第 85 页

Smyrna carpet covers the magnificent marble pavement. On the days of

private audience, when the Pope remains in the little throne-room or at

times in his bed-chamber, the grand throne-room becomes simply the

ante-room of honour, where high dignitaries of the Church, ambassadors,

and great civilian personages, wait their turns. Two _Camerieri_, one in

violet coat, the other of the Cape and the Sword, here do duty, receiving

from the _bussolanti_ the persons who are to be honoured with audiences

and conducting them to the door of the next room, the secret or private

ante-chamber, where they hand them over to the _Camerieri segreti_.

Signor Squadra who, walking on with slow and silent steps, had not yet

once turned round, paused for a moment on reaching the door of the

_anticamera segreta_ so as to give Pierre time to breathe and recover

himself somewhat before crossing the threshold of the sanctuary. The

_Camerieri segreti_ alone had the right to occupy that last ante-chamber,

and none but the cardinals might wait there till the Pope should

condescend to receive them. And so when Signor Squadra made up his mind

to admit Pierre, the latter could not restrain a slight nervous shiver as

if he were passing into some redoubtable mysterious sphere beyond the

limits of the lower world. In the daytime a Noble Guard stood on sentry

duty before the door, but the latter was now free of access, and the room

within proved as empty as all the others. It was rather narrow, almost

like a passage, with two windows overlooking the new district of the

castle fields and a third one facing the Piazza of St. Peter's. Near the

last was a door conducting to the little throne-room, and between this

door and the window stood a small table at which a secretary, now absent,

usually sat. And here again, as in all the other rooms, one found a

gilded pier table surmounted by a crucifix flanked by a pair of lamps. In

a corner too there was a large clock, loudly ticking in its ebony case

incrusted with brass-work. Still there was nothing to awaken curiosity

under the panelled and gilded ceiling unless it were the wall-hangings of

red damask, on which yellow scutcheons displaying the Keys and the Tiara

alternated with armorial lions, each with a paw resting on a globe.

Signor Squadra, however, now noticed that Pierre still carried his hat in

his hand, whereas according to etiquette he should have left it in the

hall of the _bussolanti_, only cardinals being privileged to carry their

hats with them into the Pope's presence. Accordingly he discreetly took

the young priest's from him, and deposited it on the pier table to

indicate that it must at least remain there. Then, without a word, by a

simple bow he gave Pierre to understand that he was about to announce him

to his Holiness, and that he must be good enough to wait for a few

minutes in that room.

On being left to himself Pierre drew a long breath. He was stifling; his

heart was beating as though it would burst. Nevertheless his mind

remained clear, and in spite of the semi-obscurity he had been able to

form some idea of the famous and magnificent apartments of the Pope, a

suite of splendid _salons_ with tapestried or silken walls, gilded or

painted friezes, and frescoed ceilings. By way of furniture, however,

there were only pier table, stools,* and thrones. And the lamps and the

clocks, and the crucifixes, even the thrones, were all presents brought

from the four quarters of the world in the great fervent days of jubilee.

There was no sign of comfort, everything was pompous, stiff, cold, and

inconvenient. All olden Italy was there, with its perpetual display and

lack of intimate, cosy life. It had been necessary to lay a few carpets

over the superb marble slabs which froze one's feet; and some

_caloriferes_ had even lately been installed, but it was not thought

prudent to light them lest the variations of temperature should give the

Pope a cold. However, that which more particularly struck Pierre now that

he stood there waiting was the extraordinary silence which prevailed all

around, silence so deep that it seemed as if all the dark quiescence of

that huge, somniferous Vatican were concentrated in that one suite of

lifeless, sumptuous rooms, which the motionless flamelets of the lamps as

dimly illumined.

* M. Zola seems to have fallen into error here. Many of the seats,

which are of peculiar antique design, do, in the lower part,

resemble stools, but they have backs, whereas a stool proper has

none. Briefly, these seats, which are entirely of wood, are not

unlike certain old-fashioned hall chairs.--Trans.

