He spoke well, with force and fervour, and Aubrey Leigh was for a moment impressed. After a slight pause however, he said,
“You admit the ignorance of human beings, and yet — you would keep them ignorant?”
“Keep them ignorant!” Gherardi laughed lightly. “That is more than any of us can do nowadays! Every liberty is afforded them to learn, — and if they still remain barbarous it is because they elect to be so. But OUR duty is to look after the ignorant more than the cultured! Quite true it is that the Pope lost a magnificent opportunity in the Dreyfus affair, — if he had spoken in favour of mercy and justice he would have won thousands of followers; being silent he has lost thousands. But this should be a great satisfaction to you, Mr. Leigh! For if the Holy Father had given an example to the Catholic clergy to act in the true Christian spirit towards Dreyfus, the Conversion of England might have been so grafted on enthusiastic impulse as to be a much nearer possibility than it is now!”
Aubrey was silent.
“Now, Mr. Leigh, I think you have gained sufficient insight into my views to judge me with perhaps greater favour than you were inclined to do at the beginning of our interview,” continued Gherardi, “I assure you that I shall watch your career with the greatest interest! You have embarked in a most hopeless cause, — you will try to help the helpless, and as soon as they are rescued out of trouble, they will turn and rend you, — you will try to teach them the inner mysteries of God’s working, and they will say you are possessed of a devil! You will endeavour to upset shams and hypocrisies, and the men of your press will write you down and say you are seeking advertisement and notoriety for yourself. Was there ever a great thinker left unmartyred? Or a great writer that has not been misunderstood and condemned? You wish to help and serve humanity! Enthusiast! You would do far better to help and serve the Church! For the Church rewards; humanity has cursed and killed every great benefactor it ever had INCLUDING CHRIST!”
The terrible words beat on Aubrey’s ears like the brazen clang of a tocsin, for he knew they were true. But he held his ground.
“There are worse things than death,” he said simply.
Gherardi smiled kindly.
“And there are worse things than life!” he said,
“Life holds a good many harmless enjoyments, which I am afraid you are putting away from you in your prime, for the sake of a mere chimera. But — after all, what does it matter! One must have a hobby! Some men like horse-racing, others book-collecting, — others pictures, — and so forth — you like the religious question! Well, no doubt it affords you a great many opportunities of studying character. I shall be very happy—” here he extended his hand cordially, “to show you anything that may be of interest to you in Rome, and to present you to any of our brethren that may assist you in your researches. I can give you a letter to Rampolla—”
Aubrey declined the offered introduction with a decided negative shake of his head.
“No,” he said, “I know Cardinal Bonpre; that is enough!”
“But there is a great difference between Rampolla and Bonpre,” said Gherardi, with twinkling eyes, “Bonpre is scarcely ever in Rome. He lives a life apart — and has for a long while been considered as a kind of saint from the privacy and austerity of his life. But he has heralded his arrival in the Eternal City triumphantly — by the performance of a miracle! What do you say to this? — you who would do away with things miraculous?”
“I say nothing till I hear,” answered Aubrey, “I must know what the nature of the so-called miracle is. I am a believer in soul-forces, and in the exhalation of spiritual qualities affecting or influencing others: but in this there is no miracle, it is simply natural law.”
“Well, you must interview the Cardinal yourself,” said Gherardi indulgently, “and tell me afterwards what you think about it, if indeed you think anything. But you will not find him at home this morning. He is summoned to the Vatican.”
“On account of the miracle? — or the scandal affecting the Abbe Vergniaud?” asked Aubrey.
“Both matters are under discussion, I believe,” replied Gherardi evasively, “But they are not in my province. Now, can I be of any further service to you, Mr. Leigh?”
“No. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time,” said Aubrey, “But I think I understand your views—”
“I hope you do,” interrupted Gherardi, “And that you will by and by grasp the fact that my views are shared by almost everyone holding any Church authority. But you must go about in Rome, and make enquiries for yourself . . . now, let me see! Do you know the Princesse D’Agramont?”
“No.”
“Oh, you must know her, — she is a great friend of Donna Sovrani’s, and a witty and brilliant personage in herself. She is rather of your way of thinking, and so is out of favour with the Church. But that will not matter to you; and you will meet all the dissatisfied and enthusiastic of the earth in her salons! I will tell her to send you a card.”
Aubrey said something by way of formal acknowledgment, and then took his leave. He was singularly depressed, and his face, always quick to show traces of thought, had somewhat lost its former expression of eager animation. The wily Gherardi had for the time so influenced his sensitive mind as to set it almost to the tune of the most despairing of Tennyson’s “Two Voices”,
“A life of nothings, nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.”
What was the use of trying to expound a truth, if the majority preferred a lie?
“Will one bright beam be less intense, When thy peculiar difference Is cancelled in the world of sense?”
