第 72 页

tinkling of horses' bells had subsided in the distance. There was no

longer a passer-by, no longer a beast of the fields to be seen, colour

and sound died away, all forms of life sank into slumber, into the serene

stillness of nihility. Some fragments of an aqueduct were still to be

seen at intervals on the right hand, where they looked like portions of

gigantic millepeds severed by the scythe of time; next, on the left, came

another tower, whose dark and ruined pile barred the sky as with a huge

black stake; and then the remains of another aqueduct spanned the road,

assuming yet greater dimensions against the sunset glow. Ah! that unique

hour, the hour of twilight in the Campagna, when all is blotted out and

simplified, the hour of bare immensity, of the infinite in its simplest

expression! There is nothing, nothing all around you, but the flat line

of the horizon with the one splotch of an isolated tower, and yet that

nothing is instinct with sovereign majesty.

However, on the left, towards the sea, the sun was setting, descending in

the limpid sky like a globe of fire of blinding redness. It slowly

plunged beneath the horizon, and the only sign of cloud was some fiery

vapour, as if indeed the distant sea had seethed at contact with that

royal and flaming visit. And directly the sun had disappeared the heavens

above it purpled and became a lake of blood, whilst the Campagna turned

to grey. At the far end of the fading plain there remained only that

purple lake whose brasier slowly died out behind the black arches of the

aqueduct, while in the opposite direction the scattered arches remained

bright and rosy against a pewter-like sky. Then the fiery vapour was

dissipated, and the sunset ended by fading away. One by one the stars

came out in the pacified vault, now of an ashen blue, while the lights of

Rome, still far away on the verge of the horizon, scintillated like the

lamps of light-houses.

And Prada, amidst the dreamy silence of his companions and the infinite

melancholy of the evening and the inexpressible distress which even he

experienced, continued to ask himself what course he should adopt. Again

and again he mentally repeated that he could not allow people to be

poisoned. The figs were certainly intended for Cardinal Boccanera, and on

the whole it mattered little to him whether there were a cardinal the

more or the fewer in the world. Moreover, it had always seemed to him

best to let Destiny follow its course; and, infidel that he was, he saw

no harm in one priest devouring another. Again, it might be dangerous for

him to intervene in that abominable affair, to mix himself up in the

base, fathomless intrigues of the black world. But on the other hand the

Cardinal was not the only person who lived in the Boccanera mansion, and

might not the figs go to others, might they not be eaten by people to

whom no harm was intended? This idea of a treacherous chance haunted him,

and in spite of every effort the figures of Benedetta and Dario rose up

before him, returned and imposed themselves on him though he again and

again sought to banish them from his mind. What if Benedetta, what if

Dario should partake of that fruit? For Benedetta he felt no fear, for he

knew that she and her aunt ate their meals by themselves, and that their

cuisine and the Cardinal's had nothing in common. But Dario sat at his

uncle's table every day, and for a moment Prada, pictured the young

Prince suddenly seized with a spasm, then falling, like poor Monsignor

Gallo, into the Cardinal's arms with livid face and receding eyes, and

dying within two hours.

But no, no! That would be frightful, he could not suffer such an

abomination. And thereupon he made up his mind. He would wait till the

night had completely gathered round and would then simply take the basket

from Santobono's lap and fling it into some dark hollow without saying a

word. The priest would understand him. The other one, the young

Frenchman, would perhaps not even notice the incident. Besides, that

mattered little, for he would not even attempt to explain his action. And

he felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw the

basket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a couple

of miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in the

darkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen.

"We stopped too long at that _osteria_," he suddenly exclaimed aloud,

turning towards Pierre. "We sha'n't reach Rome much before six o'clock.

Still you will have time to dress and join your friend." And then without

awaiting the young man's reply he said to Santobono: "Your figs will

arrive very late, Abbe."

"Oh!" answered the priest, "his Eminence receives until eight o'clock.

And, besides, the figs are not for this evening. People don't eat figs in

the evening. They will be for to-morrow morning." And thereupon he again

relapsed into silence.

"For to-morrow morning--yes, yes, no doubt," repeated Prada. "And the

Cardinal will be able to thoroughly regale himself if nobody helps him to

eat the fruit."

Thereupon Pierre, without pausing to reflect, exclaimed: "He will no

doubt eat it by himself, for his nephew, Prince Dario, must have started

to-day for Naples on a little convalescence trip to rid himself of the

effects of the accident which laid him up during the last month." Then,

having got so far, the young priest remembered to whom he was speaking,

and abruptly stopped short.

The Count noticed his embarrassment. "Oh! speak on, my dear Monsieur

Froment," said he, "you don't offend me. It's an old affair now. So that

young man has left, you say?"

"Yes, unless he has postponed his departure. However, I don't expect to

find him at the palazzo when I get there."

For a moment the only sound was that of the continuous rumble of the

wheels. Prada again felt worried, a prey to the discomfort of

uncertainty. Why should he mix himself up in the affair if Dario were

really absent? All the ideas which came to him tired his brain, and he

ended by thinking aloud: "If he has gone away it must be for propriety's

sake, so as to avoid attending the Buongiovanni reception, for the

Congregation of the Council met this morning to give its decision in the

suit which the Countess has brought against me. Yes, I shall know by and

by whether our marriage is to be dissolved."