All at once the ebony clock struck nine and the young man felt

astonished. What! had only ten minutes elapsed since he had crossed the

threshold of the bronze doors below? He felt as if he had been walking on

for days and days. Then, desiring to overcome the nervous feeling which

oppressed him--for he ever feared lest his enforced calmness should

collapse amidst a flood of tears--he began to walk up and down, passing

in front of the clock, glancing at the crucifix on the pier table, and

the globe of the lamp on which had remained the mark of a servant's

greasy fingers. And the light was so faint and yellow that he felt

inclined to turn the lamp up, but did not dare. Then he found himself

with his brow resting against one of the panes of the window facing the

Piazza of St. Peter's, and for a moment he was thunderstruck, for between

the imperfectly closed shutters he could see all Rome, as he had seen it

one day from the _loggie_ of Raffaelle, and as he had pictured Leo XIII

contemplating it from the window of his bed-room. However, it was now

Rome by night, Rome spreading out into the depths of the gloom, as

limitless as the starry sky. And in that sea of black waves one could

only with certainty identify the larger thoroughfares which the white

brightness of electric lights turned, as it were, into Milky Ways. All

the rest showed but a swarming of little yellow sparks, the crumbs, as it

were, of a half-extinguished heaven swept down upon the earth. Occasional

constellations of bright stars, tracing mysterious figures, vainly

endeavoured to show forth distinctly, but they were submerged, blotted

out by the general chaos which suggested the dust of some old planet that

had crumbled there, losing its splendour and reduced to mere

phosphorescent sand. And how immense was the blackness thus sprinkled

with light, how huge the mass of obscurity and mystery into which the

Eternal City with its seven and twenty centuries, its ruins, its

monuments, its people, its history seemed to have been merged. You could

no longer tell where it began or where it ended, whether it spread to the

farthest recesses of the gloom, or whether it were so reduced that the

sun on rising would illumine but a little pile of ashes.

However, in spite of all Pierre's efforts, his nervous anguish increased

each moment, even in presence of that ocean of darkness which displayed

such sovereign quiescence. He drew away from the window and quivered from

head to foot on hearing a faint footfall and thinking it was that of

Signor Squadra approaching to fetch him. The sound came from an adjacent

apartment, the little throne-room, whose door, he now perceived, had

remained ajar. And at last, as he heard nothing further, he yielded to

his feverish impatience and peeped into this room which he found to be

fairly spacious, again hung with red damask, and containing a gilded

arm-chair, covered with red velvet under a canopy of the same material.

