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their slumber. Let their eyes remain open since they desire to gaze on

one another till the end of time without ever wearying. And let them

sleep in one another's arms since in their lives they did not sin, and

only locked themselves in that embrace in order that they might be laid

together in the ground."

And then, again becoming a Roman Prince whose proud blood was yet hot

with old-time deeds of battle and passion, he added: "Two Boccaneras may

well sleep like that; all Rome will admire them and weep for them. Leave

them, leave them together, my sister. God knows them and awaits them!"

All knelt, and the Cardinal himself repeated the prayers for the dead.

Night was coming, increasing gloom stole into the chamber, where two

burning tapers soon shone out like stars.

And then, without knowing how, Pierre again found himself in the little

deserted garden on the bank of the Tiber. Suffocating with fatigue and

grief, he must have come thither for fresh air. Darkness shrouded the

charming nook where the streamlet of water falling from the tragic mask

into the ancient sarcophagus ever sang its shrill and flute-like song;

and the laurel-bush which shaded it, and the bitter box-plants and the

orange-trees skirting the paths now formed but vague masses under the

blue-black sky. Ah! how gay and sweet had that melancholy garden been in

the morning, and what a desolate echo it retained of Benedetta's winsome

laughter, all that fine delight in coming happiness which now lay prone

upstairs, steeped in the nothingness of things and beings! So dolorous

was the pang which came to Pierre's heart that he burst into sobs, seated

on the same broken column where she had sat, and encompassed by the same

atmosphere that she had breathed, in which still lingered the perfume of

her presence.

But all at once a distant clock struck six, and the young priest started

on remembering that he was to be received by the Pope that very evening

at nine. Yet three more hours! He had not thought of that interview

during the terrifying catastrophe, and it seemed to him now as if months

and months had gone by, as if the appointment were some very old one

which a man is only able to keep after years of absence, when he has

grown aged and had his heart and brain modified by innumerable

experiences. However, he made an effort and rose to his feet. In three

hours' time he would go to the Vatican and at last he would see the Pope.

PART V.

XIV.

THAT evening, when Pierre emerged from the Borgo in front of the Vatican,

a sonorous stroke rang out from the clock amidst the deep silence of the

dark and sleepy district. It was only half-past eight, and being in

advance the young priest resolved to wait some twenty minutes in order to

reach the doors of the papal apartments precisely at nine, the hour fixed

for his audience.

This respite brought him some relief amidst the infinite emotion and

grief which gripped his heart. That tragic afternoon which he had spent

in the chamber of death, where Dario and Benedetta now slept the eternal

sleep in one another's arms, had left him very weary. He was haunted by a

wild, dolorous vision of the two lovers, and involuntary sighs came from

his lips whilst tears continually moistened his eyes. He had been

altogether unable to eat that evening. Ah! how he would have liked to

hide himself and weep at his ease! His heart melted at each fresh

thought. The pitiful death of the lovers intensified the grievous feeling

with which his book was instinct, and impelled him to yet greater

compassion, a perfect anguish of charity for all who suffered in the

world. And he was so distracted by the thought of the many physical and

moral sores of Paris and of Rome, where he had beheld so much unjust and

abominable suffering, that at each step he took he feared lest he should

burst into sobs with arms upstretched towards the blackness of heaven.

In the hope of somewhat calming himself he began to walk slowly across

the Piazza of St. Peter's, now all darkness and solitude. On arriving he

had fancied that he was losing himself in a murky sea, but by degrees his

eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The vast expanse was only lighted by

the four candelabra at the corners of the obelisk and by infrequent lamps

skirting the buildings which run on either hand towards the Basilica.

Under the colonnade, too, other lamps threw yellow gleams across the

forest of pillars, showing up their stone trunks in fantastic fashion;

while on the piazza only the pale, ghostly obelisk was at all distinctly

visible. Pierre could scarcely perceive the dim, silent facade of St.

