第 16 页

Did not Rome suffice--Rome, which governed the world--the Eternal City

which, when the times should be accomplished, would become the capital of

the world once more?

Silently glancing at the Cardinal's lofty stature, the stature of one of

the violent war-like princes of long ago, now reduced to wearing that

simple cassock, Pierre deemed him superb with his proud conviction that

Rome sufficed unto herself. But that stubborn resolve to remain in

ignorance, that determination to take no account of other nations

excepting to treat them as vassals, disquieted him when he reflected on

the motives that had brought him there. And as silence had again fallen

he thought it politic to approach the subject he had at heart by words of

homage.

"Before taking any other steps," said he, "I desired to express my

profound respect for your Eminence; for in your Eminence I place my only

hope; and I beg your Eminence to be good enough to advise and guide me."

With a wave of the hand Boccanera thereupon invited Pierre to take a

chair in front of him. "I certainly do not refuse you my counsel, my dear

son," he replied. "I owe my counsel to every Christian who desires to do

well. But it would be wrong for you to rely on my influence. I have none.

I live entirely apart from others; I cannot and will not ask for

anything. However, this will not prevent us from chatting." Then,

approaching the question in all frankness, without the slightest

artifice, like one of brave and absolute mind who fears no responsibility

however great, he continued: "You have written a book, have you

not?--'New Rome,' I believe--and you have come to defend this book which

has been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. For my own part I

have not yet read it. You will understand that I cannot read everything.

I only see the works that are sent to me by the Congregation which I have

belonged to since last year; and, besides, I often content myself with

the reports which my secretary draws up for me. However, my niece

Benedetta has read your book, and has told me that it is not lacking in

interest. It first astonished her somewhat, and then greatly moved her.

So I promise you that I will go through it and study the incriminated

passages with the greatest care."

Pierre profited by the opportunity to begin pleading his cause. And it

occurred to him that it would be best to give his references at once.

"Your Eminence will realise how stupefied I was when I learnt that

proceedings were being taken against my book," he said. "Monsieur le

Vicomte Philibert de la Choue, who is good enough to show me some

friendship, does not cease repeating that such a book is worth the best

of armies to the Holy See."

"Oh! De la Choue, De la Choue!" repeated the Cardinal with a pout of

good-natured disdain. "I know that De la Choue considers himself a good

Catholic. He is in a slight degree our relative, as you know. And when he

comes to Rome and stays here, I willingly see him, on condition however

that no mention is made of certain subjects on which it would be

impossible for us to agree. To tell the truth, the Catholicism preached

by De la Choue--worthy, clever man though he is--his Catholicism, I say,

with his corporations, his working-class clubs, his cleansed democracy

and his vague socialism, is after all merely so much literature!"

This pronouncement struck Pierre, for he realised all the disdainful

irony contained in it--an irony which touched himself. And so he hastened

to name his other reference, whose authority he imagined to be above

discussion: "His Eminence Cardinal Bergerot has been kind enough to

signify his full approval of my book."

At this Boccanera's face suddenly changed. It no longer wore an

expression of derisive blame, tinged with the pity that is prompted by a

child's ill-considered action fated to certain failure. A flash of anger

now lighted up the Cardinal's dark eyes, and a pugnacious impulse

hardened his entire countenance. "In France," he slowly resumed,

"Cardinal Bergerot no doubt has a reputation for great piety. We know

little of him in Rome. Personally, I have only seen him once, when he

came to receive his hat. And I would not therefore allow myself to judge

him if his writings and actions had not recently saddened my believing

soul. Unhappily, I am not the only one; you will find nobody here, of the

Sacred College, who approves of his doings." Boccanera paused, then in a

firm voice concluded: "Cardinal Bergerot is a Revolutionary!"

This time Pierre's surprise for a moment forced him to silence. A

Revolutionary--good heavens! a Revolutionary--that gentle pastor of

souls, whose charity was inexhaustible, whose one dream was that Jesus

might return to earth to ensure at last the reign of peace and justice!

So words did not have the same signification in all places; into what

religion had he now tumbled that the faith of the poor and the humble

should be looked upon as a mere insurrectional, condemnable passion? As

yet unable to understand things aright, Pierre nevertheless realised that

discussion would be both discourteous and futile, and his only remaining

desire was to give an account of his book, explain and vindicate it. But

at his first words the Cardinal interposed.

"No, no, my dear son. It would take us too long and I wish to read the

passages. Besides, there is an absolute rule. All books which meddle with

the faith are condemnable and pernicious. Does your book show perfect

respect for dogma?"

"I believe so, and I assure your Eminence that I have had no intention of

writing a work of negation."

"Good: I may be on your side if that is true. Only, in the contrary case,

I have but one course to advise you, which is to withdraw your work,

condemn it, and destroy it without waiting until a decision of the Index

compels you to do so. Whosoever has given birth to scandal must stifle it

and expiate it, even if he have to cut into his own flesh. The only

duties of a priest are humility and obedience, the complete annihilation

of self before the sovereign will of the Church. And, besides, why write

at all? For there is already rebellion in expressing an opinion of one's

own. It is always the temptation of the devil which puts a pen in an

author's hand. Why, then, incur the risk of being for ever damned by

yielding to the pride of intelligence and domination? Your book again, my

dear son--your book is literature, literature!"

This expression again repeated was instinct with so much contempt that

Pierre realised all the wretchedness that would fall upon the poor pages

of his apostolate on meeting the eyes of this prince who had become a

saintly man. With increasing fear and admiration he listened to him, and

beheld him growing greater and greater.

