The Three Cities Trilogy: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

XI

ALTHOUGH Pierre knew that he would be unable to see Cardinal Sanguinetti
before eleven o'clock, he nevertheless availed himself of an early train,
so that it was barely nine when he alighted at the little station of
Frascati. He had already visited the place during his enforced idleness,
when he had made the classical excursion to the Roman castles which
extend from Frascati to Rocco di Papa, and from Rocco di Papa to Monte
Cavo, and he was now delighted with the prospect of strolling for a
couple of hours along those first slopes of the Alban hills, where,
amidst rushes, olives, and vines, Frascati, like a promontory, overlooks
the immense ruddy sea of the Campagna even as far as Rome, which, six
full leagues away, wears the whitish aspect of a marble isle.

Ah! that charming Frascati, on its greeny knoll at the foot of the wooded
Tusculan heights, with its famous terrace whence one enjoys the finest
view in the world, its old patrician villas with proud and elegant
Renascence facades and magnificent parks, which, planted with cypress,
pine, and ilex, are for ever green! There was a sweetness, a delight, a
fascination about the spot, of which Pierre would have never wearied. And
for more than an hour he had wandered blissfully along roads edged with
ancient, knotty olive-trees, along dingle ways shaded by the spreading
foliage of neighbouring estates, and along perfumed paths, at each turn
of which the Campagna was seen stretching far away, when all at once he
was accosted by a person whom he was both surprised and annoyed to meet.
He had strolled down to some low ground near the railway station, some
old vineyards where a number of new houses had been built of recent
years, and suddenly saw a stylish pair-horse victoria, coming from the
direction of Rome, draw up close by, whilst its occupant called to him:
"What! Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, are you taking a walk here, at this early
hour?"

Thereupon Pierre recognised Count Luigi Prada, who alighted, shook hands
with him and began to walk beside him, whilst the empty carriage went on
in advance. And forthwith the Count explained his tastes: "I seldom take
the train," he said, "I drive over. It gives my horses an outing. I have
interests over here as you may know, a big building enterprise which is
unfortunately not progressing very well. And so, although the season is
advanced, I'm obliged to come rather more frequently than I care to do."

As Prada suggested, Pierre was acquainted with the story. The Boccaneras
had been obliged to sell a sumptuous villa which a cardinal of their
family had built at Frascati in accordance with the plans of Giacomo
della Porta, during the latter part of the sixteenth century: a regal
summer-residence it had been, finely wooded, with groves and basins and
cascades, and in particular a famous terrace projecting like a cape above
the Roman Campagna whose expanse stretches from the Sabine mountains to
the Mediterranean sands. Through the division of the property, Benedetta
had inherited from her mother some very extensive vineyards below
Frascati, and these she had brought as dowry to Prada at the very moment
when the building mania was extending from Rome into the provinces. And
thereupon Prada had conceived the idea of erecting on the spot a number
of middle-class villas like those which litter the suburbs of Paris. Few
purchasers, however, had come forward, the financial crash had
supervened, and he was now with difficulty liquidating this unlucky
business, having indemnified his wife at the time of their separation.

"And then," he continued, addressing Pierre, "one can come and go as one
likes with a carriage, whereas, on taking the train, one is at the mercy
of the time table. This morning, for instance, I have appointments with
contractors, experts, and lawyers, and I have no notion how long they
will keep me. It's a wonderful country, isn't it? And we are quite right
to be proud of it in Rome. Although I may have some worries just now, I
can never set foot here without my heart beating with delight."

A circumstance which he did not mention, was that his /amica/, Lisbeth
Kauffmann, had spent the summer in one of the newly erected villas, where
she had installed her studio and had been visited by all the foreign
colony, which tolerated her irregular position on account of her gay
spirits and artistic talent. Indeed, people had even ended by accepting
the outcome of her connection with Prada, and a fortnight previously she
had returned to Rome, and there given birth to a son--an event which had
again revived all the scandalous tittle-tattle respecting Benedetta's
divorce suit. And Prada's attachment to Frascati doubtless sprang from
the recollection of the happy hours he had spent there, and the joyful
pride with which the birth of the boy inspired him.

Pierre, for his part, felt ill at ease in the young Count's presence, for
he had an instinctive hatred of money-mongers and men of prey.
Nevertheless, he desired to respond to his amiability, and so inquired
after his father, old Orlando, the hero of the Liberation.

"Oh!" replied Prada, "excepting for his legs he's in wonderfully good
health. He'll live a hundred years. Poor father! I should so much have
liked to install him in one of these little houses, last summer. But I
could not get him to consent; he's determined not to leave Rome; he's
afraid, perhaps, that it might be taken away from him during his
absence." Then the young Count burst into a laugh, quite merry at the
thought of jeering at the heroic but no longer fashionable age of
independence. And afterwards he said, "My father was speaking of you
again only yesterday, Monsieur l'Abbe. He is astonished that he has not
seen you lately."

This distressed Pierre, for he had begun to regard Orlando with
respectful affection. Since his first visit, he had twice called on the
old hero, but the latter had refused to broach the subject of Rome so
long as his young friend should not have seen, felt, and understood
everything. There would be time for a talk later on, said he, when they
were both in a position to formulate their conclusions.

"Pray tell Count Orlando," responded Pierre, "that I have not forgotten
him, and that, if I have deferred a fresh visit, it is because I desire
to satisfy him. However, I certainly will not leave Rome without going to
tell him how deeply his kind greeting has touched me."

Whilst talking, the two men slowly followed the ascending road past the
newly erected villas, several of which were not yet finished. And when
Prada learned that the priest had come to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti,
he again laughed, with the laugh of a good-natured wolf, showing his
white fangs. "True," he exclaimed, "the Cardinal has been here since the
Pope has been laid up. Ah! you'll find him in a pretty fever."

"Why?"

"Why, because there's bad news about the Holy Father this morning. When I
left Rome it was rumoured that he had spent a fearful night."

So speaking, Prada halted at a bend of the road, not far from an antique
chapel, a little church of solitary, mournful grace of aspect, on the
verge of an olive grove. Beside it stood a ruinous building, the old
parsonage, no doubt, whence there suddenly emerged a tall, knotty priest
with coarse and earthy face, who, after roughly locking the door, went
off in the direction of the town.

"Ah!" resumed the Count in a tone of raillery, "that fellow's heart also
must be beating violently; he's surely gone to your Cardinal in search of
news."

Pierre had looked at the priest. "I know him," he replied; "I saw him, I
remember, on the day after my arrival at Cardinal Boccanera's. He brought
the Cardinal a basket of figs and asked him for a certificate in favour
of his young brother, who had been sent to prison for some deed of
violence--a knife thrust if I recollect rightly. However, the Cardinal
absolutely refused him the certificate."

"It's the same man," said Prada, "you may depend on it. He was often at
the Villa Boccanera formerly; for his young brother was gardener there.
But he's now the client, the creature of Cardinal Sanguinetti. Santobono
his name is, and he's a curious character, such as you wouldn't find in
France, I fancy. He lives all alone in that falling hovel, and officiates
at that old chapel of St. Mary in the Fields, where people don't go to
hear mass three times in a year. Yes, it's a perfect sinecure, which with
its stipend of a thousand francs enables him to live there like a peasant
philosopher, cultivating the somewhat extensive garden whose big walls
you see yonder."

The close to which he called attention stretched down the slope behind
the parsonage, without an aperture, like some savage place of refuge into
which not even the eye could penetrate. And all that could be seen above
the left-hand wall was a superb, gigantic fig-tree, whose big leaves
showed blackly against the clear sky. Prada had moved on again, and
continued to speak of Santobono, who evidently interested him. Fancy, a
patriot priest, a Garibaldian! Born at Nemi, in that yet savage nook
among the Alban hills, he belonged to the people and was still near to
the soil. However, he had studied, and knew sufficient history to realise
the past greatness of Rome, and dream of the re-establishment of Roman
dominion as represented by young Italy. And he had come to believe, with
passionate fervour, that only a great pope could realise his dream by
seizing upon power, and then conquering all the other nations. And what
could be easier, since the Pope commanded millions of Catholics? Did not
half Europe belong to him? France, Spain, and Austria would give way as
soon as they should see him powerful, dictating laws to the world.
Germany and Great Britain, indeed all the Protestant countries, would
also inevitably be conquered, for the papacy was the only dike that could
be opposed to error, which must some day fatally succumb in its efforts
against such a barrier. Politically, however, Santobono had declared
himself for Germany, for he considered that France needed to be crushed
before she would throw herself into the arms of the Holy Father. And thus
contradictions and fancies clashed in his foggy brain, whose burning
ideas swiftly turned to violence under the influence of primitive, racial
fierceness. Briefly, the priest was a barbarian upholder of the Gospel, a
friend of the humble and woeful, a sectarian of that school which is
capable alike of great virtues and great crimes.

