The Three Cities Trilogy: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

XII

IT was ten o'clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe di
Roma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down the
Corso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficulty
to reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, and
the inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway,
in spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact that
even the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on the
first floor of the long monumental facade shone with an intense white
radiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street like
sunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whose
billows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinary
tumult.

And in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms
go by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre
soon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the
arrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball
given by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his
daughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his
Majesty's ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage,
the happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: to
begin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of a
lightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over all
obstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip to
lip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart.

It was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, who
already knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince had
ended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear of
seeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threaten
to do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contempt
for everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to be
capable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Only
indifference was manifested by the Prince's wife, a phlegmatic and still
beautiful Englishwoman, who considered that she had done quite enough for
the household by bringing her husband a dowry of five millions, and
bearing him five children. The Prince, anxious and weak despite his
violence, in which one found a trace of the old Roman blood, already
spoilt by mixture with that of a foreign race, was nowadays ever
influenced in his actions by the fear that his house and fortune--which
hitherto had remained intact amidst the accumulated ruins of the
/patriziato/--might suddenly collapse. And in finally yielding to Celia,
he must have been guided by the idea of rallying to the new /regime/
through his daughter, so as to have one foot firmly set at the Quirinal,
without withdrawing the other from the Vatican. It was galling, no doubt;
his pride must have bled at the idea of allying his name with that of
such low folks as the Saccos. But then Sacco was a minister, and had sped
so quickly from success to success that it seemed likely he would rise
yet higher, and, after the portfolio of Agriculture, secure that of
Finances, which he had long coveted. And an alliance with Sacco meant the
certain favour of the King, an assured retreat in that direction should
the papacy some day collapse. Then, too, the Prince had made inquiries
respecting the son, and was somewhat disarmed by the good looks, bravery,
and rectitude of young Attilio, who represented the future, and possibly
the glorious Italy of to-morrow. He was a soldier, and could be helped
forward to the highest rank. And people spitefully added that the last
reason which had influenced the Prince, who was very avaricious, and
greatly worried by the thought that his fortune must be divided among his
five children,* was that an opportunity presented itself for him to
bestow a ridiculously small dowry on Celia. However, having consented to
the marriage, he resolved to give a splendid /fete/, such as was now
seldom witnessed in Rome, throwing his doors open to all the rival
sections of society, inviting the sovereigns, and setting the palazzo
ablaze as in the grand days of old. In doing this he would necessarily
have to expend some of the money to which he clung, but a boastful spirit
incited him to show the world that he at any rate had not been vanquished
by the financial crisis, and that the Buongiovannis had nothing to hide
and nothing to blush for. To tell the truth, some people asserted that
this bravado had not originated with himself, but had been instilled into
him without his knowledge by the quiet and innocent Celia, who wished to
exhibit her happiness to all applauding Rome.

* The Italian succession law is similar to the French. Children
cannot be disinherited. All property is divided among them,
and thus the piling up of large hereditary fortunes is
prevented.--Trans.

"Dear me!" said Narcisse, whom the throng prevented from advancing. "We
shall never get in. Why, they seem to have invited the whole city." And
then, as Pierre seemed surprised to see a prelate drive up in his
carriage, the /attache/ added: "Oh! you will elbow more than one of them
upstairs. The cardinals won't like to come on account of the presence of
the King and Queen, but the prelates are sure to be here. This, you know,
is a neutral drawing-room where the black and the white worlds can
fraternise. And then too, there are so few /fetes/ that people rush on
them."

He went on to explain that there were two grand balls at Court every
winter, but that it was only under exceptional circumstances that the
/patriziato/ gave similar /galas/. Two or three of the black /salons/
were opened once in a way towards the close of the Carnival, but little
dances among intimates replaced the pompous entertainments of former
times. Some princesses moreover merely had their day. And as for the few
white /salons/ that existed, these likewise retained the same character
of intimacy, more or less mixed, for no lady had yet become the
undisputed queen of the new society.

"Well, here we are at last," resumed Narcisse as they eventually climbed
the stairs.

"Let us keep together," Pierre somewhat anxiously replied. "My only
acquaintance is with the /fiancee/, and I want you to introduce me."

However, a considerable effort was needed even to climb the monumental
staircase, so great was the crush of arriving guests. Never, in the old
days of wax candles and oil lamps, had this staircase offered such a
blaze of light. Electric lamps, burning in clusters in superb bronze
candelabra on the landings, steeped everything in a white radiance. The
cold stucco of the walls was hidden by a series of lofty tapestries
depicting the story of Cupid and Psyche, marvels which had remained in
the family since the days of the Renascence. And a thick carpet covered
the worn marble steps, whilst clumps of evergreens and tall spreading
palms decorated every corner. An affluence of new blood warmed the
antique mansion that evening; there was a resurrection of life, so to
say, as the women surged up the staircase, smiling and perfumed,
bare-shouldered, and sparkling with diamonds.

At the entrance of the first reception-room Pierre at once perceived
Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, standing side by side and receiving
their guests. The Prince, a tall, slim man with fair complexion and hair
turning grey, had the pale northern eyes of his American mother in an
energetic face such as became a former captain of the popes. The
Princess, with small, delicate, and rounded features, looked barely
thirty, though she had really passed her fortieth year. And still pretty,
displaying a smiling serenity which nothing could disconcert, she purely
and simply basked in self-adoration. Her gown was of pink satin, and a
marvellous parure of large rubies set flamelets about her dainty neck and
in her fine, fair hair. Of her five children, her son, the eldest, was
travelling, and three of the girls, mere children, were still at school,
so that only Celia was present, Celia in a modest gown of white muslin,
fair like her mother, quite bewitching with her large innocent eyes and
her candid lips, and retaining to the very end of her love story the
semblance of a closed lily of impenetrable, virginal mysteriousness. The
Saccos had but just arrived, and Attilio, in his simple lieutenant's
uniform, had remained near his betrothed, so naively and openly delighted
with his great happiness that his handsome face, with its caressing mouth
and brave eyes, was quite resplendent with youth and strength. Standing
there, near one another, in the triumph of their passion they appeared
like life's very joy and health, like the personification of hope in the
morrow's promises; and the entering guests who saw them could not refrain
from smiling and feeling moved, momentarily forgetting their loquacious
and malicious curiosity to give their hearts to those chosen ones of love
who looked so handsome and so enraptured.

Narcisse stepped forward in order to present Pierre, but Celia
anticipated him. Going to meet the young priest she led him to her father
and mother, saying: "Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre Froment, a friend of my dear
Benedetta." Ceremonious salutations followed. Then the young girl, whose
graciousness greatly touched Pierre, said to him: "Benedetta is coming
with her aunt and Dario. She must be very happy this evening! And you
will also see how beautiful she will be."

Pierre and Narcisse next began to congratulate her, but they could not
remain there, the throng was ever jostling them; and the Prince and
Princess, quite lost in the crush, had barely time to answer the many
salutations with amiable, continuous nods. And Celia, after conducting
the two friends to Attilio, was obliged to return to her parents so as to
take her place beside them as the little queen of the /fete/.