And again there was the inevitable pier table, with a tall ivory

crucifix, a clock, a pair of lamps, a pair of candelabra, a pair of large

vases on pedestals, and two smaller ones of Sevres manufacture decorated

with the Holy Father's portrait. At the same time, however, the room

displayed rather more comfort, for a Smyrna carpet covered the whole of

the marble floor, while a few arm-chairs stood against the walls, and an

imitation chimney-piece, draped with damask, served as counterpart to the

pier table. As a rule the Pope, whose bed-chamber communicated with this

little throne-room, received in the latter such persons as he desired to

honour. And Pierre's shiver became more pronounced at the idea that in

all likelihood he would merely have the throne-room to cross and that Leo

XIII was yonder behind its farther door. Why was he kept waiting, he

wondered? He had been told of mysterious audiences granted at a similar

hour to personages who had been received in similar silent fashion, great

personages whose names were only mentioned in the lowest whispers. With

regard to himself no doubt, it was because he was considered compromising

that there was a desire to receive him in this manner unknown to the

personages of the Court, and so as to speak with him at ease. Then, all

at once, he understood the cause of the noise he had recently heard, for

beside the lamp on the pier table of the little throne-room he saw a kind

of butler's tray containing some soiled plates, knives, forks, and

spoons, with a bottle and a glass, which had evidently just been removed

from a supper table. And he realised that Signor Squadra, having seen

these things in the Pope's room, had brought them there, and had then

gone in again, perhaps to tidy up. He knew also of the Pope's frugality,

how he took his meals all alone at a little round table, everything being

brought to him in that tray, a plate of meat, a plate of vegetables, a

little Bordeaux claret as prescribed by his doctor, and a large allowance

of beef broth of which he was very fond. In the same way as others might

offer a cup of tea, he was wont to offer cups of broth to the old

cardinals his friends and favourites, quite an invigorating little treat

which these old bachelors much enjoyed. And, O ye orgies of Alexander VI,

ye banquets and _galas_ of Julius II and Leo X, only eight _lire_ a

day--six shillings and fourpence--were allowed to defray the cost of Leo

XIII's table! However, just as that recollection occurred to Pierre, he

again heard a slight noise, this time in his Holiness's bed-chamber, and

thereupon, terrified by his indiscretion, he hastened to withdraw from

the entrance of the throne-room which, lifeless and quiescent though it

was, seemed in his agitation to flare as with sudden fire.

Then, quivering too violently to be able to remain still, he began to

walk up and down the ante-chamber. He remembered that Narcisse had spoken

to him of that Signor Squadra, his Holiness's cherished valet, whose

importance and influence were so great. He alone, on reception days, was

able to prevail on the Pope to don a clean cassock if the one he was

wearing happened to be soiled by snuff. And though his Holiness

stubbornly shut himself up alone in his bed-room every night from a

spirit of independence, which some called the anxiety of a miser

determined to sleep alone with his treasure, Signor Squadra at all events

occupied an adjoining chamber, and was ever on the watch, ready to

respond to the faintest call. Again, it was he who respectfully

intervened whenever his Holiness sat up too late or worked too long. But

on this point it was difficult to induce the Pope to listen to reason.

During his hours of insomnia he would often rise and send Squadra to

fetch a secretary in order that he might detail some memoranda or sketch

out an encyclical letter. When the drafting of one of the latter

impassioned him he would have spent days and nights over it, just as

formerly, when claiming proficiency in Latin verse, he had often let the

dawn surprise him whilst he was polishing a line. But, indeed, he slept

very little, his brain ever being at work, ever scheming out the

realisation of some former ideas. His memory alone seemed to have

slightly weakened during recent times.

Pierre, as he slowly paced to and fro, gradually became absorbed in his

thoughts of that lofty and sovereign personality. From the petty details

of the Pope's daily existence, he passed to his intellectual life, to the

_role_ which he was certainly bent on playing as a great pontiff. And

Pierre asked himself which of his two hundred and fifty-seven

predecessors, the long line of saints and criminals, men of mediocrity

and men of genius, he most desired to resemble. Was it one of the first

humble popes, those who followed on during the first three centuries,

mere heads of burial guilds, fraternal pastors of the Christian

community? Was it Pope Damasus, the first great builder, the man of

letters who took delight in intellectual matters, the ardent believer who

is said to have opened the Catacombs to the piety of the faithful? Was it

Leo III, who by crowning Charlemagne boldly consummated the rupture with

the schismatic East and conveyed the Empire to the West by the

all-powerful will of God and His Church, which thenceforth disposed of

the crowns of monarchs? Was it the terrible Gregory VII, the purifier of

the temple, the sovereign of kings; was it Innocent III or Boniface VIII,

those masters of souls, nations, and thrones, who, armed with the fierce

weapon of excommunication, reigned with such despotism over the terrified

middle ages that Catholicism was never nearer the attainment of its dream

of universal dominion? Was it Urban II or Gregory IX or another of those

popes in whom flared the red Crusading passion which urged the nations on

to the conquest of the unknown and the divine? Was it Alexander III, who

defended the Holy See against the Empire, and at last conquered and set

his foot on the neck of Frederick Barbarossa? Was it, long after the

sorrows of Avignon, Julius II, who wore the cuirass and once more

strengthened the political power of the papacy? Was it Leo X, the

pompous, glorious patron of the Renascence, of a whole great century of

art, whose mind, however, was possessed of so little penetration and

foresight that he looked on Luther as a mere rebellious monk? Was it Pius

V, who personified dark and avenging reaction, the fire of the stakes

that punished the heretic world? Was it some other of the popes who