Peter's; whilst of the dome he merely divined a gigantic, bluey roundness

faintly shadowed against the sky. In the obscurity he at first heard the

plashing of the fountains without being at all able to see them, but on

approaching he at last distinguished the slender phantoms of the ever

rising jets which fell again in spray. And above the vast square

stretched the vast and moonless sky of a deep velvety blue, where the

stars were large and radiant like carbuncles; Charles's Wain, with golden

wheels and golden shaft tilted back as it were, over the roof of the

Vatican, and Orion, bedizened with the three bright stars of his belt,

showing magnificently above Rome, in the direction of the Via Giulia.

At last Pierre raised his eyes to the Vatican, but facing the piazza

there was here merely a confused jumble of walls, amidst which only two

gleams of light appeared on the floor of the papal apartments. The Court

of San Damaso was, however, lighted, for the conservatory-like glass-work

of two of its sides sparkled as with the reflection of gas lamps which

could not be seen. For a time there was not a sound or sign of movement,

but at last two persons crossed the expanse of the piazza, and then came

a third who in his turn disappeared, nothing remaining but a rhythmical

far-away echo of steps. The spot was indeed a perfect desert, there were

neither promenaders nor passers-by, nor was there even the shadow of a

prowler in the pillared forest of the colonnade, which was as empty as

the wild primeval forests of the world's infancy. And what a solemn

desert it was, full of the silence of haughty desolation. Never had so

vast and black a presentment of slumber, so instinct with the sovereign

nobility of death, appeared to Pierre.

At ten minutes to nine he at last made up his mind and went towards the

bronze portal. Only one of the folding doors was now open at the end of

the right-hand porticus, where the increasing density of the gloom

steeped everything in night. Pierre remembered the instructions which

Monsignor Nani had given him; at each door that he reached he was to ask

for Signor Squadra without adding a word, and thereupon each door would

open and he would have nothing to do but to let himself be guided on. No

one but the prelate now knew that he was there, since Benedetta, the only

being to whom he had confided the secret, was dead. When he had crossed

the threshold of the bronze doors and found himself in presence of the

motionless, sleeping Swiss Guard, who was on duty there, he simply spoke

the words agreed upon: "Signor Squadra." And as the Guard did not stir,

did not seek to bar his way, he passed on, turning into the vestibule of

the Scala Pia, the stone stairway which ascends to the Court of San

Damaso. And not a soul was to be seen: there was but the faint sound of

his own light footsteps and the sleepy glow of the gas jets whose light

was softly whitened by globes of frosted glass. Up above, on reaching the

courtyard he found it a solitude, whose slumber seemed sepulchral amidst

the mournful gleams of the gas lamps which cast a pallid reflection on

the lofty glass-work of the facades. And feeling somewhat nervous,

affected by the quiver which pervaded all that void and silence, Pierre

hastened on, turning to the right, towards the low flight of steps which

leads to the staircase of the Pope's private apartments.

Here stood a superb gendarme in full uniform. "Signor Squadra," said

Pierre, and without a word the gendarme pointed to the stairs.

The young man went up. It was a broad stairway, with low steps,

balustrade of white marble, and walls covered with yellowish stucco. The

gas, burning in globes of round glass, seemed to have been already turned

down in a spirit of prudent economy. And in the glimmering light nothing

could have been more mournfully solemn than that cold and pallid

staircase. On each landing there was a Swiss Guard, halbard in hand, and

in the heavy slumber spreading through the palace one only heard the

regular monotonous footsteps of these men, ever marching up and down, in

order no doubt that they might not succumb to the benumbing influence of

their surroundings.

Amidst the invading dimness and the quivering silence the ascent of the

stairs seemed interminable to Pierre, who by the time he reached the

second-floor landing imagined that he had been climbing for ages. There,

outside the glass door of the Sala Clementina, only the right-hand half

of which was open, a last Swiss Guard stood watching.

"Signor Squadra," Pierre said again, and the Guard drew back to let him

pass.

