Complete Works of Emile Zola (1428 page)

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!”