PART II.
THE POPE
CHAPTER I.
CARDINAL LUIGI CAPRAROLA
The evening service in the Basilica of St. Peter was over; pilgrims, peasants and monks had departed; the last chant of the officiating Cardinal’s train still trembled on the incense-filled air and the slim novices were putting out the lights, when a man, richly and fantastically dressed, entered the bronze doors and advanced a little way down the centre aisle.
He bent his head to the altar, then paused and looked about him with the air of a stranger. He was well used to magnificence, but this first sight of the chapel of the Vatican caused him to catch his breath.
Surrounding him were near a hundred pillars, each of a different marble and carving; they supported a roof that glittered with the manifold colours of mosaic; the rich walls were broken by numerous chapels, from which issued soft gleams of purple and violet light; mysterious shrines of porphyry and cipolin, jasper and silver showed here and there behind red lamps. A steady glow of candles shone on a mosaic and silver arch, beyond which the high altar sparkled like one great jewel; the gold lamps on it were still alight, and it was heaped with white lilies, whose strong perfume was noticeable even through the incense.
To one side of the high altar stood a purple chair, and a purple footstool, the seat of the Cardinal, sometimes of the Pontiff.
This splendid and holy beauty abashed, yet inspired the stranger; he leant against one of the smooth columns and gazed at the altar.
The five aisles were crossed by various shafts of delicate trembling light that only half dispersed the lovely gloom; some of the columns were slender, some massive—the spoils from ancient palaces and temples, no two of them were alike; those in the distance took on a sea-green hue, luminous and exquisite; one or two were of deep rose red, others black or dark green, others again pure ghostly white, and all alike enveloped in soft shadows and quivering lights, violet, blue and red.
The novices were putting out the candles and preparing to close the church; their swift feet made no sound; silently the little stars about the high altar disappeared and deeper shadows fell over the aisles.
The stranger watched the white figures moving to and fro until no light remained, save the purple and scarlet lamps that cast rich rays over the gold and stained the pure lilies into colour, then he left his place and went slowly towards the door.
Already the bronze gates had been closed; only the entrance to the Vatican and one leading into a side street remained open.
Several monks issued from the chapels and left by this last; the stranger still lingered.
Down from the altar came the two novices, prostrated themselves, then proceeded along the body of the church.
They extinguished the candles in the candelabra set down the aisles, and a bejewelled darkness fell on the Basilica.
The stranger stood under a malachite and platinum shrine that blinded with the glimmer and sparkle of golden mosaic; before it burnt graduated tapers; one of the novices came towards it, and the man waiting there moved towards him.
“Sir,” he said in a low voice, “may I speak to you?”
He spoke in Latin, with the accent of a scholar, and his tone was deep and pleasant.
The novice paused and looked at him, gazed intently and beheld a very splendid person, a man in the prime of life, tall above the ordinary, and, above the ordinary, gorgeous to the eyes; his face was sunburnt to a hue nearly as dark as his light bronze hair, and his Western eyes showed clearly bright and pale in contrast; in his ears hung long pearl and gold ornaments that touched his shoulders; his dress was half Eastern, of fine violet silk and embroidered leather; he carried in his belt a curved scimitar inset with turkis, by his side a short gold sword, and against his hip he held a purple cap ornamented with a plume of peacocks’ feathers, and wore long gloves fretted in the palm with the use of rein and sword.
But more than these details did the stranger’s face strike the novice; a face almost as perfect as the masks of the gods found in the temples; the rounded and curved features were over-full for a man, and the expression was too indifferent, troubled, almost weak, to be attractive, but taken in itself the face was noticeably beautiful.
Noting the novice’s intent gaze, a flush crept into the man’s dark cheek.
“I am a stranger,” he said. “I want to ask you of Cardinal Caprarola. He officiated here to-day?”
“Yea,” answered the novice. “What can I tell you of him? He is the greatest man in Rome—now his Holiness is dying,” he added.
“Why, I have heard of him—even in Constantinople. I think I saw him—many years ago, before I went to the East.”
The novice began to extinguish the candles round the shrine.
“It may be, sir,” he said. “His Eminence was a poor youth as I might be; he came from Flanders.”
“It was in Courtrai I thought I saw him.”
“I know not if he was ever there; he became a disciple of Saint Ambrose of Menthon when very young, and after the saint’s death he joined the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris—you have heard that, sir?”
The stranger lowered his magnificent eyes.
“I have heard nothing—I have been away—many years; this man, Cardinal Caprarola—he is a saint also—is he not? … tell me more of him.”
The youth paused in his task, leaving half the candles alight to cast a trembling glow over the man’s gold and purple splendour; he smiled.
“Born of Dendermonde he was, sir, Louis his name, in our tongue Luigi, Blaise the name he took in the convent—he came to Rome, seven, nay, it must be eight years ago. His Holiness created him Bishop of Ostia, then of Caprarola, which last name he retains now he is Cardinal—he is the greatest man in Rome,” repeated the novice.
“And a saint?” asked the other with a wistful eagerness.
“Certes, when he was a youth he was famous for his holy austere life, now he lives in magnificence as befits a prince of the Church… he is very holy.”
The novice put out the remaining candles, leaving only the flickering red lamp.
“There was a great service here to-day?” the stranger asked.
“Yea, very many pilgrims were here.”
“I grieve that I was too late—think you Cardinal Caprarola would see one unknown to him?”
“If the errand warranted it, sir.”
From the rich shadows came a sigh.
“I seek peace—if it be anywhere it is in the hands of this servant of God—my soul is sick, will he help me heal it?”
“Yea, I do think so.”
The youth turned, as he spoke, towards the little side door.
“I must close the Basilica, sir,” he added.
The stranger seemed to rouse himself from depths of unhappy thoughts, and followed through the quivering gloom.
“Where should I find the Cardinal?” he asked.
“His palace lies in the Via di San Giovanni in Laterano, any will tell you the way, sir.” The novice opened the door. “God be with you.”
“And with you;” the stranger stepped into the open and the church door was locked behind him.
The purple after-glow still lingered over Rome; it was May and sweetly warm; as the stranger crossed the Piazza of St. Peter the breeze was like the touch of silk on his face; he walked slowly and presently hesitated, looking round the ruined temples, broken palaces and walls; there were people about, not many, mostly monks; the man glanced back at the Vatican, where the lights had begun to sparkle in the windows, then made his way, as rapidly as his scant knowledge served, across the superb and despoiled city.
