第 57 页

On the evening of that day, when all was dark, Pierre went to spend an

hour on the river quay beyond the Boccanera mansion. He was very fond of

meditating on that deserted spot in spite of the warnings of Victorine,

who asserted that it was not safe. And, indeed, on such inky nights as

that one, no cutthroat place ever presented a more tragic aspect. Not a

soul, not a passer-by; a dense gloom, a void in front and on either hand.

At a corner of the mansion, now steeped in darkness, there was a gas lamp

which stood in a hollow since the river margin had been banked up, and

this lamp cast an uncertain glimmer upon the quay, level with the

latter's bossy soil. Thus long vague shadows stretched from the various

materials, piles of bricks and piles of stone, which were strewn around.

On the right a few lights shone upon the bridge near San Giovanni and in

the windows of the hospital of the Santo Spirito. On the left, amidst the

dim recession of the river, the distant districts were blotted out. Then

yonder, across the stream, was the Trastevere, the houses on the bank

looking like vague, pale phantoms, with infrequent window-panes showing a

blurred yellow glimmer, whilst on high only a dark band shadowed the

Janiculum, near whose summit the lamps of some promenade scintillated

like a triangle of stars. But it was the Tiber which impassioned Pierre;

such was its melancholy majesty during those nocturnal hours. Leaning

over the parapet, he watched it gliding between the new walls, which

looked like those of some black and monstrous prison built for a giant.

So long as lights gleamed in the windows of the houses opposite he saw

the sluggish water flow by, showing slow, moire-like ripples there where

the quivering reflections endowed it with a mysterious life. And he often

mused on the river's famous past and evoked the legends which assert that

fabulous wealth lies buried in its muddy bed. At each fresh invasion of

the barbarians, and particularly when Rome was sacked, the treasures of

palaces and temples are said to have been cast into the water to prevent

them from falling into the hands of the conquerors. Might not those

golden bars trembling yonder in the glaucous stream be the branches of

the famous candelabrum which Titus brought from Jerusalem? Might not

those pale patches whose shape remained uncertain amidst the frequent

eddies indicate the white marble of statues and columns? And those deep

moires glittering with little flamelets, were they not promiscuous heaps

of precious metal, cups, vases, ornaments enriched with gems? What a

dream was that of the swarming riches espied athwart the old river's

bosom, of the hidden life of the treasures which were said to have

slumbered there for centuries; and what a hope for the nation's pride and

enrichment centred in the miraculous finds which might be made in the

Tiber if one could some day dry it up and search its bed, as had already

been suggested! Therein, perchance, lay Rome's new fortune.

However, on that black night, whilst Pierre leant over the parapet, it

was stern reality alone which occupied his mind. He was still pursuing

the train of thought suggested by his visits to the Trastevere and the

Farnese palace, and in presence of that lifeless water was coming to the

conclusion that the selection of Rome for transformation into a modern

capital was the great misfortune to which the sufferings of young Italy

were due. He knew right well that the selection had been inevitable: Rome

being the queen of glory, the antique ruler of the world to whom eternity

had been promised, and without whom the national unity had always seemed

an impossibility. And so the problem was a terrible one, since without

Rome Italy could not exist, and with Rome it seemed difficult for it to

exist. Ah! that dead river, how it symbolised disaster! Not a boat upon

its surface, not a quiver of the commercial and industrial activity of

those waters which bear life to the very hearts of great modern cities!

