He descended the great stairway, all quivering with the reflex action of the words which had burst from his heart, and with the feverish fire in his blood. His legs shook and bent under him. He was once or twice obliged to seize the banisters and stop. On reaching the last column, he leaned his throbbing forehead against it, seeking its coolness. But immediately he drew away, with a feeling of repugnance for the very stones of this palace, as if they were infected by treason, were accomplices of the atrociously vile bargain which had been struck there between ministers of Christ and ministers of the State. He sat down on one of the lower steps, quite exhausted, without noticing the lighted lamps of a carriage which was waiting close to him, doubtless the Minister’s carriage, and not caring who might see him. He breathed more freely; his indignation was beginning to cool down and turn to sorrow, and a desire to weep for the sad blindness of the world. Then he began to feel so lonely, so bitterly lonely. Only she, the partner of his past errors, had watched, had discovered, had acted. Only through her had he been able to hold his own with the Minister, knowing what manner of language to use with him. His other friends, the friends devoted to his religious ideas, had slept, and were still sleeping. The bitter thought that they no longer cared for him was pleasing to him. It was pleasant to give himself up, for once at least, to pity for his own fate, for once to drain the cup to the dregs, to picture his fate even more painful and bitter than it really was. All were against him, all were in league against him! Alone, alone, alone! And was he really strong at heart? That man up there, that Minister who possessed genius and personal kindliness—what if he were right, after all? What if Catholicism were really past healing? Lo! the Lord Himself, the Lord he had served, the Lord who had struck down his body, and delivered him into the power of his enemies, now was abandoning his soul. Anguish, mortal anguish! He longed to die on that very spot and to be at peace.
Above him he heard the voices of the Minister and the Under-Secretary, who were coming down. Benedetto rose with an effort, and dragged himself into the street. On the left, a few paces beyond the door, he saw another carriage waiting. A servant in livery stood on the sidewalk talking with the coachman. When Benedetto appeared the servant hastened towards him. In the gaslight, Benedetto recognised the old Roman from Villa Diedo, the footman of the Dessalles. It suddenly flashed across his troubled brain that Jeanne was there in the carriage, waiting for him, and he started back a step.
“No,” said he. Meanwhile the carriage had moved forward; Benedetto imagined he saw Jeanne, that he was being forced to get into the carriage with her, and that he had not the strength to resist. Seized with giddiness he staggered back again, and would have fallen had the footman not caught him in his arms. He found himself in the carriage without knowing how he had got there, with an unpleasant bright light opposite to him, and a loud buzzing in his ears. Little by little he understood. He was alone; an acetylene lamp was shining in his face. The door on his right was open and the footman was speaking to him. What was he saying? Where should they drive? To Villa Mayda? Yes, certainly, to Villa Mayda. Could not that light be extinguished? The servant put it out, and spoke of a paper. What paper? A paper the Signora had placed in the inside pocket of the coupé, ordering him to give it to the gentleman. Benedetto did not understand, or see. The footman took the paper and slipped it into Benedetto’s pocket. Then he inquired about the gentleman’s health, as his masters—this time he said ‘his masters’—had ordered him to do. If he had seen him lying dead this scrupulous individual would have carried out the order just the same. Instead of answering, Benedetto begged that a little water might be brought to him. The footman fetched some from a neighbouring café and Benedetto drank it eagerly, experiencing great relief. As he took the empty cup from him, the footman thought it best to complete his message:
“The Signora ordered me to tell you, if you inquired, that they sent the carriage because they knew you were not well, and they thought that in this place and at this hour it would be impossible for you to find one.”
