第 78 页

pronounced itself for the condemnation of your book, the sentence would

only be submitted to the Holy Father and signed by him on the day after

to-morrow. So you still have a whole day before you."

At this Pierre could not refrain from a dolorous and vivacious

interruption.

"Alas! Monseigneur, what can I do?" said he; "I have thought it all over,

and I see no means, no opportunity of defending myself. How could I even

see his Holiness now that he is so ill?"

"Oh! ill, ill!" muttered Nani with his shrewd expression. "His Holiness

is ever so much better, for this very day, like every other Wednesday, I

had the honour to be received by him. When his Holiness is a little tired

and people say that he is very ill, he often lets them do so, for it

gives him a rest and enables him to judge certain ambitions and

manifestations of impatience around him."

Pierre, however, was too upset to listen attentively. "No, it's all

over," he continued, "I'm in despair. You spoke to me of the possibility

of a miracle, but I am no great believer in miracles. Since I am defeated

here at Rome, I shall go away, I shall return to Paris, and continue the

struggle there. Oh! I cannot resign myself, my hope in salvation by the

practice of love cannot die, and I shall answer my denouncers in a new

book, in which I shall tell in what new soil the new religion will grow

up!"

Silence fell. Nani looked at him with his clear eyes in which

intelligence shone distinct and sharp like steel. And amidst the deep

calm, the warm heavy atmosphere of the little _salon_, whose mirrors were

starred with countless reflections of candles, a more sonorous burst of

music was suddenly wafted from the gallery, a rhythmical waltz melody,

which slowly expanded, then died away.

"My dear son," said Nani, "anger is always harmful. You remember that on

your arrival here I promised that if your own efforts to obtain an

interview with the Holy Father should prove unavailing, I would myself

endeavour to secure an audience for you." Then, seeing how agitated the

young priest was getting, he went on: "Listen to me and don't excite

yourself. His Holiness, unfortunately, is not always prudently advised.

Around him are persons whose devotion, however great, is at times

deficient in intelligence. I told you that, and warned you against

inconsiderate applications. And this is why, already three weeks ago, I

myself handed your book to his Holiness in the hope that he would deign

to glance at it. I rightly suspected that it had not been allowed to

reach him. And this is what I am instructed to tell you: his Holiness,

who has had the great kindness to read your book, expressly desires to

see you."

A cry of joy and gratitude died away in Pierre's throat: "Ah!

Monseigneur. Ah! Monseigneur!"

But Nani quickly silenced him and glanced around with an expression of

keen anxiety as if he feared that some one might hear them. "Hush! Hush!"

said he, "it is a secret. His Holiness wishes to see you privately,

without taking anybody else into his confidence. Listen attentively. It

is now two o'clock in the morning. Well, this very day, at nine in the

evening precisely, you must present yourself at the Vatican and at every

door ask for Signor Squadra. You will invariably be allowed to pass.

Signor Squadra will be waiting for you upstairs, and will introduce you.

And not a word, mind; not a soul must have the faintest suspicion of

these things."

Pierre's happiness and gratitude at last flowed forth. He had caught hold

of the prelate's soft, plump hands, and stammered, "Ah! Monseigneur, how

can I express my gratitude to you? If you only knew how full my soul was

of night and rebellion since I realised that I had been a mere plaything

in the hands of those powerful cardinals. But you have saved me, and

again I feel sure that I shall win the victory, for I shall at last be

able to fling myself at the feet of his Holiness the father of all truth

and all justice. He can but absolve me, I who love him, I who admire him,

I who have never battled for aught but his own policy and most cherished

ideas. No, no, it is impossible; he will not sign that judgment; he will

not condemn my book!"

Releasing his hands, Nani sought to calm him with a fatherly gesture,

whilst retaining a faint smile of contempt for such a useless expenditure

of enthusiasm. At last he succeeded, and begged him to retire. The

orchestra was again playing more loudly in the distance. And when the

young priest at last withdrew, thanking him once more, he said very

simply, "Remember, my dear son, that only obedience is great."

Pierre, whose one desire now was to take himself off, found Prada almost

immediately afterwards in the first reception-room. Their Majesties had

just left the ball in grand ceremony, escorted to the threshold by the

Buongiovannis and the Saccos. And before departing the Queen had

maternally kissed Celia, whilst the King shook hands with

Attilio--honours instinct with a charming good nature which made the

members of both families quite radiant. However, a good many of the

guests were following the example of the sovereigns and disappearing in

small batches. And the Count, who seemed strangely nervous, and showed

more sternness and bitterness than ever, was, on his side, also eager to

be gone. "Ah! it's you at last. I was waiting for you," he said to

Pierre. "Well, let's get off at once, eh? Your compatriot Monsieur

Narcisse Habert asked me to tell you not to look for him. The fact is, he

has gone to see my friend Lisbeth to her carriage. I myself want a breath

of fresh air, a stroll, and so I'll go with you as far as the Via

Giulia."

