第 95 页

could yet help her mother to reconquer universal sovereignty, but they

loved her even as the black swarms of locusts love the harvests which

they swoop upon and devour. Infinite sadness had returned to the young

man's heart as he dimly realised that in that sorely-stricken mansion, in

all that mourning and downfall, it was they, they again, who must have

been the artisans of grief and disaster.

As this thought came to him he turned round and perceived Don Vigilio

leaning against the credence in front of the large portrait of the

Cardinal. Holding his hands to his face as if he desired to annihilate

himself, the secretary was shivering in every limb as much with fear as

with fever. At a moment when no fresh visitors were arriving he had

succumbed to an attack of terrified despair.

"_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter with you?" asked Pierre stepping forward,

"are you ill, can I help you?"

But Don Vigilio, suffocating and still hiding his face, could only gasp

between his close-pressed hands "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!"

"What is it? What has he done to you?" asked the other astonished.

Then the secretary disclosed his face, and again yielded to his quivering

desire to confide in some one. "Eh? what he has done to me? Can't you

feel anything, can't you see anything then? Didn't you notice the manner

in which he took possession of Cardinal Sanguinetti so as to conduct him

to his Eminence? To impose that suspected, hateful rival on his Eminence

at such a moment as this, what insolent audacity! And a few minutes

previously did you notice with what wicked cunning he bowed out an old

lady, a very old family friend, who only desired to kiss his Eminence's

hand and show a little real affection which would have made his Eminence

so happy! Ah! I tell you that he's the master here, he opens or closes

the door as he pleases, and holds us all between his fingers like a pinch

of dust which one throws to the wind!"

Pierre became anxious, seeing how yellow and feverish Don Vigilio was:

"Come, come, my dear fellow," he said, "you are exaggerating!"

"Exaggerating? Do you know what happened last night, what I myself

unwillingly witnessed? No, you don't know it; well, I will tell you."

Thereupon he related that Donna Serafina, on returning home on the

previous day to face the terrible catastrophe awaiting her, had already

been overcome by the bad news which she had learnt when calling on the

Cardinal Secretary and various prelates of her acquaintance. She had then

acquired a certainty that her brother's position was becoming extremely

bad, for he had made so many fresh enemies among his colleagues of the

Sacred College, that his election to the pontifical throne, which a year

previously had seemed probable, now appeared an impossibility. Thus, all

at once, the dream of her life collapsed, the ambition which she had so

long nourished lay in dust at her feet. On despairingly seeking the why

and wherefore of this change, she had been told of all sorts of blunders

committed by the Cardinal, acts of rough sternness, unseasonable

manifestations of opinion, inconsiderate words or actions which had

sufficed to wound people, in fact such provoking demeanour that one might

have thought it adopted with the express intention of spoiling

everything. And the worst was that in each of the blunders she had

recognised errors of judgment which she herself had blamed, but which her

brother had obstinately insisted on perpetrating under the unacknowledged

influence of Abbe Paparelli, that humble and insignificant train-bearer,

in whom she detected a baneful and powerful adviser who destroyed her own

vigilant and devoted influence. And so, in spite of the mourning in which

the house was plunged, she did not wish to delay the punishment of the

traitor, particularly as his old friendship with that terrible Santobono,

and the story of that basket of figs which had passed from the hands of

the one to those of the other, chilled her blood with a suspicion which

she even recoiled from elucidating. However, at the first words she

spoke, directly she made a formal request that the traitor should be

immediately turned out of the house, she was confronted by invincible

resistance on her brother's part. He would not listen to her, but flew

into one of those hurricane-like passions which swept everything away,

reproaching her for laying blame on so modest, pious, and saintly a man,

and accusing her of playing into the hands of his enemies, who, after

killing Monsignor Gallo, were seeking to poison his sole remaining

affection for that poor, insignificant priest. He treated all the stories

he was told as abominable inventions, and swore that he would keep the

train-bearer in his service if only to show his disdain for calumny. And

she was thereupon obliged to hold her peace.