Narcisse was already slightly acquainted with Attilio, and so fresh
congratulations ensued. Then the two friends manoeuvred to find a spot
where they might momentarily tarry and contemplate the spectacle which
this first /salon/ presented. It was a vast hall, hung with green velvet
broidered with golden flowers, and contained a very remarkable collection
of weapons and armour, breast-plates, battle-axes, and swords, almost all
of which had belonged to the Buongiovannis of the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries. And amidst those stern implements of war there was a lovely
sedan-chair of the last century, gilded and decorated with delicate
paintings. It was in this chair that the Prince's great-grandmother, the
celebrated Bettina, whose beauty was historical, had usually been carried
to mass. On the walls, moreover, there were numerous historical
paintings: battles, peace congresses, and royal receptions in which the
Buongiovannis had taken part, without counting the many family portraits,
tall and proud figures of sea-captains, commanders in the field, great
dignitaries of the Church, prelates and cardinals, amongst whom, in the
place of honour, appeared the family pope, the white-robed Buongiovanni
whose accession to the pontifical throne had enriched a long line of
descendants. And it was among those armours, near that coquettish sedan,
and below those antique portraits, that the Saccos, husband and wife, had
in their turn just halted, at a few steps from the master and mistress of
the house, in order to secure their share of congratulations and bows.

"Look over there!" Narcisse whispered to Pierre, "those are the Saccos in
front of us, that dark little fellow and the lady in mauve silk."

Pierre promptly recognised the bright face and pleasant smile of Stefana,
whom he had already met at old Orlando's. But he was more interested in
her husband, a dark dry man, with big eyes, sallow complexion, prominent
chin, and vulturine nose. Like some gay Neapolitan "Pulcinello," he was
dancing, shouting, and displaying such infectious good humour that it
spread to all around him. He possessed a wonderful gift of speech, with a
voice that was unrivalled as an instrument of fascination and conquest;
and on seeing how easily he ingratiated himself with the people in that
drawing-room, one could understand his lightning-like successes in the
political world. He had manoeuvered with rare skill in the matter of his
son's marriage, affecting such exaggerated delicacy of feeling as to set
himself against the lovers, and declare that he would never consent to
their union, as he had no desire to be accused of stealing a dowry and a
title. As a matter of fact, he had only yielded after the Buongiovannis
had given their consent, and even then he had desired to take the opinion
of old Orlando, whose lofty integrity was proverbial. However, he knew
right well that he would secure the old hero's approval in this
particular affair, for Orlando made no secret of his opinion that the
Buongiovannis ought to be glad to admit his grand-nephew into their
family, as that handsome young fellow, with brave and healthy heart,
would help to regenerate their impoverished blood. And throughout the
whole affair, Sacco had shrewdly availed himself of Orlando's famous
name, for ever talking of the relationship between them, and displaying
filial veneration for this glorious founder of the country, as if indeed
he had no suspicion that the latter despised and execrated him and
mourned his accession to power in the conviction that he would lead Italy
to shame and ruin.

"Ah!" resumed Narcisse addressing Pierre, "he's one of those supple,
practical men who care nothing for a smack in the face. It seems that
unscrupulous individuals like himself become necessary when states get
into trouble and have to pass through political, financial, and moral
crises. It is said that Sacco with his imperturbable assurance and
ingenious and resourceful mind has quite won the King's favour. Just look
at him! Why, with that crowd of courtiers round him, one might think him
the master of this palace!"

And indeed the guests, after passing the Prince and Princess with a bow,
at once congregated around Sacco, for he represented power, emoluments,
pensions, and crosses; and if folks still smiled at seeing his dark,
turbulent, and scraggy figure amidst that framework of family portraits
which proclaimed the mighty ancestry of the Buongiovannis, they none the
less worshipped him as the personification of the new power, the
democratic force which was confusedly rising even from the old Roman soil
where the /patriziato/ lay in ruins.

"What a crowd!" muttered Pierre. "Who are all these people?"

"Oh!" replied Narcisse, "it is a regular mixture. These people belong
neither to the black nor the white world; they form a grey world as it
were. The evolution was certain; a man like Cardinal Boccanera may retain
an uncompromising attitude, but a whole city, a nation can't. The Pope
alone will always say no and remain immutable. But everything around him
progresses and undergoes transformation, so that in spite of all
resistance, Rome will become Italian in a few years' time. Even now,
whenever a prince has two sons only one of them remains on the side of
the Vatican, the other goes over to the Quirinal. People must live, you
see; and the great families threatened with annihilation have not
sufficient heroism to carry obstinacy to the point of suicide. And I have
already told you that we are here on neutral ground, for Prince
Buongiovanni was one of the first to realise the necessity of
conciliation. He feels that his fortune is perishing, he does not care to
risk it either in industry or in speculation, and already sees it
portioned out among his five children, by whose descendants it will be
yet further divided; and this is why he prudently makes advances to the
King without, however, breaking with the Pope. In this /salon/,
therefore, you see a perfect picture of the /debacle/, the confusion
which reigns in the Prince's ideas and opinions." Narcisse paused, and
then began to name some of the persons who were coming in. "There's a
general," said he, "who has become very popular since his last campaign
in Africa. There will be a great many military men here this evening, for
all Attilio's superiors have been invited, so as to give the young man an
/entourage/ of glory. Ah! and there's the German ambassador. I fancy that
nearly all the Corps Diplomatique will come on account of their
Majesties' presence. But, by way of contrast, just look at that stout
fellow yonder. He's a very influential deputy, a /parvenu/ of the new
middle class. Thirty years ago he was merely one of Prince Albertini's
farmers, one of those /mercanti di campagna/ who go about the environs of
Rome in stout boots and a soft felt hat. And now look at that prelate
coming in--"

"Oh! I know him," Pierre interrupted. "He's Monsignor Fornaro."

"Exactly, Monsignor Fornaro, a personage of some importance. You told me,
I remember, that he is the reporter of the Congregation in that affair of
your book. A most delightful man! Did you see how he bowed to the
Princess? And what a noble and graceful bearing he has in his little
mantle of violet silk!"

Then Narcisse went on enumerating the princes and princesses, the dukes
and duchesses, the politicians and functionaries, the diplomatists and
ministers, and the officers and well-to-do middle-class people, who of
themselves made up a most wonderful medley of guests, to say nothing of
the representatives of the various foreign colonies, English people,
Americans, Germans, Spaniards, and Russians, in a word, all ancient
Europe, and both Americas. And afterwards the young man reverted to the
Saccos, to the little Signora Sacco in particular, in order to tell
Pierre of the heroic efforts which she had made to open a /salon/ for the
purpose of assisting her husband's ambition. Gentle and modest as she
seemed, she was also very shrewd, endowed with genuine qualities,
Piedmontese patience and strength of resistance, orderly habits and
thriftiness. And thus it was she who re-established the equilibrium in
household affairs which her husband by his exuberance so often disturbed.
He was indeed greatly indebted to her, though nobody suspected it. At the
same time, however, she had so far failed in her attempts to establish a
white /salon/ which should take the lead in influencing opinion. Only the
people of her own set visited her, not a single prince ever came, and her
Monday dances were the same as in a score of other middle-class homes,
having no brilliancy and no importance. In fact, the real white /salon/,
which should guide men and things and sway all Rome was still in
dreamland.

"Just notice her keen smile as she examines everything here," resumed
Narcisse. "She's teaching herself and forming plans, I'm sure of it. Now
that she is about to be connected with a princely family she probably
hopes to receive some of the best society."

Large as was the room, the crowd in it had by this time grown so dense
that the two friends were pressed back to a wall, and felt almost
stifled. The /attache/ therefore decided to lead the priest elsewhere,
and as they walked along he gave him some particulars concerning the
palace, which was one of the most sumptuous in Rome, and renowned for the
magnificence of its reception-rooms. Dancing took place in the picture
gallery, a superb apartment more than sixty feet long, with eight windows
overlooking the Corso; while the buffet was installed in the Hall of the
Antiques, a marble hall, which among other precious things contained a
statue of Venus, rivalling the one at the Capitol. Then there was a suite
of marvellous /salons/, still resplendent with ancient luxury, hung with
the rarest stuffs, and retaining some unique specimens of old-time
furniture, on which covetous antiquaries kept their eyes fixed, whilst
waiting and hoping for the inevitable future ruin. And one of these
apartments, the little Saloon of the Mirrors, was particularly famous. Of
circular shape and Louis XV style, it was surrounded by mirrors in
/rococo/ frames, extremely rich, and most exquisitely carved.

