Chapter 26

A pause ensued--a long, excruciating pause! Lorenzo, kneeling, prayed--Pope Ganganelli read the letter of the physician of Bologna. His face had assumed a mortal pallor; while reading, his lips trembled, and tear-drops rolled slowly down over his sunken cheeks.

Falling from his hand, the letter rustled to the earth; with hanging head and folded hands sat the pope. Lorenzo was still upon his knees praying. Ganganelli suddenly raised his head, his eyes were turned heavenward, a cheerful, God-given peace beamed from his eyes, and with a clear, exulting voice, he said: “Lord, Thy will be done! I resign myself to Thy holy keeping.”

“The letter, then, brings good news?” asked Lorenzo, misled by the joyfulness of the pope. “There is, then, no ground for the presentiments of death, and the learned doctor says you will live?”

“The life eternal, Lorenzo!” said Ganganelli. “This letter confirms my suppositions! Brunelli is a man of honor, and he has told me the truth. Lorenzo, would you know what signifies this consuming fire, this weariness and relaxation of my limbs? It is the effect of _Acqua Tofana_!”

“Oh, my God,” shrieked Lorenzo, “you are poisoned!”

“Irretrievably,” calmly responded the pope; “Brunelli says it, and I feel in my burning entrails that he speaks the truth.”

“And are there no remedies?” lamented Lorenzo, wringing his hands. “No means at least of prolonging your life?”

“There is such a means; and Brunelli recommends it. The application of the greatest possible heat, the production of a continual perspiration, which may a little retard the progress of the evil, and perhaps prolong my life for a few weeks!

“Lorenzo, it is my duty to struggle every day with death. I have yet much to complete before I die, yet much labor before I go to my eternal rest, and, as far as I can, I must bring to an end what I have commenced for the welfare of my people! Come, Lorenzo, let us return to the Vatican; set pans of coals in my room, procure me furs and a glowing hot sun! I would yet live some weeks!”

With feverish impetuosity Ganganelli grasped Lorenzo’s arm and drew him away. Then, suddenly stopping, he turned toward his favorite place.

“Lorenzo,” he said in a low tone, and with deep sadness, “it was yet very pleasant in the Franciscan cloister. Why did we not remain there? Only see, my friend, how beautifully the sun glitters there among the pines, and how delightfully this air fans us! Ah, Lorenzo, this world is so beautiful, so very beautiful! Why must I leave it so soon?”

Lorenzo made no answer; he could not speak for tears.

Ganganelli cast a long and silent glance around him, greeting with his eyes the trees and flowers, the green earth and the blue sky.

“Farewell, farewell, thou beautiful Nature!” he whispered low. “We take our leave of each other. I shall never again see these trees or this grassy seat. But you, Lorenzo, will I establish as the guardian of this place, and when you sometimes sit here in the still evening hour, then will you think of me! Now come, we must away. Feel you not this cool and gentle air? Oh, how refreshingly it fans and cools, but I dare not enjoy it--not I! This cooling cuts off a day from my life!”

And with the haste of a youth, Ganganelli ran down the alley. Bathed with perspiration, breathless with heat, he arrived at the palace.

“Now give me furs, bring pans of coals, Lorenzo, shut all the doors and windows. Procure me a heat that will shut out death--!”

But death nevertheless came; the furs and coverings, the steaming coal-pans with which the pope surrounded himself, the glowing atmosphere he day and night inhaled, and which quite prostrated his friends and servants, all that could only keep off death for some few weeks, not drive it away. More dreadful yet than this blasting heat with which Ganganelli surrounded himself, yet more horrible, was the fire that consumed his entrails and burned in his blood.

Finally, withered and consumed by these external and internal fires, the pope greeted Death as a deliverer, and sank into his arms with a smile.

But no sooner had he respired his last breath, no sooner had the death-rattle ceased in this throat, and no sooner had death extinguished the light in his eyes, than the cold corpse exhibited a most horrible change.

The thin white hair fell off as if blown away by a breath of air, the loosened teeth fell from their sockets, the formerly quietly smiling visage became horribly distorted, the nose sank in and the eyes fell out, the muscles of all his limbs became relaxed as if by a magic stroke, and the rapidly putrefying members fell from each other.