He reached the Via Sacra; it was filled with a gay and splendid crowd, in chariots, on foot, and on horse, that mingled unheeding with the long processions of penitents winding in and out the throng, both here and in the Appian Way. He turned towards the Arch of Titus; the ladies laughed and stared as he passed; one took a flower from her hair and threw it after him, at which he frowned, blushed, and hastened on; he had never been equal to the admiration he roused in women, though he disliked neither them nor their admiration; he carried still on his wrist the mark of a knife left there by a Byzantine Princess who had found his face fair and his wooing cold; the laughter of the Roman ladies gave him the same feeling of hot inadequacy as when he felt that angry stab.
Passing the fountain of Meta Sudans and the remains of the Flavian Amphitheatre, he gained the Via di San Giovanni in Laterano leading to the Cælimontana Gate.
Here he drew a little apart from the crowd and looked about him; in the distance the Vatican and Castel San Angelo showed faintly against the remote Apennines; he could distinguish the banner of the Emperor hanging slackly in the warm air, the little lights in St. Peter’s.
Behind him rose the Janiculum Hill set with magnificent palaces and immense gardens, beneath the city lay dark in the twilight, and the trees rising from the silent temples made a fair murmur as they shook in their upper branches.
The stranger sighed and stepped again into the crowd, composed now of all ranks and all nationalities; he touched a young German on the shoulder.
“Which is Cardinal Caprarola’s palace?”
“Sir, the first.” He pointed to a gorgeous building on the slope of the hill.
The stranger caught a glimpse of marble porticoes half obscured by soft foliage.
With a “Thank you” he turned in the direction of the Palatine.
A few moments brought him to the magnificent gates of the Villa Caprarola; they stood open upon a garden of flowers just gleamingly visible in the dusk; the stranger hesitated in the entrance, fixing his gaze on the luminous white walls of the palace that showed between the boughs of citron and cypress.
This Cardinal, this Prince, who was the greatest man in Rome, which was to say in Christendom, had strangely captured his imagination; he liked to think of him as an obscure and saintly youth devoting his life to the service of God, rising by no arts or intrigues but by the pure will of his Master solely until he dominated the great Empire of the West; the stranger now at his beautiful gates had been searching for peace for many years, in many lands, and always in vain.
In Constantinople he had heard of the holy Frankish priest who was already a greater power than the old and slowly dying Pope, and it had comforted his tired heart to think that there was one man in a high place set there by God alone—one, too, of a pure life and a noble soul; if any could give him promise of salvation, if any could help him to redeem his wasted, weak life, it would be he—this Cardinal who could not know evil save as a name.
With this object he came to Rome; he wished to lay his sins and penitence at the feet of him who had been a meek and poor novice, and now by his virtues was Luigi Caprarola as mighty as the Emperor and as innocent as the angels.
Shame and awe for a while held him irresolute, how could he dare relate his miserable and horrible story to this saint? … but God had bidden him, and the holy were always the merciful.
He walked slowly between the dim flowers and bushes to the stately columned portico; with a thickly beating heart and a humble carriage he mounted the low wide steps and stood at the Cardinal’s door, which stood open on a marble vestibule dimly lit with a soft roseate violet colour; the sound of a fountain came to his ears, and pungent aromas mingled with the perfume of the blossoms.
Two huge negroes, wearing silver collars and tiger-skins, were on guard at each column of the door, and as the new-comer set foot within the portals one of them struck the silver bell attached to his wrist.
Instantly appeared a slim and gorgeous youth, habited in black, a purple flower fastened at his throat.
The stranger took off his cap.
“This is the residence of his Eminence, Cardinal Caprarola?” he asked, and the hint of hesitation always in his manner was accentuated.
“Yea,” the youth bowed gracefully; “I am his Eminence’s secretary, Messer Paolo Orsini.”
“I do desire to see the Cardinal.”
The young Roman’s dark eyes flashed over the person of the speaker.
“What is your purpose, sir?”
“One neither political nor worldly;” he paused, flushed, then added, “I would confess to his Eminence; I have come from Constantinople for that—for that alone.”
Paolo Orsini answered courteously.
“The Cardinal hears confession in the Basilica.”
“Certes, I know, yet I would crave to see him privately, I have matters relating to my soul to put before him, surely he will not refuse me.” The stranger’s voice was unequal, his bearing troubled, as the secretary curiously observed; penitents anxious for their souls did not often trouble the Cardinal, but Orsini’s aristocratic manner showed no surprise.
“His Eminence,” he said, “is ever loath to refuse himself to the faithful; I will ask him if he will give you audience; what, sir, is your quality and your name?”
“I am unknown here,” answered the other humbly; “lately have I come from Constantinople, where I held an office at the court of Basil, but by birth I am a Frank, of the Cardinal’s own country.”
“Sir, your name?” repeated the elegant secretary.
The stranger’s beautiful face clouded.
“I have been known by many… but let his Eminence have the truth—I am Theirry, born of Dendermonde.”
Paolo Orsini bowed again.
“I will acquaint the Cardinal,” he said. “Will you await me here?”
He was gone as swiftly and silently as he had come; Theirry put his hand to a hot brow and gazed about him.
The vestibule was composed of Numidian marble toned by time to a deep orange hue; the capitals of the Byzantine columns were encrusted with gold and supported a ceiling that glittered with violet glass mosaic; gilt lamps, screened with purple or crimson silk, cast a coloured glow down the sloping walls; a double staircase sprang from the serpentine and malachite floor, and where the gold hand-rails ended a silver lion stood on a cipolin pillar, holding between his paws a dish on which burnt aromatic incense; in the space between the staircases was an alabaster fountain—the basin, raised on the backs of other silver lions, and filled with iridescent sea shells, over which the water splashed and fell, changed by the lamplight to a glimmering rose purple.
Either side the fountain were placed great bronze bowls of roses, pink and white, and their petals were scattered over the marble pavement. Against the walls ran low seats, cushioned with dark rich tapestries, and above them, at intervals, marvellous antique statues showed white in deep niches.
Theirry had seen nothing more lavishly splendid in the East; Cardinal Caprarola was no ascetic whatever the youth Blaise may have been, and for a moment Theirry was bewildered and disappointed—could a saint live thus?
Then he reflected; good it was to consider that God, and not the Devil, who so often used beauty and wealth for his lures, had given a man this.
He walked up and down, none to watch him but the four silent and motionless negroes; the exquisite lights, the melody of the fountain, the sweet odours that rose from the slow-curling blue vapours, the gorgeous surroundings, lulled and soothed; he felt that at last, after his changeful wanderings, his restless unhappiness, he had found his goal and his haven.