"You will see all that by and by," continued Narcisse. "At present we had
better go in here if we want to breathe a little. It is here that the
arm-chairs from the adjacent gallery have been brought for the
accommodation of the ladies who desire to sit down and be seen and
admired."

The apartment they entered was a spacious one, draped with the most
superb Genoese velvet, that antique /jardiniere/ velvet with pale satin
ground, and flowers once of dazzling brightness, whose greens and blues
and reds had now become exquisitely soft, with the subdued, faded tones
of old floral love-tokens. On the pier tables and in the cabinets all
around were some of the most precious curios in the palace, ivory
caskets, gilt and painted wood carvings, pieces of antique
plate--briefly, a collection of marvels. And several ladies, fleeing the
crush, had already taken refuge on the numerous seats, clustering in
little groups, and laughing and chatting with the few gentlemen who had
discovered this retreat of grace and /galanterie/. In the bright glow of
the lamps nothing could be more delightful than the sight of all those
bare, sheeny shoulders, and those supple necks, above whose napes were
coiled tresses of fair or raven hair. Bare arms emerged like living
flowers of flesh from amidst the mingling lace and silk of soft-hued
bodices. The fans played slowly, as if to heighten the fires of the
precious stones, and at each beat wafted around an /odore di femina/
blended with a predominating perfume of violets.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Narcisse, "there's our good friend Monsignor Nani
bowing to the Austrian ambassadress."

As soon as Nani perceived the young priest and his companion he came
towards them, and the trio then withdrew into the embrasure of a window
in order that they might chat for a moment at their ease. The prelate was
smiling like one enchanted with the beauty of the /fete/, but at the same
time he retained all the serenity of innocence, as if he had not even
noticed the exhibition of bare shoulders by which he was surrounded. "Ah,
my dear son!" he said to Pierre, "I am very pleased to see you! Well, and
what do you think of our Rome when she makes up her mind to give
/fetes/?"

"Why, it is superb, Monseigneur."

Then, in an emotional manner, Nani spoke of Celia's lofty piety; and, in
order to give the Vatican the credit of this sumptuous /gala/, affected
to regard the Prince and Princess as staunch adherents of the Church, as
if he were altogether unaware that the King and Queen were presently
coming. And afterwards he abruptly exclaimed: "I have been thinking of
you all day, my dear son. Yes, I heard that you had gone to see his
Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. Well, and how did he receive you?"

"Oh! in a most paternal manner," Pierre replied. "At first he made me
understand the embarrassment in which he was placed by his position as
protector of Lourdes; but just as I was going off he showed himself
charming, and promised me his help with a delicacy which deeply touched
me."

"Did he indeed, my dear son? But it doesn't surprise me, his Eminence is
so good-hearted!"

"And I must add, Monseigneur, that I came back with a light and hopeful
heart. It now seems to me as if my suit were half gained."

"Naturally, I understand it," replied Nani, who was still smiling with
that keen, intelligent smile of his, sharpened by a touch of almost
imperceptible irony. And after a short pause he added in a very simple
way: "The misfortune is that on the day before yesterday your book was
condemned by the Congregation of the Index, which was convoked by its
Secretary expressly for that purpose. And the judgment will be laid
before his Holiness, for him to sign it, on the day after to-morrow."

Pierre looked at the prelate in bewilderment. Had the old mansion fallen
on his head he would not have felt more overcome. What! was it all over?
His journey to Rome, the experiment he had come to attempt there, had
resulted in that defeat, of which he was thus suddenly apprised amidst
that betrothal /fete/. And he had not even been able to defend himself,
he had sacrificed his time without finding any one to whom he might
speak, before whom he might plead his cause! Anger was rising within him,
and he could not prevent himself from muttering bitterly: "Ah! how I have
been duped! And that Cardinal who said to me only this morning: 'If God
be with you he will save you in spite of everything.' Yes, yes, I now
understand him; he was juggling with words, he only desired a disaster in
order that submission might lead me to Heaven! Submit, indeed, ah! I
cannot, I cannot yet! My heart is too full of indignation and grief."

Nani examined and studied him with curiosity. "But my dear son," he said,
"nothing is final so long as the Holy Father has not signed the judgment.
You have all to-morrow and even the morning of the day after before you.
A miracle is always possible." Then, lowering his voice and drawing
Pierre on one side whilst Narcisse in an aesthetical spirit examined the
ladies, he added: "Listen, I have a communication to make to you in great
secrecy. Come and join me in the little Saloon of the Mirrors by and by,
during the Cotillon. We shall be able to talk there at our ease."

Pierre nodded, and thereupon the prelate discreetly withdrew and
disappeared in the crowd. However, the young man's ears were buzzing; he
could no longer hope; what indeed could he accomplish in one day since he
had lost three months without even being able to secure an audience with
the Pope? And his bewilderment increased as he suddenly heard Narcisse
speaking to him of art. "It's astonishing how the feminine figure has
deteriorated in these dreadful democratic days. It's all fat and horribly
common. Not one of those women yonder shows the Florentine contour, with
small bosom and slender, elegant neck. Ah! that one yonder isn't so bad
perhaps, the fair one with her hair coiled up, whom Monsignor Fornaro has
just approached."

For a few minutes indeed Monsignor Fornaro had been fluttering from
beauty to beauty, with an amiable air of conquest. He looked superb that
evening with his lofty decorative figure, blooming cheeks, and victorious
affability. No unpleasant scandal was associated with his name; he was
simply regarded as a prelate of gallant ways who took pleasure in the
society of ladies. And he paused and chatted, and leant over their bare
shoulders with laughing eyes and humid lips as if experiencing a sort of
devout rapture. However, on perceiving Narcisse whom he occasionally met,
he at once came forward and the /attache/ had to bow to him. "You have
been in good health I hope, Monseigneur, since I had the honour of seeing
you at the embassy."

"Oh! yes, I am very well, very well indeed. What a delightful /fete/, is
it not?"

Pierre also had bowed. This was the man whose report had brought about
the condemnation of his book; and it was with resentment that he recalled
his caressing air and charming greeting, instinct with such lying
promise. However, the prelate, who was very shrewd, must have guessed
that the young priest was already acquainted with the decision of the
Congregation, and have thought it more dignified to abstain from open
recognition; for on his side he merely nodded and smiled at him. "What a
number of people!" he went on, "and how many charming persons there are!
It will soon be impossible for one to move in this room."

All the seats in fact were now occupied by ladies, and what with the
strong perfume of violets and the exhalations of warm necks and shoulders
the atmosphere was becoming most oppressive. The fans flapped more
briskly, and clear laughter rang out amidst a growing hubbub of
conversation in which the same words constantly recurred. Some news,
doubtless, had just arrived, some rumour was being whispered from group
to group, throwing them all into feverish excitement. As it happened,
Monsignor Fornaro, who was always well informed, desired to be the
proclaimer of this news, which nobody as yet had ventured to announce
aloud.

"Do you know what is exciting them all?" he inquired.

"Is it the Holy Father's illness?" asked Pierre in his anxiety. "Is he
worse this evening?"

The prelate looked at him in astonishment, and then somewhat impatiently
replied: "Oh, no, no. His Holiness is much better, thank Heaven. A person
belonging to the Vatican was telling me just now that he was able to get
up this afternoon and receive his intimates as usual."