It was in a somewhat hoarse voice that he spoke these words, and one

could realise that the old wound was again bleeding within him. Although

Lisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in his

wife's petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each time

that he thought of it. And all at once he shuddered violently, as if an

icy blast had darted through his frame. Then, turning the conversation,

he added: "It's not at all warm this evening. This is the dangerous hour

of the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it's easy to catch a

terrible fever if one isn't prudent. Here, pull the rug over your legs,

wrap it round you as carefully as you can."

Then, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, more

profound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over the

Campagna, now steeped in night. And at last, in the bright starlight,

appeared the gate, an arch of the Acqua Felice, under which the road

passed. From a distance, this fragment seemed to bar the way with its

mass of ancient half-fallen walls. But afterwards the gigantic arch where

all was black opened like a gaping porch. And the carriage passed under

it in darkness whilst the wheels rumbled with increased sonority.

When the victoria emerged on the other side, Santobono still had the

little basket of figs upon his knees and Prada looked at it, quite

overcome, asking himself what sudden paralysis of the hands had prevented

him from seizing it and throwing it into the darkness. Such had still

been his intention but a few seconds before they passed under the arch.

He had even given the basket a final glance in order that he might the

better realise what movements he should make. What had taken place within

him then? At present he was yielding to increasing irresolution,

henceforth incapable of decisive action, feeling a need of delay in order

that he might, before everything else, fully satisfy himself as to what

was likely to happen. And as Dario had doubtless gone away and the figs

would certainly not be eaten until the following morning, what reason was

there for him to hurry? He would know that evening if the Congregation of

the Council had annulled his marriage, he would know how far the

so-called "Justice of God" was venal and mendacious! Certainly he would

suffer nobody to be poisoned, not even Cardinal Boccanera, though the

latter's life was of little account to him personally. But had not that

little basket, ever since leaving Frascati, been like Destiny on the

march? And was it not enjoyment, the enjoyment of omnipotence, to be able

to say to himself that he was the master who could stay that basket's

course, or allow it to go onward and accomplish its deadly purpose?

Moreover, he yielded to the dimmest of mental struggles, ceasing to

reason, unable to raise his hand, and yet convinced that he would drop a

warning note into the letter-box at the palazzo before he went to bed,

though at the same time he felt happy in the thought that if his interest

directed otherwise he would not do so.

And the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silent weariness,

amidst the shiver of evening which seemed to have chilled all three men.

In vain did the Count endeavour to escape from the battle of his

thoughts, by reverting to the Buongiovanni reception, and giving

particulars of the splendours which would be witnessed at it: his words

fell sparsely in an embarrassed and absent-minded way. Then he sought to

inspirit Pierre by speaking to him of Cardinal Sanguinetti's amiable

manner and fair words, but although the young priest was returning home

well pleased with his journey, in the idea that with a little help he

might yet triumph, he scarcely answered the Count, so wrapt he was in his

reverie. And Santobono, on his side, neither spoke nor moved. Black like

the night itself, he seemed to have vanished. However, the lights of Rome

were increasing in number, and houses again appeared on either hand, at

first at long intervals, and then in close succession. They were suburban

houses, and there were yet more fields of reeds, quickset hedges,

olive-trees overtopping long walls, and big gateways with vase-surmounted

pillars; but at last came the city with its rows of small grey houses,

its petty shops and its dingy taverns, whence at times came shouts and

rumours of battle.

Prada insisted on setting his companions down in the Via Giulia, at fifty

paces from the palazzo. "It doesn't inconvenience me at all," said he to

Pierre. "Besides, with the little time you have before you, it would

never do for you to go on foot."

The Via Giulia was already steeped in slumber, and wore a melancholy

aspect of abandonment in the dreary light of the gas lamps standing on

either hand. And as soon as Santobono had alighted from the carriage, he

took himself off without waiting for Pierre, who, moreover, always went

in by the little door in the side lane.

"Good-bye, Abbe," exclaimed Prada.

"Good-bye, Count, a thousand thanks," was Santobono's response.

Then the two others stood watching him as he went towards the Boccanera

mansion, whose old, monumental entrance, full of gloom, was still wide

open. For a moment they saw his tall, rugged figure erect against that

gloom. Then in he plunged, he and his little basket, bearing Destiny.

XII.

IT was ten o'clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe di

Roma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down the

Corso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficulty

to reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, and

the inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway,

in spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact that

even the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on the

first floor of the long monumental facade shone with an intense white

radiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street like

sunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whose

billows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinary

tumult.

And in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms

go by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre

soon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the

arrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball

given by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his

daughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his

Majesty's ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage,

the happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: to

begin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of a

lightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over all

obstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip to

lip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart.

It was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, who

already knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince had

ended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear of

seeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threaten

to do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contempt

for everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to be

capable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Only

indifference was manifested by the Prince's wife, a phlegmatic and still