第 68 页

self-respect, and broke into a run, in order that he might the sooner

ascend the sloping street. "Ah! here's Eufemio," exclaimed the Cardinal,

quivering with anxiety. "We shall know now, we shall know now."

The secretary had plunged into the doorway below, and he climbed the

stairs with such rapidity that almost immediately afterwards Pierre saw

him rush breathlessly across the waiting-room, and vanish into the

Cardinal's sanctum. Sanguinetti had quitted the balcony to meet his

messenger, but soon afterwards he returned to it asking questions,

venting exclamations, raising, in fact, quite a tumult over the news

which he had received. "And so it's really true, the night was a bad one.

His Holiness scarcely slept! Colic, you were told? But nothing could be

worse at his age; it might carry him off in a couple of hours. And the

doctors, what do they say?"

The answer did not reach Pierre, but he understood its purport as the

Cardinal in his naturally loud voice resumed: "Oh! the doctors never

know. Besides, when they refuse to speak death is never far off. _Dio_!

what a misfortune if the catastrophe cannot be deferred for a few days!"

Then he became silent, and Pierre realised that his eyes were once more

travelling towards Rome, gazing with ambitious anguish at the dome of St.

Peter's, that little, sparkling speck above the vast, ruddy plain. What a

commotion, what agitation if the Pope were dead! And he wished that it

had merely been necessary for him to stretch forth his arm in order to

take and hold the Eternal City, the Holy City, which, yonder on the

horizon, occupied no more space than a heap of gravel cast there by a

child's spade. And he was already dreaming of the coming Conclave, when

the canopy of each other cardinal would fall, and his own, motionless and

sovereign, would crown him with purple.

"But you are right, my friend!" he suddenly exclaimed, addressing

Santobono, "one must act, the salvation of the Church is at stake. And,

besides, it is impossible that Heaven should not be with us, since our

sole desire is its triumph. If necessary, at the supreme moment, Heaven

will know how to crush Antichrist."

Then, for the first time, Pierre distinctly heard the voice of Santobono,

who, gruffly, with a sort of savage decision, responded: "Oh! if Heaven

is tardy it shall be helped."

That was all; the young man heard nothing further save a confused murmur

of voices. The speakers quitted the balcony, and his spell of waiting

began afresh in the sunlit _salon_ so peaceful and delightful in its

brightness. But all at once the door of his Eminence's private room was

thrown wide open and a servant ushered him in; and he was surprised to

find the Cardinal alone, for he had not witnessed the departure of the

two priests, who had gone off by another door. The Cardinal, with his

highly coloured face, big nose, thick lips, square-set, vigorous figure,

which still looked young despite his sixty years, was standing near a

window in the bright golden light. He had put on the paternal smile with

which he greeted even the humblest from motives of good policy, and as

soon as Pierre had knelt and kissed his ring, he motioned him to a chair.

"Sit down, dear son, sit down. You have come of course about that

unfortunate affair of your book. I am very pleased indeed to be able to

speak with you about it."

He himself then took a chair in front of that window overlooking Rome

whence he seemed unable to drag himself. And the young priest, whilst

apologising for coming to disturb his rest, perceived that he scarcely

listened, for his eyes again sought the prey which he so ardently

coveted. Yet the semblance of good-natured attention was perfect, and

Pierre marvelled at the force of will which this man must possess to

appear so calm, so interested in the affairs of others, when such a

tempest was raging in him.

"Your Eminence will, I hope, kindly forgive me," continued the young

priest.

"But you have done right to come, since I am kept here by my failing

health," said the Cardinal. "Besides, I am somewhat better, and it is

only natural that you should wish to give me some explanations and defend

your work and enlighten my judgment. In fact, I was astonished at not yet

having seen you, for I know that your faith in your cause is great and

that you spare no steps to convert your judges. So speak, my dear son, I

am listening and shall be pleased indeed if I can absolve you."