"All the same, people have been alarmed," interrupted Narcisse. "I must
confess that we did not feel easy at the embassy, for a Conclave at the
present time would be a great worry for France. She would exercise no
influence at it. It is a great mistake on the part of our Republican
Government to treat the Holy See as of no importance! However, can one
ever tell whether the Pope is ill or not? I know for a certainty that he
was nearly carried off last winter when nobody breathed a word about any
illness, whereas on the last occasion when the newspapers killed him and
talked about a dreadful attack of bronchitis, I myself saw him quite
strong and in the best of spirits! His reported illnesses are mere
matters of policy, I fancy."*

* There is much truth in this; but the reader must not imagine
that the Pope is never ill. At his great age, indispositions
are only natural.--Trans.

With a hasty gesture, however, Monsignor Fornaro brushed this importunate
subject aside. "No, no," said he, "people are tranquillised and no longer
talk of it. What excites all those ladies is that the Congregation of the
Council to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a great
majority."

Again did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see any
members of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he feared
that the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave his
word of honour that things were as he stated. "The news is certain," he
declared. "I had it from a member of the Congregation." And then, all at
once, he apologised and hurried off: "Excuse me but I see a lady whom I
had not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her."

He at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sit
down, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallant
courtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with a
pearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin.

"You know that person, don't you?" Narcisse inquired of Pierre. "No!
Really? Why, that is Count Prada's /inamorata/, the charming Lisbeth
Kauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It's her first appearance in
society since that event. She's a German, you know, and lost her husband
here. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal is
forgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one is
particularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which she
receives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As you
may imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuse
her!"

She looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, with
satiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, which
was renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silk
spangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, so
securely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and was
loved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarks
exchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to her
personal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talked
of the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood the
Church solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there came
stifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolent
serenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of Monsignor
Fornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily,
which she had lately sent to a fine-art show.

Ah! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Rome
with scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of its
termination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds had
long chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander,
endless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;
the Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage null
and void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome would
laugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed as
soon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. The
incidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada's feelings
revolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, the
Boccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the money
which they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinals
in order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they had
indirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma.
People said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs had
been expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known French
countess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount to
secure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father's need
was so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; it
merely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued waving
in the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as the
whispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders.

"Oh! how pleased the Contessina must be!" Pierre resumed. "I did not
understand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying when
we came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It is
doubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloistering
herself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning."

However, Lisbeth's eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as she
smiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her,
for, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her through
having visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a fresh
outburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowers
adorning the ladies' hair. People turned to see what was the matter, and
again did the hubbub increase. "Ah! it's Count Prada in person!" murmured
Narcisse, with an admiring glance. "He has a fine bearing, whatever folks
may say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid,
unscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!"

Prada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant.
And above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, he
really had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, stern
eyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Never
had a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth of
his voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, dived
into their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, and
fair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up to
her, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent,
inquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornaro
had made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a low
tone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for as
he again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and made
an involuntary gesture.

However, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasure
of the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he said
to the young priest with all his wonted /bravura/: "You recollect what I
told you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it's done, it seems,
they've annulled my marriage. It's such an impudent, such an imbecile
decision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!"

"Oh! the news is certain," Pierre made bold to reply. "It has just been
confirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of the
Congregation. And it is said that the majority was very large."

Prada again shook with laughter. "No, no," said he, "such a farce is
beyond belief! It's the finest smack given to justice and common-sense
that I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civil
courts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shall
amuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I'd marry her at Santa Maria
Maggiore with all possible pomp. And there's a dear little being in the
world who would take part in the /fete/ in his nurse's arms!"

He laughed too loud as he spoke, alluded in too brutal a fashion to his
child, that living proof of his manhood. Was it suffering that made his
lips curve upwards and reveal his white teeth? It could be divined that
he was quivering, fighting against an awakening of covert, tumultuous
passion, which he would not acknowledge even to himself.

"And you, my dear Abbe?" he hastily resumed. "Do you know the other
report? Do you know that the Countess is coming here?" It was thus, by
force of habit, that he designated Benedetta, forgetting that she was no
longer his wife.

"Yes, I have just been told so," Pierre replied; and then he hesitated
for a moment before adding, with a desire to prevent any disagreeable
surprise: "And we shall no doubt see Prince Dario also, for he has not
started for Naples as I told you. Something prevented his departure at
the last moment, I believe. At least so I gathered from a servant."

Prada no longer laughed. His face suddenly became grave, and he contented
himself with murmuring: "Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well,
we shall see them, we shall see them both!"

Then, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if
serious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making a
gesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he
stood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on
which, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly
enlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: "A legend avers that the fig
tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him
who may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give them
either to your servants or your fowls." Then he folded the paper,
fastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: "To his
most Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera." And
when he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breath
and once more called back his laugh.

A kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozen
him. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had felt
the need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, any
possible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas had
induced him to write those four lines without a moment's delay, on the
very spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a great
catastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that on
leaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note into
the letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was once
more easy in mind.

"Why, what is the matter with you, my dear Abbe?" he inquired on again
joining in the conversation of the two friends. "You are quite gloomy."
And on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, the
condemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him for
action if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, he
began to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in order
to continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. "Never mind, never mind,
don't worry yourself," said he, "one loses all one's strength by
worrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day.
An hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat into
victory!" He grew feverish as he spoke, and all at once added, "Come,
let's go to the ball-room. It seems that the scene there is something
prodigious."

Then he exchanged a last loving glance with Lisbeth whilst Pierre and
Narcisse followed him, the three of them extricating themselves from
their corner with the greatest difficulty, and then wending their way
towards the adjoining gallery through a sea of serried skirts, a billowy
expanse of necks and shoulders whence ascended the passion which makes
life, the odour alike of love and of death.

With its eight windows overlooking the Corso, their panes uncurtained and
throwing a blaze of light upon the houses across the road, the picture
gallery, sixty-five feet in length and more than thirty in breadth,
spread out with incomparable splendour. The illumination was dazzling.
Clusters of electric lamps had changed seven pairs of huge marble
candelabra into gigantic /torcheres/, akin to constellations; and all
along the cornice up above, other lamps set in bright-hued floral glasses
formed a marvellous garland of flaming flowers: tulips, paeonies, and
roses. The antique red velvet worked with gold, which draped the walls,
glowed like a furnace fire. About the doors and windows there were
hangings of old lace broidered with flowers in coloured silk whose hues
had the very intensity of life. But the sight of sights beneath the
sumptuous panelled ceiling adorned with golden roses, the unique
spectacle of a richness not to be equalled, was the collection of
masterpieces such as no museum could excel. There were works of Raffaelle
and Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, Velasquez and Ribera, famous works
which in this unexpected illumination suddenly showed forth, triumphant
with youth regained, as if awakened to the immortal life of genius. And,
as their Majesties would not arrive before midnight, the ball had just
been opened, and flights of soft-hued gowns were whirling in a waltz past
all the pompous throng, the glittering jewels and decorations, the
gold-broidered uniforms and the pearl-broidered robes, whilst silk and
satin and velvet spread and overflowed upon every side.

"It is prodigious, really!" declared Prada with his excited air; "let us
go this way and place ourselves in a window recess again. There is no
better spot for getting a good view without being too much jostled."