However, Don Vigilio's shuddering fit had again come back; he carried his

hands to his face stammering: "Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli!" And muttered

invectives followed: the train-bearer was an artful hypocrite who feigned

modesty and humility, a vile spy appointed to pry into everything, listen

to everything, and pervert everything that went on in the palace; he was

a loathsome, destructive insect, feeding on the most noble prey,

devouring the lion's mane, a Jesuit--the Jesuit who is at once lackey and

tyrant, in all his base horror as he accomplishes the work of vermin.

"Calm yourself, calm yourself," repeated Pierre, who whilst allowing for

foolish exaggeration on the secretary's part could not help shivering at

thought of all the threatening things which he himself could divine astir

in the gloom.

However, since Don Vigilio had so narrowly escaped eating those horrible

figs, his fright was such that nothing could calm it. Even when he was

alone at night, in bed, with his door locked and bolted, sudden terror

fell on him and made him hide his head under the sheet and vent stifled

cries as if he thought that men were coming through the wall to strangle

him. In a faint, breathless voice, as if just emerging from a struggle,

he now resumed: "I told you what would happen on the evening when we had

a talk together in your room. Although all the doors were securely shut,

I did wrong to speak of them to you, I did wrong to ease my heart by

telling you all that they were capable of. I was sure they would learn

it, and you see they did learn it, since they tried to kill me.... Why

it's even wrong of me to tell you this, for it will reach their ears and

they won't miss me the next time. Ah! it's all over, I'm as good as dead;

this house which I thought so safe will be my tomb."

Pierre began to feel deep compassion for this ailing man, whose feverish

brain was haunted by nightmares, and whose life was being finally wrecked

by the anguish of persecution mania. "But you must run away in that

case!" he said. "Don't stop here; come to France."

Don Vigilio looked at him, momentarily calmed by surprise. "Run away,

why? Go to France? Why, they are there! No matter where I might go, they

would be there. They are everywhere, I should always be surrounded by

them! No, no, I prefer to stay here and would rather die at once if his

Eminence can no longer defend me." With an expression of ardent entreaty

in which a last gleam of hope tried to assert itself, he raised his eyes

to the large painting in which the Cardinal stood forth resplendent in

his cassock of red moire; but his attack came back again and overwhelmed

him with increased intensity of fever. "Leave me, I beg you, leave me,"

he gasped. "Don't make me talk any more. Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli! If he

should come back and see us and hear me speak.... Oh! I'll never say

anything again. I'll tie up my tongue, I'll cut it off. Leave me, you are

killing me, I tell you, he'll be coming back and that will mean my death.

Go away, oh! for mercy's sake, go away!"

Thereupon Don Vigilio turned towards the wall as if to flatten his face

against it, and immure his lips in tomb-like silence; and Pierre resolved

to leave him to himself, fearing lest he should provoke a yet more

serious attack if he went on endeavouring to succour him.

On returning to the throne-room the young priest again found himself

amidst all the frightful mourning. Mass was following mass; without

cessation murmured prayers entreated the divine mercy to receive the two

dear departed souls with loving kindness. And amidst the dying perfume of

the fading roses, in front of the pale stars of the lighted candles,

Pierre thought of that supreme downfall of the Boccaneras. Dario was the

last of the name, and one could well understand that the Cardinal, whose

only sin was family pride, should have loved that one remaining scion by

whom alone the old stock might yet blossom afresh. And indeed, if he and

Donna Serafina had desired the divorce, and then the marriage of the

cousins, it had been less with the view of putting an end to scandal than

with the hope of seeing a new line of Boccaneras spring up. But the

lovers were dead, and the last remains of a long series of dazzling

princes of sword and of gown lay there on that bed, soon to rot in the

grave. It was all over; that old maid and that aged Cardinal could leave

no posterity. They remained face to face like two withered oaks, sole

remnants of a vanished forest, and their fall would soon leave the plain

quite clear. And how terrible the grief of surviving in impotence, what

anguish to have to tell oneself that one is the end of everything, that

with oneself all life, all hope for the morrow will depart! Amidst the

murmur of the prayers, the dying perfume of the roses, the pale gleams of

the two candies, Pierre realised what a downfall was that bereavement,

how heavy was the gravestone which fell for ever on an extinct house, a

vanished world.

