第 75 页

Council to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a great

majority."

Again did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see any

members of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he feared

that the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave his

word of honour that things were as he stated. "The news is certain," he

declared. "I had it from a member of the Congregation." And then, all at

once, he apologised and hurried off: "Excuse me but I see a lady whom I

had not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her."

He at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sit

down, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallant

courtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with a

pearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin.

"You know that person, don't you?" Narcisse inquired of Pierre. "No!

Really? Why, that is Count Prada's _inamorata_, the charming Lisbeth

Kauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It's her first appearance in

society since that event. She's a German, you know, and lost her husband

here. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal is

forgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one is

particularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which she

receives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As you

may imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuse

her!"

She looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, with

satiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, which

was renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silk

spangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, so

securely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and was

loved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarks

exchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to her

personal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talked

of the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood the

Church solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there came

stifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolent

serenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of Monsignor

Fornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily,

which she had lately sent to a fine-art show.

Ah! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Rome

with scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of its

termination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds had

long chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander,

endless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;

the Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage null

and void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome would

laugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed as

soon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. The

incidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada's feelings

revolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, the

Boccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the money

which they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinals

in order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they had

indirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma.

People said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs had

been expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known French

countess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount to

secure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father's need

was so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; it

merely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued waving

in the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as the

whispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders.

"Oh! how pleased the Contessina must be!" Pierre resumed. "I did not

understand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying when

we came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It is

doubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloistering

herself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning."

However, Lisbeth's eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as she

smiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her,

for, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her through

having visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a fresh

outburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowers

adorning the ladies' hair. People turned to see what was the matter, and

again did the hubbub increase. "Ah! it's Count Prada in person!" murmured

Narcisse, with an admiring glance. "He has a fine bearing, whatever folks

may say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid,

unscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!"

Prada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant.

And above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, he

really had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, stern

eyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Never

had a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth of

his voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, dived

into their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, and

fair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up to

her, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent,

inquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornaro

had made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a low

tone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for as

he again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and made

an involuntary gesture.

However, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasure

of the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he said

to the young priest with all his wonted _bravura_: "You recollect what I

told you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it's done, it seems,

they've annulled my marriage. It's such an impudent, such an imbecile

decision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!"

"Oh! the news is certain," Pierre made bold to reply. "It has just been

confirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of the

Congregation. And it is said that the majority was very large."

Prada again shook with laughter. "No, no," said he, "such a farce is

beyond belief! It's the finest smack given to justice and common-sense

that I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civil

courts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shall

amuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I'd marry her at Santa Maria

Maggiore with all possible pomp. And there's a dear little being in the

world who would take part in the _fete_ in his nurse's arms!"

He laughed too loud as he spoke, alluded in too brutal a fashion to his

child, that living proof of his manhood. Was it suffering that made his

lips curve upwards and reveal his white teeth? It could be divined that

he was quivering, fighting against an awakening of covert, tumultuous

passion, which he would not acknowledge even to himself.

"And you, my dear Abbe?" he hastily resumed. "Do you know the other

report? Do you know that the Countess is coming here?" It was thus, by

force of habit, that he designated Benedetta, forgetting that she was no

longer his wife.

"Yes, I have just been told so," Pierre replied; and then he hesitated

for a moment before adding, with a desire to prevent any disagreeable

surprise: "And we shall no doubt see Prince Dario also, for he has not

started for Naples as I told you. Something prevented his departure at

the last moment, I believe. At least so I gathered from a servant."

Prada no longer laughed. His face suddenly became grave, and he contented

himself with murmuring: "Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well,

we shall see them, we shall see them both!"

Then, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if

serious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making a

gesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he

stood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on

which, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly

enlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: "A legend avers that the fig

tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him

who may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give them

either to your servants or your fowls." Then he folded the paper,

fastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: "To his

most Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera." And

when he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breath

and once more called back his laugh.

A kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozen

him. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had felt

the need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, any

possible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas had

induced him to write those four lines without a moment's delay, on the

very spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a great

catastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that on

leaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note into

the letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was once

more easy in mind.

"Why, what is the matter with you, my dear Abbe?" he inquired on again

joining in the conversation of the two friends. "You are quite gloomy."

And on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, the

condemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him for

action if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, he

began to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in order

to continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. "Never mind, never mind,

don't worry yourself," said he, "one loses all one's strength by

worrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day.

An hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat into

victory!" He grew feverish as he spoke, and all at once added, "Come,

let's go to the ball-room. It seems that the scene there is something

prodigious."

Then he exchanged a last loving glance with Lisbeth whilst Pierre and

Narcisse followed him, the three of them extricating themselves from

their corner with the greatest difficulty, and then wending their way

towards the adjoining gallery through a sea of serried skirts, a billowy

expanse of necks and shoulders whence ascended the passion which makes

life, the odour alike of love and of death.

With its eight windows overlooking the Corso, their panes uncurtained and

throwing a blaze of light upon the houses across the road, the picture

gallery, sixty-five feet in length and more than thirty in breadth,

spread out with incomparable splendour. The illumination was dazzling.

Clusters of electric lamps had changed seven pairs of huge marble

candelabra into gigantic _torcheres_, akin to constellations; and all

along the cornice up above, other lamps set in bright-hued floral glasses

formed a marvellous garland of flaming flowers: tulips, paeonies, and

roses. The antique red velvet worked with gold, which draped the walls,

glowed like a furnace fire. About the doors and windows there were

hangings of old lace broidered with flowers in coloured silk whose hues

had the very intensity of life. But the sight of sights beneath the

sumptuous panelled ceiling adorned with golden roses, the unique

spectacle of a richness not to be equalled, was the collection of

masterpieces such as no museum could excel. There were works of Raffaelle

and Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, Velasquez and Ribera, famous works

which in this unexpected illumination suddenly showed forth, triumphant

with youth regained, as if awakened to the immortal life of genius. And,

as their Majesties would not arrive before midnight, the ball had just

been opened, and flights of soft-hued gowns were whirling in a waltz past

all the pompous throng, the glittering jewels and decorations, the

gold-broidered uniforms and the pearl-broidered robes, whilst silk and

satin and velvet spread and overflowed upon every side.

"It is prodigious, really!" declared Prada with his excited air; "let us

go this way and place ourselves in a window recess again. There is no

better spot for getting a good view without being too much jostled."

They lost Narcisse somehow or other, and on reaching the desired recess

found themselves but two, Pierre and the Count. The orchestra, installed

on a little platform at the far end of the gallery, had just finished the

waltz, and the dancers, with an air of giddy rapture, were slowly walking

through the crowd when a fresh arrival caused every head to turn. Donna

Serafina, arrayed in a robe of purple silk as if she had worn the colours

of her brother the Cardinal, was making a royal entry on the arm of

Consistorial-Advocate Morano. And never before had she laced herself so

tightly, never had her waist looked so slim and girlish; and never had

her stern, wrinkled face, which her white hair scarcely softened,

expressed such stubborn and victorious domination. A discreet murmur of

approval ran round, a murmur of public relief as it were, for all Roman