Pierre was caught by these kind words, and a hope returned to him, that

of winning the support of the all-powerful Prefect of the Index. He

already regarded this ex-nuncio--who at Brussels and Vienna had acquired

the worldly art of sending people away satisfied with indefinite promises

though he meant to grant them nothing--as a man of rare intelligence and

exquisite cordiality. And so once more he regained the fervour of his

apostolate to express his views respecting the future Rome, the Rome he

dreamt of, which was destined yet again to become the mistress of the

world if she would return to the Christianity of Jesus, to an ardent love

for the weak and the humble.

Sanguinetti smiled, wagged his head, and raised exclamations of rapture:

"Very good, very good indeed, perfect! Oh! I agree with you, dear son.

One cannot put things better. It is quite evident; all good minds must

agree with you." And then, said he, the poetic side deeply touched him.

Like Leo XIII--and doubtless in a spirit of rivalry--he courted the

reputation of being a very distinguished Latinist, and professed a

special and boundless affection for Virgil. "I know, I know," he

exclaimed, "I remember your page on the return of spring, which consoles

the poor whom winter has frozen. Oh! I read it three times over! And are

you aware that your writing is full of Latin turns of style. I noticed

more than fifty expressions which could be found in the 'Bucolics.' Your

book is a charm, a perfect charm!"

As he was no fool, and realised that the little priest before him was a

man of high intelligence, he ended by interesting himself, not in Pierre

personally, but in the profit which he might possibly derive from him.

Amidst his feverish intrigues, he unceasingly sought to utilise all the

qualities possessed by those whom God sent to him that might in any way

be conducive to his own triumph. So, for a moment, he turned away from

Rome and looked his companion in the face, listening to him and asking

himself in what way he might employ him--either at once in the crisis

through which he was passing, or later on when he should be pope. But the

young priest again made the mistake of attacking the temporal power, and

of employing that unfortunate expression, "a new religion." Thereupon the

Cardinal stopped him with a gesture, still smiling, still retaining all

his amiability, although the resolution which he had long since formed

became from that moment definitive. "You are certainly in the right on

many points, my dear son," he said, "and I often share your views--share

them completely. But come, you are doubtless not aware that I am the

protector of Lourdes here at Rome. And so, after the page which you have

written about the Grotto, how can I possibly pronounce in your favour and

against the Fathers?"

Pierre was utterly overcome by this announcement, for he was indeed

unaware of the Cardinal's position with respect to Lourdes, nobody having

taken the precaution to warn him. However, each of the Catholic

enterprises distributed throughout the world has a protector at Rome, a

cardinal who is designated by the Pope to represent it and, if need be,

to defend it.

"Those good Fathers!" Sanguinetti continued in a gentle voice, "you have

caused them great grief, and really our hands are tied, we cannot add to

their sorrow. If you only knew what a number of masses they send us! I

know more than one of our poor priests who would die of hunger if it were

not for them."

Pierre could only bow beneath the blow. Once more he found himself in

presence of the pecuniary question, the necessity in which the Holy See

is placed to secure the revenue it requires one year with another. And

thus the Pope was ever in servitude, for if the loss of Rome had freed

him of the cares of state, his enforced gratitude for the alms he

received still riveted him to earth. So great, indeed, were the

requirements, that money was the ruler, the sovereign power, before which

all bowed at the Court of Rome.

And now Sanguinetti rose to dismiss his visitor. "You must not despair,

dear son," he said effusively. "I have only my own vote, you know, and I

promise you that I will take into account the excellent explanations

which you have just given me. And who can tell? If God be with you, He

will save you even in spite of all!" This speech formed part of the

Cardinal's usual tactics; for one of his principles was never to drive

people to extremes by sending them away hopeless. What good, indeed,

would it do to tell this one that the condemnation of his book was a

foregone conclusion, and that his only prudent course would be to disavow

it? Only a savage like Boccanera breathed anger upon fiery souls and

plunged them into rebellion. "You must hope, hope!" repeated Sanguinetti

with a smile, as if implying a multitude of fortunate things which he

could not plainly express.

