第 69 页

the Orsini tower, as by the evil genius of the middle ages, which there

seems to perpetuate the ferocious habits, the violent passions, the knife

thrusts of the past! Thence came that Santobono whose brother had killed,

and who himself, with his eyes of crime glittering like live embers,

seemed to be consumed by a murderous flame. And the lake, that lake round

like an extinguished moon fallen into the depths of a former crater, a

deeper and less open cup than that of the lake of Albano, a cup rimmed

with trees of wondrous vigour and density! Pines, elms, and willows

descend to the very margin, with a green mass of tangled branches which

weigh each other down. This formidable fecundity springs from the vapour

which constantly arises from the water under the parching action of the

sun, whose rays accumulate in this hollow till it becomes like a furnace.

There is a warm, heavy dampness, the paths of the adjacent gardens grow

green with moss, and in the morning dense mists often fill the large cup

with white vapour, as with the steaming milk of some sorceress of

malevolent craft. And Pierre well remembered how uncomfortable he had

felt before that lake where ancient atrocities, a mysterious religion

with abominable rites, seemed to slumber amidst the superb scenery. He

had seen it at the approach of evening, looking, in the shade of its

forest girdle, like a plate of dull metal, black and silver, motionless

by reason of its weight. And that water, clear and yet so deep, that

water deserted, without a bark upon its surface, that water august,

lifeless, and sepulchral, had left him a feeling of inexpressible

sadness, of mortal melancholy, the hopelessness of great solitary

passion, earth and water alike swollen by the mute spasms of germs,

troublous in their fecundity. Ah! those black and plunging banks, and

that black mournful lake prone at the bottom!*

* Some literary interest attaches to M. Zola's account of Nemi,

whose praises have been sung by a hundred poets. It will be

observed that he makes no mention of Egeria. The religion

distinguished by abominable practices to which he alludes,

may perhaps be the worship of the Egyptian Diana, who had a

famous temple near Nemi, which was excavated by Lord Savile

some ten years ago, when all the smaller objects discovered

were presented to the town of Nottingham. At this temple,

according to some classical writers, the chief priest was

required to murder his predecessor, and there were other

abominable usages.--Trans.

Count Prada began to laugh when Pierre told him of these impressions.

"Yes, yes," said he, "it's true, Nemi isn't always gay. In dull weather I

have seen the lake looking like lead, and even the full sunshine scarcely

animates it. For my part, I know I should die of _ennui_ if I had to live

face to face with that bare water. But it is admired by poets and

romantic women, those who adore great tragedies of passion."

Then, as he and Pierre rose from the table to go and take coffee on the

terrace of the restaurant, the conversation changed: "Do you mean to

attend Prince Buongiovanni's reception this evening?" the Count inquired.

"It will be a curious sight, especially for a foreigner, and I advise you

not to miss it."

"Yes, I have an invitation," Pierre replied. "A friend of mine, Monsieur

Narcisse Habert, an _attache_ at our embassy, procured it for me, and I

am going with him."

That evening, indeed, there was to be a _fete_ at the Palazzo

Buongiovanni on the Corso, one of the few galas that take place in Rome

each winter. People said that this one would surpass all others in

magnificence, for it was to be given in honour of the betrothal of little

Princess Celia. The Prince, her father, after boxing her ears, it was

rumoured, and narrowly escaping an attack of apoplexy as the result of a

frightful fit of anger, had, all at once, yielded to her quiet, gentle

stubbornness, and consented to her marriage with Lieutenant Attilio, the

son of Minister Sacco. And all the drawing-rooms of Rome, those of the

white world quite as much as those of the black, were thoroughly upset by

the tidings.

Count Prada made merry over the affair. "Ah! you'll see a fine sight!" he

exclaimed. "Personally, I'm delighted with it all for the sake of my good

cousin Attilio, who is really a very nice and worthy fellow. And nothing

in the world would keep me from going to see my dear uncle Sacco make his

entry into the ancient _salons_ of the Buongiovanni. It will be something

extraordinary and superb. He has at last become Minister of Agriculture,

you know. My father, who always takes things so seriously, told me this

morning that the affair so worried him he hadn't closed his eyes all

night."

The Count paused, but almost immediately added: "I say, it is half-past

two and you won't have a train before five o'clock. Do you know what you

ought to do? Why, drive back to Rome with me in my carriage."

"No, no," rejoined Pierre, "I'm deeply obliged to you but I'm to dine

with my friend Narcisse this evening, and I mustn't be late."

"But you won't be late--on the contrary! We shall start at three and

reach Rome before five o'clock. There can't be a more pleasant promenade

when the light falls; and, come, I promise you a splendid sunset."

