Complete Works of Emile Zola (1430 page)

Pierre made a gesture of surrender, not wishing to sadden her by again pleading the cause of all the poor ones who at that very moment were somewhere agonising with physical or mental pain. But, all at once, through the luminous mild atmosphere a shadow seemed to fall, tingeing joy with sadness, the sunshine with despair. And the sight of the old sarcophagus, with its bacchanal of satyrs and nymphs, brought back the memory that death lurks even amidst the bliss of passion, the unsatiated kisses of love. For a moment the clear song of the water sounded in Pierre’s ears like a long-drawn sob, and all seemed to crumble in the terrible shadow which had fallen from the invisible.

Benedetta, however, caught hold of his hands and roused him once more to the delight of being there beside her. “Your pupil is rebellious, is she not, my friend?” said she. “But what would you have? There are ideas which can’t enter into our heads. No, you will never get those things into the head of a Roman girl. So be content with loving us as we are, beautiful with all our strength, as beautiful as we can be.”

She herself, in her resplendent happiness, looked at that moment so beautiful that he trembled as in presence of a divinity whose all-powerfulness swayed the world. “Yes, yes,” he stammered, “beauty, beauty, still and ever sovereign. Ah! why can it not suffice to satisfy the eternal longings of poor suffering men?”

“Never mind!” she gaily responded. “Do not distress yourself; it is pleasant to live. And now let us go upstairs, my aunt must be waiting.”

The midday meal was served at one o’clock, and on the few occasions when Pierre did not eat at one or another restaurant a cover was laid for him at the ladies’ table in the little dining-room of the second floor, overlooking the courtyard. At the same hour, in the sunlit dining-room of the first floor, whose windows faced the Tiber, the Cardinal likewise sat down to table, happy in the society of his nephew Dario, for his secretary, Don Vigilio, who also was usually present, never opened his mouth unless to reply to some question. And the two services were quite distinct, each having its own kitchen and servants, the only thing at all common to them both being a large room downstairs which served as a pantry and store-place.

Although the second-floor dining-room was so gloomy, saddened by the greeny half-light of the courtyard, the meal shared that day by the two ladies and the young priest proved a very gay one. Even Donna Serafina, usually so rigid, seemed to relax under the influence of great internal felicity. She was no doubt still enjoying her triumph of the previous evening, and it was she who first spoke of the ball and sung its praises, though the presence of the King and Queen had much embarrassed her, said she. According to her account, she had only avoided presentation by skilful strategy; however she hoped that her well-known affection for Celia, whose god-mother she was, would explain her presence in that neutral mansion where Vatican and Quirinal had met. At the same time she must have retained certain scruples, for she declared that directly after dinner she was going to the Vatican to see the Cardinal Secretary, to whom she desired to speak about an enterprise of which she was lady-patroness. This visit would compensate for her attendance at the Buongiovanni entertainment. And on the other hand never had Donna Serafina seemed so zealous and hopeful of her brother’s speedy accession to the throne of St. Peter: therein lay a supreme triumph, an elevation of her race, which her pride deemed both needful and inevitable; and indeed during Leo XIII’s last indisposition she had actually concerned herself about the trousseau which would be needed and which would require to be marked with the new Pontiff’s arms.

On her side, Benedetta was all gaiety during the repast, laughing at everything, and speaking of Celia and Attilio with the passionate affection of a woman whose own happiness delights in that of her friends. Then, just as the dessert had been served, she turned to the servant with an air of surprise: “Well, and the figs, Giacomo?” she asked.

Giacomo, slow and sleepy of notion, looked at her without understanding. However, Victorine was crossing the room, and Benedetta’s next question was for her: “Why are the figs not served, Victorine?” she inquired.

“What figs, Contessina?”

“Why the figs I saw in the pantry as I passed through it this morning on my way to the garden. They were in a little basket and looked superb. I was even astonished to see that there were still some fresh figs left at this season. I’m very fond of them, and felt quite pleased at the thought that I should eat some at dinner.”

Victorine began to laugh: “Ah! yes, Contessina, I understand,” she replied. “They were some figs which that priest of Frascati, whom you know very well, brought yesterday evening as a present for his Eminence. I was there, and I heard him repeat three or four times that they were a present, and were to be put on his Eminence’s table without a leaf being touched. And so one did as he said.”

“Well, that’s nice,” retorted Benedetta with comical indignation. “What
gourmands
my uncle and Dario are to regale themselves without us! They might have given us a share!”

Donna Serafina thereupon intervened, and asked Victorine: “You are speaking, are you not, of that priest who used to come to the villa at Frascati?”

“Yes, yes, Abbe Santobono his name is, he officiates at the little church of St. Mary in the Fields. He always asks for Abbe Paparelli when he calls; I think they were at the seminary together. And it was Abbe Paparelli who brought him to the pantry with his basket last night. To tell the truth, the basket was forgotten there in spite of all the injunctions, so that nobody would have eaten the figs to-day if Abbe Paparelli hadn’t run down just now and carried them upstairs as piously as if they were the Blessed Sacrament. It’s true though that his Eminence is so fond of them.”

“My brother won’t do them much honour to-day,” remarked the Princess. “He is slightly indisposed. He passed a bad night.” The repeated mention of Abbe Paparelli had made the old lady somewhat thoughtful. She had regarded the train-bearer with displeasure ever since she had noticed the extraordinary influence he was gaining over the Cardinal, despite all his apparent humility and self-effacement. He was but a servant and apparently a very insignificant one, yet he governed, and she could feel that he combated her own influence, often undoing things which she had done to further her brother’s interests. Twice already, moreover, she had suspected him of having urged the Cardinal to courses which she looked upon as absolute blunders. But perhaps she was wrong; she did the train-bearer the justice to admit that he had great merits and displayed exemplary piety.