There had been fine schemes, no doubt--Rome a seaport, gigantic works,

canalisation to enable vessels of heavy tonnage to come up to the

Aventine; but these were mere delusions; the authorities would scarcely

be able to clear the river mouth, which deposits were continually

choking. And there was that other cause of mortal languishment, the

Campagna--the desert of death which the dead river crossed and which

girdled Rome with sterility. There was talk of draining and planting it;

much futile discussion on the question whether it had been fertile in the

days of the old Romans; and even a few experiments were made; but, all

the same, Rome remained in the midst of a vast cemetery like a city of

other times, for ever separated from the modern world by that _lande_ or

moor where the dust of centuries had accumulated. The geographical

considerations which once gave the city the empire of the world no longer

exist. The centre of civilisation has been displaced. The basin of the

Mediterranean has been divided among powerful nations. In Italy all roads

now lead to Milan, the city of industry and commerce, and Rome is but a

town of passage. And so the most valiant efforts have failed to rouse it

from its invincible slumber. The capital which the newcomers sought to

improvise with such extreme haste has remained unfinished, and has almost

ruined the nation. The Government, legislators, and functionaries only

camp there, fleeing directly the warm weather sets in so as to escape the

pernicious climate. The hotels and shops even put up their shutters, and

the streets and promenades become deserts, the city having failed to

acquire any life of its own, and relapsing into death as soon as the

artificial life instilled into it is withdrawn. So all remains in

suspense in this purely decorative capital, where only a fresh growth of

men and money can finish and people the huge useless piles of the new

districts. If it be true that to-morrow always blooms in the dust of the

past, one ought to force oneself to hope; but Pierre asked himself if the

soil were not exhausted, and since mere buildings could no longer grow on

it, if it were not for ever drained of the sap which makes a race

healthy, a nation powerful.

As the night advanced the lights in the houses of the Trastevere went out

one by one: yet Pierre for a long time lingered on the quay, leaning over

the blackened river and yielding to hopelessness. There was now no

distance to the gloom; all had become dense; no longer did any

reflections set a moire-like, golden quiver in the water, or reveal

beneath its mystery-concealing current a fantastic, dancing vision of

fabulous wealth. Gone was the legend, gone the seven-branched golden

candelabrum, gone the golden vases, gone the golden jewellery, the whole

dream of antique treasure that had vanished into night, even like the

antique glory of Rome. Not a glimmer, nothing but slumber, disturbed

solely by the heavy fall of sewage from the drain on the right-hand,

which could not be seen. The very water had disappeared, and Pierre no

longer espied its leaden flow through the darkness, no longer had any

perception of the sluggish senility, the long-dating weariness, the

intense sadness of that ancient and glorious Tiber, whose waters now

rolled nought but death. Only the vast, opulent sky, the eternal, pompous

sky displayed the dazzling life of its milliards of planets above that

river of darkness, bearing away the ruins of wellnigh three thousand

years.

Before returning to his own chamber that evening Pierre entered Dario's

room, and found Victorine there preparing things for the night. And as

soon as she heard where he had been she raised her voice in protest:

"What! you have again been to the quay at this time of night, Monsieur

l'Abbe? You want to get a good knife thrust yourself, it seems. Well, for

my part, I certainly wouldn't take the air at such a late hour in this

dangerous city." Then, with her wonted familiarity, she turned and spoke

to the Prince, who was lying back in an arm-chair and smiling: "That

girl, La Pierina," she said, "hasn't been back here, but all the same

I've lately seen her prowling about among the building materials."

Dario raised his hand to silence her, and, addressing Pierre, exclaimed:

"But you spoke to her, didn't you? It's becoming idiotic! Just fancy that

brute Tito coming back to dig his knife into my other shoulder--"

All at once he paused, for he had just perceived Benedetta standing there

and listening to him; she had slipped into the room a moment previously

in order to wish him good-night. At sight of her his embarrassment was

great indeed; he wished to speak, explain his words, and swear that he

was wholly innocent in the affair. But she, with a smiling face,

contented herself with saying, "I knew all about it, Dario _mio_. I am

not so foolish as not to have thought it all over and understood the

truth. If I ceased questioning you it was because I knew, and loved you

all the same."