In this man’s hands was redemption, this man was housed as befitted an Ambassador of the Lord of Heaven.
Paolo Orsini, in person as rare and splendid as the palace, returned.
“The Cardinal will receive you, sir,” he said; if the message astonished him he did not show it; he bowed before Theirry, and preceded him up the magnificent stairs.
The first landing was entirely hung with scarlet embroidery worked with peacocks’ feathers, and lit by pendent crystal lamps; at either end a silver archway led into a chamber.
The secretary, slim and black against the vivid colours, turned to the left; Theirry followed him into a long hall illuminated by bronze statues placed at intervals and holding scented flambeaux; between them were set huge porphyry bowls containing orange trees and oleanders; the walls and ceiling were of rose-hued marble inlaid with basalt, the floor of a rich mosaic.
Theirry caught his breath; the Cardinal must possess the fabled wealth of India.…
Paolo Orsini opened a gilt door and held it wide while Theirry entered, then he bowed himself away, saying—
“His Eminence will be with you presently.”
Theirry found himself in a fair-sized chamber, walls, floor and ceiling composed of ebony and mother-of-pearl.
Door and window were curtained by hangings of pale colours, on which were stitched in glittering silks stories from Ovid.
In the centre of the floor was a Persian carpet of a faint hue of mauve and pink; three jasper and silver lamps hung by silken cords from the ceiling and gave the pale glow of moonlight; an ivory chair and table raised on an ebony step stood in one corner; on the table was a sand clock, a blood-red glass filled with lilies and a gold book with lumps of turkis set in the covers; on the chair was a purple velvet cushion.
Opposite this hung a crucifix, a scarlet light burning beneath it; to this, the first holy thing Theirry had seen in the palace, he bent the knee.
Incense burnt in a gold brazier, the rich scent of it growing almost insupportable in the close confined space.
A silver footstool and a low ebony chair completed the furniture; against the wall facing the door was a gilt and painted shrine, of which the glittering wings were closed, but Theirry, turning from the crucifix, bent his head to that.
A great excitement crept into his blood, he could not feel that he was in a holy or sacred place, awaiting the coming of the saint who was to ease the burden of his sin, yet what but this feeling of relief, of righteous joy should be heating his blood now.…
The dim blue light, the strong perfumes were confusing to the senses; his pulses throbbed, his heart leapt; it did not seem as if he could speak to the Cardinal… then it seemed as if he could tell him everything and leave—absolved.
Yet—and yet—what was there in the place reviving memories that had been thrust deep into his heart for years… a certain room in an old house in Antwerp with the August sunlight over the figure of a young man gilding a devil… a chamber in the college at Basle and two youths bending over a witch’s fire… a dark wet night, and the sound of a weak voice coming to him… Frankfort and a garden blazing with crimson roses, other scenes, crowded, horrible… why did he think of them here… in this remote land, among strangers… here where he had come to purge his soul?
He began to murmur a prayer; giddiness touched him, and the blue light seemed to ripple and dim before his eyes.
He walked up and down the soft carpet clasping his hands.
All at once he paused and turned.
There was a shiver of silks, and the Cardinal stepped into the chamber.
Theirry sank on his knees and bowed his throbbing head.
The Cardinal slowly closed the door; a low rumble of thunder sounded; a great storm was gathering over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
CHAPTER II.
THE CONFESSION
“ ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ I give you greeting,” said the Cardinal in a low grave voice; he crossed to the ivory chair and seated himself.
Theirry lifted his head and looked eagerly at the man who he hoped would be his saviour.
The Cardinal was young, of the middle height, of a full but elegant person and conveying an impression of slightness and delicacy, though he was in reality neither small nor fragile. His face was pale, by this light only dimly to be seen; he wore a robe of vivid pink and violet silk that spread about the step on which his chair was placed; his hands were very beautiful, and ornamented with a variety of costly rings; on his head was a black skull-cap, and outside it his hair showed, thick, curling and of a chestnut-red colour; his foot, very small and well shaped, encased in a gold slipper, showed beneath his gown.
He caught hold of the ivory arms of his seat and looked straight at Theirry with intense, dark eyes.
“On what matters did you wish to speak with me?” he asked.
Theirry could not find words, a choking sense of horror, of something dreadful and blasphemous beyond all words clutched at his heart… he stared at the young Cardinal… he must be going mad.…
“The air—the incense makes me giddy, holy father,” he murmured.
The Cardinal touched a bell that stood by the sand clock, and motioned to Theirry to rise.
A beautiful boy in a white tunic answered the summons.
“Extinguish the incense,” said the Cardinal, “and open the window, Gian… it is very hot, a storm gathers, does it not?”
The youth drew apart the painted curtains and unlatched the window; as the cooler air was wafted into the close chamber Theirry breathed more freely.
“The stars are all hidden, your Eminence,” said Gian, looking at the night. “Certainly, it is a storm.”
He raised the brazier, shook out the incense, leaving it smouldering greyly, went on one knee to the Cardinal, then withdrew backwards.
As the door closed behind him Luigi Caprarola turned to the man standing humbly before him.
“Now can you speak?” he said gravely.
Theirry flushed.
“Scarcely have I the heart… your Eminence abashes me, I have a sickening tale to relate… hearing of you I thought, this holy man can give me peace, and I came half across the world to lay my troubles at your feet; but now, sir, now—I fear to speak, indeed, am scarce able, unreal and hideous it seems in this place.”
“In brief, sir,” said the Cardinal, “ye have changed your mind—I think ye were ever of a changeful disposition, Theirry of Dendermonde.”
“How does your Eminence know that of me?—it is, alas! true.”
“I see it in your face,” answered the Cardinal, “and something else I see—you are, and long have been, unhappy.”
“It is my great unhappiness that has brought me before your Eminence.”
Luigi Caprarola rested his elbow on the ivory chair arm and his cheek on his palm; the pale, dim light was full on his face; because of something powerful and intense that shone in his eyes Theirry did not care to look at him.
“Weary of sin and afraid of Heaven ye have come to seek absolution of me,” said the Cardinal.
“Yea, if it might be granted me, if by any penitence I might obtain pardon.”
Then Theirry, whose gaze was fixed on the ground as he spoke, had an extraordinary vivid impression that the Cardinal was laughing; he looked up quickly, only to behold Luigi Caprarola calm and grave.
A peal of thunder sounded, and the echoes hovered in the chamber.