"Yes," concluded Prada, "he is now devoted to Cardinal Sanguinetti
because he believes that the latter will prove the great pope of
to-morrow, who is to make Rome the one capital of the nations. At the
same time he doubtless harbours a lower personal ambition, that of
attaining to a canonry or of gaining assistance in the little worries of
life, as when he wished to extricate his brother from trouble. Here, you
know, people stake their luck on a cardinal just as they nurse a 'trey'
in the lottery, and if their cardinal proves the winning number and
becomes pope they gain a fortune. And that's why you now see Santobono
striding along yonder, all anxiety to know if Leo XIII will die and
Sanguinetti don the tiara."

"Do you think the Pope so very ill, then?" asked Pierre, both anxious and
interested.

The Count smiled and raised both arms: "Ah!" said he, "can one ever tell?
They all get ill when their interest lies that way. However, I believe
that the Pope is this time really indisposed; a complaint of the bowels,
it is said; and at his age, you know, the slightest indisposition may
prove fatal."

The two men took a few steps in silence, then the priest again asked a
question: "Would Cardinal Sanguinetti have a great chance if the Holy See
were vacant?"

"A great chance! Ah! that's another of those things which one never
knows. The truth is people class Sanguinetti among the acceptable
candidates, and if personal desire sufficed he would certainly be the
next pope, for ambition consumes him to the marrow, and he displays
extraordinary passion and determination in his efforts to succeed. But
therein lies his very weakness; he is using himself up, and he knows it.
And so he must be resolved to every step during the last days of battle.
You may be quite sure that if he has shut himself up here at this
critical time, it is in order that he may the better direct his
operations from a distance, whilst at the same time feigning a retreat, a
disinterestedness which is bound to have a good effect."

Then Prada began to expatiate on Sanguinetti with no little complacency,
for he liked the man's spirit of intrigue, his keen, conquering appetite,
his excessive, and even somewhat blundering activity. He had become
acquainted with him on his return from the nunciature at Vienna, when he
had already resolved to win the tiara. That ambition explained
everything, his quarrels and reconciliations with the reigning pope, his
affection for Germany, followed by a sudden evolution in the direction of
France, his varying attitude with regard to Italy, at first a desire for
agreement, and then absolute rejection of all compromises, a refusal to
grant any concession, so long as Rome should not be evacuated. This,
indeed, seemed to be Sanguinetti's definite position; he made a show of
disliking the wavering sway of Leo XIII, and of retaining a fervent
admiration for Pius IX, the great, heroic pope of the days of resistance,
whose goodness of heart had proved no impediment to unshakable firmness.
And all this was equivalent to a promise that he, Sanguinetti, would
again make kindliness exempt from weakness, the rule of the Church, and
would steer clear of the dangerous compounding of politics. At bottom,
however, politics were his only dream, and he had even formulated a
complete programme of intentional vagueness, which his clients and
creatures spread abroad with an air of rapturous mystery. However, since
a previous indisposition of the Pope's, during the spring, he had been
living in mortal disquietude, for it had then been rumoured that the
Jesuits would resign themselves to support Cardinal Pio Boccanera,
although the latter scarcely favoured them. He was rough and stern, no
doubt, and his extreme bigotry might be a source of danger in this
tolerant age; but, on the other hand, was he not a patrician, and would
not his election imply that the papacy would never cease to claim the
temporal power? From that moment Boccanera had been the one man whom
Sanguinetti feared, for he beheld himself despoiled of his prize, and
spent his time in devising plans to rid himself of such a powerful rival,
repeating abominable stories of Cardinal Pio's alleged complaisance with
regard to Benedetta and Dario, and incessantly representing him as
Antichrist, the man of sin, whose reign would consummate the ruin of the
papacy. Finally, to regain the support of the Jesuits, Sanguinetti's last
idea was to repeat through his familiars that for his part he would not
merely maintain the principle of the temporal power intact, but would
even undertake to regain that power. And he had a full plan on the
subject, which folks confided to one another in whispers, a plan which,
in spite of its apparent concessions, would lead to the overwhelming
victory of the Church. It was to raise the prohibition which prevented
Catholics from voting or becoming candidates at the Italian elections; to
send a hundred, then two hundred, and then three hundred deputies to the
Chamber, and in that wise to overthrow the House of Savoy, and establish
a Federation of the Italian provinces, whereof the Holy Father, once more
placed in possession of Rome, would become the august and sovereign
President.

As Prada finished he again laughed, showing his white teeth--teeth which
would never readily relinquish the prey they held. "So you see," he
added, "we need to defend ourselves, since it's a question of turning us
out. Fortunately, there are some little obstacles in the way of that.
Nevertheless, such dreams naturally have great influence on excited
minds, such as that of Santobono, for instance. He's a man whom one word
from Sanguinetti would lead far indeed. Ah! he has good legs. Look at him
up yonder, he has already reached the Cardinal's little palace--that
white villa with the sculptured balconies."

Pierre raised his eyes and perceived the episcopal residence, which was
one of the first houses of Frascati. Of modern construction and
Renascence style, it overlooked the immensity of the Roman Campagna.

It was now eleven o'clock, and as the young priest, before going up to
pay his own visit, bade the Count good-bye, the latter for a moment kept
hold of his hand. "Do you know," said he, "it would be very kind of you
to lunch with me--will you? Come and join me at that restaurant yonder
with the pink front as soon as you are at liberty. I shall have settled
my own business in an hour's time, and I shall be delighted to have your
company at table."

Pierre began by declining, but he could offer no possible excuse, and at
last surrendered, won over, despite himself, by Prada's real charm of
manner. When they had parted, the young priest only had to climb a street
in order to reach the Cardinal's door. With his natural expansiveness and
craving for popularity, Sanguinetti was easy of access, and at Frascati
in particular his doors were flung open even to the most humble cassocks.
So Pierre was at once ushered in, a circumstance which somewhat surprised
him, for he remembered the bad humour of the servant whom he had seen on
calling at the Cardinal's residence in Rome, when he had been advised to
forego the journey, as his Eminence did not like to be disturbed when he
was ill. However, nothing spoke of illness in that pleasant villa,
flooded with sunshine. True, the waiting-room, where he was momentarily
left alone, displayed neither luxury nor comfort; but it was brightened
by the finest light in the world, and overlooked that extraordinary
Campagna, so flat, so bare, and so unique in its beauty, for in front of
it one ever dreams and sees the past arise. And so, whilst waiting,
Pierre stationed himself at an open window, conducting on to a balcony,
and his eyes roamed over the endless sea of herbage to the far-away
whiteness of Rome, above which rose the dome of St. Peter's, at that
distance a mere sparkling speck, barely as large as the nail of one's
little finger.

However, the young man had scarcely taken up this position when he was
surprised to hear some people talking, their words reaching him with
great distinctness. And on leaning forward he realised that his Eminence
in person was standing on another balcony close by, and conversing with a
priest, only a portion of whose cassock could be seen. Still, this
sufficed for Pierre to recognise Santobono. His first impulse, dictated
by natural discretion, was to withdraw from the window, but the words he
next heard riveted him to the spot.

"We shall know in a moment," his Eminence was saying in his full voice.
"I sent Eufemio to Rome, for he is the only person in whom I've any
confidence. And see, there is the train bringing him back."

A train, still as small as a plaything, could in fact be seen approaching
over the vast plain, and doubtless it was to watch for its arrival that
Sanguinetti had stationed himself on the balcony. And there he lingered,
with his eyes fixed on distant Rome. Then Santobono, in a passionate
voice, spoke some words which Pierre imperfectly understood, but the
Cardinal with clear articulation rejoined, "Yes, yes, my dear fellow, a
catastrophe would be a great misfortune. Ah! may his Holiness long be
preserved to us." Then he paused, and as he was no hypocrite, gave full
expression to the thoughts which were in his mind: "At least, I hope that
he will be preserved just now, for the times are bad, and I am in
frightful anguish. The partisans of Antichrist have lately gained much
ground."

A cry escaped Santobono: "Oh! your Eminence will act and triumph."

"I, my dear fellow? What would you have me do? I am simply at the
disposal of my friends, those who are willing to believe in me, with the
sole object of ensuring the victory of the Holy See. It is they who ought
to act, it is they--each according to the measure of his means--who ought
to bar the road to the wicked in order that the righteous may succeed.
Ah! if Antichrist should reign--"

The recurrence of this word Antichrist greatly disturbed Pierre; but he
suddenly remembered what the Count had told him: Antichrist was Cardinal
Boccanera.

"Think of that, my dear fellow," continued Sanguinetti. "Picture
Antichrist at the Vatican, consummating the ruin of religion by his
implacable pride, his iron will, his gloomy passion for nihility; for
there can be no doubt of it, he is the Beast of Death announced by the
prophecies, the Beast who will expose one and all to the danger of being
swallowed up with him in his furious rush into abysmal darkness. I know
him; he only dreams of obstinacy and destruction, he will seize the
pillars of the temple and shake them in order that he may sink beneath
the ruins, he and the whole Catholic world! In less than six months he
will be driven from Rome, at strife with all the nations, execrated by
Italy, and roaming the world like the phantom of the last pope!"

