere, even in the most distant corners

of the earth, although he had never left his office. As Nani knew,

despite his apparent nullity, Sarno, with his slow, methodical, ably

organised work of conquest, possessed sufficient power to set empires in

confusion.

"Has your Eminence recovered from that cold which distressed us so much?"

asked Nani.

"No, no, I still cough. There is a most malignant passage at the offices.

I feel as cold as ice as soon as I leave my room."

From that moment Pierre felt quite little, virtually lost. He was not

even introduced to the Cardinal. And yet he had to remain in the room for

nearly another hour, looking around and observing. That antiquated world

then seemed to him puerile, as though it had lapsed into a mournful

second childhood. Under all the apparent haughtiness and proud reserve he

could divine real timidity, unacknowledged distrust, born of great

ignorance. If the conversation did not become general, it was because

nobody dared to speak out frankly; and what he heard in the corners was

simply so much childish chatter, the petty gossip of the week, the

trivial echoes of sacristies and drawing-rooms. People saw but little of

one another, and the slightest incidents assumed huge proportions. At

last Pierre ended by feeling as though he were transported into some

_salon_ of the time of Charles X, in one of the episcopal cities of the

French provinces. No refreshments were served. Celia's old aunt secured

possession of Cardinal Sarno; but, instead of replying to her, he simply

wagged his head from time to time. Don Vigilio had not opened his mouth

the whole evening. However, a conversation in a very low tone was started

by Nani and Morano, to whom Donna Serafina listened, leaning forward and

expressing her approval by slowly nodding her head. They were doubtless

speaking of the dissolution of Benedetta's marriage, for they glanced at

the young woman gravely from time to time. And in the centre of the

spacious room, in the sleepy glow of the lamps, there was only the young

people, Benedetta, Dario, and Celia who seemed to be at all alive,

chattering in undertones and occasionally repressing a burst of laughter.

All at once Pierre was struck by the great resemblance between Benedetta

and the portrait of Cassia hanging on the wall. Each displayed the same

delicate youth, the same passionate mouth, the same large, unfathomable

eyes, set in the same round, sensible, healthy-looking face. In each

there was certainly the same upright soul, the same heart of flame. Then

a recollection came to Pierre, that of a painting by Guido Reni, the

adorable, candid head of Beatrice Cenci, which, at that moment and to his

thinking, the portrait of Cassia closely resembled. This resemblance

stirred him and he glanced at Benedetta with anxious sympathy, as if all

the fierce fatality of race and country were about to fall on her. But

no, it could not be; she looked so calm, so resolute, and so patient!

Besides, ever since he had entered that room he had noticed none other

than signs of gay fraternal tenderness between her and Dario, especially

on her side, for her face ever retained the bright serenity of a love

which may be openly confessed. At one moment, it is true, Dario in a

joking way had caught hold of her hands and pressed them; but while he

began to laugh rather nervously, with a brighter gleam darting from his

eyes, she on her side, all composure, slowly freed her hands, as though

theirs was but the play of old and affectionate friends. She loved him,

though, it was visible, with her whole being and for her whole life.

At last when Dario, after stifling a slight yawn and glancing at his

watch, had slipped off to join some friends who were playing cards at a

lady's house, Benedetta and Celia sat down together on a sofa near

Pierre; and the latter, without wishing to listen, overheard a few words

of their confidential chat. The little Princess was the eldest daughter

of Prince Matteo Buongiovanni, who was already the father of five

children by an English wife, a Mortimer, to whom he was indebted for a

dowry of two hundred thousand pounds. Indeed, the Buongiovannis were

known as one of the few patrician families of Rome that were still rich,

still erect among the ruins of the past, now crumbling on every side.

They also numbered two popes among their forerunners, yet this had not

prevented Prince Matteo from lending support to the Quirinal without

quarrelling with the Vatican. Son of an American woman, no longer having

the pure Roman blood in his veins, he was a more supple politician than

other aristocrats, and was also, folks said, extremely grasping,

struggling to be one of the last to retain the wealth and power of olden

times, which he realised were condemned to death. Yet it was in his

family, renowned for its superb pride and its continued magnificence,

that a love romance had lately taken birth, a romance which was the

subject of endless gossip: Celia had suddenly fallen in love with a young

lieutenant to whom she had never spoken; her love was reciprocated, and

the passionate attachment of the officer and the girl only found vent in

the glances they exchanged on meeting each day during the usual drive

through the Corso. Nevertheless Celia displayed a tenacious will, and

after declaring to her father that she would never take any other

husband, she was waiting, firm and resolute, in the certainty that she

would ultimately secure the man of her choice. The worst of the affair

was that the lieutenant, Attilio Sacco, happened to be the son of Deputy

Sacco, a parvenu whom the black world looked down upon, as upon one sold

to the Quirinal and ready to undertake the very dirtiest job.