“The confession must come before the absolution,” said the Cardinal. “Tell me, my son, what troubles you.”
Theirry shuddered.
“It involves others than myself.…”
“The seal of the confession is sacred, and I will ask for no names. Theirry of Dendermonde, kneel here and confess.”
He pointed to the ivory footstool close to his raised seat; Theirry came and humbly knelt.
The curtains fluttered in the hot wind, a flash of lightning darted in between them and mingled with the luminous colour cast by the faint lamps.
The Cardinal took up the gold book and laid it on his knee, his pink silk sleeve almost touched Theirry’s lips… his garments gave out a strange and beautiful perfume.
“Tell me of these sins of thine,” he said, half under his breath.
“I must go far back,” answered the penitent in a trembling voice, “for your Eminence to understand my sins—they had small beginnings.”
He paused and fixed his gaze on the Cardinal’s long fair fingers resting across the gold cover of the breviary.
“I was born in Dendermonde,” he said at length. “My father was a clerk who taught me his learning. When he died I came to Courtrai. I was eighteen, ambitious and clever beyond other scholars of my age. I wished above everything to go to one of the colleges.…”
He gave a hot sigh, as if he could still recall the passionate throb of that early desire.
“To gain a living I taught the arts I was acquainted with, among others I gave lessons in music to the daughter of a great lord in Courtrai… in this manner I came to know her brother, who was a young knight of lusty desires.”
The Cardinal was listening intently; his breathing seemed hardly to stir his robe; the hand on the gilt and turkis cover was very still.
Theirry wiped his damp forehead, and continued—
“He was, as I, restless and impatient with Courtrai… but, unlike me, he was innocent, for I,”—he moistened his lips—“I about this time began to practise—black magic.”
The thunder rolled sombrely yet triumphantly round the seven hills, and the first rain dashed against the window.
“Black magic,” repeated the Cardinal, “go on.”
“I read forbidden books that I found in an old library in the house of a Jew whose son I taught—I tried to work spells, to raise spirits; I was very desperate to better myself, I wished to become as Alcuin, as Saint Jerome—nay, as Zerdusht himself, but I was not skilful enough. I could do little or nothing.…”
The Cardinal moved slightly; Theirry, in an agony of old bitter memories, torn between horror and ease at uttering these things at last, continued in a low desperate voice—
“The young knight I have spoken of was in love with a mighty lady who came through Courtrai, he wished to follow her to Frankfort, she had given him hopes that she would find him service there—he asked me to bear him company, and I was glad to go… on the journey he told me of his marriage to the daughter of a neighbouring lord—and—though that is no matter here—he knew not if she were alive or dead, but he knew of the place where she had last been known of, and we went thither—it was in the old, half-deserted town of Antwerp.…”
“And the young knight hoped to find she was dead,” interrupted the Cardinal. “Was she, I wonder?”
“All the world thought so. It is a strange story, not for my telling; we found the house, and there we met a youth, who told us of the maid’s death and showed us her grave.…”
The thunder, coming nearer, shook the palace, and Theirry hid his face in his hands.
“What of this youth?” asked the Cardinal softly, “tell me of him.”
“He ruined me—by night he came to me and told me of his studies—black magic! black magic! … he cast spells and raised a devil… in a mirror he showed me visions, I swore with him faithful friendship… he ruined my soul—he sold some of the goods in the house, and we went together to Basle College.”
“Ye make him out your evil angel,” said the Cardinal. “Who was he?”
“I know not; he was high-born, I think, dainty in his ways and pleasant to look upon; my faltering soul was caught by his wiles, for he spoke of great rewards; I know not who he was, man or demon.… I think he loved me.”
There was a little silence in the chamber, then the Cardinal spoke.
“Loved you?—what makes you think he loved you?”
“Certes, he said so, and acted so… we went to Basle College—then, I also thought I loved him… he was the only thing in the world I had ever spoken to of my hopes, my desires… we continued our experiments… our researches were blasphemous, horrible, he was ever more skilful than I… then one day I met a lady, and then I knew myself hideous, but that very night I was drawn into the toils again… we cast a spell over another student—we were discovered and fled the college.”
A flash of lightning pierced the blue gloom like a sword rending silk; Theirry winced and shuddered as the thunder crashed overhead.
“Does your tale end here?” demanded the Cardinal.
“Alas! alas! no; I fell from worse sin to worse sin—we were poor, we met a monk, robbed him of God His moneys, and left him for dead… we came to Frankfort and lived in the house of an Egyptian hag, and I began to loathe the youth because the lady was ever in my thoughts, and he hated the lady bitterly because of this; he tempted me to do murder for gain, and I refused for her sake.” Theirry’s voice became hot and passionate. “Then I found that he was tempting her—my saint! but I had no fear that she would fall, and while she spurned him I thought I could also, ay, and I did… but she proved no stronger—she loved her steward, and bid him slay his wife: ‘You staked on her virtue,’ the Devil cried to me, ‘and you’ve lost! lost!’ ”
The sobs thickened his voice, and the bitter tears gathered in his beautiful eyes.
“I was the youth’s prey again, but now I hated him for his victory… we came back to Frankfort, and he was sweet and soft to me, while I was thinking how I might injure him as he had injured me… I dwelt on that picture of—her—dishonoured and undone, and I hated him, so waited my chance, and the night we reached the city I betrayed him for what he was, betrayed him to whom I had sworn friendship… well, half the town came howling through the snow to seize him, but we were too late, we found a flaming house… it burnt to ashes, he with it… I had had my revenge, but it brought me no peace. I left the West and went to the East, to India, Persia, to Greece, I avoided both God and the Devil, I dreaded Hell and dared not hope for Heaven, I tried to forget but could not, I tried to repent but could not. Good and evil strove for me, until the Lord had pity… I heard of you, and I have come to Rome to cast myself at your feet, to ask your aid to help throw myself on God His mercy.”
He rose with his hands clasped on his breast and his wild eyes fixed on the white face of Luigi Caprarola; thunder and lightning together were rending the hot air; Theirry’s gorgeous dress glimmered in gold and purple, his face was flushed and exalted.
“God wins, I think, this time,” he said in an unsteady voice. “I have confessed my sins, I will do penance for them, and die at least in peace—God and the angels win!”
The Cardinal rose; with one hand he held to the back of the ivory chair, with the other he clasped the golden book to his breast; the light shining on his red hair showed it in filmy brightness against the wall of ebony and mother-of-pearl; his face and lips were very pale above the vivid hue of his robe, his eyes, large and dark, stared at Theirry.