It was with a low growl, suggestive of a stifled oath, that Santobono
responded to this frightful prediction. But the train had now reached the
station, and among the few passengers who had alighted, Pierre could
distinguish a little Abbe, who was walking so fast that his cassock
flapped against his hips. It was Abbe Eufemio, the Cardinal's secretary,
and when he had perceived his Eminence on the balcony he lost all
self-respect, and broke into a run, in order that he might the sooner
ascend the sloping street. "Ah! here's Eufemio," exclaimed the Cardinal,
quivering with anxiety. "We shall know now, we shall know now."

The secretary had plunged into the doorway below, and he climbed the
stairs with such rapidity that almost immediately afterwards Pierre saw
him rush breathlessly across the waiting-room, and vanish into the
Cardinal's sanctum. Sanguinetti had quitted the balcony to meet his
messenger, but soon afterwards he returned to it asking questions,
venting exclamations, raising, in fact, quite a tumult over the news
which he had received. "And so it's really true, the night was a bad one.
His Holiness scarcely slept! Colic, you were told? But nothing could be
worse at his age; it might carry him off in a couple of hours. And the
doctors, what do they say?"

The answer did not reach Pierre, but he understood its purport as the
Cardinal in his naturally loud voice resumed: "Oh! the doctors never
know. Besides, when they refuse to speak death is never far off. /Dio/!
what a misfortune if the catastrophe cannot be deferred for a few days!"

Then he became silent, and Pierre realised that his eyes were once more
travelling towards Rome, gazing with ambitious anguish at the dome of St.
Peter's, that little, sparkling speck above the vast, ruddy plain. What a
commotion, what agitation if the Pope were dead! And he wished that it
had merely been necessary for him to stretch forth his arm in order to
take and hold the Eternal City, the Holy City, which, yonder on the
horizon, occupied no more space than a heap of gravel cast there by a
child's spade. And he was already dreaming of the coming Conclave, when
the canopy of each other cardinal would fall, and his own, motionless and
sovereign, would crown him with purple.

"But you are right, my friend!" he suddenly exclaimed, addressing
Santobono, "one must act, the salvation of the Church is at stake. And,
besides, it is impossible that Heaven should not be with us, since our
sole desire is its triumph. If necessary, at the supreme moment, Heaven
will know how to crush Antichrist."

Then, for the first time, Pierre distinctly heard the voice of Santobono,
who, gruffly, with a sort of savage decision, responded: "Oh! if Heaven
is tardy it shall be helped."

That was all; the young man heard nothing further save a confused murmur
of voices. The speakers quitted the balcony, and his spell of waiting
began afresh in the sunlit /salon/ so peaceful and delightful in its
brightness. But all at once the door of his Eminence's private room was
thrown wide open and a servant ushered him in; and he was surprised to
find the Cardinal alone, for he had not witnessed the departure of the
two priests, who had gone off by another door. The Cardinal, with his
highly coloured face, big nose, thick lips, square-set, vigorous figure,
which still looked young despite his sixty years, was standing near a
window in the bright golden light. He had put on the paternal smile with
which he greeted even the humblest from motives of good policy, and as
soon as Pierre had knelt and kissed his ring, he motioned him to a chair.
"Sit down, dear son, sit down. You have come of course about that
unfortunate affair of your book. I am very pleased indeed to be able to
speak with you about it."

He himself then took a chair in front of that window overlooking Rome
whence he seemed unable to drag himself. And the young priest, whilst
apologising for coming to disturb his rest, perceived that he scarcely
listened, for his eyes again sought the prey which he so ardently
coveted. Yet the semblance of good-natured attention was perfect, and
Pierre marvelled at the force of will which this man must possess to
appear so calm, so interested in the affairs of others, when such a
tempest was raging in him.

"Your Eminence will, I hope, kindly forgive me," continued the young
priest.

"But you have done right to come, since I am kept here by my failing
health," said the Cardinal. "Besides, I am somewhat better, and it is
only natural that you should wish to give me some explanations and defend
your work and enlighten my judgment. In fact, I was astonished at not yet
having seen you, for I know that your faith in your cause is great and
that you spare no steps to convert your judges. So speak, my dear son, I
am listening and shall be pleased indeed if I can absolve you."

Pierre was caught by these kind words, and a hope returned to him, that
of winning the support of the all-powerful Prefect of the Index. He
already regarded this ex-nuncio--who at Brussels and Vienna had acquired
the worldly art of sending people away satisfied with indefinite promises
though he meant to grant them nothing--as a man of rare intelligence and
exquisite cordiality. And so once more he regained the fervour of his
apostolate to express his views respecting the future Rome, the Rome he
dreamt of, which was destined yet again to become the mistress of the
world if she would return to the Christianity of Jesus, to an ardent love
for the weak and the humble.

Sanguinetti smiled, wagged his head, and raised exclamations of rapture:
"Very good, very good indeed, perfect! Oh! I agree with you, dear son.
One cannot put things better. It is quite evident; all good minds must
agree with you." And then, said he, the poetic side deeply touched him.
Like Leo XIII--and doubtless in a spirit of rivalry--he courted the
reputation of being a very distinguished Latinist, and professed a
special and boundless affection for Virgil. "I know, I know," he
exclaimed, "I remember your page on the return of spring, which consoles
the poor whom winter has frozen. Oh! I read it three times over! And are
you aware that your writing is full of Latin turns of style. I noticed
more than fifty expressions which could be found in the 'Bucolics.' Your
book is a charm, a perfect charm!"

As he was no fool, and realised that the little priest before him was a
man of high intelligence, he ended by interesting himself, not in Pierre
personally, but in the profit which he might possibly derive from him.
Amidst his feverish intrigues, he unceasingly sought to utilise all the
qualities possessed by those whom God sent to him that might in any way
be conducive to his own triumph. So, for a moment, he turned away from
Rome and looked his companion in the face, listening to him and asking
himself in what way he might employ him--either at once in the crisis
through which he was passing, or later on when he should be pope. But the
young priest again made the mistake of attacking the temporal power, and
of employing that unfortunate expression, "a new religion." Thereupon the
Cardinal stopped him with a gesture, still smiling, still retaining all
his amiability, although the resolution which he had long since formed
became from that moment definitive. "You are certainly in the right on
many points, my dear son," he said, "and I often share your views--share
them completely. But come, you are doubtless not aware that I am the
protector of Lourdes here at Rome. And so, after the page which you have
written about the Grotto, how can I possibly pronounce in your favour and
against the Fathers?"

Pierre was utterly overcome by this announcement, for he was indeed
unaware of the Cardinal's position with respect to Lourdes, nobody having
taken the precaution to warn him. However, each of the Catholic
enterprises distributed throughout the world has a protector at Rome, a
cardinal who is designated by the Pope to represent it and, if need be,
to defend it.

"Those good Fathers!" Sanguinetti continued in a gentle voice, "you have
caused them great grief, and really our hands are tied, we cannot add to
their sorrow. If you only knew what a number of masses they send us! I
know more than one of our poor priests who would die of hunger if it were
not for them."

Pierre could only bow beneath the blow. Once more he found himself in
presence of the pecuniary question, the necessity in which the Holy See
is placed to secure the revenue it requires one year with another. And
thus the Pope was ever in servitude, for if the loss of Rome had freed
him of the cares of state, his enforced gratitude for the alms he
received still riveted him to earth. So great, indeed, were the
requirements, that money was the ruler, the sovereign power, before which
all bowed at the Court of Rome.

And now Sanguinetti rose to dismiss his visitor. "You must not despair,
dear son," he said effusively. "I have only my own vote, you know, and I
promise you that I will take into account the excellent explanations
which you have just given me. And who can tell? If God be with you, He
will save you even in spite of all!" This speech formed part of the
Cardinal's usual tactics; for one of his principles was never to drive
people to extremes by sending them away hopeless. What good, indeed,
would it do to tell this one that the condemnation of his book was a
foregone conclusion, and that his only prudent course would be to disavow
it? Only a savage like Boccanera breathed anger upon fiery souls and
plunged them into rebellion. "You must hope, hope!" repeated Sanguinetti
with a smile, as if implying a multitude of fortunate things which he
could not plainly express.

Thereupon Pierre, who was deeply touched, felt born anew. He even forgot
the conversation he had surprised, the Cardinal's keen ambition and
covert rage with his redoubtable rival. Besides, might not intelligence
take the place of heart among the powerful? If this man should some day
become pope, and had understood him, might he not prove the pope who was
awaited, the pope who would accept the task of reorganising the Church of
the United States of Europe, and making it the spiritual sovereign of the
world? So he thanked him with emotion, bowed, and left him to his dream,
standing before that widely open window whence Rome appeared to him,
glittering like a jewel, even indeed as the tiara of gold and gems, in
the splendour of the autumn sun.