The pope’s two physicians, standing near the bed, looked with terror upon the frightful spectacle.

“He was, then, right,” murmured the physician Barbi, folding his hands, “he was poisoned. These are the effects of the _Acqua Tofana_!”

Salicetti, the second physician, shrugged his shoulders with a contemptuous smile. “Think as you will,” said he, “for my part I shall prove to the world that Pope Clement XIV. died a natural death.”

Thus saying, Salicetti left the chamber of death with a proud step, betaking himself to his own room, to commence his history of Ganganelli’s last illness, in which, despite the arsenic found in the stomach of the corpse and despite the fact that all Rome was convinced of the poisoning of the pope, and named his murderer with loud curses, he endeavored to prove that Ganganelli died of a long-concealed scrofula!

And while Ganganelli breathed out his last sigh, resounded the bells of St. Peter’s, thundered the cannon of Castle Angelo, and the curious people thronged around the Vatican, where the conclave was in solemn session for the choice of a new pope. Thousands stared up to the palace, thousands prayed upon their knees, until at length the doors of the balcony, behind which the conclave was in session, were opened, and the papal master of ceremonies made his appearance upon it.

At a given signal the bells became silent, the cannon ceased to thunder, and breathlessly listened the crowd.

The master of ceremonies advanced to the front of the balcony. A pause--a silent, dreadful pause! His voice then resounded over the great square, and the listeners heard these words: “_Habemus pontificem maximum Pium VI.!_” (We have Pope Pius VI.)

And the bells rang anew, the cannon thundered, drums beat, and trumpets sounded; upon the balcony appeared the new pope, Juan Angelo Braschi, Pius VI., bestowing his blessing upon the kneeling people.

As they now had a new pope, nothing remained to be done for the deceased pope but to bury him; and they buried him.

In solemn procession, followed by all the cardinals and high church officials, surrounded by the Swiss guards, the tolling of the bells and the dull rolling of the muffled drums, the solemn hymns of the priests, moved the funeral _cortege_ from the Vatican to St. Peter’s church. In the usual open coffin lay the corpse of the deceased pope, that the people might see him for the last time. As they passed the bridge of St. Angelo, when the coffin had reached the middle of the bridge, arose a shriek of terror from thousands of throats! A leg had become severed from the body and hung out of the coffin, swinging in a fold of the winding-sheet. Cardinal Albani, who walked near the coffin, was touched on the shoulder by the loosely swinging limb, and turned pale, but he yet had the courage to push it back into the coffin. The people loudly murmured, and shudderingly whispered to each other: “The dead man has touched his murderer. They have poisoned him, our good pope! His members fall apart. That is the effect of _Acqua Tofana_.” (*)

(*) Archenholz relates yet another case where the Acqua Tofana had a similar violent and sudden effect. “A respectable Roman lady, who was young and beautiful, and had many admirers, made in the year 1778, a similar experiment, to rid herself of an old husband. As the dose was rather strong, death was followed by the rapid and violent separation of the members. They employed all possible means to retain the body in a human form until the funeral was over. The face was covered with a waxen mask, and by this means was the condition of the corpse concealed. This separation of the members seems to be the usual effect of this poison, and is said to occur as soon as the body is cold.”

The infernal work had therefore proved successful, the vengeance was complete--Ganganelli was no more, and upon the papal throne sat Braschi, the friend of the Jesuits and of Cardinal Albani, to whom he had promised the crowning of the improvisatrice Corilla.

And as this cost nothing to the miserly Pope Pius, he this time found no inconvenience in keeping his sacred promise, though not so promptly as Corilla and the passionate cardinal desired.

Not until 1776, almost two years after Braschi had mounted the papal throne, took place the crowning of the improvisatrice in the capitol at Rome.

She had therefore attained the object of her wishes. She had finally reached it by bribery and intrigue, by hypocritical tenderness, by the resignation of her maiden modesty and womanly honor, and by all the arts of coquetry.