Again the lightning flashed between the two, and seemed to sink into the floor at the Cardinal’s feet.
He lifted his head proudly and listened to the following mighty roll; when the echoes had quivered again into hot stillness he spoke.
“The Devil and his legions win, I think,” he said. “At least they have served Dirk Renswoude well.”
Theirry fell back, and back, until he crouched against the gleaming wall.
“Cardinal Caprarola!” he cried fearfully. “Cardinal Caprarola, speak to me! even here I hear the fiends jibe!”
The Cardinal stepped from the ebony dais, his stiff robes making a rustling as he walked; he laughed.
“Have I learned a mien so holy my old comrade knows me not? Have I changed so, I who was dainty and pleasant to look upon, your friend and your bane?”
He paused in the centre of the room; the open window, the dark beyond it, the waving curtains, the fierce lightning made a terrific background for his haughty figure.
But Theirry moaned and whispered in his throat.
“Look at me,” commanded the Cardinal, “look at me well, you who betrayed me, am I not he who gilded a devil one August afternoon in a certain town in Flanders?”
Theirry drew himself up and pressed his clenched hands to his temples.
“Betrayed!” he shrieked. “It is I who am betrayed. I sought God, and have been delivered unto the Devil!”
The thunder crashed so that his words were lost in the great noise of it, the blue and forked lightning darted between them.
“You know me now?” asked the Cardinal.
Theirry slipped to his knees, crying like a child.
“Where is God? where is God?”
The Cardinal smiled.
“He is not here,” he answered, “nor in any place where I have been.”
An awful stillness fell after the crash of thunder; Theirry hid his face, cowering like a man who feels his back bared to the lash.
“Cannot you look at me?” asked the Cardinal in a half-mournful scorn; “after all these years am I to meet you—thus? At my feet!”
Theirry sprang up, his features mask-like in their unnatural distortion and lifeless hue.
“You do well to taunt me,” he answered, “for I am an accursed fool, I have been seeking for what does not exist—God!—ay, now I know that there is no God and no Heaven, therefore what matter for my soul… what matter for any of it since the Devil owns us all!”
The storm was renewed with the ending of his speech, and he saw through the open window the vineyards and gardens of the Janiculum Hill blue for many seconds beneath the black sky.
“Your soul!” cried the Cardinal, as before. “Always have you thought too much, and not enough, of that; you served too many masters and not one faithfully; had you been a stronger man you had stayed with your fallen saint, not spurned her, and then avenged her by my betrayal.”
He crossed to the window and closed it, the while the lightning picked him out in a fierce flash, and waited until the after-crash had rocked to silence, his eyes all the while not leaving the shrinking, horror-stricken figure of Theirry.
“Well, it is all a long while ago,” he said. “And I and you have changed.”
“How did you escape that night?” asked Theirry hoarsely; hardly could he believe that this man was Dirk Renswoude, yet his straining eyes traced in the altered older face the once familiar features.
As the Cardinal moved slowly across the gleaming chamber Theirry marked with a horrible fascination the likeness of the haughty priest to the poor student in black magic.
The straight dark hair was now curled, bleached and stained a deep red colour, after the manner of the women of the East; eyes and brows were the same as they had ever been, the first as bright and keen, the last as straight and heavy; his clear skin showed less pallor, his mouth seemed fuller and more firmly set, the upper lip heavily shaded with a dark down, the chin less prominent, but the line of the jaw was as strong and clear as ever; a handsomer face than it had been, a remarkable face, with an expression composed and imperious, with eyes to tremble before.
“I thought you burnt,” faltered Theirry.
“The master I serve is powerful,” smiled the Cardinal. “He saved me then and set me where I am now, the greatest man in Rome—so great a man that did you wish a second time to betray me you might shout the truth in the streets and find no one to believe you.”
The lightning darted in vain at the closed window, and the thunder rolled more faintly in the distance.
“Betray you!” cried Theirry, wild-eyed. “No, I bow the knee to the greatest thing I have met, and kiss your hand, your Eminence!”
The Cardinal turned and looked at him over his shoulder.
“I never broke my vows,” he said softly, “the vows of comradeship I made to you; just now you said you thought I loved you, then, I mean, in the old days…”—he paused and his delicate hand crept over his heart—“well, I… loved you… and it ruined me, as the devils promised. Last night I was warned that you would come to-day and that you would be my bane… well, I do not care since you are come, for, sir, I love you still.”
“Dirk!” cried Theirry.
The Cardinal gazed on him with ardent eyes.
“Do you suppose it matters to me that you are weak, foolish, or that you betrayed me? You are the one thing in all the world I care for.… Love! what was your love when you left her at Sebastian’s feet?—had she been my lady I had stayed and laughed at all of it.…”
“It is not the Devil who has taught you to be so faithful,” said Theirry.
For the first time a look of trouble, almost of despair, came into the Cardinal’s eyes; he turned his head away.
“You shame me,” continued Theirry; “I have no constancy in me; thinking of my own soul, almost have I forgotten Jacobea of Martzburg—and yet——”
“And yet you loved her.”
“Maybe I did—it is long ago.”
A bitter little smile curved the Cardinal’s lips.
“Is that the way men care for women?” he said. “Certes, not in that manner had I wooed and remembered, had I been a—a—lover.”
“Strange that we, meeting here like this, should talk of love!” cried Theirry, his heart heaving, his eyes dilating, “strange that I, driven round the world by fear of God, that I, coming here to one of God’s own saints, should find myself in the Devil’s net again; come, he has done much for you, what will he do for me?”
The Cardinal smiled sadly.
“Neither God nor Devil will do anything for you, for you are not single-hearted, neither constant to good nor evil; but I—will risk everything to serve your desires.”
Theirry laughed.
“Heaven has cast the world away and we are mad! You, you famous as a holy man—did you murder the young Blaise? I will back to India, to the East, and die an idol-worshipper. See yonder crucifix, it hangs upon your walls, but the Christ does not rise to smite you; you handle the Holy Mysteries in the Church and no angel slays you on the altar steps—let me away from Rome!”
He turned to the gilt door, but the Cardinal caught his sleeve.
“Stay,” he said, “stay, and all I promised you in the old days shall come true—do you doubt me? Look about you, see what I have won for myself.…”
Theirry’s beautiful face was flushed and wild.
“Nay, let me go.…”
The last rumble of the thunder crossed their speech.
“Stay, and I will make you Emperor.”
“Oh devil!” cried Theirry, “can you do that?”