It was nearly one o'clock when Pierre and Count Prada were at last able
to sit down to /dejeuner/ in the little restaurant where they had agreed
to meet. They had both been delayed by their affairs. However, the Count,
having settled some worrying matters to his own advantage, was very
lively, whilst the priest on his side was again hopeful, and yielded to
the delightful charm of that last fine day. And so the meal proved a very
pleasant one in the large, bright room, which, as usual at that season of
the year, was quite deserted. Pink and blue predominated in the
decoration, but Cupids fluttered on the ceiling, and landscapes, vaguely
recalling the Roman castles, adorned the walls. The things they ate were
fresh, and they drank the wine of Frascati, to which the soil imparts a
kind of burnt flavour as if the old volcanoes of the region had left some
little of their fire behind.

For a long while the conversation ranged over those wild and graceful
Alban hills, which, fortunately for the pleasure of the eye, overlook the
flat Roman Campagna. Pierre, who had made the customary carriage
excursion from Frascati to Nemi, still felt its charm and spoke of it in
glowing language. First came the lovely road from Frascati to Albano,
ascending and descending hillsides planted with reeds, vines, and
olive-trees, amongst which one obtained frequent glimpses of the
Campagna's wavy immensity. On the right-hand the village of Rocca di Papa
arose in amphitheatrical fashion, showing whitely on a knoll below Monte
Cavo, which was crowned by lofty and ancient trees. And from this point
of the road, on looking back towards Frascati, one saw high up, on the
verge of a pine wood the ruins of Tusculum, large ruddy ruins, baked by
centuries of sunshine, and whence the boundless panorama must have been
superb. Next one passed through Marino, with its sloping streets, its
large cathedral, and its black decaying palace belonging to the Colonnas.
Then, beyond a wood of ilex-trees, the lake of Albano was skirted with
scenery which has no parallel in the world. In front, beyond the clear
mirror of motionless water, were the ruins of Alba Longa; on the left
rose Monte Cavo with Rocca di Papa and Palazzuolo; whilst on the right
Castel Gandolfo overlooked the lake as from the summit of a cliff. Down
below in the extinct crater, as in the depths of a gigantic cup of
verdure, the lake slept heavy and lifeless: a sheet of molten metal,
which the sun on one side streaked with gold, whilst the other was black
with shade. And the road then ascended all the way to Castel Gandolfo,
which was perched on its rock, like a white bird betwixt the lake and the
sea. Ever refreshed by breezes, even in the most burning hours of summer,
the little place was once famous for its papal villa, where Pius IX loved
to spend hours of indolence, and whither Leo XIII has never come. And
next the road dipped down, and the ilex-trees appeared again, ilex-trees
famous for their size, a double row of monsters with twisted limbs, two
and three hundred years old. Then one at last reached Albano, a small
town less modernised and less cleansed than Frascati, a patch of the old
land which has retained some of its ancient wildness; and afterwards
there was Ariccia with the Palazzo Chigi, and hills covered with forests
and viaducts spanning ravines which overflowed with foliage; and there
was yet Genzano, and yet Nemi, growing still wilder and more remote, lost
in the midst of rocks and trees.

Ah! how ineffaceable was the recollection which Pierre had retained of
Nemi, Nemi on the shore of its lake, Nemi so delicious and fascinating
from afar, conjuring up all the ancient legends of fairy towns springing
from amidst the greenery of mysterious waters, but so repulsively filthy
when one at last reaches it, crumbling on all sides but yet dominated by
the Orsini tower, as by the evil genius of the middle ages, which there
seems to perpetuate the ferocious habits, the violent passions, the knife
thrusts of the past! Thence came that Santobono whose brother had killed,
and who himself, with his eyes of crime glittering like live embers,
seemed to be consumed by a murderous flame. And the lake, that lake round
like an extinguished moon fallen into the depths of a former crater, a
deeper and less open cup than that of the lake of Albano, a cup rimmed
with trees of wondrous vigour and density! Pines, elms, and willows
descend to the very margin, with a green mass of tangled branches which
weigh each other down. This formidable fecundity springs from the vapour
which constantly arises from the water under the parching action of the
sun, whose rays accumulate in this hollow till it becomes like a furnace.
There is a warm, heavy dampness, the paths of the adjacent gardens grow
green with moss, and in the morning dense mists often fill the large cup
with white vapour, as with the steaming milk of some sorceress of
malevolent craft. And Pierre well remembered how uncomfortable he had
felt before that lake where ancient atrocities, a mysterious religion
with abominable rites, seemed to slumber amidst the superb scenery. He
had seen it at the approach of evening, looking, in the shade of its
forest girdle, like a plate of dull metal, black and silver, motionless
by reason of its weight. And that water, clear and yet so deep, that
water deserted, without a bark upon its surface, that water august,
lifeless, and sepulchral, had left him a feeling of inexpressible
sadness, of mortal melancholy, the hopelessness of great solitary
passion, earth and water alike swollen by the mute spasms of germs,
troublous in their fecundity. Ah! those black and plunging banks, and
that black mournful lake prone at the bottom!*

* Some literary interest attaches to M. Zola's account of Nemi,
whose praises have been sung by a hundred poets. It will be
observed that he makes no mention of Egeria. The religion
distinguished by abominable practices to which he alludes,
may perhaps be the worship of the Egyptian Diana, who had a
famous temple near Nemi, which was excavated by Lord Savile
some ten years ago, when all the smaller objects discovered
were presented to the town of Nottingham. At this temple,
according to some classical writers, the chief priest was
required to murder his predecessor, and there were other
abominable usages.--Trans.

Count Prada began to laugh when Pierre told him of these impressions.
"Yes, yes," said he, "it's true, Nemi isn't always gay. In dull weather I
have seen the lake looking like lead, and even the full sunshine scarcely
animates it. For my part, I know I should die of /ennui/ if I had to live
face to face with that bare water. But it is admired by poets and
romantic women, those who adore great tragedies of passion."

Then, as he and Pierre rose from the table to go and take coffee on the
terrace of the restaurant, the conversation changed: "Do you mean to
attend Prince Buongiovanni's reception this evening?" the Count inquired.
"It will be a curious sight, especially for a foreigner, and I advise you
not to miss it."

"Yes, I have an invitation," Pierre replied. "A friend of mine, Monsieur
Narcisse Habert, an /attache/ at our embassy, procured it for me, and I
am going with him."

That evening, indeed, there was to be a /fete/ at the Palazzo
Buongiovanni on the Corso, one of the few galas that take place in Rome
each winter. People said that this one would surpass all others in
magnificence, for it was to be given in honour of the betrothal of little
Princess Celia. The Prince, her father, after boxing her ears, it was
rumoured, and narrowly escaping an attack of apoplexy as the result of a
frightful fit of anger, had, all at once, yielded to her quiet, gentle
stubbornness, and consented to her marriage with Lieutenant Attilio, the
son of Minister Sacco. And all the drawing-rooms of Rome, those of the
white world quite as much as those of the black, were thoroughly upset by
the tidings.

Count Prada made merry over the affair. "Ah! you'll see a fine sight!" he
exclaimed. "Personally, I'm delighted with it all for the sake of my good
cousin Attilio, who is really a very nice and worthy fellow. And nothing
in the world would keep me from going to see my dear uncle Sacco make his
entry into the ancient /salons/ of the Buongiovanni. It will be something
extraordinary and superb. He has at last become Minister of Agriculture,
you know. My father, who always takes things so seriously, told me this
morning that the affair so worried him he hadn't closed his eyes all
night."

The Count paused, but almost immediately added: "I say, it is half-past
two and you won't have a train before five o'clock. Do you know what you
ought to do? Why, drive back to Rome with me in my carriage."

"No, no," rejoined Pierre, "I'm deeply obliged to you but I'm to dine
with my friend Narcisse this evening, and I mustn't be late."

"But you won't be late--on the contrary! We shall start at three and
reach Rome before five o'clock. There can't be a more pleasant promenade
when the light falls; and, come, I promise you a splendid sunset."