Thereupon Pierre, who was deeply touched, felt born anew. He even forgot

the conversation he had surprised, the Cardinal's keen ambition and

covert rage with his redoubtable rival. Besides, might not intelligence

take the place of heart among the powerful? If this man should some day

become pope, and had understood him, might he not prove the pope who was

awaited, the pope who would accept the task of reorganising the Church of

the United States of Europe, and making it the spiritual sovereign of the

world? So he thanked him with emotion, bowed, and left him to his dream,

standing before that widely open window whence Rome appeared to him,

glittering like a jewel, even indeed as the tiara of gold and gems, in

the splendour of the autumn sun.

It was nearly one o'clock when Pierre and Count Prada were at last able

to sit down to _dejeuner_ in the little restaurant where they had agreed

to meet. They had both been delayed by their affairs. However, the Count,

having settled some worrying matters to his own advantage, was very

lively, whilst the priest on his side was again hopeful, and yielded to

the delightful charm of that last fine day. And so the meal proved a very

pleasant one in the large, bright room, which, as usual at that season of

the year, was quite deserted. Pink and blue predominated in the

decoration, but Cupids fluttered on the ceiling, and landscapes, vaguely

recalling the Roman castles, adorned the walls. The things they ate were

fresh, and they drank the wine of Frascati, to which the soil imparts a

kind of burnt flavour as if the old volcanoes of the region had left some

little of their fire behind.

For a long while the conversation ranged over those wild and graceful

Alban hills, which, fortunately for the pleasure of the eye, overlook the

flat Roman Campagna. Pierre, who had made the customary carriage

excursion from Frascati to Nemi, still felt its charm and spoke of it in

glowing language. First came the lovely road from Frascati to Albano,

ascending and descending hillsides planted with reeds, vines, and

olive-trees, amongst which one obtained frequent glimpses of the

Campagna's wavy immensity. On the right-hand the village of Rocca di Papa

arose in amphitheatrical fashion, showing whitely on a knoll below Monte

Cavo, which was crowned by lofty and ancient trees. And from this point

of the road, on looking back towards Frascati, one saw high up, on the

verge of a pine wood the ruins of Tusculum, large ruddy ruins, baked by

centuries of sunshine, and whence the boundless panorama must have been

superb. Next one passed through Marino, with its sloping streets, its

large cathedral, and its black decaying palace belonging to the Colonnas.

Then, beyond a wood of ilex-trees, the lake of Albano was skirted with

scenery which has no parallel in the world. In front, beyond the clear

mirror of motionless water, were the ruins of Alba Longa; on the left

rose Monte Cavo with Rocca di Papa and Palazzuolo; whilst on the right

Castel Gandolfo overlooked the lake as from the summit of a cliff. Down

below in the extinct crater, as in the depths of a gigantic cup of

verdure, the lake slept heavy and lifeless: a sheet of molten metal,

which the sun on one side streaked with gold, whilst the other was black

with shade. And the road then ascended all the way to Castel Gandolfo,

which was perched on its rock, like a white bird betwixt the lake and the

sea. Ever refreshed by breezes, even in the most burning hours of summer,

the little place was once famous for its papal villa, where Pius IX loved

to spend hours of indolence, and whither Leo XIII has never come. And

next the road dipped down, and the ilex-trees appeared again, ilex-trees

famous for their size, a double row of monsters with twisted limbs, two

and three hundred years old. Then one at last reached Albano, a small

town less modernised and less cleansed than Frascati, a patch of the old

land which has retained some of its ancient wildness; and afterwards

there was Ariccia with the Palazzo Chigi, and hills covered with forests

and viaducts spanning ravines which overflowed with foliage; and there

was yet Genzano, and yet Nemi, growing still wilder and more remote, lost

in the midst of rocks and trees.

Ah! how ineffaceable was the recollection which Pierre had retained of

Nemi, Nemi on the shore of its lake, Nemi so delicious and fascinating

from afar, conjuring up all the ancient legends of fairy towns springing

from amidst the greenery of mysterious waters, but so repulsively filthy

when one at last reaches it, crumbling on all sides but yet dominated by