“We will rule the world between us; yea, I will make you Emperor, if you will stay in Rome and serve me; I will snatch the diadem from Balthasar’s head and cast his Empress out as I ever meant to do, and you shall bear the sceptre of the Cæsars, oh, my friend, my friend!”
He held out his right hand as he spoke; Theirry caught it, crushed the fingers in his hot grasp and kissed the brilliant rings; the Cardinal flushed and dropped his lids over sparkling eyes.
“You will stay?” he breathed.
“Yea, my sweet fiend, I am yours, and wholly yours; lo! were not rewards such as these better worth crossing the world for than a pardon from God?”
He laughed and staggered back against the wall, his look dazed and reckless; the Cardinal withdrew his hand and crossed to the ivory seat.
“Now, farewell,” he said, “the audience has been over-long; I know where to find you, and in a while I shall send for you; farewell, oh Theirry of Dendermonde!”
He spoke the name with a great tenderness, and his eyes grew soft and misty.
Theirry drew himself together.
“Farewell, oh disciple of Sathanas! I, your humble follower, shall look for fulfilment of your promises.”
The Cardinal touched the bell; when the fair youth appeared, he bade him see Theirry from the palace.
Without another word they parted, Theirry with the look of madness on him.…
When Luigi Caprarola was alone he put his hand over his eyes and swayed backwards as if about to fall, while his breath came in tearing pants… with an effort he steadied himself, and, clenching his hands now over his heart, paced up and down the room, his Cardinal’s robe trailing after him, his golden rosary glittering against his knee.
As he struggled for control the gilt door was opened and Paolo Orsini bowed himself into his presence.
“Your Eminence will forgive me,” he began.
The Cardinal pressed his handkerchief to his lips.
“Well, Orsini?”
“A messenger has just come from the Vatican, my lord——”
“Ah!—his Holiness?”
“Was found dead in his sleep an hour ago, your Eminence.”
The Cardinal paled and fixed his burning eyes on the secretary.
“Thank you, Orsini; I thought he would not last the spring; well, we must watch the Conclave.”
He moved his handkerchief from his mouth and twisted it in his fingers.
The secretary was taking his dismissal, when the Cardinal recalled him.
“Orsini, it is desirable we should have an audience with the Empress, she has many creatures in the Church who must be brought to heel; write to her, Orsini.”
“I will, my lord.”
The young man withdrew, and Luigi Caprarola stood very still, staring at the gleaming walls of his gorgeous cabinet.
CHAPTER III.
THE EMPRESS
Ysabeau, wife of Balthasar of Courtrai and Empress of the West, waited in the porphyry cabinet of Cardinal Caprarola.
It was but little after midday, and the sun streaming through the scarlet and violet colours of the arched window, threw a rich and burning glow over the gilt furniture and the beautiful figure of the woman; she wore a dress of an orange hue; her hair was bound round the temples with a chaplet of linked plates of gold and hung below it in fantastic loops; wrapped about her was a purple mantle embroidered with ornaments in green glass; she sat on a low chair by the window and rested her chin on her hand. Her superb eyes were grave and thoughtful; she did not move from her reflective attitude during the time the haughty priest kept her waiting.
When at last he entered with a shimmer and ripple of purple silks, she rose and bent her head.
“It pleases you to make me attendant on your pleasure, my lord,” she said.
Cardinal Caprarola gave her calm greeting.
“My time is not my own,” he added. “God His service comes first, lady.”
The Empress returned to her seat.
“Have I come here to discuss God with your Eminence?” she asked, and her fair mouth was scornful.
The Cardinal crossed to the far end of the cabinet and slowly took his place in his carved gold chair.
“It is of ourselves we will speak,” he said, smiling. “Certes, your Grace will have expected that.”
“Nay,” she answered. “What is there we have in common, Cardinal Caprarola?”
“Ambition,” said his Eminence, “which is known alike to saint and sinner.”
Ysabeau looked at him swiftly; he was smiling with lips and eyes, sitting back with an air of ease and power that discomposed her; she had never liked him.
“If your talk be of policy, my lord, it is to the Emperor you should go.”
“I think you have as much influence in Rome as your husband, my daughter.”
There was a dazzling glitter of coloured light as the Empress moved her jewelled hands.
“It is our influence you wish, my lord—certes, a matter for the Emperor.”
His large keen eyes never left her face.
“Yea, you understand me.”
“Your Eminence desires our support in the Conclave now sitting,” she continued haughtily. “But have you ever shown so much duty to us, that we should wish to see you in St. Peter’s seat?”
She thought herself justified in speaking thus to a man whose greatness had always galled her, for she saw in this appeal for her help an amazing confession of weakness on his part.
But Luigi Caprarola remained entirely composed.
“You have your creatures in the Church,” he said, “and you intend one of them to wear the Tiara—there are sixteen Cardinals in the Conclave, and I, perhaps, have half of them. Your Grace, you must see that your faction does not interfere with what these priests desire—my election namely.”
“Must?” she repeated, her violet eyes dilating. “Your Eminence has some reputation as a holy man—and you suggest the corruption of the Conclave.”
The Cardinal leant forward in his chair.
“I do not play for a saintly fame,” he said, “and as for a corrupted Conclave—your Grace should know corruption, seeing that your art, and your art alone, achieved the election of Balthasar to the German throne.”
Ysabeau stared at him mutely; he gave a soft laugh.
“You are a clever woman,” he continued. “Your husband is the first King of the Germans to hold the Empery of the West for ten years and keep his heel on the home lands as well; but even your wits will scarcely suffice now; Bohemia revolts, and Basil stretches greedy fingers from Ravenna, and to keep the throne secure you desire a man in the Vatican who is Balthasar’s creature.”
The Empress rose and placed her hand on the gilded ribbing of the window-frame.
“Your Eminence shows some understanding,” she flashed, pale beneath her paint; “we gained the West, and we will keep the West, so you see, my lord, why my influence will be against you, not with you, in the Conclave.”
The Cardinal laid his hand lightly over his heart.
“Your Grace speaks boldly—you think me your enemy?”
“You declare yourself hostile, my lord.”
“Nay, I may be a good friend to you—in St. Peter’s.”
She smiled.
“The Conclave have not declared their decision yet, your Eminence; you are a great prince, but the Imperial party have some power.”
The Cardinal sat erect, and his intense eyes quelled her despite herself.
“Some power—which I ask you to exert in my behalf.”
She looked away, though angry with herself that his gaze overawed her.
“You have declared your ambition, my lord; your talents and your wealth we know—you are too powerful already for us to tolerate you as master in Rome.”