He was so pressing that the young priest had to accept, quite subjugated
by so much amiability and good humour. They spent another half-hour very
pleasantly in chatting about Rome, Italy, and France. Then, for a moment,
they went up into Frascati where the Count wished to say a few words to a
contractor, and just as three o'clock was striking they started off,
seated side by side on the soft cushions and gently rocked by the motion
of the victoria as the two horses broke into a light trot. As Prada had
predicted, that return to Rome across the bare Campagna under the vast
limpid heavens at the close of such a mild autumn day proved most
delightful. First of all, however, the victoria had to descend the slopes
of Frascati between vineyards and olive-trees. The paved road snaked, and
was but little frequented; they merely saw a few peasants in old felt
hats, a white mule, and a cart drawn by a donkey, for it is only upon
Sundays that the /osterie/ or wine-shops are filled and that artisans in
easy circumstances come to eat a dish of kid at the surrounding
/bastides/. However, at one turn of the road they passed a monumental
fountain. Then a flock of sheep momentarily barred the way before
defiling past. And beyond the gentle undulations of the ruddy Campagna
Rome appeared amidst the violet vapours of evening, sinking by degrees as
the carriage itself descended to a lower and lower level. There came a
moment when the city was a mere thin grey streak, speckled whitely here
and there by a few sunlit house-fronts. And then it seemed to plunge
below the ground--to be submerged by the swell of the far-spreading
fields.

The victoria was now rolling over the plain, leaving the Alban hills
behind, whilst before it and on either hand came the expanse of meadows
and stubbles. And then it was that the Count, after leaning forward,
exclaimed: "Just look ahead, yonder, there's our man of this morning,
Santobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast he
walks! My horses can scarcely overtake him."

Pierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St.
Mary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with a
bill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigorous
splotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and he
was walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggested
Destiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished,
was hanging from his right arm.

When the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman to
slacken speed, and then entered into conversation.

"Good-day, Abbe; you are well, I hope?" he asked.

"Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you."

"And where are you going so bravely?"

"Signor Conte, I am going to Rome."

"What! to Rome, at this late hour?"

"Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn't
frighten me, and money's quickly earned by walking."

Scarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels,
Santobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting,
whispered to Pierre: "Wait a bit, he'll amuse us." Then he added aloud:
"Since you are going to Rome, Abbe, you had better get in here; there's
room for you."

Santobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer.
"Willingly; a thousand thanks," he said. "It's still better to save one's
shoe leather."

Then he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with
abrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the
Count. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was
carrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered
with leaves.

The horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and
on over the superb, flat plain. "So you are going to Rome?" the Count
resumed in order to make Santobono talk.

"Yes," the other replied, "I am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera
these few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I had
promised him." He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding it
between his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile.

"Ah! some of the famous figs of your garden," said Prada. "It's quite
true, they are like honey. But why don't you rid yourself of them. You
surely don't mean to keep them on your knees all the way to Rome. Give
them to me, I'll put them in the hood."

However, Santobono became quite agitated, and vigorously declined the
offer. "No, no, a thousand thanks! They don't embarrass me in the least;
they are very well here; and in this way I shall be sure that no accident
will befall them."

His passion for the fruit he grew quite amused Prada, who nudged Pierre,
and then inquired: "Is the Cardinal fond of your figs?"

"Oh! his Eminence condescends to adore them. In former years, when he
spent the summer at the villa, he would never touch the figs from other
trees. And so, you see, knowing his tastes, it costs me very little to
gratify him."

Whilst making this reply Santobono had shot such a keen glance in the
direction of Pierre that the Count felt it necessary to introduce them to
one another. This he did saying: "As it happens, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment
is stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three months
or so."

"Yes, I'm aware of it," Santobono quietly replied; "I found Monsieur
l'Abbe with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo.
Those were less ripe, but these are perfect." So speaking he gave the
little basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet more
closely between his huge and hairy fingers.

Then came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spread
out as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;
there was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expanse
whose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginning
to turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came into
sight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat,
boundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance.
Then, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses were
seen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen,
still yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer,
cantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a final
look round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A
/biroccino/, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a small
seat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From time
to time also the victoria passed a /carrotino/, one of the low carts in
which peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine,
vegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling of
horses' bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-known
road of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being sound
asleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirts
caught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then the
road again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete,
without a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilst
yonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful in
its monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault of
heaven.

"And the Pope, Abbe, is he dead?" Prada suddenly inquired.

Santobono did not even start. "I trust," he replied in all simplicity,
"that his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph of
the Church."

"So you had good news this morning when you called on your bishop,
Cardinal Sanguinetti?"

This time the priest was unable to restrain a slight start. Had he been
seen, then? In his haste he had failed to notice the two men following
the road behind him. However, he at once regained self-possession, and
replied: "Oh! one can never tell exactly whether news is good or bad. It
seems that his Holiness passed a somewhat painful night, but I devoutly
hope that the next will be a better one." Then he seemed to meditate for
a moment, and added: "Moreover, if God should have deemed it time to call
his Holiness to Himself, He would not leave His flock without a shepherd.
He would have already chosen and designated the Sovereign Pontiff of
to-morrow."

This superb answer increased Prada's gaiety. "You are really
extraordinary, Abbe," he said. "So you think that popes are solely
created by the grace of the Divinity! The pope of to-morrow is chosen up
in heaven, eh, and simply waits? Well, I fancied that men had something
to do with the matter. But perhaps you already know which cardinal it is
that the divine favour has thus elected in advance?"

Then, like the unbeliever he was, he went on with his facile jests, which
left the priest unruffled. In fact, the latter also ended by laughing
when the Count, after alluding to the gambling passion which at each
fresh Conclave sets wellnigh the whole population of Rome betting for or
against this or that candidate, told him that he might easily make his
fortune if he were in the divine secret. Next the talk turned on the
three white cassocks of different sizes which are always kept in
readiness in a cupboard at the Vatican. Which of them would be required
on this occasion?--the short one, the long one, or the one of medium
size? Each time that the reigning pope falls somewhat seriously ill there
is in this wise an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a keen awakening of
all ambitions and intrigues, to such a point that not merely in the black
world, but throughout the city, people have no other subject of
curiosity, conversation, and occupation than that of discussing the
relative claims of the cardinals and predicting which of them will be
elected.

"Come, come," Prada resumed, "since you know the truth, I'm determined
that you shall tell me. Will it be Cardinal Moretta?"

Santobono, in spite of his evident desire to remain dignified and
disinterested, like a good, pious priest, was gradually growing
impassioned, yielding to the hidden fire which consumed him. And this
interrogatory finished him off; he could no longer restrain himself, but
replied: "Moretta! What an idea! Why, he is sold to all Europe!"

"Well, will it be Cardinal Bartolini?"

"Oh! you can't think that. Bartolini has used himself up in striving for
everything and getting nothing."

"Will it be Cardinal Dozio, then?"

"Dozio, Dozio! Why, if Dozio were to win one might altogether despair of
our Holy Church, for no man can have a baser mind than he!"

Prada raised his hands, as if he had exhausted the serious candidates. In
order to increase the priest's exasperation he maliciously refrained from
naming Cardinal Sanguinetti, who was certainly Santobono's nominee. All
at once, however, he pretended to make a good guess, and gaily exclaimed:
"Ah! I have it; I know your man--Cardinal Boccanera!"

The blow struck Santobono full in the heart, wounding him both in his
rancour and his patriotic faith. His terrible mouth was already opening,
and he was about to shout "No! no!" with all his strength, but he managed
to restrain the cry, compelled as he was to silence by the present on his
knees--that little basket of figs which he pressed so convulsively with
both hands; and the effort which he was obliged to make left him
quivering to such a point that he had to wait some time before he could
reply in a calm voice: "His most reverend Eminence Cardinal Boccanera is
a saintly man, well worthy of the throne, and my only fear is that, with
his hatred of new Italy, he might bring us warfare."

Prada, however, desired to enlarge the wound. "At all events," said he,
"you accept him and love him too much not to rejoice over his chances of
success. And I really think that we have arrived at the truth, for
everybody is convinced that the Conclave's choice cannot fall elsewhere.
Come, come; Boccanera is a very tall man, so it's the long white cassock
which will be required."

"The long cassock, the long cassock," growled Santobono, despite himself;
"that's all very well, but--"

Then he stopped short, and, again overcoming his passion, left his
sentence unfinished. Pierre, listening in silence, marvelled at the man's
self-restraint, for he remembered the conversation which he had overheard
at Cardinal Sanguinetti's. Those figs were evidently a mere pretext for
gaining admission to the Boccanera mansion, where some friend--Abbe
Paparelli, no doubt--could alone supply certain positive information
which was needed. But how great was the command which the hot-blooded
priest exercised over himself amidst the riotous impulses of his soul!

On either side of the road the Campagna still and ever spread its expanse
of verdure, and Prada, who had become grave and dreamy, gazed before him
without seeing anything. At last, however, he gave expression to his
thoughts. "You know, Abbe, what will be said if the Pope should die this
time. That sudden illness, those colics, those refusals to make any
information public, mean nothing good--Yes, yes, poison, just as for the
others!"

Pierre gave a start of stupefaction. The Pope poisoned! "What! Poison?
Again?" he exclaimed as he gazed at his companions with dilated eyes.
Poison at the end of the nineteenth century, as in the days of the
Borgias, as on the stage in a romanticist melodrama! To him the idea
appeared both monstrous and ridiculous.

