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He would have already chosen and designated the Sovereign Pontiff of

to-morrow."

This superb answer increased Prada's gaiety. "You are really

extraordinary, Abbe," he said. "So you think that popes are solely

created by the grace of the Divinity! The pope of to-morrow is chosen up

in heaven, eh, and simply waits? Well, I fancied that men had something

to do with the matter. But perhaps you already know which cardinal it is

that the divine favour has thus elected in advance?"

Then, like the unbeliever he was, he went on with his facile jests, which

left the priest unruffled. In fact, the latter also ended by laughing

when the Count, after alluding to the gambling passion which at each

fresh Conclave sets wellnigh the whole population of Rome betting for or

against this or that candidate, told him that he might easily make his

fortune if he were in the divine secret. Next the talk turned on the

three white cassocks of different sizes which are always kept in

readiness in a cupboard at the Vatican. Which of them would be required

on this occasion?--the short one, the long one, or the one of medium

size? Each time that the reigning pope falls somewhat seriously ill there

is in this wise an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a keen awakening of

all ambitions and intrigues, to such a point that not merely in the black

world, but throughout the city, people have no other subject of

curiosity, conversation, and occupation than that of discussing the

relative claims of the cardinals and predicting which of them will be

elected.

"Come, come," Prada resumed, "since you know the truth, I'm determined

that you shall tell me. Will it be Cardinal Moretta?"

Santobono, in spite of his evident desire to remain dignified and

disinterested, like a good, pious priest, was gradually growing

impassioned, yielding to the hidden fire which consumed him. And this

interrogatory finished him off; he could no longer restrain himself, but

replied: "Moretta! What an idea! Why, he is sold to all Europe!"

"Well, will it be Cardinal Bartolini?"

"Oh! you can't think that. Bartolini has used himself up in striving for

everything and getting nothing."

"Will it be Cardinal Dozio, then?"

"Dozio, Dozio! Why, if Dozio were to win one might altogether despair of

our Holy Church, for no man can have a baser mind than he!"

Prada raised his hands, as if he had exhausted the serious candidates. In

order to increase the priest's exasperation he maliciously refrained from

naming Cardinal Sanguinetti, who was certainly Santobono's nominee. All

at once, however, he pretended to make a good guess, and gaily exclaimed:

"Ah! I have it; I know your man--Cardinal Boccanera!"

The blow struck Santobono full in the heart, wounding him both in his

rancour and his patriotic faith. His terrible mouth was already opening,

and he was about to shout "No! no!" with all his strength, but he managed

to restrain the cry, compelled as he was to silence by the present on his

knees--that little basket of figs which he pressed so convulsively with

both hands; and the effort which he was obliged to make left him

quivering to such a point that he had to wait some time before he could

reply in a calm voice: "His most reverend Eminence Cardinal Boccanera is

a saintly man, well worthy of the throne, and my only fear is that, with

his hatred of new Italy, he might bring us warfare."

Prada, however, desired to enlarge the wound. "At all events," said he,

"you accept him and love him too much not to rejoice over his chances of

success. And I really think that we have arrived at the truth, for

everybody is convinced that the Conclave's choice cannot fall elsewhere.

Come, come; Boccanera is a very tall man, so it's the long white cassock

which will be required."

"The long cassock, the long cassock," growled Santobono, despite himself;

"that's all very well, but--"

Then he stopped short, and, again overcoming his passion, left his

sentence unfinished. Pierre, listening in silence, marvelled at the man's

self-restraint, for he remembered the conversation which he had overheard

at Cardinal Sanguinetti's. Those figs were evidently a mere pretext for

gaining admission to the Boccanera mansion, where some friend--Abbe

Paparelli, no doubt--could alone supply certain positive information

which was needed. But how great was the command which the hot-blooded

priest exercised over himself amidst the riotous impulses of his soul!

On either side of the road the Campagna still and ever spread its expanse

of verdure, and Prada, who had become grave and dreamy, gazed before him

without seeing anything. At last, however, he gave expression to his

thoughts. "You know, Abbe, what will be said if the Pope should die this

time. That sudden illness, those colics, those refusals to make any

information public, mean nothing good--Yes, yes, poison, just as for the

others!"

Pierre gave a start of stupefaction. The Pope poisoned! "What! Poison?

Again?" he exclaimed as he gazed at his companions with dilated eyes.

Poison at the end of the nineteenth century, as in the days of the

Borgias, as on the stage in a romanticist melodrama! To him the idea

appeared both monstrous and ridiculous.

Santobono, whose features had become motionless and impenetrable, made no

reply. But Prada nodded, and the conversation was henceforth confined to

him and the young priest. "Why, yes, poison," he replied. "The fear of it

has remained very great in Rome. Whenever a death seems inexplicable,

either by reason of its suddenness or the tragic circumstances which

attend it, the unanimous thought is poison. And remark this: in no city,

I believe, are sudden deaths so frequent. The causes I don't exactly

know, but some doctors put everything down to the fevers. Among the

people, however, the one thought is poison, poison with all its legends,

poison which kills like lightning and leaves no trace, the famous recipe

bequeathed from age to age, through the emperors and the popes, down to

these present times of middle-class democracy."

As he spoke he ended by smiling, for he was inclined to be somewhat

sceptical on the point, despite the covert terror with which he was

inspired by racial and educational causes. However, he quoted instances.

The Roman matrons had rid themselves of their husbands and lovers by

employing the venom of red toads. Locusta, in a more practical spirit,

sought poison in plants, one of which, probably aconite, she was wont to

boil. Then, long afterwards, came the age of the Borgias, and

subsequently, at Naples, La Toffana sold a famous water, doubtless some

preparation of arsenic, in phials decorated with a representation of St.