"Ah! faith, my dear son, everything is in faith--perfect, disinterested

faith--which believes for the sole happiness of believing! How restful it

is to bow down before the mysteries without seeking to penetrate them,

full of the tranquil conviction that, in accepting them, one possesses

both the certain and the final! Is not the highest intellectual

satisfaction that which is derived from the victory of the divine over

the mind, which it disciplines, and contents so completely that it knows

desire no more? And apart from that perfect equilibrium, that explanation

of the unknown by the divine, no durable peace is possible for man. If

one desires that truth and justice should reign upon earth, it is in God

that one must place them. He that does not believe is like a battlefield,

the scene of every disaster. Faith alone can tranquillise and deliver."

For an instant Pierre remained silent before the great figure rising up

in front of him. At Lourdes he had only seen suffering humanity rushing

thither for health of the body and consolation of the soul; but here was

the intellectual believer, the mind that needs certainty, finding

satisfaction, tasting the supreme enjoyment of doubting no more. He had

never previously heard such a cry of joy at living in obedience without

anxiety as to the morrow of death. He knew that Boccanera's youth had

been somewhat stormy, traversed by acute attacks of sensuality, a flaring

of the red blood of his ancestors; and he marvelled at the calm majesty

which faith had at last implanted in this descendant of so violent a

race, who had no passion remaining in him but that of pride.

"And yet," Pierre at last ventured to say in a timid, gentle voice, "if

faith remains essential and immutable, forms change. From hour to hour

evolution goes on in all things--the world changes."

"That is not true!" exclaimed the Cardinal, "the world does not change.

It continually tramps over the same ground, loses itself, strays into the

most abominable courses, and it continually has to be brought back into

the right path. That is the truth. In order that the promises of Christ

may be fulfilled, is it not necessary that the world should return to its

starting point, its original innocence? Is not the end of time fixed for

the day when men shall be in possession of the full truth of the Gospel?

Yes, truth is in the past, and it is always to the past that one must

cling if one would avoid the pitfalls which evil imaginations create. All

those fine novelties, those mirages of that famous so-called progress,

are simply traps and snares of the eternal tempter, causes of perdition

and death. Why seek any further, why constantly incur the risk of error,

when for eighteen hundred years the truth has been known? Truth! why it

is in Apostolic and Roman Catholicism as created by a long succession of

generations! What madness to desire to change it when so many lofty

minds, so many pious souls have made of it the most admirable of

monuments, the one instrument of order in this world, and of salvation in

the next!"

Pierre, whose heart had contracted, refrained from further protest, for

he could no longer doubt that he had before him an implacable adversary

of his most cherished ideas. Chilled by a covert fear, as though he felt

a faint breath, as of a distant wind from a land of ruins, pass over his

face, bringing with it the mortal cold of a sepulchre, he bowed

respectfully whilst the Cardinal, rising to his full height, continued in

his obstinate voice, resonant with proud courage: "And if Catholicism, as

its enemies pretend, be really stricken unto death, it must die standing

and in all its glorious integrality. You hear me, Monsieur l'Abbe--not

one concession, not one surrender, not a single act of cowardice!

Catholicism is such as it is, and cannot be otherwise. No modification of

the divine certainty, the entire truth, is possible. The removal of the

smallest stone from the edifice could only prove a cause of instability.

Is this not evident? You cannot save old houses by attacking them with

the pickaxe under pretence of decorating them. You only enlarge the

fissures. Even if it were true that Rome were on the eve of falling into

dust, the only result of all the repairing and patching would be to

hasten the catastrophe. And instead of a noble death, met unflinchingly,

we should then behold the basest of agonies, the death throes of a coward

who struggles and begs for mercy! For my part I wait. I am convinced that

all that people say is but so much horrible falsehood, that Catholicism

has never been firmer, that it imbibes eternity from the one and only

source of life. But should the heavens indeed fall, on that day I should

be here, amidst these old and crumbling walls, under these old ceilings

whose beams are being devoured by the worms, and it is here, erect, among

the ruins, that I should meet my end, repeating my _credo_ for the last

time."

His final words fell more slowly, full of haughty sadness, whilst with a

sweeping gesture he waved his arms towards the old, silent, deserted

palace around him, whence life was withdrawing day by day. Had an

involuntary presentiment come to him, did the faint cold breath from the

ruins also fan his own cheeks? All the neglect into which the vast rooms

had fallen was explained by his words; and a superb, despondent grandeur

enveloped this prince and cardinal, this uncompromising Catholic who,

withdrawing into the dim half-light of the past, braved with a soldier's

heart the inevitable downfall of the olden world.

Deeply impressed, Pierre was about to take his leave when, to his

surprise, a little door opened in the hangings. "What is it? Can't I be

left in peace for a moment?" exclaimed Boccanera with sudden impatience.

Nevertheless, Abbe Paparelli, fat and sleek, glided into the room without

the faintest sign of emotion. And he whispered a few words in the ear of

the Cardinal, who, on seeing him, had become calm again. "What curate?"

asked Boccanera. "Oh! yes, Santobono, the curate of Frascati. I

know--tell him I cannot see him just now."

Paparelli, however, again began whispering in his soft voice, though not

in so low a key as previously, for some of his words could be overheard.

The affair was urgent, the curate was compelled to return home, and had

only a word or two to say. And then, without awaiting consent, the

train-bearer ushered in the visitor, a _protege_ of his, whom he had left

just outside the little door. And for his own part he withdrew with the

tranquillity of a retainer who, whatever the modesty of his office, knows

himself to be all powerful.

Pierre, who was momentarily forgotten, looked at the visitor--a big

fellow of a priest, the son of a peasant evidently, and still near to the

soil. He had an ungainly, bony figure, huge feet and knotted hands, with

a seamy tanned face lighted by extremely keen black eyes. Five and forty

and still robust, his chin and cheeks bristling, and his cassock,

overlarge, hanging loosely about his big projecting bones, he suggested a

bandit in disguise. Still there was nothing base about him; the