第 71 页

larger and larger, like a city of white marble springing from a mirage

amidst the greenery of some enchanted garden.

"Matteo!" Prada called to his coachman, "pull up at the Osteria Romana."

And to his companions he added: "Pray excuse me, but I want to see if I

can get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them."

A few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of the

road stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous name

of "Antica Osteria Romana." It had now become a mere house of call for

carters and chance sportsmen, who ventured to drink a flagon of white

wine whilst eating an omelet and a slice of ham. Occasionally, on

Sundays, some of the humble classes would walk over from Rome and make

merry there; but the week days often went by without a soul entering the

place, such was its isolation amidst the bare Campagna.

The Count was already springing from the carriage. "I shall only be a

minute," said he as he turned away.

The _osteria_ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upper

storey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of large

blocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entire

place, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On the

ground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable with

adjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the only

trees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour of

reeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as a

background to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment

of an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space,

alone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.

All at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing

Santobono, exclaimed: "I say, Abbe, you'll surely accept a glass of white

wine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little

white wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with."

Santobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. "Oh! I know

it," said he; "it's a wine from Marino; it's grown in a lighter soil than

ours at Frascati."

Then, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now

carried it along with him, the Count lost patience. "Come, you don't want

that basket," said he; "leave it in the carriage."

The priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up

his mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban

_osteria_ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman,

tall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had

at once presented herself. On the last occasion when the Count had called

she had managed to find half a dozen eggs. This time she said she would

go to see, but could promise nothing, for the hens laid here and there

all over the place, and she could never tell what eggs there might be.

"All right!" Prada answered, "go and look; and meantime we will have a

_caraffa_ of white wine."

The three men entered the common room, which was already quite dark.

Although the hot weather was now over, one heard the buzzing of

innumerable flies immediately one reached the threshold, and a pungent

odour of acidulous wine and rancid oil caught one at the throat. As soon

as their eyes became accustomed to the dimness they were able to

distinguish the spacious, blackened, malodorous chamber, whose only

furniture consisted of some roughly made tables and benches. It seemed to

be quite empty, so complete was the silence, apart from the buzz of the

flies. However, two men were seated there, two wayfarers who remained

mute and motionless before their untouched, brimming glasses. Moreover,

on a low chair near the door, in the little light which penetrated from

without, a thin, sallow girl, the daughter of the house, sat idle,

trembling with fever, her hands close pressed between her knees.

Realising that Pierre felt uncomfortable there, the Count proposed that

they should drink their wine outside. "We shall be better out of doors,"

said he, "it's so very in mild this evening."

Accordingly, whilst the mother looked for the eggs, and the father mended

a wheel in an adjacent shed, the daughter was obliged to get up shivering

to carry the flagon of wine and the three glasses to the arbour, where

she placed them on one of the tables. And, having pocketed the price of

the wine--threepence--in silence, she went back to her seat with a sullen

look, as if annoyed at having been compelled to make such a long journey.

Meanwhile the three men had sat down, and Prada gaily filled each of the

glasses, although Pierre declared that he was quite unable to drink wine

between his meals. "Pooh, pooh," said the Count, "you can always clink

glasses with us. And now, Abbe, isn't this little wine droll? Come,

here's to the Pope's better health, since he's unwell!"

Santobono at one gulp emptied his glass and clacked his tongue. With

gentle, paternal care he had deposited his basket on the ground beside

him: and, taking off his hat, he drew a long breath. The evening was

really delightful. A superb sky of a soft golden hue stretched over that

endless sea of the Campagna which was soon to fall asleep with sovereign

quiescence. And the light breeze which went by amidst the deep silence

brought with it an exquisite odour of wild herbs and flowers.

"How pleasant it is!" muttered Pierre, affected by the surrounding charm.

"And what a desert for eternal rest, forgetfulness of all the world!"

Prada, who had emptied the flagon by filling Santobono's glass a second

time, made no reply; he was silently amusing himself with an occurrence

which at first he was the only one to observe. However, with a merry

expression of complicity, he gave the young priest a wink, and then they

both watched the dramatic incidents of the affair. Some scraggy fowls

were wandering round them searching the yellow turf for grasshoppers; and

one of these birds, a little shiny black hen with an impudent manner, had

caught sight of the basket of figs and was boldly approaching it. When

she got near, however, she took fright, and retreated somewhat, with neck

stiffened and head turned, so as to cast suspicious glances at the basket

with her round sparkling eye. But at last covetousness gained the

victory, for she could see one of the figs between the leaves, and so she

slowly advanced, lifting her feet very high at each step; and, all at

once, stretching out her neck, she gave the fig a formidable peck, which

ripped it open and made the juice exude.

Prada, who felt as happy as a child, was then able to give vent to the

laughter which he had scarcely been able to restrain: "Look out, Abbe,"

he called, "mind your figs!"

At that very moment Santobono was finishing his second glass of wine with

his head thrown back and his eyes blissfully raised to heaven. He gave a

start, looked round, and on seeing the hen at once understood the

position. And then came a terrible outburst of anger, with sweeping

gestures and terrible invectives. But the hen, who was again pecking,

would not be denied; she dug her beak into the fig and carried it off,

flapping her wings, so quick and so comical that Prada, and Pierre as

well, laughed till tears came into their eyes, their merriment increasing

at sight of the impotent fury of Santobono, who, for a moment, pursued

the thief, threatening her with his fist.