The coupé had excellent springs and rubber tires. What a rest it was for Benedetto to roll along thus, silently, alone in a dark soft carriage, in the heart of the night! From time to time vistas of bright streets loomed on the right and on the left, and this was painful to him, as if those long rows of lights had been his enemies. But immediately there came back the darkness of the narrow streets and the flight, on footpaths and houses, of the unsteady lights of the coupé. The coachman set the horse to a walking pace, and Benedetto looked out into the darkness. It seemed to him they had just begun to ascend the Aventine Hill. He felt better; the fever, intensified by the physical and moral strain of that night of strife, was now rapidly decreasing. Then, for the first time, he perceived the subtle perfume of the coupé, the perfume Jeanne always used, and there rushed upon him the vivid memory of the return from Praglia with her, of the moment when, having left her at the foot of the hill leading to Villa Diedo, he had gone on alone in the victoria which was still filled with her warmth and her perfume, alone, and intoxicated with his love secret. Terrified at the vividness of these memories he pressed his arms to his breast, and strove to withdraw himself from his senses and his memory, into the very centre of his being. He gasped, with parted lips, unable to banish that image from his inner vision. And others flashed through his mind, leaving his unyielding will unconquered, but causing it to tremble like a tightly drawn rope. Now it was the idea that only Jeanne really loved him, that only Jeanne suffered through his suffering. Now it was her voice, complaining that her love was not returned, her voice asking for love, in the tones of a little song by Saint-Saens, so sweet, so sad, and familiar to them both, and concerning which he had once said to her at Villa Diedo that he could never refuse anything to one who prayed thus. Now it was the idea of fleeing far, far away and for ever, from this pagan and pharisaical Rome. Again it was a vision of peace and pure converse with the woman whom he would win over to the faith at last. It was an ardent desire to say to the Lord:—“The world is too sad, let me adore Thee thus.” Then there came the thought that in all this there was no sin, there was no sin in abandoning his mission in the presence of so many enemies. He began to doubt whether he really had any mission at all, whether he had not rather yielded to deceitful suggestions, believed in the reality of phantoms, and been deceived by chance appearances. He saw the spiritual and moral features of his friends and disciples, deformed as in a convex mirror; he felt a disheartening certainty that all he had hoped of them was vain. Then again that sad, tender little song returned, no longer beseeching but full of pity, of a pity comprehending all his bitter struggle, the sorrowing pity of some unknown spirit that was also suffering and complaining of God, but humbly, gently, pleading for all that suffers and loves in the world.
The carriage stopped at a cross-way, and the footman got down from the box and approached the window. It seemed that neither he nor the coachman knew exactly where this Villa Mayda was. On the right, a narrow lane sloped down between two walls. Behind the higher one, on the left, huge black trees rustled loudly in the west wind, which had torn the clouds asunder. In the background, the Janiculum and St. Peter’s loomed black in the pale starlight. It was a narrow footpath. Was that where the Signore must get out to go to Villa Mayda? No, but the Signore was determined to get out at any cost, to quit that poisoned carriage. He dragged himself as far as Sant’ Anselmo, struggling with his poor weak body and with the wind. Exhausted once more, he thought of asking the monks for hospitality, but did not do so. He went down, skirting the great silent refuge of peace belonging to the Benedictines, passed, sighing, before the closed door, which said in vain quieti et amicis, and at last reached the gate of Villa Mayda.
The gardener came, half dressed, to open the gate, and was greatly astonished to see him. He said he had believed he was in prison, because a delegato and a policeman had been there to look for him at about nine o’clock. Indeed the Signora, the Professor’s daughter-in-law, had at once ordered the servants not to admit him if he returned, but the order had been angrily countermanded by the Professor himself, to the great joy of the gardener, who was as fond of Benedetto and of the master as he was averse to the Signora. Upon hearing this Benedetto would have departed at once had his strength allowed him. But he was not in a condition to go a hundred paces.
“It will be for this one night only,” he said.
He occupied a small room in the gardener’s little house. He had hoped, on entering it, to find the peace of the heart, but it was not to be. They were driving him away even from here: that was what he said in his heart to his poor little bed, to the poor furniture, to the few books, to the smoky tallow-candle. Fixing his eyes on the Crucifix, which hung above a footstool at the side of the bed, he groaned, with an effort of his will: “How can I complain so bitterly of my crosses, Lord?”