And Gherardi noted the indefinable touch of fatigue that gave the slight droop of the shoulders and air of languor to the otherwise straight slim figure as it passed from his presence, — and smiled. He had succeeded in putting a check on unselfish ardour, and had thrown a doubt into the pure intention of enthusiastic toil. That was enough for the present. And scarcely had Aubrey crossed the threshold — scarcely had the echo of his departing footsteps died away — when a heavy velvet curtain in the apartment was cautiously thrust aside, and Monsignor Moretti stepped out of a recess behind it, with a dignity and composure which would have been impossible to any but an Italian priest convicted of playing the spy. Gherardi faced him confidently.
“Well?” he said, with a more exhaustive enquiry expressed in his look than in the simple ejaculation.
“Well!” echoed Moretti, as he slowly advanced into the centre of the room, “You have not done as much as I expected you would. Your arguments were clever, but not — to a man of his obstinacy, convincing.”
And sitting down, he turned his dark face and gleaming eyes full on his confrere, who with a shrug of his massive shoulders expressed in his attitude a disdainful relinquishment of the whole business.
“You have not,” pursued Moretti deliberately, “grasped anything like the extent of this man Leigh’s determination and indifference to results. Please mark that last clause, — indifference to results. He is apparently alone in the world, — he seems to have nothing to lose, and no one to care whether he succeeds or fails; — a most dangerous form of independence! And in his persistence and eloquence he is actually stopping — yes, I repeat it, — stopping and putting a serious check on the advancement of the Roman Catholic party. And of course any check just now means to us a serious financial loss both in England and America, — a deficit in Vatican revenues which will very gravely incommode certain necessary measures now under the consideration of His Holiness. I expected you to grasp the man and hold him, — not by intimidation but by flattery.”
“You think he is to be caught by so common a bait?” said Gherardi, “Bah! He would see through it at once!”
“Maybe!” replied Moretti, “But perhaps not if it were administered in the way I mean. You seem to have forgotten the chief influence of any that can be brought to bear upon the heart and mind of a man, — and that is, Woman.”
&n
bsp; Gherardi laughed outright.
“Upon my word I think it would be difficult to find the woman suited to this case!” he said. “But you who have a diplomacy deeper than that of any Jew usurer may possibly have one already in view?”
“There is now in Rome,” pursued Moretti, speaking with the same even deliberation of accent, “a faithful daughter of the Church, whose wealth we can to a certain extent command, and whose charm is unquestionable, — the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein—”
Gherardi started. Moretti eyed him coldly.
“You are not stricken surely by the childlike fascination with which this princess of coquettes rules her court?” he enquired sarcastically.
“I?” echoed Gherardi, shifting his position so that Moretti’s gaze could not fall so directly upon him. “I? You jest!”
“I think not!” said Moretti, “I think I know something about women — their capabilities, their passions, their different grades of power. Sylvie Hermenstein possesses a potent charm which few men can resist, and I should not wonder if you yourself had been occasionally conscious of it. She is one of those concerning whom other women say ‘they can see nothing in her’. Ah!” and Moretti smiled darkly, “What a compliment that is from the majority of women to one! This woman Sylvie is unique. Where is her beauty? You cannot say — yet beauty is her very essence. She cannot boast perfection of features, — she is frequently hidden away altogether in a room and scarcely noticed. And so she reminds me of a certain flower known to the Eastern nations, which is difficult to find, because so fragile and small that it can scarcely be seen, but when it is found, and the scent of it unwittingly inhaled, it drives men mad!”
Gherardi looked at him with a broadly wondering smile.
“You speak so eloquently,” he said, “that one would almost fancy—”
“Fancy nothing!” retorted Moretti quickly, “Fancy and I are as far apart as the poles, except in the putting together of words, in which easy art I daresay I am as great an adept as Florian Varillo, who can write verses on love or patriotism to order, without experiencing a touch of either emotion. What a humbug by the way, that fellow is!—” and Moretti broke off to consider this new point— “He rants of the honour of Italy, and would not let his finger ache for her cause! And he professes to love the ‘Sovrani’ while all Rome knows that Pon-Pon is his mistress!”
Gherardi wisely held his peace.
“The Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein is the little magic flower you must use;” resumed Moretti, emphasising his words with an authoritative movement of his hand, “Use her to madden Aubrey Leigh. Bring them together; — he will lose his head as surely as all men do when they come under the influence of that soft deep-eyed creature, with the full white breast of a dove, and the smile of an angel, — and remember, it would be an excellent thing for the Church if he could be persuaded to marry her, — there would be no more preaching then! — for the thoughts of love would outweigh the theories of religion.”
“You think it?” queried Gherardi dubiously.
“I know it!” replied Moretti rising, and preparing to take his departure, “But, — play the game cautiously! Make no false move. For — understand me well, this man Leigh must be silenced, or we shall lose England!”
And with these last words he turned abruptly on his heel and left the apartment.
XXII.