They lost Narcisse somehow or other, and on reaching the desired recess
found themselves but two, Pierre and the Count. The orchestra, installed
on a little platform at the far end of the gallery, had just finished the
waltz, and the dancers, with an air of giddy rapture, were slowly walking
through the crowd when a fresh arrival caused every head to turn. Donna
Serafina, arrayed in a robe of purple silk as if she had worn the colours
of her brother the Cardinal, was making a royal entry on the arm of
Consistorial-Advocate Morano. And never before had she laced herself so
tightly, never had her waist looked so slim and girlish; and never had
her stern, wrinkled face, which her white hair scarcely softened,
expressed such stubborn and victorious domination. A discreet murmur of
approval ran round, a murmur of public relief as it were, for all Roman
society had condemned the unworthy conduct of Morano in severing a
connection of thirty years to which the drawing-rooms had grown as
accustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted for
two months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long and
faithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched every
heart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victory
which the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta's
marriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm,
nothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorum
was preserved and good order re-established.

But there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seen
to enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference for
the ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage with
Prada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebrated
before one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of the
bravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst a
murmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio,
all hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondrous
happiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale after
his long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with the
fine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god,
bore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood of
the Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under her
casque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile,
that smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistibly
fascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to her
somewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomless
eyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth and
happiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown,
a plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that she
had remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of her
choice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom or
shoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, the
sovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled with
white. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. There
was simply a necklace falling about her /corsage/, but a necklace fit for
royalty, the famous pearl necklace of the Boccaneras, which she had
inherited from her mother, and which was known to all Rome--pearls of
fabulous size cast negligently about her neck, and sufficing, simply as
she was gowned, to make her queen of all.

"Oh!" murmured Pierre in ecstasy, "how happy and how beautiful she is!"

But he at once regretted that he had expressed his thoughts aloud, for
beside him he heard a low plaint, an involuntary growl which reminded him
of the Count's presence. However, Prada promptly stifled this cry of
returning anguish, and found strength enough to affect a brutish gaiety:
"The devil!" said he, "they have plenty of impudence. I hope we shall see
them married and bedded at once!" Then regretting this coarse jest which
had been prompted by the revolt of passion, he sought to appear
indifferent: "She looks very nice this evening," he said; "she has the
finest shoulders in the world, you know, and its a real success for her
to hide them and yet appear more beautiful than ever."

He went on speaking, contriving to assume an easy tone, and giving
various little particulars about the Countess as he still obstinately
called the young woman. However, he had drawn rather further into the
recess, for fear, no doubt, that people might remark his pallor, and the
painful twitch which contracted his mouth. He was in no state to fight,
to show himself gay and insolent in presence of the joy which the lovers
so openly and naively expressed. And he was glad of the respite which the
arrival of the King and Queen at this moment offered him. "Ah! here are
their Majesties!" he exclaimed, turning towards the window. "Look at the
scramble in the street!"

Although the windows were closed, a tumult could be heard rising from the
footways. And Pierre on looking down saw, by the light of the electric
lamps, a sea of human heads pour over the road and encompass the
carriages. He had several times already seen the King during the latter's
daily drives to the grounds of the Villa Borghese, whither he came like
any private gentleman--unguarded, unescorted, with merely an aide-de-camp
accompanying him in his victoria. At other times he drove a light phaeton
with only a footman in black livery to attend him. And on one occasion
Pierre had seen him with the Queen, the pair of them seated side by side
like worthy middle-class folks driving abroad for pleasure. And, as the
royal couple went by, the busy people in the streets and the promenaders
in the public gardens contented themselves with wafting them an
affectionate wave of the hand, the most expansive simply approaching to
smile at them, and no one importuning them with acclamations. Pierre, who
harboured the traditional idea of kings closely guarded and passing
processionally with all the accompaniment of military pomp, was therefore
greatly surprised and touched by the amiable /bonhomie/ of this royal
pair, who went wherever they listed in full security amidst the smiling
affection of their people. Everybody, moreover, had told him of the
King's kindliness and simplicity, his desire for peace, and his passion
for sport, solitude, and the open air, which, amidst the worries of
power, must often have made him dream of a life of freedom far from the
imperious duties of royalty for which he seemed unfitted.* But the Queen
was yet more tenderly loved. So naturally and serenely virtuous that she
alone remained ignorant of the scandals of Rome, she was also a woman of
great culture and great refinement, conversant with every field of
literature, and very happy in being so intelligent, so superior to those
around her--a pre-eminence which she realised and which she was fond of
showing, but in the most natural and most graceful of ways.

* King Humbert inherited these tastes from his father Victor
Emanuel, who was likewise a great sportsman and had a perfect
horror of court life, pageantry, and the exigencies of
politics.--Trans.

Like Pierre, Prada had remained with his face to the window, and suddenly
pointing to the crowd he said: "Now that they have seen the Queen they
will go to bed well pleased. And there isn't a single police agent there,
I'm sure. Ah! to be loved, to be loved!" Plainly enough his distress of
spirit was coming back, and so, turning towards the gallery again, he
tried to play the jester. "Attention, my dear Abbe, we mustn't miss their
Majesties' entry. That will be the finest part of the /fete/!"

A few minutes went by, and then, in the very midst of a polka, the
orchestra suddenly ceased playing. But a moment afterwards, with all the
blare of its brass instruments, it struck up the Royal March. The dancers
fled in confusion, the centre of the gallery was cleared, and the King
and Queen entered, escorted by the Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, who
had received them at the foot of the staircase. The King was in ordinary
evening dress, while the Queen wore a robe of straw-coloured satin,
covered with superb white lace; and under the diadem of brilliants which
encircled her beautiful fair hair, she looked still young, with a fresh
and rounded face, whose expression was all amiability, gentleness, and
wit. The music was still sounding with the enthusiastic violence of
welcome. Behind her father and mother, Celia appeared amidst the press of
people who were following to see the sight; and then came Attilio, the
Saccos, and various relatives and official personages. And, pending the
termination of the Royal March, only salutations, glances, and smiles
were exchanged amidst the sonorous music and dazzling light; whilst all
the guests crowded around on tip-toe, with outstretched necks and
glittering eyes--a rising tide of heads and shoulders, flashing with the
fires of precious stones.

At last the march ended and the presentations began. Their Majesties were
already acquainted with Celia, and congratulated her with quite
affectionate kindliness. However, Sacco, both as minister and father, was
particularly desirous of presenting his son Attilio. He bent his supple
spine, and summoned to his lips the fine words which were appropriate, in
such wise that he contrived to make the young man bow to the King in the
capacity of a lieutenant in his Majesty's army, whilst his homage as a
handsome young man, so passionately loved by his betrothed was reserved
for Queen Margherita. Again did their Majesties show themselves very
gracious, even towards the Signora Sacco who, ever modest and prudent,
had remained in the background. And then occurred an incident that was
destined to give rise to endless gossip. Catching sight of Benedetta,
whom Count Prada had presented to her after his marriage, the Queen, who
greatly admired her beauty and charm of manner, addressed her a smile in
such wise that the young woman was compelled to approach. A conversation
of some minutes' duration ensued, and the Contessina was favoured with
some extremely amiable expressions which were perfectly audible to all
around. Most certainly the Queen was ignorant of the event of the day,
the dissolution of Benedetta's marriage with Prada, and her coming union
with Dario so publicly announced at this /gala/, which now seemed to have
been given to celebrate a double betrothal. Nevertheless that
conversation caused a deep impression; the guests talked of nothing but
the compliments which Benedetta had received from the most virtuous and
intelligent of queens, and her triumph was increased by it all, she
became yet more beautiful and more victorious amidst the happiness she
felt at being at last able to bestow herself on the spouse of her choice,
that happiness which made her look so radiant.

