第 80 页

this season. I'm very fond of them, and felt quite pleased at the thought

that I should eat some at dinner."

Victorine began to laugh: "Ah! yes, Contessina, I understand," she

replied. "They were some figs which that priest of Frascati, whom you

know very well, brought yesterday evening as a present for his Eminence.

I was there, and I heard him repeat three or four times that they were a

present, and were to be put on his Eminence's table without a leaf being

touched. And so one did as he said."

"Well, that's nice," retorted Benedetta with comical indignation. "What

_gourmands_ my uncle and Dario are to regale themselves without us! They

might have given us a share!"

Donna Serafina thereupon intervened, and asked Victorine: "You are

speaking, are you not, of that priest who used to come to the villa at

Frascati?"

"Yes, yes, Abbe Santobono his name is, he officiates at the little church

of St. Mary in the Fields. He always asks for Abbe Paparelli when he

calls; I think they were at the seminary together. And it was Abbe

Paparelli who brought him to the pantry with his basket last night. To

tell the truth, the basket was forgotten there in spite of all the

injunctions, so that nobody would have eaten the figs to-day if Abbe

Paparelli hadn't run down just now and carried them upstairs as piously

as if they were the Blessed Sacrament. It's true though that his Eminence

is so fond of them."

"My brother won't do them much honour to-day," remarked the Princess. "He

is slightly indisposed. He passed a bad night." The repeated mention of

Abbe Paparelli had made the old lady somewhat thoughtful. She had

regarded the train-bearer with displeasure ever since she had noticed the

extraordinary influence he was gaining over the Cardinal, despite all his

apparent humility and self-effacement. He was but a servant and

apparently a very insignificant one, yet he governed, and she could feel

that he combated her own influence, often undoing things which she had

done to further her brother's interests. Twice already, moreover, she had

suspected him of having urged the Cardinal to courses which she looked

upon as absolute blunders. But perhaps she was wrong; she did the

train-bearer the justice to admit that he had great merits and displayed

exemplary piety.

However, Benedetta went on laughing and jesting, and as Victorine had now

withdrawn, she called the man-servant: "Listen, Giacomo, I have a

commission for you." Then she broke off to say to her aunt and Pierre:

"Pray let us assert our rights. I can see them at table almost underneath

us. Uncle is taking the leaves off the basket and serving himself with a

smile; then he passes the basket to Dario, who passes it on to Don

Vigilio. And all three of them eat and enjoy the figs. You can see them,

can't you?" She herself could see them well. And it was her desire to be

near Dario, the constant flight of her thoughts to him that now made her

picture him at table with the others. Her heart was down below, and there

was nothing there that she could not see, and hear, and smell, with such

keenness of the senses did her love endow her. "Giacomo," she resumed,

"you are to go down and tell his Eminence that we are longing to taste

his figs, and that it will be very kind of him if he will send us such as

he can spare."

Again, however, did Donna Serafina intervene, recalling her wonted

severity of voice: "Giacomo, you will please stay here." And to her niece

she added: "That's enough childishness! I dislike such silly freaks."

"Oh! aunt," Benedetta murmured. "But I'm so happy, it's so long since I

laughed so good-heartedly."

Pierre had hitherto remained listening, enlivened by the sight of her

gaiety. But now, as a little chill fell, he raised his voice to say that

on the previous day he himself had been astonished to see the famous

fig-tree of Frascati still bearing fruit so late in the year. This was

doubtless due, however, to the tree's position and the protection of a

high wall.

"Ah! so you saw the tree?" said Benedetta.

"Yes, and I even travelled with those figs which you would so much like

to taste."

"Why, how was that?"

The young man already regretted the reply which had escaped him. However,

having gone so far, he preferred to say everything. "I met somebody at

Frascati who had come there in a carriage and who insisted on driving me

back to Rome," said he. "On the way we picked up Abbe Santobono, who was

bravely making the journey on foot with his basket in his hand. And

afterwards we stopped at an _osteria_--" Then he went on to describe the

drive and relate his impressions whilst crossing the Campagna amidst the

falling twilight. But Benedetta gazed at him fixedly, aware as she was of

Prada's frequent visits to the land and houses which he owned at

Frascati; and suddenly she murmured: "Somebody, somebody, it was the

Count, was it not?"

"Yes, madame, the Count," Pierre answered. "I saw him again last night;

he was overcome, and really deserves to be pitied."

The two women took no offence at this charitable remark which fell from

the young priest with such deep and natural emotion, full as he was of

overflowing love and compassion for one and all. Donna Serafina remained

motionless as if she had not even heard him, and Benedetta made a gesture

which seemed to imply that she had neither pity nor hatred to express for

a man who had become a perfect stranger to her. However, she no longer

laughed, but, thinking of the little basket which had travelled in

Prada's carriage, she said: "Ah! I don't care for those figs at all now,

I am even glad that I haven't eaten any of them."

Immediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she was

at once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves,

lingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. The

priest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audience

which he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o'clock, and he

had seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endless

afternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. "I'll

tell you what," said she, "as we are all in such good spirits we mustn't

leave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must have

finished lunch by now, and I'll ask him to take us for a long drive along

the Tiber."

This fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; but

just then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. "Isn't the

Princess here?" he inquired.

"No, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?"

"His Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising from

table. Oh! it's nothing--nothing serious, no doubt."

Benedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: "What, Dario!