Nicholas of Bari. There were also extraordinary stories of pins, a prick

from which killed one like lightning, of cups of wine poisoned by the

infusion of rose petals, of woodcocks cut in half with prepared knives,

which poisoned but one-half of the bird, so that he who partook of that

half was killed. "I myself, in my younger days," continued Prada, "had a

friend whose bride fell dead in church during the marriage service

through simply inhaling a bouquet of flowers. And so isn't it possible

that the famous recipe may really have been handed down, and have

remained known to a few adepts?"

"But chemistry has made too much progress," Pierre replied. "If

mysterious poisons were believed in by the ancients and remained

undetected in their time it was because there were no means of analysis.

But the drug of the Borgias would now lead the simpleton who might employ

it straight to the Assizes. Such stories are mere nonsense, and at the

present day people scarcely tolerate them in newspaper serials and

shockers."

"Perhaps so," resumed the Count with his uneasy smile. "You are right, no

doubt--only go and tell that to your host, for instance, Cardinal

Boccanera, who last summer held in his arms an old and deeply-loved

friend, Monsignor Gallo, who died after a seizure of a couple of hours."

"But apoplexy may kill one in two hours, and aneurism only takes two

minutes."

"True, but ask the Cardinal what he thought of his friend's prolonged

shudders, the leaden hue which overcame his face, the sinking of his

eyes, and the expression of terror which made him quite unrecognisable.

The Cardinal is convinced that Monsignor Gallo was poisoned, because he

was his dearest confidant, the counsellor to whom he always listened, and

whose wise advice was a guarantee of success."

Pierre's bewilderment was increasing, and, irritated by the impassibility

of Santobono, he addressed him direct. "It's idiotic, it's awful! Does

your reverence also believe in these frightful stories?"

But the priest of Frascati gave no sign. His thick, passionate lips

remained closed while his black glowing eyes never ceased to gaze at

Prada. The latter, moreover, was quoting other instances. There was the

case of Monsignor Nazzarelli, who had been found in bed, shrunken and

calcined like carbon. And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck down

in his sacerdotal vestments at St. Peter's itself, in the very sacristy,

during vespers!

"Ah! _Mon Dieu_!" sighed Pierre, "you will tell me so much that I myself

shall end by trembling, and sha'n't dare to eat anything but boiled eggs

as long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours."

For a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre.

But it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under a

terrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the city

of poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, ever

since the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, the

frantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men's hands,

ensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and the

ground. Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings and

assassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominations

strew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun.

"All the same," said the Count, "those who take precautions are perhaps

not ill advised. It is said that more than one cardinal shudders and

mistrusts people. One whom I know will never eat anything that has not

been bought and prepared by his own cook. And as for the Pope, if he is

anxious--"

Pierre again raised a cry of stupefaction. "What, the Pope himself! The

Pope afraid of being poisoned!"

"Well, my dear Abbe, people commonly assert it. There are certainly days

when he considers himself more menaced than anybody else. And are you not

aware of the old Roman view that a pope ought never to live till too

great an age, and that when he is so obstinate as not to die at the right

time he ought to be assisted? As soon as a pope begins to fall into

second childhood, and by reason of his senility becomes a source of

embarrassment, and possibly even danger, to the Church, his right place

is heaven. Moreover, matters are managed in a discreet manner; a slight

cold becomes a decent pretext to prevent him from tarrying any longer on

the throne of St. Peter."

Prada then gave some curious details. One prelate, it was said, wishing

to dispel his Holiness's fears, had devised an elaborate precautionary

system which, among other things, was to comprise a little padlocked

vehicle, in which the food destined for the frugal pontifical table was

to be securely placed before leaving the kitchen, so that it might not be

tampered with on its way to the Pope's apartments. However, this project

had not yet been carried into effect.

"After all," the Count concluded with a laugh, "every pope has to die

some day, especially when his death is needful for the welfare of the

Church. Isn't that so, Abbe?"

Santobono, whom he addressed, had a moment previously lowered his eyes as

if to contemplate the little basket of figs which he held on his lap with

as much care as if it had been the Blessed Sacrament. On being questioned

in such a direct, sharp fashion he could not do otherwise than look up.

However, he did not depart from his prolonged silence, but limited his

answer to a slow nod.

"And it is God alone, and not poison, who causes one to die. Is that not

so, Abbe?" repeated Prada. "It is said that those were the last words of

poor Monsignor Gallo before he expired in the arms of his friend Cardinal

Boccanera."

For the second time Santobono nodded without speaking. And then silence

fell, all three sinking into a dreamy mood.

Meantime, without a pause, the carriage rolled on across the immensity of

the Campagna. The road, straight as an arrow, seemed to extend into the

infinite. As the sun descended towards the horizon the play of light and

shade became more marked on the broad undulations of the ground which

stretched away, alternately of a pinky green and a violet grey, till they

reached the distant fringe of the sky. At the roadside on either hand

there were still and ever tall withered thistles and giant fennel with

yellow umbels. Then, after a time, came a team of four oxen, that had

been kept ploughing until late, and stood forth black and huge in the

pale atmosphere and mournful solitude. Farther on some flocks of sheep,

whence the breeze wafted a tallowy odour, set patches of brown amidst the

herbage, which once more was becoming verdant; whilst at intervals a dog

was heard to bark, his voice the only distinct sound amidst the low

quivering of that silent desert where the sovereign peacefulness of death

seemed to reign. But all at once a light melody arose and some larks flew

up, one of them soaring into the limpid golden heavens. And ahead, at the

far extremity of the pure sky, Rome, with her towers and domes, grew