"It was for me that Morano spoke just now," Celia murmured in Benedetta's

ear. "Yes, yes, when he spoke so harshly of Attilio's father and that

ministerial appointment which people are talking about. He wanted to give

me a lesson."

The two girls had sworn eternal affection in their school-days, and

Benedetta, the elder by five years, showed herself maternal. "And so,"

she said, "you've not become a whit more reasonable. You still think of

that young man?"

"What! are you going to grieve me too, dear?" replied Celia. "I love

Attilio and mean to have him. Yes, him and not another! I want him and

I'll have him, because I love him and he loves me. It's simple enough."

Pierre glanced at her, thunderstruck. With her gentle virgin face she was

like a candid, budding lily. A brow and a nose of blossom-like purity; a

mouth all innocence with its lips closing over pearly teeth, and eyes

like spring water, clear and fathomless. And not a quiver passed over her

cheeks of satiny freshness, no sign, however faint, of anxiety or

inquisitiveness appeared in her candid glance. Did she think? Did she

know? Who could have answered? She was virginity personified with all its

redoubtable mystery.

"Ah! my dear," resumed Benedetta, "don't begin my sad story over again.

One doesn't succeed in marrying the Pope and the King."

All tranquillity, Celia responded: "But you didn't love Prada, whereas I

love Attilio. Life lies in that: one must love."

These words, spoken so naturally by that ignorant child, disturbed Pierre

to such a point that he felt tears rising to his eyes. Love! yes, therein

lay the solution of every quarrel, the alliance between the nations, the

reign of peace and joy throughout the world! However, Donna Serafina had

now risen, shrewdly suspecting the nature of the conversation which was

impassioning the two girls. And she gave Don Vigilio a glance, which the

latter understood, for he came to tell Pierre in an undertone that it was

time to retire. Eleven o'clock was striking, and Celia went off with her

aunt. Advocate Morano, however, doubtless desired to retain Cardinal

Sarno and Nani for a few moments in order that they might privately

discuss some difficulty which had arisen in the divorce proceedings. On

reaching the outer reception-room, Benedetta, after kissing Celia on both

cheeks, took leave of Pierre with much good grace.

"In answering the Viscount to-morrow morning," said she, "I shall tell

him how happy we are to have you with us, and for longer than you think.

Don't forget to come down at ten o'clock to see my uncle, the Cardinal."

Having climbed to the third floor again, Pierre and Don Vigilio, each

carrying a candlestick which the servant had handed to them, were about

to part for the night, when the former could not refrain from asking the

secretary a question which had been worrying him for hours: "Is Monsignor

Nani a very influential personage?"

Don Vigilio again became quite scared, and simply replied by a gesture,

opening his arms as if to embrace the world. Then his eyes flashed, and

in his turn he seemed to yield to inquisitiveness. "You already knew him,

didn't you?" he inquired.

"I? not at all!"

"Really! Well, he knows you very well. Last Monday I heard him speak of

you in such precise terms that he seemed to be acquainted with the

slightest particulars of your career and your character."

"Why, I never even heard his name before."

"Then he must have procured information."

Thereupon Don Vigilio bowed and entered his room; whilst Pierre,

surprised to find his door open, saw Victorine come out with her calm

active air.

"Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe, I wanted to make sure that you had everything you

were likely to want. There are candles, water, sugar, and matches. And

what do you take in the morning, please? Coffee? No, a cup of milk with a

roll. Very good; at eight o'clock, eh? And now rest and sleep well. I was

awfully afraid of ghosts during the first nights I spent in this old

palace! But I never saw a trace of one. The fact is, when people are

dead, they are too well pleased, and don't want to break their rest!"

Then off she went, and Pierre at last found himself alone, glad to be

able to shake off the strain imposed on him, to free himself from the

discomfort which he had felt in that reception-room, among those people

who in his mind still mingled and vanished like shadows in the sleepy

glow of the lamps. Ghosts, thought he, are the old dead ones of long ago

whose distressed spirits return to love and suffer in the breasts of the

living of to-day. And, despite his long afternoon rest, he had never felt

so weary, so desirous of slumber, confused and foggy as was his mind,

full of the fear that he had hitherto not understood things aright. When