Well, we'll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe. He mustn't get

ill if he is to take us for a drive!" Then, meeting Victorine on the

stairs, she bade her follow. "Dario isn't well," she said. "You may be

wanted."

They all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnished

bed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a whole

month. It was reached by way of a small _salon_, and from an adjoining

dressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal's apartments, the

relatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devised

by subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, the

passage gave access to his Eminence's private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted,

chairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar,

and the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray.

On entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, still

fully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera,

who, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and lofty

bearing--the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. "Why, what is the

matter, Dario _mio_?" asked the young woman.

He smiled, eager to reassure her. One only noticed that he was very pale,

with a look as of intoxication on his face.

"Oh! it's nothing, mere giddiness," he replied. "It's just as if I had

drunk too much. All at once things swam before my eyes, and I thought I

was going to fall. And then I only had time to come and fling myself on

the bed."

Then he drew a long breath, as though talking exhausted him, and the

Cardinal in his turn gave some details. "We had just finished our meal,"

said he, "I was giving Don Vigilio some orders for this afternoon, and

was about to rise when I saw Dario get up and reel. He wouldn't sit down

again, but came in here, staggering like a somnambulist, and fumbling at

the doors to open them. We followed him without understanding. And I

confess that I don't yet comprehend it."

So saying, the Cardinal punctuated his surprise by waving his arm towards

the rooms, through which a gust of misfortune seemed to have suddenly

swept. All the doors had remained wide open: the dressing-room could be

seen, and then the passage, at the end of which appeared the dining-room,

in a disorderly state, like an apartment suddenly vacated; the table

still laid, the napkins flung here and there, and the chairs pushed back.

As yet, however, there was no alarm.

Benedetta made the remark which is usually made in such cases: "I hope

you haven't eaten anything which has disagreed with you."

The Cardinal, smiling, again waved his hand as if to attest the frugality

of his table. "Oh!" said he, "there were only some eggs, some lamb

cutlets, and a dish of sorrel--they couldn't have overloaded his stomach.

I myself only drink water; he takes just a sip of white wine. No, no, the

food has nothing to do with it."

"Besides, in that case his Eminence and I would also have felt

indisposed," Don Vigilio made bold to remark.

Dario, after momentarily closing his eyes, opened them again, and once

more drew a long breath, whilst endeavouring to laugh. "Oh, it will be

nothing;" he said. "I feel more at ease already. I must get up and stir

myself."

"In that case," said Benedetta, "this is what I had thought of. You will

take Monsieur l'Abbe Froment and me for a long drive in the Campagna."

"Willingly. It's a nice idea. Victorine, help me."

Whilst speaking he had raised himself by means of one arm; but, before

the servant could approach, a slight convulsion seized him, and he fell

back again as if overcome by a fainting fit. It was the Cardinal, still

standing by the bedside, who caught him in his arms, whilst the

Contessina this time lost her head: "_Dio, Dio_! It has come on him

again. Quick, quick, a doctor!"

"Shall I run for one?" asked Pierre, whom the scene was also beginning to

upset.

"No, no, not you; stay with me. Victorine will go at once. She knows the

address. Doctor Giordano, Victorine."

The servant hurried away, and a heavy silence fell on the room where the

anxiety became more pronounced every moment. Benedetta, now quite pale,

had again approached the bed, whilst the Cardinal looked down at Dario,

whom he still held in his arms. And a terrible suspicion, vague,

indeterminate as yet, had just awoke in the old man's mind: Dario's face

seemed to him to be ashen, to wear that mask of terrified anguish which

he had already remarked on the countenance of his dearest friend,

Monsignor Gallo, when he had held him in his arms, in like manner, two

hours before his death. There was also the same swoon and the same

sensation of clasping a cold form whose heart ceases to beat. And above

everything else there was in Boccanera's mind the same growing thought of

poison, poison coming one knew not whence or how, but mysteriously

striking down those around him with the suddenness of lightning. And for

a long time he remained with his head bent over the face of his nephew,

that last scion of his race, seeking, studying, and recognising the signs

of the mysterious, implacable disorder which once already had rent his

heart atwain.

But Benedetta addressed him in a low, entreating voice: "You will tire

yourself, uncle. Let me take him a little, I beg you. Have no fear, I'll

hold him very gently, he will feel that it is I, and perhaps that will

rouse him."

At last the Cardinal raised his head and looked at her, and allowed her

to take his place after kissing her with distracted passion, his eyes the

while full of tears--a sudden burst of emotion in which his great love

for the young woman melted the stern frigidity which he usually affected.

"Ah! my poor child, my poor child!" he stammered, trembling from head to

foot like an oak-tree about to fall. Immediately afterwards, however, he

mastered himself, and whilst Pierre and Don Vigilio, mute and motionless,

regretted that they could be of no help, he walked slowly to and fro.

Soon, moreover, that bed-chamber became too small for all the thoughts

revolving in his mind, and he strayed first into the dressing-room and

then down the passage as far as the dining-room. And again and again he

went to and fro, grave and impassible, his head low, ever lost in the

same gloomy reverie. What were the multitudinous thoughts stirring in the

brain of that believer, that haughty Prince who had given himself to God

and could do naught to stay inevitable Destiny? From time to time he

returned to the bedside, observed the progress of the disorder, and then

started off again at the same slow regular pace, disappearing and

reappearing, carried along as it were by the monotonous alternations of