Cardinal Felix Bonpre sat alone in the largest and loneliest room of the large and lonely suite of rooms allotted to him in the Palazzo Sovrani, — alone at a massive writing table near the window, his head resting on one hand, and his whole figure expressive of the most profound dejection. In front of him an ancient silver crucifix gleamed in the flicker of the small wood fire which had been kindled in the wide cavernous chimney — and a black-bound copy of the Gospels lay open as if but lately consulted. The faded splendour of certain gold embroidered hangings on the walls added to the solemn and melancholy aspect of the apartment, and the figure of the venerable prelate seen in such darkening gloom and solitude, was the crowning completion of an expressive and pathetic picture of patient desolation. So might a martyr of the Inquisition have looked while the flames were getting ready to burn him for the love of the gentle Saviour; and something of the temper of such a possible predecessor was in the physically frail old man, who just now was concentrating all the energies of his mind on the consideration of a difficult question which is often asked by many hearts in secret, but is seldom voiced to the public ear;— “Christ or the Church? Which must I follow to be an honest man?”
Never had the good Cardinal been in such a strange predicament. Living away from the great centres of thought and action, he had followed a gentle and placid course of existence, almost unruffled, save by the outside murmurs of a growing public discontent which had reached him through the medium of current literature, and had given him cause to think uneasily of possible disaster for the religious world in the near future, — but he had never gone so far as to imagine that the Head of the Church would, while being perfectly conscious of existing threatening evils, deliberately turn his back to appeals for help, — shut his ears to the cry of the “lost sheep of the House of Israel”, and even endeavour, with an impotence of indignation which was as pitiable as useless, to shake a rod of Twelfth-century menace over the advancement of the Twentieth!
“For the onward movement of Humanity is God’s work,” said the Cardinal, “And what are we — what is even the Church — when it does not move side by side in perfect and pure harmony with the order of Divine Law?”
And he was bitterly troubled in spirit. He had spent the whole morning at the Vatican, and the manner of his reception there had been so curiously divided between flattery and reproach that he had not known what to make of it. The Pope had been tetchy and querulous, — precisely in such a humour as one naturally expects so aged a man to be when contradicted on any matter, whether trivial or important. For with such advanced years the faculties are often as brittle as the bones, and the failing powers of the brain are often brought to bear with more concentration on inconsiderable trifles than on the large and important affairs of life. He had questioned the Cardinal closely concerning the miraculous cure performed at Rouen, and had become excessively angry when the honest prelate earnestly disclaimed all knowledge of it. He had then confronted him with Claude Cazeau, the secretary of the Archbishop of Rouen, and Cazeau had given a clear and concise account of the whole matter, stating that the child, Fabien Doucet, had been known in Rouen since his babyhood as a helpless cripple, and that after Cardinal Bonpre had prayed over him and laid hands on him, he had been miraculously cured, and was now to be seen running about the city as strong and straight as any other healthy child. And Bonpre listened patiently; — and to all that was said, merely reiterated that if the child WERE so cured, then it was by the special intervention of God, as he personally had done no more than pray for his restoration. But to his infinite amazement and distress he saw plainly that the Holy Father did not believe him. He saw that he was suspected of playing a trick, — a trick, which if he had admitted, would have been condoned, but which if he denied, would cause him to be looked upon with distrust by all the Vatican party. He saw that even the man Cazeau suspected him. And then, — when the public confession of the Abbe Vergniaud came under discussion, — the Pope had gathered together all the visible remains of physical force his attenuated frame could muster, and had hurled himself impotently against the wall of opposing fact with such frail fury as almost to suggest the celebrated simile of “a reed shaken with the wind”. In vain had the Cardinal pleaded for Vergniaud’s pardon; in vain had he urged that after all, the sinner had branded himself as such in the sight of all men; what further need to add the ban of the Church’s excommunication against one who was known to be within touch of death? Would not Christ have said, “Go, and sin no more”? But this simple quotation from the Gospels seemed to enrage the representative of St. Peter more violently than before, and when Bonpre left the Holy Presence
he knew well enough that he was, for no fault of his own, under the displeasure of the Vatican. How had it all come about? Nothing could have been simpler than his life and actions since he left his own Cathedral-town, — he had prayed for a sick child, — he had sympathised with a sorry sinner, — that was all. And such deeds as these were commanded by Christ. Yet — the Head of the Church for these same things viewed him with wrath and suspicion! Wearily he sat, turning over everything in his mind, and longing, with a weakness which he fully admitted to his own conscience, to leave Rome at once and return to his own home, there to die among his roses at peace. But he saw it would never do to leave Rome just yet. He was bound fast hand and foot. He was “suspect”! In his querulous fit the Pope had ordered Claude Cazeau to return to Rouen without delay, and there gather further evidence respecting the Cardinal’s stay at the Hotel Poitiers, and if possible, to bring the little Fabien Doucet and his mother back to Rome with him. Pending the arrival of fresh proof, Bonpre, though he had received no actual command, knew he was expected to remain where he was. Weary and sick at heart, the venerable prelate sighed as he reviewed all the entangling perplexities, which had, so unconsciously to himself, become woven like a web about his innocent and harmless personality, and so absorbed was he in thought that he did not hear the door of his room open, and so was sot aware that his foundling Manuel had stood for some time silently watching him. Such love and compassion as were expressed in the boy’s deep blue eyes could not however radiate long through any space without some sympathetic response, — and moved by instinctive emotion, Cardinal Felix looked up, and seeing his young companion smiled, — albeit the smile was a somewhat sad one.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 489
