第 8 页

"And is Monsieur le Vicomte quite well?" she resumed with frank

familiarity. "He is so very pleasant, and we are always so pleased to see

him. He stays here, you know, each time he comes to Rome. I know that the

Princess and the Contessina received a letter from him yesterday

announcing you."

It was indeed Viscount Philibert de la Choue who had made all the

arrangements for Pierre's sojourn in Rome. Of the ancient and once

vigorous race of the Boccaneras, there now only remained Cardinal Pio

Boccanera, the Princess his sister, an old maid who from respect was

called "Donna" Serafina, their niece Benedetta--whose mother Ernesta had

followed her husband, Count Brandini, to the tomb--and finally their

nephew, Prince Dario Boccanera, whose father, Prince Onofrio, was

likewise dead, and whose mother, a Montefiori, had married again. It so

chanced that the Viscount de la Choue was connected with the family, his

younger brother having married a Brandini, sister to Benedetta's father;

and thus, with the courtesy rank of uncle, he had, in Count Brandini's

time, frequently sojourned at the mansion in the Via Giulia. He had also

become attached to Benedetta, especially since the advent of a private

family drama, consequent upon an unhappy marriage which the young woman

had contracted, and which she had petitioned the Holy Father to annul.

Since Benedetta had left her husband to live with her aunt Serafina and

her uncle the Cardinal, M. de la Choue had often written to her and sent

her parcels of French books. Among others he had forwarded her a copy of

Pierre's book, and the whole affair had originated in that wise. Several

letters on the subject had been exchanged when at last Benedetta sent

word that the work had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index,

and that it was advisable the author should at once repair to Rome, where

she graciously offered him the hospitality of the Boccanera mansion.

The Viscount was quite as much astonished as the young priest at these

tidings, and failed to understand why the book should be threatened at

all; however, he prevailed on Pierre to make the journey as a matter of

good policy, becoming himself impassioned for the achievement of a

victory which he counted in anticipation as his own. And so it was easy

to understand the bewildered condition of Pierre, on tumbling into this

unknown mansion, launched into an heroic adventure, the reasons and

circumstances of which were beyond him.

Victorine, however, suddenly resumed: "But I am leaving you here,

Monsieur l'Abbe. Let me conduct you to your rooms. Where is your

luggage?"

Then, when he had shown her his valise which he had placed on the ground

beside him, and explained that having no more than a fortnight's stay in

view he had contented himself with bringing a second cassock and some

linen, she seemed very much surprised.

"A fortnight! You only expect to remain here a fortnight? Well, well,

you'll see."

And then summoning a big devil of a lackey who had ended by making his

appearance, she said: "Take that up into the red room, Giacomo. Will you

kindly follow me, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

Pierre felt quite comforted and inspirited by thus unexpectedly meeting

such a lively, good-natured compatriot in this gloomy Roman "palace."

Whilst crossing the court he listened to her as she related that the

Princess had gone out, and that the Contessina--as Benedetta from motives

of affection was still called in the house, despite her marriage--had not

yet shown herself that morning, being rather poorly. However, added

Victorine, she had her orders.

The staircase was in one corner of the court, under the porticus. It was

a monumental staircase with broad, low steps, the incline being so gentle

that a horse might easily have climbed it. The stone walls, however, were

quite bare, the landings empty and solemn, and a death-like mournfulness

fell from the lofty vault above.

As they reached the first floor, noticing Pierre's emotion, Victorine

smiled. The mansion seemed to be uninhabited; not a sound came from its

closed chambers. Simply pointing to a large oaken door on the right-hand,

the housekeeper remarked: "The wing overlooking the court and the river

is occupied by his Eminence. But he doesn't use a quarter of the rooms.

All the reception-rooms on the side of the street have been shut. How

could one keep up such a big place, and what, too, would be the use of

it? We should need somebody to lodge."