But this triumph of hers was not to be untroubled. The _nobili_ shouted for her, and the cardinals and princes of the Church, but the people accompanied her to the capitol with hissing and howling. Poems came fluttering down on all sides; the first that fell upon Corilla’s head, Cardinal Albani eagerly seized and unfolded for the purpose of reading it aloud. But after the first few lines his voice was silenced--it was an abusive poem, full of mockery and scorn.

But nevertheless she was crowned. She still stood upon the capitol, with the laurel-crown upon her brow, cheered by her respectable protectors and friends. But the people joined not in those cheers, and, as the exulting shouts ceased, there swelled up to the laurel-crowned poetess, from thousands of voices, a thundering laugh of scorn, and this scornful laugh, this hissing and howling of the people, accompanied her upon her return from the capitol, following her through the streets to her own door. The people had judged her!

Corilla was no poetess by the grace of God, and only by the grace of man had she been crowned as queen of poesy!

Mortified, crushed, and enraged, she fled from Rome to Florence. She knew how to flatter the great and win princes. She was a princess-poetess, and the people rejected her!

But the laurel was hers. She was sought and esteemed, the princes admired her, and Catharine of Russia fulfilled the promise Orloff had made the improvisatrice in the name of the empress. Corilla received a pension from Russia. Russia has always promptly and liberally paid those who have sold themselves and rendered services to her. Russia is very rich, and can always send so many thousands of her best and noblest to work in the mines of Siberia, that she can never lack means for paying her spies and agents.

THE RUSSIAN OFFICER

With Carlo’s death, Natalie had lost her last friend; with the stolen money and diamonds, Marianne was robbed of her last pecuniary means. But Natalie paid no attention to Marianne’s lamentations. What cared she for poverty and destitution--what knew she of these outward treasures, of this wealth consisting in gold and jewels? Natalie knew only that she had been robbed of a noble, spiritual possession--that they had murdered the friend who had consecrated himself to her with such true and devoted love, and, weeping over his body, she dedicated to him the tribute of a tear of the purest gratitude, of saddest lamentation.

But so imperfect is the world that it often leaves no time for mourning--that in the midst of our sorrow it causes us to hear the prosaic voices of reality and necessity, compelling us to dry our eyes and turning our thoughts from painfully-sweet remembrances of a lost happiness to the realities of practical life.

Natalie’s delicately-sensitive soul was to experience this rough contact of reality, and, with an internal shudder, must she bend under the rough hand of the present.

Pale, breathless, trembling, rushed Marianne into the room where Natalie, in solitary mourning, was weeping for her lost friend.

“We are ruined, hopelessly ruined!” screamed Marianne. “They will drive us from our last possession, they will turn us out of our house! All the misfortunes of the whole world break over and crush us!”

The young maiden looked at her with a calm, clear glance.

“Then let them crush us,” she quietly said. “It is better to be crushed at once than to be slowly and lingeringly wasted!”

“But you hear me not, princess,” shrieked Marianne, wringing her hands. “They will drive us from here, I tell you; they will expel you from your house!”

“And who will do that?” asked the young maiden, proudly rising with flashing eyes. “Who dares threaten me in my own house?”

“Without are soldiers and bailiffs and the officers of the Russian embassy. They have made a forcible entrance, and with force they will expel you from the house. They are already sealing the doors and seizing everything in the house.”

A dark purple glow for a moment overspread Natalie’s cheeks, and her glance was flame. “I will see,” said she, “who has the robber-like boldness to dispute my possession of my own property!”

With proud steps and elevated head she strode through the room to the door opening upon the corridor.

The bailiffs and soldiers, who had been placed there, respectfully stood aside. Natalie paid no attention to them, but immediately advanced to the officer who, with a loud voice, was just then commanding them to seal all the doors and see that nothing was taken from the rooms.

“I wish to know,” said Natalie, with her clear, silver-toned voice--“I wish to know by what right people here force their way into my house, and what excuse you have for this shameless conduct?”

The officer, who was no other than Stephano, bowed to her with a slightly ironical smile.

“Justice needs no excuse,” said he. “On the part and by command of her illustrious majesty, the great Empress Catharine, I lay an attachment upon this house and all it contains. It is from this hour the sacred possession of her Russian majesty.”