He was so pressing that the young priest had to accept, quite subjugated

by so much amiability and good humour. They spent another half-hour very

pleasantly in chatting about Rome, Italy, and France. Then, for a moment,

they went up into Frascati where the Count wished to say a few words to a

contractor, and just as three o'clock was striking they started off,

seated side by side on the soft cushions and gently rocked by the motion

of the victoria as the two horses broke into a light trot. As Prada had

predicted, that return to Rome across the bare Campagna under the vast

limpid heavens at the close of such a mild autumn day proved most

delightful. First of all, however, the victoria had to descend the slopes

of Frascati between vineyards and olive-trees. The paved road snaked, and

was but little frequented; they merely saw a few peasants in old felt

hats, a white mule, and a cart drawn by a donkey, for it is only upon

Sundays that the _osterie_ or wine-shops are filled and that artisans in

easy circumstances come to eat a dish of kid at the surrounding

_bastides_. However, at one turn of the road they passed a monumental

fountain. Then a flock of sheep momentarily barred the way before

defiling past. And beyond the gentle undulations of the ruddy Campagna

Rome appeared amidst the violet vapours of evening, sinking by degrees as

the carriage itself descended to a lower and lower level. There came a

moment when the city was a mere thin grey streak, speckled whitely here

and there by a few sunlit house-fronts. And then it seemed to plunge

below the ground--to be submerged by the swell of the far-spreading

fields.

The victoria was now rolling over the plain, leaving the Alban hills

behind, whilst before it and on either hand came the expanse of meadows

and stubbles. And then it was that the Count, after leaning forward,

exclaimed: "Just look ahead, yonder, there's our man of this morning,

Santobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast he

walks! My horses can scarcely overtake him."

Pierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St.

Mary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with a

bill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigorous

splotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and he

was walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggested

Destiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished,

was hanging from his right arm.

When the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman to

slacken speed, and then entered into conversation.

"Good-day, Abbe; you are well, I hope?" he asked.

"Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you."

"And where are you going so bravely?"

"Signor Conte, I am going to Rome."

"What! to Rome, at this late hour?"

"Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn't

frighten me, and money's quickly earned by walking."

Scarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels,

Santobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting,

whispered to Pierre: "Wait a bit, he'll amuse us." Then he added aloud:

"Since you are going to Rome, Abbe, you had better get in here; there's

room for you."

Santobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer.

"Willingly; a thousand thanks," he said. "It's still better to save one's

shoe leather."

Then he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with

abrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the

Count. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was

carrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered

with leaves.

The horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and

on over the superb, flat plain. "So you are going to Rome?" the Count

resumed in order to make Santobono talk.

"Yes," the other replied, "I am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera

these few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I had

promised him." He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding it

between his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile.

"Ah! some of the famous figs of your garden," said Prada. "It's quite

true, they are like honey. But why don't you rid yourself of them. You

surely don't mean to keep them on your knees all the way to Rome. Give

them to me, I'll put them in the hood."

However, Santobono became quite agitated, and vigorously declined the

offer. "No, no, a thousand thanks! They don't embarrass me in the least;

they are very well here; and in this way I shall be sure that no accident

will befall them."

His passion for the fruit he grew quite amused Prada, who nudged Pierre,

and then inquired: "Is the Cardinal fond of your figs?"

"Oh! his Eminence condescends to adore them. In former years, when he

spent the summer at the villa, he would never touch the figs from other

trees. And so, you see, knowing his tastes, it costs me very little to

gratify him."

Whilst making this reply Santobono had shot such a keen glance in the

direction of Pierre that the Count felt it necessary to introduce them to

one another. This he did saying: "As it happens, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment

is stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three months

or so."

"Yes, I'm aware of it," Santobono quietly replied; "I found Monsieur

l'Abbe with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo.

Those were less ripe, but these are perfect." So speaking he gave the

little basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet more

closely between his huge and hairy fingers.

Then came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spread

out as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;

there was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expanse

whose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginning

to turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came into

sight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat,

boundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance.

Then, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses were

seen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen,

still yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer,

cantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a final

look round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A

_biroccino_, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a small

seat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From time

to time also the victoria passed a _carrotino_, one of the low carts in

which peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine,

vegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling of

horses' bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-known

road of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being sound

asleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirts

caught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then the

road again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete,

without a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilst

yonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful in

its monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault of

heaven.

"And the Pope, Abbe, is he dead?" Prada suddenly inquired.

Santobono did not even start. "I trust," he replied in all simplicity,

"that his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph of

the Church."

"So you had good news this morning when you called on your bishop,

Cardinal Sanguinetti?"

This time the priest was unable to restrain a slight start. Had he been

seen, then? In his haste he had failed to notice the two men following

the road behind him. However, he at once regained self-possession, and

replied: "Oh! one can never tell exactly whether news is good or bad. It

seems that his Holiness passed a somewhat painful night, but I devoutly

hope that the next will be a better one." Then he seemed to meditate for

a moment, and added: "Moreover, if God should have deemed it time to call

his Holiness to Himself, He would not leave His flock without a shepherd.