"Ah!" said the Count, "that's what comes of not leaving the basket in the

carriage. If I hadn't warned you the hen would have eaten all the figs."

The priest did not reply, but, growling out vague imprecations, placed

the basket on the table, where he raised the leaves and artistically

rearranged the fruit so as to fill up the void. Then, the harm having

been repaired as far as was possible, he at last calmed down.

It was now time for them to resume their journey, for the sun was sinking

towards the horizon, and night would soon fall. Thus the Count ended by

getting impatient. "Well, and those eggs?" he called.

Then, as the woman did not return, he went to seek her. He entered the

stable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here nor

there. Next he went towards the rear of the _osteria_ in order to look in

the sheds. But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short.

The little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as by

lightning. She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a little

streamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak. Prada was at

first merely astonished. He stooped and touched the hen. She was still

warm and soft like a rag. Doubtless some apoplectic stroke had killed

her. But immediately afterwards he became fearfully pale; the truth

appeared to him, and turned him as cold as ice. In a moment he conjured

up everything: Leo XIII attacked by illness, Santobono hurrying to

Cardinal Sanguinetti for tidings, and then starting for Rome to present a

basket of figs to Cardinal Boccanera. And Prada also remembered the

conversation in the carriage: the possibility of the Pope's demise, the

candidates for the tiara, the legendary stories of poison which still

fostered terror in and around the Vatican; and he once more saw the

priest, with his little basket on his knees, lavishing paternal attention

on it, and he saw the little black hen pecking at the fruit and fleeing

with a fig on her beak. And now that little black hen lay there, suddenly

struck down, dead!

His conviction was immediate and absolute. But he did not have time to

decide what course he should take, for a voice behind him exclaimed:

"Why, it's the little hen; what's the matter with her?"

The voice was that of Pierre, who, letting Santobono climb into the

carriage alone, had in his turn come round to the rear of the house in

order to obtain a better view of the ruined aqueduct among the parasol

pines.

Prada, who shuddered as if he himself were the culprit, answered him with

a lie, a lie which he did not premeditate, but to which he was impelled

by a sort of instinct. "But she's dead," he said.... "Just fancy,

there was a fight. At the moment when I got here that other hen, which

you see yonder, sprang upon this one to get the fig, which she was still

holding, and with a thrust of the beak split her head open.... The

blood's flowing, as you can see yourself."

Why did he say these things? He himself was astonished at them whilst he

went on inventing them. Was it then that he wished to remain master of

the situation, keep the abominable secret entirely to himself, in order

that he might afterwards act in accordance with his own desires?

Certainly his feelings partook of shame and embarrassment in presence of

that foreigner, whilst his personal inclination for violence set some

admiration amidst the revolt of his conscience, and a covert desire arose

within him to examine the matter from the standpoint of his interests

before he came to a decision. But, on the other hand, he claimed to be a

man of integrity, and would assuredly not allow people to be poisoned.

Pierre, who was compassionately inclined towards all creation, looked at

the hen with the emotion which he always felt at the sudden severance of

life. However, he at once accepted Prada's story. "Ah! those fowls!" said

he. "They treat one another with an idiotic ferocity which even men can

scarcely equal. I kept fowls at home at one time, and one of the hens no

sooner hurt her leg than all the others, on seeing the blood oozing,

would flock round and peck at the limb till they stripped it to the

bone."

Prada, however, did not listen, but at once went off; and it so happened

that the woman was, on her side, looking for him in order to hand him

four eggs which, after a deal of searching, she had discovered in odd

corners about the house. The Count made haste to pay for them, and called

to Pierre, who was lingering behind: "We must look sharp! We sha'n't

reach Rome now until it is quite dark."

They found Santobono quietly waiting in the carriage, where he had again

installed himself on the bracket with his spine resting against the

box-seat and his long legs drawn back under him, and he again had the

little basket of figs on his knees, and clasped it with his big knotty

hands as though it were something fragile and rare which the slightest

jolting might damage. His cassock showed like a huge blot, and in his

coarse ashen face, that of a peasant yet near to the wild soil and but

slightly polished by a few years of theological studies, his eyes alone

seemed to live, glowing with the dark flame of a devouring passion. On

seeing him seated there in such composure Prada could not restrain a

slight shudder. Then, as soon as the victoria was again rolling along the

road, he exclaimed: "Well, Abbe, that glass of wine will guarantee us

against the malaria. The Pope would soon be cured if he could imitate our

example."

Santobono's only reply was a growl. He was in no mood for conversation,

but wrapped himself in perfect silence, as in the night which was slowly

falling. And Prada in his turn ceased to speak, and, with his eyes still

fixed upon the other, reflected on the course that he should follow.

The road turned, and then the carriage rolled on and on over another

interminable straight highway with white paving, whose brilliancy made

the road look like a ribbon of snow stretching across the Campagna, where

delicate shadows were slowly falling. Gloom gathered in the hollows of

the broad undulations whence a tide of violet hue seemed to spread over

the short herbage until all mingled and the expanse became an indistinct

swell of neutral hue from one to the other horizon. And the solitude was

now yet more complete; a last indolent cart had gone by and a last