However, Benedetta went on laughing and jesting, and as Victorine had now withdrawn, she called the man-servant: “Listen, Giacomo, I have a commission for you.” Then she broke off to say to her aunt and Pierre: “Pray let us assert our rights. I can see them at table almost underneath us. Uncle is taking the leaves off the basket and serving himself with a smile; then he passes the basket to Dario, who passes it on to Don Vigilio. And all three of them eat and enjoy the figs. You can see them, can’t you?” She herself could see them well. And it was her desire to be near Dario, the constant flight of her thoughts to him that now made her picture him at table with the others. Her heart was down below, and there was nothing there that she could not see, and hear, and smell, with such keenness of the senses did her love endow her. “Giacomo,” she resumed, “you are to go down and tell his Eminence that we are longing to taste his figs, and that it will be very kind of him if he will send us such as he can spare.”

Again, however, did Donna Serafina intervene, recalling her wonted severity of voice: “Giacomo, you will please stay here.” And to her niece she added: “That’s enough childishness! I dislike such silly freaks.”

“Oh! aunt,” Benedetta murmured. “But I’m so happy, it’s so long since I laughed so good-heartedly.”

Pierre had hitherto remained listening, enlivened by the sight of her gaiety. But now, as a little chill fell, he raised his voice to say that on the previous day he himself had been astonished to see the famous fig-tree of Frascati still bearing fruit so late in the year. This was doubtless due, however, to the tree’s position and the protection of a high wall.

“Ah! so you saw the tree?” said Benedetta.

“Yes, and I even travelled with those figs which you would so much like to taste.”

“Why, how was that?”

The young man already regretted the reply which had escaped him. However, having gone so far, he preferred to say everything. “I met somebody at Frascati who had come there in a carriage and who insisted on driving me back to Rome,” said he. “On the way we picked up Abbe Santobono, who was bravely making the journey on foot with his basket in his hand. And afterwards we stopped at an
osteria
—” Then he went on to describe the drive and relate his impressions whilst crossing the Campagna amidst the falling twilight. But Benedetta gazed at him fixedly, aware as she was of Prada’s frequent visits to the land and houses which he owned at Frascati; and suddenly she murmured: “Somebody, somebody, it was the Count, was it not?”

“Yes, madame, the Count,” Pierre answered. “I saw him again last night; he was overcome, and really deserves to be pitied.”

The two women took no offence at this charitable remark which fell from the young priest with such deep and natural emotion, full as he was of overflowing love and compassion for one and all. Donna Serafina remained motionless as if she had not even heard him, and Benedetta made a gesture which seemed to imply that she had neither pity nor hatred to express for a man who had become a perfect stranger to her. However, she no longer laughed, but, thinking of the little basket which had travelled in Prada’s carriage, she said: “Ah! I don’t care for those figs at all now, I am even glad that I haven’t eaten any of them.”

Immediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she was at once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves, lingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. The priest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audience which he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o’clock, and he had seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endless afternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. “I’ll tell you what,” said she, “as we are all in such good spirits we mustn’t leave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must have finished lunch by now, and I’ll ask him to take us for a long drive along the Tiber.”

This fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; but just then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. “Isn’t the Princess here?” he inquired.

“No, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?”

“His Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising from table. Oh! it’s nothing — nothing serious, no doubt.”

Benedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: “What, Dario! Well, we’ll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l’Abbe. He mustn’t get ill if he is to take us for a drive!” Then, meeting Victorine on the stairs, she bade her follow. “Dario isn’t well,” she said. “You may be wanted.”

They all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnished bed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a whole month. It was reached by way of a small
salon
, and from an adjoining dressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal’s apartments, the relatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devised by subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, the passage gave access to his Eminence’s private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted, chairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar, and the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray.

On entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, still fully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera, who, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and lofty bearing — the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. “Why, what is the matter, Dario
mio
?” asked the young woman.

He smiled, eager to reassure her. One only noticed that he was very pale, with a look as of intoxication on his face.

“Oh! it’s nothing, mere giddiness,” he replied. “It’s just as if I had drunk too much. All at once things swam before my eyes, and I thought I was going to fall. And then I only had time to come and fling myself on the bed.”

Then he drew a long breath, as though talking exhausted him, and the Cardinal in his turn gave some details. “We had just finished our meal,” said he, “I was giving Don Vigilio some orders for this afternoon, and was about to rise when I saw Dario get up and reel. He wouldn’t sit down again, but came in here, staggering like a somnambulist, and fumbling at the doors to open them. We followed him without understanding. And I confess that I don’t yet comprehend it.”

So saying, the Cardinal punctuated his surprise by waving his arm towards the rooms, through which a gust of misfortune seemed to have suddenly swept. All the doors had remained wide open: the dressing-room could be seen, and then the passage, at the end of which appeared the dining-room, in a disorderly state, like an apartment suddenly vacated; the table still laid, the napkins flung here and there, and the chairs pushed back. As yet, however, there was no alarm.

Benedetta made the remark which is usually made in such cases: “I hope you haven’t eaten anything which has disagreed with you.”

The Cardinal, smiling, again waved his hand as if to attest the frugality of his table. “Oh!” said he, “there were only some eggs, some lamb cutlets, and a dish of sorrel — they couldn’t have overloaded his stomach. I myself only drink water; he takes just a sip of white wine. No, no, the food has nothing to do with it.”

“Besides, in that case his Eminence and I would also have felt indisposed,” Don Vigilio made bold to remark.

Dario, after momentarily closing his eyes, opened them again, and once more drew a long breath, whilst endeavouring to laugh. “Oh, it will be nothing;” he said. “I feel more at ease already. I must get up and stir myself.”