Santobono, whose features had become motionless and impenetrable, made no
reply. But Prada nodded, and the conversation was henceforth confined to
him and the young priest. "Why, yes, poison," he replied. "The fear of it
has remained very great in Rome. Whenever a death seems inexplicable,
either by reason of its suddenness or the tragic circumstances which
attend it, the unanimous thought is poison. And remark this: in no city,
I believe, are sudden deaths so frequent. The causes I don't exactly
know, but some doctors put everything down to the fevers. Among the
people, however, the one thought is poison, poison with all its legends,
poison which kills like lightning and leaves no trace, the famous recipe
bequeathed from age to age, through the emperors and the popes, down to
these present times of middle-class democracy."

As he spoke he ended by smiling, for he was inclined to be somewhat
sceptical on the point, despite the covert terror with which he was
inspired by racial and educational causes. However, he quoted instances.
The Roman matrons had rid themselves of their husbands and lovers by
employing the venom of red toads. Locusta, in a more practical spirit,
sought poison in plants, one of which, probably aconite, she was wont to
boil. Then, long afterwards, came the age of the Borgias, and
subsequently, at Naples, La Toffana sold a famous water, doubtless some
preparation of arsenic, in phials decorated with a representation of St.
Nicholas of Bari. There were also extraordinary stories of pins, a prick
from which killed one like lightning, of cups of wine poisoned by the
infusion of rose petals, of woodcocks cut in half with prepared knives,
which poisoned but one-half of the bird, so that he who partook of that
half was killed. "I myself, in my younger days," continued Prada, "had a
friend whose bride fell dead in church during the marriage service
through simply inhaling a bouquet of flowers. And so isn't it possible
that the famous recipe may really have been handed down, and have
remained known to a few adepts?"

"But chemistry has made too much progress," Pierre replied. "If
mysterious poisons were believed in by the ancients and remained
undetected in their time it was because there were no means of analysis.
But the drug of the Borgias would now lead the simpleton who might employ
it straight to the Assizes. Such stories are mere nonsense, and at the
present day people scarcely tolerate them in newspaper serials and
shockers."

"Perhaps so," resumed the Count with his uneasy smile. "You are right, no
doubt--only go and tell that to your host, for instance, Cardinal
Boccanera, who last summer held in his arms an old and deeply-loved
friend, Monsignor Gallo, who died after a seizure of a couple of hours."

"But apoplexy may kill one in two hours, and aneurism only takes two
minutes."

"True, but ask the Cardinal what he thought of his friend's prolonged
shudders, the leaden hue which overcame his face, the sinking of his
eyes, and the expression of terror which made him quite unrecognisable.
The Cardinal is convinced that Monsignor Gallo was poisoned, because he
was his dearest confidant, the counsellor to whom he always listened, and
whose wise advice was a guarantee of success."

Pierre's bewilderment was increasing, and, irritated by the impassibility
of Santobono, he addressed him direct. "It's idiotic, it's awful! Does
your reverence also believe in these frightful stories?"

But the priest of Frascati gave no sign. His thick, passionate lips
remained closed while his black glowing eyes never ceased to gaze at
Prada. The latter, moreover, was quoting other instances. There was the
case of Monsignor Nazzarelli, who had been found in bed, shrunken and
calcined like carbon. And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck down
in his sacerdotal vestments at St. Peter's itself, in the very sacristy,
during vespers!

"Ah! /Mon Dieu/!" sighed Pierre, "you will tell me so much that I myself
shall end by trembling, and sha'n't dare to eat anything but boiled eggs
as long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours."

For a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre.
But it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under a
terrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the city
of poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, ever
since the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, the
frantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men's hands,
ensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and the
ground. Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings and
assassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominations
strew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun.

"All the same," said the Count, "those who take precautions are perhaps
not ill advised. It is said that more than one cardinal shudders and
mistrusts people. One whom I know will never eat anything that has not
been bought and prepared by his own cook. And as for the Pope, if he is
anxious--"

Pierre again raised a cry of stupefaction. "What, the Pope himself! The
Pope afraid of being poisoned!"

"Well, my dear Abbe, people commonly assert it. There are certainly days
when he considers himself more menaced than anybody else. And are you not
aware of the old Roman view that a pope ought never to live till too
great an age, and that when he is so obstinate as not to die at the right
time he ought to be assisted? As soon as a pope begins to fall into
second childhood, and by reason of his senility becomes a source of
embarrassment, and possibly even danger, to the Church, his right place
is heaven. Moreover, matters are managed in a discreet manner; a slight
cold becomes a decent pretext to prevent him from tarrying any longer on
the throne of St. Peter."

Prada then gave some curious details. One prelate, it was said, wishing
to dispel his Holiness's fears, had devised an elaborate precautionary
system which, among other things, was to comprise a little padlocked
vehicle, in which the food destined for the frugal pontifical table was
to be securely placed before leaving the kitchen, so that it might not be
tampered with on its way to the Pope's apartments. However, this project
had not yet been carried into effect.

"After all," the Count concluded with a laugh, "every pope has to die
some day, especially when his death is needful for the welfare of the
Church. Isn't that so, Abbe?"

Santobono, whom he addressed, had a moment previously lowered his eyes as
if to contemplate the little basket of figs which he held on his lap with
as much care as if it had been the Blessed Sacrament. On being questioned
in such a direct, sharp fashion he could not do otherwise than look up.
However, he did not depart from his prolonged silence, but limited his
answer to a slow nod.

"And it is God alone, and not poison, who causes one to die. Is that not
so, Abbe?" repeated Prada. "It is said that those were the last words of
poor Monsignor Gallo before he expired in the arms of his friend Cardinal
Boccanera."

For the second time Santobono nodded without speaking. And then silence
fell, all three sinking into a dreamy mood.

Meantime, without a pause, the carriage rolled on across the immensity of
the Campagna. The road, straight as an arrow, seemed to extend into the
infinite. As the sun descended towards the horizon the play of light and
shade became more marked on the broad undulations of the ground which
stretched away, alternately of a pinky green and a violet grey, till they
reached the distant fringe of the sky. At the roadside on either hand
there were still and ever tall withered thistles and giant fennel with
yellow umbels. Then, after a time, came a team of four oxen, that had
been kept ploughing until late, and stood forth black and huge in the
pale atmosphere and mournful solitude. Farther on some flocks of sheep,
whence the breeze wafted a tallowy odour, set patches of brown amidst the
herbage, which once more was becoming verdant; whilst at intervals a dog
was heard to bark, his voice the only distinct sound amidst the low
quivering of that silent desert where the sovereign peacefulness of death
seemed to reign. But all at once a light melody arose and some larks flew
up, one of them soaring into the limpid golden heavens. And ahead, at the
far extremity of the pure sky, Rome, with her towers and domes, grew
larger and larger, like a city of white marble springing from a mirage
amidst the greenery of some enchanted garden.

"Matteo!" Prada called to his coachman, "pull up at the Osteria Romana."
And to his companions he added: "Pray excuse me, but I want to see if I
can get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them."

A few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of the
road stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous name
of "Antica Osteria Romana." It had now become a mere house of call for
carters and chance sportsmen, who ventured to drink a flagon of white
wine whilst eating an omelet and a slice of ham. Occasionally, on
Sundays, some of the humble classes would walk over from Rome and make
merry there; but the week days often went by without a soul entering the
place, such was its isolation amidst the bare Campagna.

The Count was already springing from the carriage. "I shall only be a
minute," said he as he turned away.

The /osteria/ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upper
storey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of large
blocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entire
place, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On the
ground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable with
adjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the only
trees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour of
reeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as a
background to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment
of an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space,
alone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.

All at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing
Santobono, exclaimed: "I say, Abbe, you'll surely accept a glass of white
wine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little
white wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with."

Santobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. "Oh! I know
it," said he; "it's a wine from Marino; it's grown in a lighter soil than
ours at Frascati."

Then, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now
carried it along with him, the Count lost patience. "Come, you don't want
that basket," said he; "leave it in the carriage."

The priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up
his mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban
/osteria/ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman,
tall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had
at once presented herself. On the last occasion when the Count had called
she had managed to find half a dozen eggs. This time she said she would
go to see, but could promise nothing, for the hens laid here and there
all over the place, and she could never tell what eggs there might be.

"All right!" Prada answered, "go and look; and meantime we will have a
/caraffa/ of white wine."

The three men entered the common room, which was already quite dark.
Although the hot weather was now over, one heard the buzzing of
innumerable flies immediately one reached the threshold, and a pungent
odour of acidulous wine and rancid oil caught one at the throat. As soon
as their eyes became accustomed to the dimness they were able to
distinguish the spacious, blackened, malodorous chamber, whose only
furniture consisted of some roughly made tables and benches. It seemed to
be quite empty, so complete was the silence, apart from the buzz of the
flies. However, two men were seated there, two wayfarers who remained
mute and motionless before their untouched, brimming glasses. Moreover,
on a low chair near the door, in the little light which penetrated from
without, a thin, sallow girl, the daughter of the house, sat idle,
trembling with fever, her hands close pressed between her knees.