With her lithe step she continued ascending the stairs. She had remained

essentially a foreigner, a Frenchwoman, too different from those among

whom she lived to be influenced by her environment. On reaching the

second floor she resumed: "There, on the left, are Donna Serafina's

rooms; those of the Contessina are on the right. This is the only part of

the house where there's a little warmth and life. Besides, it's Monday

to-day, the Princess will be receiving visitors this evening. You'll

see."

Then, opening a door, beyond which was a second and very narrow

staircase, she went on: "We others have our rooms on the third floor. I

must ask Monsieur l'Abbe to let me go up before him."

The grand staircase ceased at the second floor, and Victorine explained

that the third story was reached exclusively by this servants' staircase,

which led from the lane running down to the Tiber on one side of the

mansion. There was a small private entrance in this lane, which was very

convenient.

At last, reaching the third story, she hurried along a passage, again

calling Pierre's attention to various doors. "These are the apartments of

Don Vigilio, his Eminence's secretary. These are mine. And these will be

yours. Monsieur le Vicomte will never have any other rooms when he comes

to spend a few days in Rome. He says that he enjoys more liberty up here,

as he can come in and go out as he pleases. I gave him a key to the door

in the lane, and I'll give you one too. And, besides, you'll see what a

nice view there is from here!"

Whilst speaking she had gone in. The apartments comprised two rooms: a

somewhat spacious _salon_, with wall-paper of a large scroll pattern on a

red ground, and a bed-chamber, where the paper was of a flax grey,

studded with faded blue flowers. The sitting-room was in one corner of

the mansion overlooking the lane and the Tiber, and Victorine at once

went to the windows, one of which afforded a view over the distant lower

part of the river, while the other faced the Trastevere and the Janiculum

across the water.

"Ah! yes, it's very pleasant!" said Pierre, who had followed and stood

beside her.

Giaccomo, who did not hurry, came in behind them with the valise. It was

now past eleven o'clock; and seeing that the young priest looked tired,

and realising that he must be hungry after such a journey, Victorine

offered to have some breakfast served at once in the sitting-room. He

would then have the afternoon to rest or go out, and would only meet the

ladies in the evening at dinner. At the mere suggestion of resting,

however, Pierre began to protest, declaring that he should certainly go

out, not wishing to lose an entire afternoon. The breakfast he readily

accepted, for he was indeed dying of hunger.

However, he had to wait another full half hour. Giaccomo, who served him

under Victorine's orders, did everything in a most leisurely way. And

Victorine, lacking confidence in the man, remained with the young priest

to make sure that everything he might require was provided.

"Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe," said she, "what people! What a country! You can't

have an idea of it. I should never get accustomed to it even if I were to

live here for a hundred years. Ah! if it were not for the Contessina, but

she's so good and beautiful."

Then, whilst placing a dish of figs on the table, she astonished Pierre

by adding that a city where nearly everybody was a priest could not

possibly be a good city. Thereupon the presence of this gay, active,

unbelieving servant in the queer old palace again scared him.

"What! you are not religious?" he exclaimed.

"No, no, Monsieur l'Abbe, the priests don't suit me," said Victorine; "I

knew one in France when I was very little, and since I've been here I've

seen too many of them. It's all over. Oh! I don't say that on account of

his Eminence, who is a holy man worthy of all possible respect. And

besides, everybody in the house knows that I've nothing to reproach

myself with. So why not leave me alone, since I'm fond of my employers

and attend properly to my duties?"

She burst into a frank laugh. "Ah!" she resumed, "when I was told that

another priest was coming, just as if we hadn't enough already, I

couldn't help growling to myself. But you look like a good young man,

Monsieur l'Abbe, and I feel sure we shall get on well together.... I

really don't know why I'm telling you all this--probably it's because

you've come from yonder, and because the Contessina takes an interest in

you. At all events, you'll excuse me, won't you, Monsieur l'Abbe? And

take my advice, stay here and rest to-day; don't be so foolish as to go

running about their tiring city. There's nothing very amusing to be seen

in it, whatever they may say to the contrary."