The Sala Clementina, spacious enough by daylight, seemed immense at that

nocturnal hour, in the twilight glimmer of its lamps. All the opulent

decorative-work, sculpture, painting, and gilding became blended, the

walls assuming a tawny vagueness amidst which appeared bright patches

like the sparkle of precious stones. There was not an article of

furniture, nothing but the endless pavement stretching away into the

semi-darkness. At last, however, near a door at the far end Pierre espied

some men dozing on a bench. They were three Swiss Guards. "Signor

Squadra," he said to them.

One of the Guards thereupon slowly rose and left the hall, and Pierre

understood that he was to wait. He did not dare to move, disturbed as he

was by the sound of his own footsteps on the paved floor, so he contented

himself with gazing around and picturing the crowds which at times

peopled that vast apartment, the first of the many papal ante-chambers.

But before long the Guard returned, and behind him, on the threshold of

the adjoining room, appeared a man of forty or thereabouts, who was clad

in black from head to foot and suggested a cross between a butler and a

beadle. He had a good-looking, clean-shaven face, with somewhat

pronounced nose and large, clear, fixed eyes. "Signor Squadra," said

Pierre for the last time.

The man bowed as if to say that he was Signor Squadra, and then, with a

fresh reverence, he invited the priest to follow him. Thereupon at a

leisurely step, one behind the other, they began to thread the

interminable suite of waiting-rooms. Pierre, who was acquainted with the

ceremonial, of which he had often spoken with Narcisse, recognised the

different apartments as he passed through them, recalling their names and

purpose, and peopling them in imagination with the various officials of

the papal retinue who have the right to occupy them. These according to

their rank cannot go beyond certain doors, so that the persons who are to

have audience of the Pope are passed on from the servants to the Noble

Guards, from the Noble Guards to the honorary _Camerieri_, and from the

latter to the _Camerieri segreti_, until they at last reach the presence

of the Holy Father. At eight o'clock, however, the ante-rooms empty and

become both deserted and dim, only a few lamps being left alight upon the

pier tables standing here and there against the walls.

And first Pierre came to the ante-room of the _bussolanti_, mere ushers

clad in red velvet broidered with the papal arms, who conduct visitors to

the door of the ante-room of honour. At that late hour only one of them

was left there, seated on a bench in such a dark corner that his purple

tunic looked quite black. Then the Hall of the Gendarmes was crossed,

where according to the regulations the secretaries of cardinals and other

high personages await their masters' return; and this was now completely

empty, void both of the handsome blue uniforms with white shoulder belts

and the cassocks of fine black cloth which mingled in it during the

brilliant reception hours. Empty also was the following room, a smaller

one reserved to the Palatine Guards, who are recruited among the Roman

middle class and wear black tunics with gold epaulets and shakoes

surmounted by red plumes. Then Pierre and his guide turned into another

series of apartments, and again was the first one empty. This was the

Hall of the Arras, a superb waiting-room with lofty painted ceiling and

admirable Gobelins tapestry designed by Audran and representing the

miracles of Jesus. And empty also was the ante-chamber of the Noble

Guards which followed, with its wooden stools, its pier table on the

right-hand surmounted by a large crucifix standing between two lamps, and

its large door opening at the far end into another but smaller room, a

sort of alcove indeed, where there is an altar at which the Holy Father

says mass by himself whilst those privileged to be present remain

kneeling on the marble slabs of the outer apartment which is resplendent

with the dazzling uniforms of the Guards. And empty likewise was the

ensuing ante-room of honour, otherwise the grand throne-room, where the

Pope receives two or three hundred people at a time in public audience.

The throne, an arm-chair of elaborate pattern, gilded, and upholstered

with red velvet, stands under a velvet canopy of the same hue, in front

of the windows. Beside it is the cushion on which the Pope rests his foot

in order that it may be kissed. Then facing one another, right and left

of the room, there are two pier tables, on one of which is a clock and on

the other a crucifix between lofty candelabra with feet of gilded wood.

The wall hangings, of red silk damask with a Louis XIV palm pattern, are

topped by a pompous frieze, framing a ceiling decorated with allegorical

figures and attributes, and it is only just in front of the throne that a