But, on the other hand, the torture which Prada experienced now became
intense. Whilst the sovereigns continued conversing, the Queen with the
ladies who came to pay her their respects, the King with the officers,
diplomatists, and other important personages who approached him, Prada
saw none but Benedetta--Benedetta congratulated, caressed, exalted by
affection and glory. Dario was near her, flushing with pleasure, radiant
like herself. It was for them that this ball had been given, for them
that the lamps shone out, for them that the music played, for them that
the most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned them
with precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered to
the strains of the Royal March, for them that the /fete/ was becoming
like an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling,
appearing at that betrothal /gala/ like the good fairy of the nursery
tales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, this
wondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained their
apogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that woman
who had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who now
was about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insulting
victory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely did
his pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of the
Saccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the rough
conquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightful
climate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such a
sensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati in
connection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised that
his millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things were
going badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening,
amidst that /fete/ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the day
like one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pounced
upon under the flaming sun.

And the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King,
allying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Roman
aristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the national
funds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome and
Italy--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey,
for the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he were
being pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled and
escaped him, Sacco stole his millions, and Benedetta tortured his flesh,
stirring up that awful wound of unsatisfied passion which never would be
healed.

Again did Pierre hear that dull plaint, that involuntary despairing
growl, which had upset him once before. And he looked at the Count, and
asked him: "Are you suffering?" But on seeing how livid was the face of
Prada, who only retained his calmness by a superhuman effort, he
regretted his indiscreet question, which, moreover, remained unanswered.
And then to put the other more at ease, the young priest went on
speaking, venting the thoughts which the sight before him inspired: "Your
father was right," said he, "we Frenchmen whose education is so full of
the Catholic spirit, even in these days of universal doubt, we never
think of Rome otherwise than as the old Rome of the popes. We scarcely
know, we can scarcely understand the great changes which, year by year,
have brought about the Italian Rome of the present day. Why, when I
arrived here, the King and his government and the young nation working to
make a great capital for itself, seemed to me of no account whatever!
Yes, I dismissed all that, thought nothing of it, in my dream of
resuscitating a Christian and evangelical Rome, which should assure the
happiness of the world."

He laughed as he spoke, pitying his own artlessness, and then pointed
towards the gallery where Prince Buongiovanni was bowing to the King
whilst the Princess listened to the gallant remarks of Sacco: a scene
full of symbolism, the old papal aristocracy struck down, the /parvenus/
accepted, the black and white worlds so mixed together that one and all
were little else than subjects, on the eve of forming but one united
nation. That conciliation between the Quirinal and the Vatican which in
principle was regarded as impossible, was it not in practice fatal, in
face of the evolution which went on day by day? People must go on living,
loving, and creating life throughout the ages. And the marriage of
Attilio and Celia would be the symbol of the needful union: youth and
love triumphing over ancient hatred, all quarrels forgotten as a handsome
lad goes by, wins a lovely girl, and carries her off in his arms in order
that the world may last.

"Look at them!" resumed Pierre, "how handsome and young and gay both the
/fiances/ are, all confidence in the future. Ah! I well understand that
your King should have come here to please his minister and win one of the
old Roman families over to his throne; it is good, brave, and fatherly
policy. But I like to think that he has also realised the touching
significance of that marriage--old Rome, in the person of that candid,
loving child giving herself to young Italy, that upright, enthusiastic
young man who wears his uniform so jauntily. And may their nuptials be
definitive and fruitful; from them and from all the others may there
arise the great nation which, now that I begin to know you, I trust you
will soon become!"

Amidst the tottering of his former dream of an evangelical and universal
Rome, Pierre expressed these good wishes for the Eternal City's future
fortune with such keen and deep emotion that Prada could not help
replying: "I thank you; that wish of yours is in the heart of every good
Italian."

But his voice quavered, for even whilst he was looking at Celia and
Attilio, who stood smiling and talking together, he saw Benedetta and
Dario approach them, wearing the same joyful expression of perfect
happiness. And when the two couples were united, so radiant and so
triumphant, so full of superb and happy life, he no longer had strength
to stay there, see them, and suffer.

"I am frightfully thirsty," he hoarsely exclaimed. "Let's go to the
buffet to drink something." And, thereupon, in order to avoid notice, he
so manoeuvred as to glide behind the throng, skirting the windows in the
direction of the entrance to the Hall of the Antiques, which was beyond
the gallery.

Whilst Pierre was following him they were parted by an eddy of the crowd,
and the young priest found himself carried towards the two loving couples
who still stood chatting together. And Celia, on recognising him,
beckoned to him in a friendly way. With her passionate cult for beauty,
she was enraptured with the appearance of Benedetta, before whom she
joined her little lily hands as before the image of the Madonna. "Oh!
Monsieur l'Abbe," said she, "to please me now, do tell her how beautiful
she is, more beautiful than anything on earth, more beautiful than even
the sun, and the moon and stars. If you only knew, my dear, it makes me
quiver to see you so beautiful as that, as beautiful as happiness, as
beautiful as love itself!"

Benedetta began to laugh, while the two young men made merry. "But you
are as beautiful as I am, darling," said the Contessina. "And if we are
beautiful it is because we are happy."

"Yes, yes, happy," Celia gently responded. "Do you remember the evening
when you told me that one didn't succeed in marrying the Pope and the
King? But Attilio and I are marrying them, and yet we are very happy."

"But we don't marry them, Dario and I! On the contrary!" said Benedetta
gaily. "No matter; as you answered me that same evening, it is sufficient
that we should love one another, love saves the world."

When Pierre at last succeeded in reaching the door of the Hall of the
Antiques, where the buffet was installed, he found Prada there,
motionless, gazing despite himself on the galling spectacle which he
desired to flee. A power stronger than his will had kept him there,
forcing him to turn round and look, and look again. And thus, with a
bleeding heart, he still lingered and witnessed the resumption of the
dancing, the first figure of a quadrille which the orchestra began to
play with a lively flourish of its brass instruments. Benedetta and
Dario, Celia and Attilio were /vis-�-vis/. And so charming and
delightful was the sight which the two couples presented dancing in the
white blaze, all youth and joy, that the King and Queen drew near to them
and became interested. And soon bravos of admiration rang out, while from
every heart spread a feeling of infinite tenderness.

"I'm dying of thirst, let's go!" repeated Prada, at last managing to
wrench himself away from the torturing sight.

He called for some iced lemonade and drank the glassful at one draught,
gulping it down with the greedy eagerness of a man stricken with fever,
who will never more be able to quench the burning fire within him.

The Hall of the Antiques was a spacious room with mosaic pavement, and
decorations of stucco; and a famous collection of vases, bas-reliefs, and
statues, was disposed along its walls. The marbles predominated, but
there were a few bronzes, and among them a dying gladiator of extreme
beauty. The marvel however was the famous statue of Venus, a companion to
that of the Capitol, but with a more elegant and supple figure and with
the left arm falling loosely in a gesture of voluptuous surrender. That
evening a powerful electric reflector threw a dazzling light upon the
statue, which, in its divine and pure nudity, seemed to be endowed with
superhuman, immortal life. Against the end-wall was the buffet, a long
table covered with an embroidered cloth and laden with fruit, pastry, and
cold meats. Sheaves of flowers rose up amidst bottles of champagne, hot
punch, and iced /sorbetto/, and here and there were marshalled armies of
glasses, tea-cups, and broth-bowls, a perfect wealth of sparkling
crystal, porcelain, and silver. And a happy innovation had been to fill
half of the hall with rows of little tables, at which the guests, in lieu
of being obliged to refresh themselves standing, were able to sit down
and order what they desired as in a cafe.

At one of these little tables, Pierre perceived Narcisse seated near a
young woman, whom Prada, on approaching, recognised to be Lisbeth. "You
find me, you see, in delightful company," gallantly exclaimed the
/attache/. "As we lost one another, I could think of nothing better than
of offering madame my arm to bring her here."

"It was, in fact, a good idea," said Lisbeth with her pretty laugh, "for
I was feeling very thirsty."