“Again you speak boldly,” smiled the Cardinal. “Perhaps too boldly—I think you will yet help me to the Tiara.”
Ysabeau gave a quick glance at his pale, handsome face framed in the red hair.
“Do you seek to bribe me, my lord?” She remembered the vast riches of this man and their own empty treasury.
“Nay,” said Luigi Caprarola, still smiling. “I threaten.”
“Threaten!” At once she was tempestuous, panting, furious; the jewels on her breast sparkled with her hastened breathing.
“I threaten that I will make you an outcast in the streets unless you serve me well.”
She was the tiger-cat now, ready to turn at bay, Marozia Porphyrogentris of Byzantium.
“I know that of you,” said the Cardinal, “that once revealed, would make the Emperor hurl you from his side.”
She sucked in her breath and waited.
“Melchoir of Brabant died by poison and by witchcraft.”
“All the world knows that”—her eyes were long and evil; “he was bewitched by a young doctor of Frankfort College who perished for the deed.”
The Cardinal looked down at the hand on his lap.
“Yea, that young doctor brewed the potion—you administered it.”
Ysabeau took a step forward into the room.
“You lie… I am not afraid of you—you lie most utterly.…”
Luigi Caprarola sprang to his feet.
“Silence, woman! speak not so to me! It is the truth, and I can prove it!”
She bent and crouched; the plates of gold on her hair shook with her trembling.
“You cannot prove it”—the words were forced from her quivering throat; “who are you that you should dare this—should know this?”
The Cardinal still stood and dominated her.
“Do you recall a youth who was scrivener to your Chamberlain and friend of the young doctor of rhetoric—Theirry his name, born of Dendermonde?”
“Yea, he is now dead or in the East.…”
“He is alive, and in Rome. He served you well once, Empress, when he came to betray his friend, and you were quick to seize the chance—it suited him then to truckle to you… I think he was afraid of you… he is not now; he knows, and if I bid him he will speak.”
“And what is his bare word against my oath and the Emperor’s love?”
“I am behind his word—I and all the power of the Church.”
Ysabeau answered swiftly.
“I am not of a nation easily cowed, my lord, nor are the people of our blood readily trapped—I can tear your reputed saintship to rags by spreading abroad this tale of how you tried to bargain with me for the Popedom.”
The Cardinal smiled in a way she did not care to see.
“But first I say to the Emperor—your wife slew your friend that she might be your wife, your friend Melchoir of Brabant—you loved him better than you loved the woman—will you not avenge him now?”
The Empress pressed her clenched hands against her heart and, with an effort, raised her eyes to her accuser’s masterful face.
“My lord’s love against it all,” she said hoarsely. “He knows Melchoir’s murderer perished in Frankfort in the flames, he knows that I am innocent, and he will laugh at you—weave what tissue of falsehoods you will, sir, I do defy you, and will do no bargaining to set you in the Vatican.”
The Cardinal rested his finger-tips on the arm of the chair, and looked down at them with a deepening smile.
“You speak,” he answered, “as one whom I can admire—it requires great courage to put the front you do on guilt—but I have certain knowledge of what I say; come, I will prove to you that you cannot deceive me—you came first to the house of a certain witch in Frankfort on a day in August, a youth opened the door and took you into a room at the back that looked on to a garden growing dark red roses; you wore, that day, a speckled green mask and a green gown edged with fur.”
He raised his eyes and looked at her; she moved back against the wall, and outspread her hands either side her on the gleaming porphyry.
“You threatened the youth as I threaten you now—you knew that he had been driven from Basle College for witchcraft, even as I know you compassed the death of your first husband, and you asked him to help you, even as I ask you to help me now.”
“Oh!” cried the Empress; she brought her hands to her lips. “How can you know this?”
The Cardinal reseated himself in his gold chair and marked with brilliant, merciless eyes the woman struggling to make a stand against him.
“Hugh of Rooselaare died,” he said with sudden venom—“died basely for justly accusing you, and so shall you die—basely—unless you aid me in the Conclave.”
He watched her very curiously; he wondered how soon he would utterly break her courage, what new turn her defiance would take; he almost expected to see her at his feet.
For a few seconds she was silent; then she came a step nearer; the veins stood out on her forehead and neck; she held her hands by her side—they were very tightly clenched, but her beautiful eyes were undaunted.
“Cardinal Caprarola,” she said, “you ask me to use my influence to bring about your election to the Popedom—knowing you as I know you now I cannot fail to see you are a man who would stop at nought… if I help you I shall help my husband’s enemy—once you are in the Vatican, how long will you tolerate him in Rome? You will be no man’s creature, and, I think, no man’s ally—what chance shall we have in Rome once you are master? Sylvester was old and meek, he let Balthasar hold the reins—will you do that?”
“Nay,” smiled the Cardinal. “I shall be no puppet Pope.”
“I knew it,” answered the Empress with a deep breath; “will you swear to keep my husband in his place?”
“That will not I,” said Luigi Caprarola. “If it please me I will hurl him down and set one of my own followers up. I have no love for Balthasar of Courtrai.”
Ysabeau’s face hardened with hate.
“But you think he can help you to the Tiara——”
“Through you, lady—you can tell him I am his friend, his ally, what you will—or you may directly influence the Cardinals, I care not, so the thing be done; what I shall do if it be not done, I have said.”
The Empress twisted her fingers together and suddenly laughed.
“You wish me to deceive my lord to his ruin, you wish me to place his enemy over him—now, when we are harassed, here and in Germany, you wish me to do a thing that may bring his fortunes to the dust—why, you are not so cunning, my lord, if you think you can make me the instrument of Balthasar’s downfall!”
The Cardinal looked at her with curiosity.
“Nevertheless your Grace will do it—sooner than let me say what I can say.”
She held up her head and smiled in his face.
“Then you are wrong; neither threats nor bribery can make me do this thing—say what you will to the Emperor, I am secure in his good affections; blight my fame and turn him against me if you can, I am not so mean a woman that fear can make me betray the fortunes of my husband and my son.”
The Cardinal lowered his eyes; he was very pale.
“You dare death,” he said, “a shameful death—if my accusation be proved—as proved it shall be.”
The Empress looked at him over her shoulder.
“Dare death!” she cried. “You say I have dared Hell for—him!—shall I be afraid, then, of paltry death?”
Luigi Caprarola’s breast heaved beneath the vivid silk of his robe.
“Of what are you afraid?” he asked.
“Of nothing save evil to my lord.”