“It is the exclusive property of the Count Paulo!” proudly responded Natalie.

“It was the property of Count Paul Rasczinsky,” said Stephano. “But convicted traitors have no property. This criminal count has been convicted of high-treason. The mercy of the empress has indeed changed the sentence of death into one of eternal banishment to Siberia, but she has been pleased to approve the confiscation of all he possessed. In virtue of this approval, and by permission of the holy Roman government, I attach this house and its contents!”

Natalie no longer heard him. Almost unconscious lay she in Marianne’s arms. Paulo was lost, sentenced to death, imprisoned, and banished for life--that was all she had heard and comprehended--this terrible news had confused and benumbed her senses.

“Sir!” implored Marianne, pressing Natalie to her bosom, “you will at least have some mercy upon this young maiden; you will not thrust us out upon the streets; you will grant us a quiet residence in this house until we can collect our effects and secure what is indisputably ours!”

“Every thing in this house is the indisputable property of the empress!” roughly responded Stephano.

“But not ourselves, I hope!” excitedly exclaimed Marianne. “This imperial power does not extend over our persons?”

Stephano roughly replied: “The door stands open, go! But go directly, or I shall be compelled to arrest you for opposing the execution of the laws, and stirring up sedition!”

“Yes, let us go,” cried Natalie, who had recovered her consciousness--“let us go, Marianne. Let us not remain a moment longer in a house belonging to that barbarous Russian empress who has condemned the noble Count Paulo as a criminal, and, robber-like, taken forcible possession of his property!”

And, following the first impulse of her noble pride, the young maiden took Marianne by the hand and drew her away.

“They, at least, shall not forcibly eject us,” said she; “no, no, we will go of our own free will, self-banished!”

“But where shall we go?” cried Marianne, wringing her hands.

“Where God wills!” solemnly responded the young maiden.

“And upon what shall we live?” wailed Marianne. “We are now totally destitute and helpless. How shall we live?”

“We will work!” said Natalie, firmly. A peculiar calm had come over her. Misfortune had awakened a new quality in her nature, sorrow had struck a new string in her being; she was no longer the delicate, gentle, suffering, unresisting child; she felt in herself a firm resolution, a bold courage, an almost joyful daring, and an invincible calmness.

“Work! _You_ will work, princess?” whispered Marianne.

“I will learn it!” said she, and with a constantly quickened step they approached the outlet of the garden.

The gate which led out into the street was wide open; soldiers in Russian uniform had been stationed before it, keeping back with their carbines the curious Romans who crowded around in great numbers, glad of an opportunity to get a peep into the so-long-closed charmed garden.

“See, there she comes, the garden fairy!” cried they all, as Natalie neared the gate.

“How beautiful she is, how beautiful!” they loudly exclaimed.

“That is a real fairy, a divinity!”

Natalie heard none of these expressions of admiration--she had but one object, one thought. She wished to leave the garden; she wished to go forth; she had no regrets, no complaints, for this lost paradise; she only wished to get out of it, even if it was to go to her death.

But the soldiers stationed at the gate opposed her progress.

Natalie regarded them with terror and amazement.

“They cannot, at least, oppose my voluntary resignation of my property,” said she. “Away with these muskets and sabres! I would pass out!”

And the young maiden boldly advanced a step. But those weapons stretched before her like a wall, and Natalie was now overcome by anguish and despair; the inconsolable feeling of her total abandonment, of her miserable isolation. Tears burst from her eyes, her pride was broken, she was again the trembling young girl, no longer the heroic woman; she wept, and in tremulous tone, with folded hands, she implored of these rough soldiers a little mercy, a little compassion.

They understood not her language, they had no sympathy; but the crowd were touched by the tears of the beautiful girl and by the sad lamentations of her companion. They screamed, they howled, they insulted the soldiers, they swore to liberate the two women by force, if the soldiers any longer refused them a passage. Dumb, unshaken, immovable, like a wall stood the soldiers with their weapons stretched forth.