Realising that Pierre felt uncomfortable there, the Count proposed that
they should drink their wine outside. "We shall be better out of doors,"
said he, "it's so very in mild this evening."

Accordingly, whilst the mother looked for the eggs, and the father mended
a wheel in an adjacent shed, the daughter was obliged to get up shivering
to carry the flagon of wine and the three glasses to the arbour, where
she placed them on one of the tables. And, having pocketed the price of
the wine--threepence--in silence, she went back to her seat with a sullen
look, as if annoyed at having been compelled to make such a long journey.
Meanwhile the three men had sat down, and Prada gaily filled each of the
glasses, although Pierre declared that he was quite unable to drink wine
between his meals. "Pooh, pooh," said the Count, "you can always clink
glasses with us. And now, Abbe, isn't this little wine droll? Come,
here's to the Pope's better health, since he's unwell!"

Santobono at one gulp emptied his glass and clacked his tongue. With
gentle, paternal care he had deposited his basket on the ground beside
him: and, taking off his hat, he drew a long breath. The evening was
really delightful. A superb sky of a soft golden hue stretched over that
endless sea of the Campagna which was soon to fall asleep with sovereign
quiescence. And the light breeze which went by amidst the deep silence
brought with it an exquisite odour of wild herbs and flowers.

"How pleasant it is!" muttered Pierre, affected by the surrounding charm.
"And what a desert for eternal rest, forgetfulness of all the world!"

Prada, who had emptied the flagon by filling Santobono's glass a second
time, made no reply; he was silently amusing himself with an occurrence
which at first he was the only one to observe. However, with a merry
expression of complicity, he gave the young priest a wink, and then they
both watched the dramatic incidents of the affair. Some scraggy fowls
were wandering round them searching the yellow turf for grasshoppers; and
one of these birds, a little shiny black hen with an impudent manner, had
caught sight of the basket of figs and was boldly approaching it. When
she got near, however, she took fright, and retreated somewhat, with neck
stiffened and head turned, so as to cast suspicious glances at the basket
with her round sparkling eye. But at last covetousness gained the
victory, for she could see one of the figs between the leaves, and so she
slowly advanced, lifting her feet very high at each step; and, all at
once, stretching out her neck, she gave the fig a formidable peck, which
ripped it open and made the juice exude.

Prada, who felt as happy as a child, was then able to give vent to the
laughter which he had scarcely been able to restrain: "Look out, Abbe,"
he called, "mind your figs!"

At that very moment Santobono was finishing his second glass of wine with
his head thrown back and his eyes blissfully raised to heaven. He gave a
start, looked round, and on seeing the hen at once understood the
position. And then came a terrible outburst of anger, with sweeping
gestures and terrible invectives. But the hen, who was again pecking,
would not be denied; she dug her beak into the fig and carried it off,
flapping her wings, so quick and so comical that Prada, and Pierre as
well, laughed till tears came into their eyes, their merriment increasing
at sight of the impotent fury of Santobono, who, for a moment, pursued
the thief, threatening her with his fist.

"Ah!" said the Count, "that's what comes of not leaving the basket in the
carriage. If I hadn't warned you the hen would have eaten all the figs."

The priest did not reply, but, growling out vague imprecations, placed
the basket on the table, where he raised the leaves and artistically
rearranged the fruit so as to fill up the void. Then, the harm having
been repaired as far as was possible, he at last calmed down.

It was now time for them to resume their journey, for the sun was sinking
towards the horizon, and night would soon fall. Thus the Count ended by
getting impatient. "Well, and those eggs?" he called.

Then, as the woman did not return, he went to seek her. He entered the
stable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here nor
there. Next he went towards the rear of the /osteria/ in order to look in
the sheds. But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short.
The little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as by
lightning. She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a little
streamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak. Prada was at
first merely astonished. He stooped and touched the hen. She was still
warm and soft like a rag. Doubtless some apoplectic stroke had killed
her. But immediately afterwards he became fearfully pale; the truth
appeared to him, and turned him as cold as ice. In a moment he conjured
up everything: Leo XIII attacked by illness, Santobono hurrying to
Cardinal Sanguinetti for tidings, and then starting for Rome to present a
basket of figs to Cardinal Boccanera. And Prada also remembered the
conversation in the carriage: the possibility of the Pope's demise, the
candidates for the tiara, the legendary stories of poison which still
fostered terror in and around the Vatican; and he once more saw the
priest, with his little basket on his knees, lavishing paternal attention
on it, and he saw the little black hen pecking at the fruit and fleeing
with a fig on her beak. And now that little black hen lay there, suddenly
struck down, dead!

His conviction was immediate and absolute. But he did not have time to
decide what course he should take, for a voice behind him exclaimed:
"Why, it's the little hen; what's the matter with her?"

The voice was that of Pierre, who, letting Santobono climb into the
carriage alone, had in his turn come round to the rear of the house in
order to obtain a better view of the ruined aqueduct among the parasol
pines.

Prada, who shuddered as if he himself were the culprit, answered him with
a lie, a lie which he did not premeditate, but to which he was impelled
by a sort of instinct. "But she's dead," he said. . . . "Just fancy,
there was a fight. At the moment when I got here that other hen, which
you see yonder, sprang upon this one to get the fig, which she was still
holding, and with a thrust of the beak split her head open. . . . The
blood's flowing, as you can see yourself."

Why did he say these things? He himself was astonished at them whilst he
went on inventing them. Was it then that he wished to remain master of
the situation, keep the abominable secret entirely to himself, in order
that he might afterwards act in accordance with his own desires?
Certainly his feelings partook of shame and embarrassment in presence of
that foreigner, whilst his personal inclination for violence set some
admiration amidst the revolt of his conscience, and a covert desire arose
within him to examine the matter from the standpoint of his interests
before he came to a decision. But, on the other hand, he claimed to be a
man of integrity, and would assuredly not allow people to be poisoned.

Pierre, who was compassionately inclined towards all creation, looked at
the hen with the emotion which he always felt at the sudden severance of
life. However, he at once accepted Prada's story. "Ah! those fowls!" said
he. "They treat one another with an idiotic ferocity which even men can
scarcely equal. I kept fowls at home at one time, and one of the hens no
sooner hurt her leg than all the others, on seeing the blood oozing,
would flock round and peck at the limb till they stripped it to the
bone."

Prada, however, did not listen, but at once went off; and it so happened
that the woman was, on her side, looking for him in order to hand him
four eggs which, after a deal of searching, she had discovered in odd
corners about the house. The Count made haste to pay for them, and called
to Pierre, who was lingering behind: "We must look sharp! We sha'n't
reach Rome now until it is quite dark."

They found Santobono quietly waiting in the carriage, where he had again
installed himself on the bracket with his spine resting against the
box-seat and his long legs drawn back under him, and he again had the
little basket of figs on his knees, and clasped it with his big knotty
hands as though it were something fragile and rare which the slightest
jolting might damage. His cassock showed like a huge blot, and in his
coarse ashen face, that of a peasant yet near to the wild soil and but
slightly polished by a few years of theological studies, his eyes alone
seemed to live, glowing with the dark flame of a devouring passion. On
seeing him seated there in such composure Prada could not restrain a
slight shudder. Then, as soon as the victoria was again rolling along the
road, he exclaimed: "Well, Abbe, that glass of wine will guarantee us
against the malaria. The Pope would soon be cured if he could imitate our
example."

Santobono's only reply was a growl. He was in no mood for conversation,
but wrapped himself in perfect silence, as in the night which was slowly
falling. And Prada in his turn ceased to speak, and, with his eyes still
fixed upon the other, reflected on the course that he should follow.

The road turned, and then the carriage rolled on and on over another
interminable straight highway with white paving, whose brilliancy made
the road look like a ribbon of snow stretching across the Campagna, where
delicate shadows were slowly falling. Gloom gathered in the hollows of
the broad undulations whence a tide of violet hue seemed to spread over
the short herbage until all mingled and the expanse became an indistinct
swell of neutral hue from one to the other horizon. And the solitude was
now yet more complete; a last indolent cart had gone by and a last
tinkling of horses' bells had subsided in the distance. There was no
longer a passer-by, no longer a beast of the fields to be seen, colour
and sound died away, all forms of life sank into slumber, into the serene
stillness of nihility. Some fragments of an aqueduct were still to be
seen at intervals on the right hand, where they looked like portions of
gigantic millepeds severed by the scythe of time; next, on the left, came
another tower, whose dark and ruined pile barred the sky as with a huge
black stake; and then the remains of another aqueduct spanned the road,
assuming yet greater dimensions against the sunset glow. Ah! that unique
hour, the hour of twilight in the Campagna, when all is blotted out and
simplified, the hour of bare immensity, of the infinite in its simplest
expression! There is nothing, nothing all around you, but the flat line
of the horizon with the one splotch of an isolated tower, and yet that
nothing is instinct with sovereign majesty.