He well understood that as one of the familiars of the mansion he must

pay his respects to Donna Serafina and the Cardinal, and he at once

sought admission to the neighbouring room where the Princess was

receiving her friends. He found her robed in black, very slim and very

erect in her arm-chair, whence she rose with slow dignity to respond to

the bow of each person that entered. She listened to the condolences but

answered never a word, overcoming her physical pain by rigidity of

bearing. Pierre, who had learnt to know her, could divine, however, by

the hollowness of her cheeks, the emptiness of her eyes, and the bitter

twinge of her mouth, how frightful was the collapse within her. Not only

was her race ended, but her brother would never be pope, never secure the

elevation which she had so long fancied she was winning for him by dint

of devotion, dint of feminine renunciation, giving brain and heart, care

and money, foregoing even wifehood and motherhood, spoiling her whole

life, in order to realise that dream. And amidst all the ruin of hope, it

was perhaps the nonfulfilment of that ambition which most made her heart

bleed. She rose for the young priest, her guest, as she rose for the

other persons who presented themselves; but she contrived to introduce

shades of meaning into the manner in which she quitted her chair, and

Pierre fully realised that he had remained in her eyes a mere petty

French priest, an insignificant domestic of the Divinity who had not

known how to acquire even the title of prelate. When she had again seated

herself after acknowledging his compliment with a slight inclination of

the head, he remained for a moment standing, out of politeness. Not a

word, not a sound disturbed the mournful quiescence of the room, for

although there were four or five lady visitors seated there they remained

motionless and silent as with grief. Pierre was most struck, however, by

the sight of Cardinal Sarno, who was lying back in an arm-chair with his

eyes closed. The poor puny lopsided old man had lingered there

forgetfully after expressing his condolences, and, overcome by the heavy

silence and close atmosphere, had just fallen asleep. And everybody

respected his slumber. Was he dreaming as he dozed of that map of

Christendom which he carried behind his low obtuse-looking brow? Was he

continuing in dreamland his terrible work of conquest, that task of

subjecting and governing the earth which he directed from his dark room

at the Propaganda? The ladies glanced at him affectionately and

deferentially; he was gently scolded at times for over-working himself,

the sleepiness which nowadays frequently overtook him in all sorts of

places being attributed to excess of genius and zeal. And of this

all-powerful Eminence Pierre was destined to carry off only this last

impression: an exhausted old man, resting amidst the emotion of a

mourning-gathering, sleeping there like a candid child, without any one

knowing whether this were due to the approach of senile imbecility, or to

the fatigues of a night spent in organising the reign of God over some

distant continent.

Two ladies went off and three more arrived. Donna Serafina rose, bowed,

and then reseated herself, reverting to her rigid attitude, her bust

erect, her face stern and full of despair. Cardinal Sarno was still

asleep. Then Pierre felt as if he would stifle, a kind of vertigo came on

him, and his heart beat violently. So he bowed and withdrew: and on

passing through the dining-room on his way to the little study where

Cardinal Boccanera received his visitors, he found himself in the

presence of Paparelli who was jealously guarding the door. When the

train-bearer had sniffed at the young man, he seemed to realise that he

could not refuse him admittance. Moreover, as this intruder was going

away the very next day, defeated and covered with shame, there was

nothing to be feared from him.

"You wish to see his Eminence?" said Paparelli. "Good, good. By and by,

wait." And opining that Pierre was too near the door, he pushed him back

to the other end of the room, for fear no doubt lest he should overhear