They had ordered some iced coffee, which they were slowly sipping out of
little silver-gilt spoons.

"I have a terrible thirst, too," declared the Count, "and I can't quench
it. You will allow us to join you, will you not, my dear sir? Some of
that coffee will perhaps calm me." And then to Lisbeth he added, "Ah! my
dear, allow me to introduce to you Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, a young
French priest of great distinction."

Then for a long time they all four remained seated at that table,
chatting and making merry over certain of the guests who went by. Prada,
however, in spite of his usual gallantry towards Lisbeth, frequently
became absent-minded; at times he quite forgot her, being again mastered
by his anguish, and, in spite of all his efforts, his eyes ever turned
towards the neighbouring gallery whence the sound of music and dancing
reached him.

"Why, what are you thinking of, /caro mio/?" Lisbeth asked in her pretty
way, on seeing him at one moment so pale and lost. "Are you indisposed?"

He did not reply, however, but suddenly exclaimed, "Ah! look there,
that's the real pair, there's real love and happiness for you!"

With a jerk of the hand he designated Dario's mother, the Marchioness
Montefiori and her second husband, Jules Laporte--that ex-sergeant of the
papal Swiss Guard, her junior by fifteen years, whom she had one day
hooked at the Corso with her eyes of fire, which yet had remained superb,
and whom she had afterwards triumphantly transformed into a Marquis
Montefiori in order to have him entirely to herself. Such was her passion
that she never relaxed her hold on him whether at ball or reception, but,
despite all usages, kept him beside her, and even made him escort her to
the buffet, so much did she delight in being able to exhibit him and say
that this handsome man was her own exclusive property. And standing there
side by side, the pair of them began to drink champagne and eat
sandwiches, she yet a marvel of massive beauty although she was over
fifty, and he with long wavy moustaches, and proud bearing, like a
fortunate adventurer whose jovial impudence pleased the ladies.

"You know that she had to extricate him from a nasty affair," resumed the
Count in a lower tone. "Yes, he travelled in relics; he picked up a
living by supplying relics on commission to convents in France and
Switzerland; and he had launched quite a business in false relics with
the help of some Jews here who concocted little ancient reliquaries out
of mutton bones, with everything sealed and signed by the most genuine
authorities. The affair was hushed up, as three prelates were also
compromised in it! Ah! the happy man! Do you see how she devours him with
her eyes? And he, doesn't he look quite a /grand seigneur/ by the mere
way in which he holds that plate for her whilst she eats the breast of a
fowl out of it!"

Then, in a rough way and with biting irony, he went on to speak of the
/amours/ of Rome. The Roman women, said he, were ignorant, obstinate, and
jealous. When a woman had managed to win a man, she kept him for ever, he
became her property, and she disposed of him as she pleased. By way of
proof, he cited many interminable /liaisons/, such as that of Donna
Serafina and Morano which, in time became virtual marriages; and he
sneered at such a lack of fancy, such an excess of fidelity whose only
ending, when it did end, was some very disagreeable unpleasantness.

At this, Lisbeth interrupted him. "But what is the matter with you this
evening, my dear?" she asked with a laugh. "What you speak of is on the
contrary very nice and pretty! When a man and a woman love one another
they ought to do so for ever!"

She looked delightful as she spoke, with her fine wavy blonde hair and
delicate fair complexion; and Narcisse with a languorous expression in
his half-closed eyes compared her to a Botticelli which he had seen at
Florence. However, the night was now far advanced, and Pierre had once
more sunk into gloomy thoughtfulness when he heard a passing lady remark
that they had already begun to dance the Cotillon in the gallery; and
thereupon he suddenly remembered that Monsignor Nani had given him an
appointment in the little Saloon of the Mirrors.

"Are you leaving?" hastily inquired Prada on seeing him rise and bow to
Lisbeth.

"No, no, not yet," Pierre answered.

"Oh! all right. Don't go away without me. I want to walk a little, and
I'll see you home. It's agreed, eh? You will find me here."

The young priest had to cross two rooms, one hung with yellow and the
other with blue, before he at last reached the mirrored /salon/. This was
really an exquisite example of the /rococo/ style, a rotunda as it were
of pale mirrors framed with superb gilded carvings. Even the ceiling was
covered with mirrors disposed slantwise so that on every side things
multiplied, mingled, and appeared under all possible aspects. Discreetly
enough no electric lights had been placed in the room, the only
illumination being that of some pink tapers burning in a pair of
candelabra. The hangings and upholstery were of soft blue silk, and the
impression on entering was very sweet and charming, as if one had found
oneself in the abode of some fairy queen of the rills, a palace of limpid
water, illumined to its farthest depths by clusters of stars.

Pierre at once perceived Monsignor Nani, who was sitting on a low couch,
and, as the prelate had hoped, he was quite alone, for the Cotillon had
attracted almost everybody to the picture gallery. And the silence in the
little /salon/ was nearly perfect, for at that distance the blare of the
orchestra subsided into a faint, flute-like murmur. The young priest at
once apologised to the prelate for having kept him waiting.

"No, no, my dear son," said Nani, with his inexhaustible amiability. "I
was very comfortable in this retreat--when the press of the crowd became
over-threatening I took refuge here." He did not speak of the King and
Queen, but he allowed it to be understood that he had politely avoided
their company. If he had come to the /fete/ it was on account of his
sincere affection for Celia and also with a very delicate diplomatic
object, for the Church wished to avoid any appearance of having entirely
broken with the Buongiovanni family, that ancient house which was so
famous in the annals of the papacy. Doubtless the Vatican was unable to
subscribe to this marriage which seemed to unite old Rome with the young
Kingdom of Italy, but on the other hand it did not desire people to think
that it abandoned old and faithful supporters and took no interest in
what befell them.

"But come, my dear son," the prelate resumed, "it is you who are now in
question. I told you that although the Congregation of the Index had
pronounced itself for the condemnation of your book, the sentence would
only be submitted to the Holy Father and signed by him on the day after
to-morrow. So you still have a whole day before you."

At this Pierre could not refrain from a dolorous and vivacious
interruption.

"Alas! Monseigneur, what can I do?" said he; "I have thought it all over,
and I see no means, no opportunity of defending myself. How could I even
see his Holiness now that he is so ill?"

"Oh! ill, ill!" muttered Nani with his shrewd expression. "His Holiness
is ever so much better, for this very day, like every other Wednesday, I
had the honour to be received by him. When his Holiness is a little tired
and people say that he is very ill, he often lets them do so, for it
gives him a rest and enables him to judge certain ambitions and
manifestations of impatience around him."

Pierre, however, was too upset to listen attentively. "No, it's all
over," he continued, "I'm in despair. You spoke to me of the possibility
of a miracle, but I am no great believer in miracles. Since I am defeated
here at Rome, I shall go away, I shall return to Paris, and continue the
struggle there. Oh! I cannot resign myself, my hope in salvation by the
practice of love cannot die, and I shall answer my denouncers in a new
book, in which I shall tell in what new soil the new religion will grow
up!"

Silence fell. Nani looked at him with his clear eyes in which
intelligence shone distinct and sharp like steel. And amidst the deep
calm, the warm heavy atmosphere of the little /salon/, whose mirrors were
starred with countless reflections of candles, a more sonorous burst of
music was suddenly wafted from the gallery, a rhythmical waltz melody,
which slowly expanded, then died away.