However, on the left, towards the sea, the sun was setting, descending in
the limpid sky like a globe of fire of blinding redness. It slowly
plunged beneath the horizon, and the only sign of cloud was some fiery
vapour, as if indeed the distant sea had seethed at contact with that
royal and flaming visit. And directly the sun had disappeared the heavens
above it purpled and became a lake of blood, whilst the Campagna turned
to grey. At the far end of the fading plain there remained only that
purple lake whose brasier slowly died out behind the black arches of the
aqueduct, while in the opposite direction the scattered arches remained
bright and rosy against a pewter-like sky. Then the fiery vapour was
dissipated, and the sunset ended by fading away. One by one the stars
came out in the pacified vault, now of an ashen blue, while the lights of
Rome, still far away on the verge of the horizon, scintillated like the
lamps of light-houses.

And Prada, amidst the dreamy silence of his companions and the infinite
melancholy of the evening and the inexpressible distress which even he
experienced, continued to ask himself what course he should adopt. Again
and again he mentally repeated that he could not allow people to be
poisoned. The figs were certainly intended for Cardinal Boccanera, and on
the whole it mattered little to him whether there were a cardinal the
more or the fewer in the world. Moreover, it had always seemed to him
best to let Destiny follow its course; and, infidel that he was, he saw
no harm in one priest devouring another. Again, it might be dangerous for
him to intervene in that abominable affair, to mix himself up in the
base, fathomless intrigues of the black world. But on the other hand the
Cardinal was not the only person who lived in the Boccanera mansion, and
might not the figs go to others, might they not be eaten by people to
whom no harm was intended? This idea of a treacherous chance haunted him,
and in spite of every effort the figures of Benedetta and Dario rose up
before him, returned and imposed themselves on him though he again and
again sought to banish them from his mind. What if Benedetta, what if
Dario should partake of that fruit? For Benedetta he felt no fear, for he
knew that she and her aunt ate their meals by themselves, and that their
cuisine and the Cardinal's had nothing in common. But Dario sat at his
uncle's table every day, and for a moment Prada, pictured the young
Prince suddenly seized with a spasm, then falling, like poor Monsignor
Gallo, into the Cardinal's arms with livid face and receding eyes, and
dying within two hours.

But no, no! That would be frightful, he could not suffer such an
abomination. And thereupon he made up his mind. He would wait till the
night had completely gathered round and would then simply take the basket
from Santobono's lap and fling it into some dark hollow without saying a
word. The priest would understand him. The other one, the young
Frenchman, would perhaps not even notice the incident. Besides, that
mattered little, for he would not even attempt to explain his action. And
he felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw the
basket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a couple
of miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in the
darkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen.

"We stopped too long at that /osteria/," he suddenly exclaimed aloud,
turning towards Pierre. "We sha'n't reach Rome much before six o'clock.
Still you will have time to dress and join your friend." And then without
awaiting the young man's reply he said to Santobono: "Your figs will
arrive very late, Abbe."

"Oh!" answered the priest, "his Eminence receives until eight o'clock.
And, besides, the figs are not for this evening. People don't eat figs in
the evening. They will be for to-morrow morning." And thereupon he again
relapsed into silence.

"For to-morrow morning--yes, yes, no doubt," repeated Prada. "And the
Cardinal will be able to thoroughly regale himself if nobody helps him to
eat the fruit."

Thereupon Pierre, without pausing to reflect, exclaimed: "He will no
doubt eat it by himself, for his nephew, Prince Dario, must have started
to-day for Naples on a little convalescence trip to rid himself of the
effects of the accident which laid him up during the last month." Then,
having got so far, the young priest remembered to whom he was speaking,
and abruptly stopped short.

The Count noticed his embarrassment. "Oh! speak on, my dear Monsieur
Froment," said he, "you don't offend me. It's an old affair now. So that
young man has left, you say?"

"Yes, unless he has postponed his departure. However, I don't expect to
find him at the palazzo when I get there."

For a moment the only sound was that of the continuous rumble of the
wheels. Prada again felt worried, a prey to the discomfort of
uncertainty. Why should he mix himself up in the affair if Dario were
really absent? All the ideas which came to him tired his brain, and he
ended by thinking aloud: "If he has gone away it must be for propriety's
sake, so as to avoid attending the Buongiovanni reception, for the
Congregation of the Council met this morning to give its decision in the
suit which the Countess has brought against me. Yes, I shall know by and
by whether our marriage is to be dissolved."

It was in a somewhat hoarse voice that he spoke these words, and one
could realise that the old wound was again bleeding within him. Although
Lisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in his
wife's petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each time
that he thought of it. And all at once he shuddered violently, as if an
icy blast had darted through his frame. Then, turning the conversation,
he added: "It's not at all warm this evening. This is the dangerous hour
of the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it's easy to catch a
terrible fever if one isn't prudent. Here, pull the rug over your legs,
wrap it round you as carefully as you can."

Then, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, more
profound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over the
Campagna, now steeped in night. And at last, in the bright starlight,
appeared the gate, an arch of the Acqua Felice, under which the road
passed. From a distance, this fragment seemed to bar the way with its
mass of ancient half-fallen walls. But afterwards the gigantic arch where
all was black opened like a gaping porch. And the carriage passed under
it in darkness whilst the wheels rumbled with increased sonority.

When the victoria emerged on the other side, Santobono still had the
little basket of figs upon his knees and Prada looked at it, quite
overcome, asking himself what sudden paralysis of the hands had prevented
him from seizing it and throwing it into the darkness. Such had still
been his intention but a few seconds before they passed under the arch.
He had even given the basket a final glance in order that he might the
better realise what movements he should make. What had taken place within
him then? At present he was yielding to increasing irresolution,
henceforth incapable of decisive action, feeling a need of delay in order
that he might, before everything else, fully satisfy himself as to what
was likely to happen. And as Dario had doubtless gone away and the figs
would certainly not be eaten until the following morning, what reason was
there for him to hurry? He would know that evening if the Congregation of
the Council had annulled his marriage, he would know how far the
so-called "Justice of God" was venal and mendacious! Certainly he would
suffer nobody to be poisoned, not even Cardinal Boccanera, though the
latter's life was of little account to him personally. But had not that
little basket, ever since leaving Frascati, been like Destiny on the
march? And was it not enjoyment, the enjoyment of omnipotence, to be able
to say to himself that he was the master who could stay that basket's
course, or allow it to go onward and accomplish its deadly purpose?
Moreover, he yielded to the dimmest of mental struggles, ceasing to
reason, unable to raise his hand, and yet convinced that he would drop a
warning note into the letter-box at the palazzo before he went to bed,
though at the same time he felt happy in the thought that if his interest
directed otherwise he would not do so.

And the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silent weariness,
amidst the shiver of evening which seemed to have chilled all three men.
In vain did the Count endeavour to escape from the battle of his
thoughts, by reverting to the Buongiovanni reception, and giving
particulars of the splendours which would be witnessed at it: his words
fell sparsely in an embarrassed and absent-minded way. Then he sought to
inspirit Pierre by speaking to him of Cardinal Sanguinetti's amiable
manner and fair words, but although the young priest was returning home
well pleased with his journey, in the idea that with a little help he
might yet triumph, he scarcely answered the Count, so wrapt he was in his
reverie. And Santobono, on his side, neither spoke nor moved. Black like
the night itself, he seemed to have vanished. However, the lights of Rome
were increasing in number, and houses again appeared on either hand, at
first at long intervals, and then in close succession. They were suburban
houses, and there were yet more fields of reeds, quickset hedges,
olive-trees overtopping long walls, and big gateways with vase-surmounted
pillars; but at last came the city with its rows of small grey houses,
its petty shops and its dingy taverns, whence at times came shouts and
rumours of battle.

Prada insisted on setting his companions down in the Via Giulia, at fifty
paces from the palazzo. "It doesn't inconvenience me at all," said he to
Pierre. "Besides, with the little time you have before you, it would
never do for you to go on foot."

The Via Giulia was already steeped in slumber, and wore a melancholy
aspect of abandonment in the dreary light of the gas lamps standing on
either hand. And as soon as Santobono had alighted from the carriage, he
took himself off without waiting for Pierre, who, moreover, always went
in by the little door in the side lane.

"Good-bye, Abbe," exclaimed Prada.

"Good-bye, Count, a thousand thanks," was Santobono's response.

Then the two others stood watching him as he went towards the Boccanera
mansion, whose old, monumental entrance, full of gloom, was still wide
open. For a moment they saw his tall, rugged figure erect against that
gloom. Then in he plunged, he and his little basket, bearing Destiny.

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