Through the hissing and tumult a loud and commanding voice was suddenly heard to ask, “What is going on here? What means this disturbance?” An officer made his way through the crowd, and approached the garden gate. The soldiers respectfully gave way, and he stepped into the garden.

“Oh, sir,” said Natalie, turning to him her tearful face, “if you are an honorable man, have compassion for an abandoned and unprotected maiden, and command these soldiers, who seem to obey you, to let me and my companion go forth unhindered.”

The Russian officer, Joseph Ribas, bowed low and respectfully to her. “If it is the Princess Tartaroff whom I have the honor of addressing,” said he, “I must in the name of my illustrious lord, beg your pardon for what has improperly occurred here; at his command I come to set it all right!”

Thus speaking, he returned to the soldiers, and in a low tone exchanged some words with their leader. The latter bowed respectfully, and at his signal the soldiers shut the gate and retired into the street.

“Am I to be detained here as a prisoner?” exclaimed Natalie. “Am I not allowed to leave this garden?”

“Your grace, preliminarily, can still consider this garden as your own property,” he respectfully responded. “I am commanded to watch that no one dare to disturb you here, and for this purpose my lord respectfully requests that you will have the goodness to permit me to remain in your house as the guardian of your safety.”

“And who is this generous man?” asked Natalie.

“He is a man who has made a solemn vow to protect innocence everywhere, when he finds it threatened!” solemnly responded Joseph Ribas. “He is a man who is ready to shed his blood for the Princess Tartaroff, who is surrounded by enemies and dangers; a man,” he continued, in a lower tone, “who knows and loves your friend and guardian, Count Paulo, and will soon bring you secret and sure news from him!”

“He knows Count Paulo!” joyfully exclaimed Natalie. “Oh, then all is well. I may safely confide in whoever knows and loves Count Paulo, for he must bear in his bosom a noble heart!”

And turning to Joseph Ribas with a charming smile, she said, “Sir, lead me now where you will. We will both gladly follow you!”

“Let us, first of all, go into the villa, and send away those troublesome people!” said the Russian officer, preceding the two women to the house.

The bailiffs and soldiers were still there, occupied with sealing the doors and closets. Joseph Ribas approached them with angry glances, and, turning to Stephano, said, “Sir, I shall call you to account for this over-hasty and illegal proceeding!”

“I am in my right!” morosely answered Stephano. “Here is the command to attach this villa. It has fallen to the Russian crown as the property of the traitor Rasczinsky.”

“There is only the one error to be corrected,” said Joseph Ribas, “that this villa was not the property of Count Rasczinsky, as he some months ago sold it to his friend, my master. And as, so far as I know, the illustrious count, my master, never was a traitor, you will please to respect his property!”

“You will have first to authenticate your assertions!” responded Stephano, with a rude laugh.

“Here is the documental authentication!” said Joseph Ribas, handing a paper to Stephano. The latter, after attentively reading the documents, bowed reverentially, and said: “Sir, it appears that I was certainly mistaken. This deed of gift is _en regle_, and is undersigned by his grace the Russian ambassador. You will pardon me, as I only acted according to my orders.”

Joseph Ribas answered Stephano’s reverential bow with a haughty nod. “Go,” said he, “take off the seals in the quickest possible time, and then away with you!”

But as Stephano was about retiring with his people, Joseph Ribas beckoned him back again.

“You have, therefore, recognized this deed of gift?” asked he, and as Stephano assented, he continued: “You therefore cannot deny that my master is the undisputed possessor of this villa, and can do with it according to his pleasure?”

“I do not deny it at all!” growled Stephano.

Joseph Ribas then drew forth another paper, which he also handed Stephano. “You will also recognize this deed of gift to be regular and legal! It is likewise undersigned and authenticated by our ambassador.”

Stephano, having attentively read it, almost indignantly said:

“It is all right. But the count is crazy, to give away so fine a property!”

And still grumbling, he departed with his people.

Clinging to Marianne’s side, Natalie had observed the whole proceeding with silent wonder; and, with the astonishment of innocence and inexperience, she comprehended nothing of the whole scene, nor was a suspicion awakened in her childishly pure soul.

“He is, then, really going?” she asked, as Stephano was slowly moving off.