When Pierre found himself alone, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by all the

fatigue of his journey coupled with the fever of enthusiasm that had

consumed him during the morning. And as though dazed, intoxicated by the

hasty meal which he had just made--a couple of eggs and a cutlet--he

flung himself upon the bed with the idea of taking half an hour's rest.

He did not fall asleep immediately, but for a time thought of those

Boccaneras, with whose history he was partly acquainted, and of whose

life in that deserted and silent palace, instinct with such dilapidated

and melancholy grandeur, he began to dream. But at last his ideas grew

confused, and by degrees he sunk into sleep amidst a crowd of shadowy

forms, some tragic and some sweet, with vague faces which gazed at him

with enigmatical eyes as they whirled before him in the depths of

dreamland.

The Boccaneras had supplied two popes to Rome, one in the thirteenth, the

other in the fifteenth century, and from those two favoured ones, those

all-powerful masters, the family had formerly derived its vast

fortune--large estates in the vicinity of Viterbo, several palaces in

Rome, enough works of art to fill numerous spacious galleries, and a pile

of gold sufficient to cram a cellar. The family passed as being the most

pious of the Roman _patriziato_, a family of burning faith whose sword

had always been at the service of the Church; but if it were the most

believing family it was also the most violent, the most disputatious,

constantly at war, and so fiercely savage that the anger of the

Boccaneras had become proverbial. And thence came their arms, the winged

dragon spitting flames, and the fierce, glowing motto, with its play on

the name "_Bocca sera, Alma rossa_" (black mouth, red soul), the mouth

darkened by a roar, the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love.

Legends of endless passion, of terrible deeds of justice and vengeance

still circulated. There was the duel fought by Onfredo, the Boccanera by

whom the present palazzo had been built in the sixteenth century on the

site of the demolished antique residence of the family. Onfredo, learning

that his wife had allowed herself to be kissed on the lips by young Count

Costamagna, had caused the Count to be kidnapped one evening and brought

to the palazzo bound with cords. And there in one of the large halls,

before freeing him, he compelled him to confess himself to a monk. Then

he severed the cords with a stiletto, threw the lamps over and

extinguished them, calling to the Count to keep the stiletto and defend

himself. During more than an hour, in complete obscurity, in this hall

full of furniture, the two men sought one another, fled from one another,

seized hold of one another, and pierced one another with their blades.

And when the doors were broken down and the servants rushed in they found

among the pools of blood, among the overturned tables and broken seats,

Costamagna with his nose sliced off and his hips pierced with two and

thirty wounds, whilst Onfredo had lost two fingers of his right hand, and

had both shoulders riddled with holes! The wonder was that neither died

of the encounter.

A century later, on that same bank of the Tiber, a daughter of the

Boccaneras, a girl barely sixteen years of age, the lovely and passionate

Cassia, filled all Rome with terror and admiration. She loved Flavio

Corradini, the scion of a rival and hated house, whose alliance her

father, Prince Boccanera, roughly rejected, and whom her elder brother,

Ercole, swore to slay should he ever surprise him with her. Nevertheless

the young man came to visit her in a boat, and she joined him by the

little staircase descending to the river. But one evening Ercole, who was

on the watch, sprang into the boat and planted his dagger full in

Flavio's heart. Later on the subsequent incidents were unravelled; it was

understood that Cassia, wrathful and frantic with despair, unwilling to

survive her love and bent on wreaking justice, had thrown herself upon

her brother, had seized both murderer and victim with the same grasp

whilst overturning the boat; for when the three bodies were recovered

Cassia still retained her hold upon the two men, pressing their faces one

against the other with her bare arms, which had remained as white as

snow.

But those were vanished times. Nowadays, if faith remained, blood

violence seemed to be departing from the Boccaneras. Their huge fortune

also had been lost in the slow decline which for a century past has been

ruining the Roman _patriziato_. It had been necessary to sell the