Then, as they took their things from the cloak-room, he could not help

sneering and saying in his brutal way: "I saw your good friends go off,

all four together. It's lucky that you prefer to go home on foot, for

there was no room for you in the carriage. What superb impudence it was

on the part of that Donna Serafina to drag herself here, at her age, with

that Morano of hers, so as to triumph over the return of the fickle one!

And the two others, the two young ones--ah! I confess that I can hardly

speak calmly of _them_, for in parading here together as they did this

evening, they have shown an impudence and a cruelty such as is rarely

seen!" Prada's hands trembled, and he murmured: "A good journey, a good

journey to the young man, since he is going to Naples. Yes, I heard Celia

say that he was starting for Naples this evening at six o'clock. Well, my

wishes go with him; a good journey!"

The two men found the change delightful when they at last emerged from

the stifling heat of the reception-rooms into the lovely, cool, and

limpid night. It was a night illumined by a superb full moon, one of

those matchless Roman nights when the city slumbers in Elysian radiance,

steeped in a dream of the Infinite, under the vast vault of heaven. And

they took the most agreeable route, going down the Corso proper and then

turning into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

Prada had grown somewhat calmer, but remained full of irony. To divert

his mind, no doubt, he talked on in the most voluble manner, reverting to

the women of Rome and to that _fete_ which he had at first found

splendid, but at which he now began to rail.

"Oh! of course they have very fine gowns," said he, speaking of the

women; "but gowns which don't fit them, gowns which are sent them from

Paris, and which, of course, they can't try on. It's just the same with

their jewels; they still have diamonds and pearls, in particular, which

are very fine, but they are so wretchedly, so heavily mounted that they

look frightful. And if you only knew how ignorant and frivolous these

women are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface with

them, even religion: there's nothing beneath. I looked at them eating at

the buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening some

decorum was observed, there wasn't too much gorging. But at one of the

Court balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, and

everything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!"

To all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He was

wrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with the

Pope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrange

and picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantime

the footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear,

broad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlined

by the moonlight.

All at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious _bravura_ was

exhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessed

and paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coat

pocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:

"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."

The note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompany

Pierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at the

Palazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that within

another ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power in

the world could prevent it, since such was his express determination.

Never would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned.

But he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and that

Dario had raised such a tempest of jealous hatred within him! For them he

forgot Lisbeth whom he loved, and even that flesh of his flesh, the child

of whom he was so proud. All sex as he was, eager to conquer and subdue,

he had never cared for facile loves. His passion was to overcome. And now

there was a woman in the world who defied him, a woman forsooth whom he

had bought, whom he had married, who had been handed over to him, but who

would never, never be his. Ah! in the old days, to subdue her, he would

if needful have fired Rome like a Nero; but now he asked himself what he

could possibly do to prevent her from belonging to another. That galling

thought made the blood gush from his gaping wound. How that woman and her

lover must deride him! And to think that they had sought to turn him to

ridicule by a baseless charge, an arrant lie which still and ever made

him smart, all proof of its falsity to the contrary. He, on his side, had

accused them in the past without much belief in what he said, but now the

charges he had imputed to them must come true, for they were free, freed

at all events of the religious bond, and that no doubt was their only

care. And then visions of their happiness passed before his eyes,

infuriating him. Ah! no, ah! no, it was impossible, he would rather

destroy the world!

Then, as he and Pierre turned out of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele to

thread the old narrow tortuous streets leading to the Via Giulia, he

pictured himself dropping the note into the letter-box at the palazzo.

And next he conjured up what would follow. The note would lie in the

letter-box till morning. At an early hour Don Vigilio, the secretary, who

by the Cardinal's express orders kept the key of the box, would come

down, find the note, and hand it to his Eminence, who never allowed

another to open any communication addressed to him. And then the figs

would be thrown away, there would be no further possibility of crime, the

black world would in all prudence keep silent. But if the note should not

be in the letter-box, what would happen then? And admitting that

supposition he pictured the figs placed on the table at the one o'clock

meal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there as

usual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples till

the evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, or

would only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would that

be? At this point Prada's clearness of vision failed him; again he

conjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on the

road from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart all

obstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figs

went ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand in

the world had power enough to prevent.

And at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretched

away in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as if

from a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under the

silver sky. Three o'clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felt

himself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorous

moan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which the

Count, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the third

time allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into a

sneering laugh, and pressing the priest's hands, exclaimed: "No, no, I am

not going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would think

that I had fallen in love with my wife again."

And thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clear

night, without once looking round.

XIII.

WHEN Pierre awoke he was much surprised to hear eleven o'clock striking.

Fatigued as he was by that ball where he had lingered so long, he had

slept like a child in delightful peacefulness, and as soon as he opened

his eyes the radiant sunshine filled him with hope. His first thought was

that he would see the Pope that evening at nine o'clock. Ten more hours

to wait! What would he be able to do with himself during that lovely day,

whose radiant sky seemed to him of such happy augury? He rose and opened