The young woman looked very happy as she spoke, and for this she had good

cause, for that very evening she had learnt that Monsignor Palma had

shown himself grateful for the service rendered to his nephew by laying a

fresh and favourable memoir on the marriage affair before the

Congregation of the Council. He had been unwilling to recall his previous

opinions so far as to range himself completely on the Contessina's side,

but the certificates of two doctors whom she had recently seen had

enabled him to conclude that her own declarations were accurate. And

gliding over the question of wifely obedience, on which he had previously

laid stress, he had skilfully set forth the reasons which made a

dissolution of the marriage desirable. No hope of reconciliation could be

entertained, so it was certain that both parties were constantly exposed

to temptation and sin. He discreetly alluded to the fact that the husband

had already succumbed to this danger, and praised the wife's lofty

morality and piety, all the virtues which she displayed, and which

guaranteed her veracity. Then, without formulating any conclusion of his

own, he left the decision to the wisdom of the Congregation. And as he

virtually repeated Advocate Morano's arguments, and Prada stubbornly

refused to enter an appearance, it now seemed certain that the

Congregation would by a great majority pronounce itself in favour of

dissolution, a result which would enable the Holy Father to act

benevolently.

"Ah! Dario _mio_!" said Benedetta, "we are at the end of our worries. But

what a lot of money, what a lot of money it all costs! Aunt says that

they will scarcely leave us water to drink."

So speaking she laughed with the happy heedlessness of an impassioned

_amorosa_. It was not that the jurisdiction of the Congregations was in

itself ruinous; indeed, in principle, it was gratuitous. Still there were

a multitude of petty expenses, payments to subaltern employees, payments

for medical consultations and certificates, copies of documents, and the

memoirs and addresses of counsel. And although the votes of the cardinals

were certainly not bought direct, some of them ended by costing

considerable sums, for it often became necessary to win over dependants,

to induce quite a little world to bring influence to bear upon their

Eminences; without mentioning that large pecuniary gifts, when made with

tact, have a decisive effect in clearing away the greatest difficulties

in that sphere of the Vatican. And, briefly, Monsignor Palma's nephew by

marriage had cost the Boccaneras a large sum.

"But it doesn't matter, does it, Dario _mio_?" continued Benedetta.

"Since you are now cured, they must make haste to give us permission to

marry. That's all we ask of them. And if they want more, well, I'll give

them my pearls, which will be all I shall have left me."

He also laughed, for money had never held any place in his life. He had

never had it at his pleasure, and simply hoped that he would always live

with his uncle the cardinal, who would certainly not leave him and his

young wife in the streets. Ruined as the family was, one or two hundred

thousand francs represented nothing to his mind, and he had heard that

certain dissolutions of marriage had cost as much as half a million. So,

by way of response, he could only find a jest: "Give them my ring as

well," said he; "give them everything, my dear, and we shall still be

happy in this old palace even if we have to sell the furniture!"

His words filled her with enthusiasm; she took his head between both

hands and kissed him madly on the eyes in an extraordinary transport of

passion. Then, suddenly turning to Pierre, she said: "Oh! excuse me,

Monsieur l'Abbe. I was forgetting that I have a commission for you. Yes,

Monsignor Nani, who brought us that good news, bade me tell you that you

are making people forget you too much, and that you ought to set to work

to defend your book."

The priest listened in astonishment; then replied: "But it was he who

advised me to disappear."

"No doubt--only it seems that the time has now come for you to see people

and plead your cause. And Monsignor Nani has been able to learn that the

reporter appointed to examine your book is Monsignor Fornaro, who lives

on the Piazza Navona."

Pierre's stupefaction was increasing, for a reporter's name is never

divulged, but kept quite secret, in order to ensure a free exercise of

judgment. Was a new phase of his sojourn in Rome about to begin then? His

mind was all wonderment. However, he simply answered: "Very good, I will

set to work and see everybody."

PART IV.

X.

IN his anxiety to bring things to a finish, Pierre wished to begin his

campaign on the very next day. But on whom should he first call if he

were to steer clear of blunders in that intricate and conceited

ecclesiastical world? The question greatly perplexed him; however, on

opening his door that morning he luckily perceived Don Vigilio in the