"My dear son," said Nani, "anger is always harmful. You remember that on
your arrival here I promised that if your own efforts to obtain an
interview with the Holy Father should prove unavailing, I would myself
endeavour to secure an audience for you." Then, seeing how agitated the
young priest was getting, he went on: "Listen to me and don't excite
yourself. His Holiness, unfortunately, is not always prudently advised.
Around him are persons whose devotion, however great, is at times
deficient in intelligence. I told you that, and warned you against
inconsiderate applications. And this is why, already three weeks ago, I
myself handed your book to his Holiness in the hope that he would deign
to glance at it. I rightly suspected that it had not been allowed to
reach him. And this is what I am instructed to tell you: his Holiness,
who has had the great kindness to read your book, expressly desires to
see you."

A cry of joy and gratitude died away in Pierre's throat: "Ah!
Monseigneur. Ah! Monseigneur!"

But Nani quickly silenced him and glanced around with an expression of
keen anxiety as if he feared that some one might hear them. "Hush! Hush!"
said he, "it is a secret. His Holiness wishes to see you privately,
without taking anybody else into his confidence. Listen attentively. It
is now two o'clock in the morning. Well, this very day, at nine in the
evening precisely, you must present yourself at the Vatican and at every
door ask for Signor Squadra. You will invariably be allowed to pass.
Signor Squadra will be waiting for you upstairs, and will introduce you.
And not a word, mind; not a soul must have the faintest suspicion of
these things."

Pierre's happiness and gratitude at last flowed forth. He had caught hold
of the prelate's soft, plump hands, and stammered, "Ah! Monseigneur, how
can I express my gratitude to you? If you only knew how full my soul was
of night and rebellion since I realised that I had been a mere plaything
in the hands of those powerful cardinals. But you have saved me, and
again I feel sure that I shall win the victory, for I shall at last be
able to fling myself at the feet of his Holiness the father of all truth
and all justice. He can but absolve me, I who love him, I who admire him,
I who have never battled for aught but his own policy and most cherished
ideas. No, no, it is impossible; he will not sign that judgment; he will
not condemn my book!"

Releasing his hands, Nani sought to calm him with a fatherly gesture,
whilst retaining a faint smile of contempt for such a useless expenditure
of enthusiasm. At last he succeeded, and begged him to retire. The
orchestra was again playing more loudly in the distance. And when the
young priest at last withdrew, thanking him once more, he said very
simply, "Remember, my dear son, that only obedience is great."

Pierre, whose one desire now was to take himself off, found Prada almost
immediately afterwards in the first reception-room. Their Majesties had
just left the ball in grand ceremony, escorted to the threshold by the
Buongiovannis and the Saccos. And before departing the Queen had
maternally kissed Celia, whilst the King shook hands with
Attilio--honours instinct with a charming good nature which made the
members of both families quite radiant. However, a good many of the
guests were following the example of the sovereigns and disappearing in
small batches. And the Count, who seemed strangely nervous, and showed
more sternness and bitterness than ever, was, on his side, also eager to
be gone. "Ah! it's you at last. I was waiting for you," he said to
Pierre. "Well, let's get off at once, eh? Your compatriot Monsieur
Narcisse Habert asked me to tell you not to look for him. The fact is, he
has gone to see my friend Lisbeth to her carriage. I myself want a breath
of fresh air, a stroll, and so I'll go with you as far as the Via
Giulia."

Then, as they took their things from the cloak-room, he could not help
sneering and saying in his brutal way: "I saw your good friends go off,
all four together. It's lucky that you prefer to go home on foot, for
there was no room for you in the carriage. What superb impudence it was
on the part of that Donna Serafina to drag herself here, at her age, with
that Morano of hers, so as to triumph over the return of the fickle one!
And the two others, the two young ones--ah! I confess that I can hardly
speak calmly of /them/, for in parading here together as they did this
evening, they have shown an impudence and a cruelty such as is rarely
seen!" Prada's hands trembled, and he murmured: "A good journey, a good
journey to the young man, since he is going to Naples. Yes, I heard Celia
say that he was starting for Naples this evening at six o'clock. Well, my
wishes go with him; a good journey!"

The two men found the change delightful when they at last emerged from
the stifling heat of the reception-rooms into the lovely, cool, and
limpid night. It was a night illumined by a superb full moon, one of
those matchless Roman nights when the city slumbers in Elysian radiance,
steeped in a dream of the Infinite, under the vast vault of heaven. And
they took the most agreeable route, going down the Corso proper and then
turning into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

Prada had grown somewhat calmer, but remained full of irony. To divert
his mind, no doubt, he talked on in the most voluble manner, reverting to
the women of Rome and to that /fete/ which he had at first found
splendid, but at which he now began to rail.

"Oh! of course they have very fine gowns," said he, speaking of the
women; "but gowns which don't fit them, gowns which are sent them from
Paris, and which, of course, they can't try on. It's just the same with
their jewels; they still have diamonds and pearls, in particular, which
are very fine, but they are so wretchedly, so heavily mounted that they
look frightful. And if you only knew how ignorant and frivolous these
women are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface with
them, even religion: there's nothing beneath. I looked at them eating at
the buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening some
decorum was observed, there wasn't too much gorging. But at one of the
Court balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, and
everything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!"

To all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He was
wrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with the
Pope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrange
and picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantime
the footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear,
broad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlined
by the moonlight.

All at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious /bravura/ was
exhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessed
and paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coat
pocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:
"A legend avers that the fig-tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and
that its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become pope. Eat not
the poisoned figs, nor give them either to your servants or your fowls."
The note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompany
Pierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at the
Palazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that within
another ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power in
the world could prevent it, since such was his express determination.
Never would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned.

But he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and that
Dario had raised such a tempest of jealous hatred within him! For them he
forgot Lisbeth whom he loved, and even that flesh of his flesh, the child
of whom he was so proud. All sex as he was, eager to conquer and subdue,
he had never cared for facile loves. His passion was to overcome. And now
there was a woman in the world who defied him, a woman forsooth whom he
had bought, whom he had married, who had been handed over to him, but who
would never, never be his. Ah! in the old days, to subdue her, he would
if needful have fired Rome like a Nero; but now he asked himself what he
could possibly do to prevent her from belonging to another. That galling
thought made the blood gush from his gaping wound. How that woman and her
lover must deride him! And to think that they had sought to turn him to
ridicule by a baseless charge, an arrant lie which still and ever made
him smart, all proof of its falsity to the contrary. He, on his side, had
accused them in the past without much belief in what he said, but now the
charges he had imputed to them must come true, for they were free, freed
at all events of the religious bond, and that no doubt was their only
care. And then visions of their happiness passed before his eyes,
infuriating him. Ah! no, ah! no, it was impossible, he would rather
destroy the world!

Then, as he and Pierre turned out of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele to
thread the old narrow tortuous streets leading to the Via Giulia, he
pictured himself dropping the note into the letter-box at the palazzo.
And next he conjured up what would follow. The note would lie in the
letter-box till morning. At an early hour Don Vigilio, the secretary, who
by the Cardinal's express orders kept the key of the box, would come
down, find the note, and hand it to his Eminence, who never allowed
another to open any communication addressed to him. And then the figs
would be thrown away, there would be no further possibility of crime, the
black world would in all prudence keep silent. But if the note should not
be in the letter-box, what would happen then? And admitting that
supposition he pictured the figs placed on the table at the one o'clock
meal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there as
usual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples till
the evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, or
would only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would that
be? At this point Prada's clearness of vision failed him; again he
conjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on the
road from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart all
obstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figs
went ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand in
the world had power enough to prevent.

And at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretched
away in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as if
from a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under the
silver sky. Three o'clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felt
himself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorous
moan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which the
Count, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the third
time allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into a
sneering laugh, and pressing the priest's hands, exclaimed: "No, no, I am
not going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would think
that I had fallen in love with my wife again."

And thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clear
night, without once looking round.

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