The Cardinal’s lids drooped; he moistened his lips.
“This is your answer?”
“Yea, your Eminence; all the power I possess shall go to prevent you mounting the throne you covet so—and now, seeing you have that answer I will leave, my courtiers grow weary in your halls.”
She moved to the door, her limbs trembling beneath her, her brow cold, her hands chilled and moist, and her heart shivering in her body, yet with a regal demeanour curbing and controlling her fear.
As she opened it the Cardinal turned his head.
“Give me a little longer, your Grace,” he said softly. “I have yet something to say.”
She reclosed the door and stood with her back against it.
“Well, my lord?”
“You boast you are afraid of nothing—certes, I wonder—you defy me boldly and something foolishly in this matter of your guilt; will you be so bold in the matter of your innocence?”
He leant forward in his chair to gaze at her; she waited silently, with challenging eyes.
“You are very loyal to your husband, you will not endanger your son’s possible heritage; these things, you tell me, are more to you than shame or death; your lord is Emperor of the West, your son King of the Romans—well, well—you are too proud——”
“Nay,” she flashed, “I am not too proud for the wife of Balthasar of Courtrai and the mother of a line of Emperors—we are the founders of our house, and it shall be great to rule the world.”
The Cardinal was pale and scornful, his narrowed eyes and curving mouth expressed bitterness—and passion.
“Here is the weapon shall bring you to your knees,” he said, “and make your boasting die upon your lips—you are not the wife of Balthasar, and the only heritage your son will ever have is the shame and weariness of the outcast.”
She gathered her strength to meet this wild enormity.
“Not his wife… why, you rave… we were married before all Frankfort… not Balthasar’s wife!”
The Cardinal rose; his head was held very erect; he looked down on her with an intense gaze.
“Your lord was wed before.”
“Yea, I know… what of it?”
“This—Ursula of Rooselaare lives!”
Ysabeau gave a miserable little cry and turned about as if she would fall; she steadied herself with a great effort and faced the Cardinal desperately.
“She died in a convent at Flanders—this is not the truth——”
“Did I not speak truth before?” he demanded. “In the matter of Melchoir.”
A cry was wrung from the Empress.
“Ursula of Rooselaare died in Antwerp,” she repeated wildly—“in the convent of the White Sisters.”
“She did not, and Balthasar knows she did not—he thinks she died thereafter, he thinks he saw her grave, but he would find it empty—she lives, she is in Rome, and she is his wife, his Empress, before God and man.”
“How do you know this?” She made a last pitiful attempt to brave him, but the terrible Cardinal had broken her strength; the horror of the thing he said had chilled her blood and choked her heart-beats.
“The youth who helped you once, the doctor Constantine… from him Balthasar obtained the news of his wife’s death, for Ursula and he were apprenticed to the same old master—ask Balthasar if this be not so—well, the youth lied, for purposes of his own; the maid lived then, and is living now, and if I choose it she will speak.”
“It is not possible,” shuddered the Empress; “no—you wish to drive me mad, and so you torture me—why did not this woman speak before?”
The Cardinal smiled.
“She did not love her husband as you do, lady, and so preferred her liberty; you should be grateful.”
“Alive, you say,” whispered Ysabeau, unheeding, “and in Rome? But none would know her, she could not prove she was—his—Ursula of Rooselaare.”
“She has his ring,” answered Luigi Caprarola, “and her wedding deeds, signed by him and by the priest—there are those at Rooselaare who know her, albeit it is near twenty years since she was there; also she hath the deposition of old Master Lukas that she was a supposed nun when she came to him, and in reality the wife of Balthasar of Courtrai; she can prove no one lies buried in the garden of Master Lukas’s house, and she can bring forward sisters of the Order to which she belonged to show she did not die on her wedding day—this and further proof can she show.”
The Empress bowed her head on her breast and put her hand over her eyes.
“She came to you—sir, with… this tale?”
“That is for me to say or not as I will.”
“She must be silenced! By Christus His Mother she must be silent!”
“Secure me the casting vote in the Conclave and she will never speak.”
“I have said. I… cannot, for his sake, for my son’s sake——”
“Then I will bring forth Ursula of Rooselaare, and she shall prove herself the Emperor’s wife—then instantly must you leave him, or both of you will be excommunicated—your alternative will be to stay and be his ruin or go to obscurity, never seeing his face again; your son will no longer be King of the Romans, but a nameless wanderer—spurned and pitied by those who should be his subjects—and another woman will sit by Balthasar’s side on the throne of the West!”
The Empress set her shoulders against the door.
“And if my lord be loyal to me as I to him—to me and to my son——”
“Then will he be hounded from his throne, cast out by the Church and avoided by men; will not Lombardy be glad to turn against him and Bohemia?”
For a little while she was silent, and the Cardinal also as he looked at her, then she raised her eyes to meet his; steadily now she kept them at the level of his gaze, and her base, bold blood served her well in the manner of her speech.
“Lord Cardinal,” she said, “you have won; before you, as before the world, I stand Balthasar’s wife, nor can you fright me from that proud station by telling of—this impostor; yet, I am afraid of you; I dare not come to an issue with you, Luigi Caprarola, and to buy your silence on these matters I will secure your election—and afterwards you and my lord shall see who is the stronger.”
She opened the door, motioning him to silence.
“My lord, no more,” she cried. “Believe me, I can be faithful to my word when I am afraid to break it… and be you silent about this woman Ursula.” The Cardinal came from his seat towards her.
“We part as enemies,” he answered, “but I kiss the hem of your gown, Empress, for you are brave as you are beautiful.”
He gracefully lifted the purple robe to his lips.
“And above all things do I admire a constant woman;” his voice was strangely soft.
Her face, cold, imperial beneath the shining gold and glittering hair, did not change.
“But, alas, you hate me!” he suddenly laughed, raising his eyes to her.
“To-day I cannot speak further with you, sir.”
She moved away, steadying her steps with difficulty; the two chamberlains in the ante-chamber rose as she stepped out of the cabinet.
“Benedictus, my daughter,” smiled the Cardinal, and closed the door.
His face was flushed and bright with triumph; there was a curious expression in his eyes; he went to the window and looked out on purple Rome.
“How she loves him still!” he said aloud; “yet—why do I wonder?—is he not as fair a man as——” He broke off, then added reflectively, “Also, she is beautiful.”
His long fingers felt among his silk robes; he drew forth a little mirror and gazed at his handsome face with the darkened upper lip and tonsured head.
As he looked he smiled, then presently laughed.