* Personally I should have thought the example of Berlin a great
deterrent. The enlargement and embellishment of the Prussian
capital, after the war of 1870, was attended by far greater
roguery and wholesale swindling than even the previous
transformation of Paris. Thousands of people too were ruined,
and instead of an increase of prosperity the result was the
very reverse.—Trans.
Greatly struck, almost gained over already, Pierre listened to this clever man, charmed with his firm, clear mind. He knew how skilfully Prada had manoeuvred in the affair of the Villa Montefiori, enriching himself when every one else was ruined, having doubtless foreseen the fatal catastrophe even while the gambling passion was maddening the entire nation. However, the young priest could already detect marks of weariness, precocious wrinkles and a fall of the lips, on that determined, energetic face, as though its possessor were growing tired of the continual struggle that he had to carry on amidst surrounding downfalls, the shock of which threatened to bring the most firmly established fortunes to the ground. It was said that Prada had recently had grave cause for anxiety; and indeed there was no longer any solidity to be found; everything might be swept away by the financial crisis which day by day was becoming more and more serious. In the case of Luigi, sturdy son though he was of Northern Italy, a sort of degeneration had set in, a slow rot, caused by the softening, perversive influence of Rome. He had there rushed upon the satisfaction of every appetite, and prolonged enjoyment was exhausting him. This, indeed, was one of the causes of the deep silent sadness of Orlando, who was compelled to witness the swift deterioration of his conquering race, whilst Sacco, the Italian of the South—served as it were by the climate, accustomed to the voluptuous atmosphere, the life of those sun-baked cities compounded of the dust of antiquity—bloomed there like the natural vegetation of a soil saturated with the crimes of history, and gradually grasped everything, both wealth and power.
As Orlando spoke of Stefana’s visit to his son, Sacco’s name was mentioned. Then, without another word, the two men exchanged a smile. A rumour was current that the Minister of Agriculture, lately deceased, would perhaps not be replaced immediately, and that another minister would take charge of the department pending the next session of the Chamber.
Next the Palazzo Boccanera was mentioned, and Pierre, his interest awakened, became more attentive. “Ah!” exclaimed Count Luigi, turning to him, “so you are staying in the Via Giulia? All the Rome of olden time sleeps there in the silence of forgetfulness.”
With perfect ease he went on to speak of the Cardinal and even of Benedetta—“the Countess,” as he called her. But, although he was careful to let no sign of anger escape him, the young priest could divine that he was secretly quivering, full of suffering and spite. In him the enthusiastic energy of his father appeared in a baser, degenerate form. Quitting the yet handsome Princess Flavia in his passion for Benedetta, her divinely beautiful niece, he had resolved to make the latter his own at any cost, determined to marry her, to struggle with her and overcome her, although he knew that she loved him not, and that he would almost certainly wreck his entire life. Rather than relinquish her, however, he would have set Rome on fire. And thus his hopeless suffering was now great indeed: this woman was but his wife in name, and so torturing was the thought of her disdain, that at times, however calm his outward demeanour, he was consumed by a jealous vindictive sensual madness that did not even recoil from the idea of crime.
“Monsieur l’Abbe is acquainted with the situation,” sadly murmured old Orlando.
His son responded by a wave of the hand, as though to say that everybody was acquainted with it. “Ah! father,” he added, “but for you I should never have consented to take part in those proceedings for annulling the marriage! The Countess would have found herself compelled to return here, and would not nowadays be deriding us with her lover, that cousin of hers, Dario!”
At this Orlando also waved his hand, as if in protest.
“Oh! it’s a fact, father,” continued Luigi. “Why did she flee from here if it wasn’t to go and live with her lover? And indeed, in my opinion, it’s scandalous that a Cardinal’s palace should shelter such goings-on!”
This was the report which he spread abroad, the accusation which he everywhere levelled against his wife, of publicly carrying on a shameless liaison. In reality, however, he did not believe a word of it, being too well acquainted with Benedetta’s firm rectitude, and her determination to belong to none but the man she loved, and to him only in marriage. However, in Prada’s eyes such accusations were not only fair play but also very efficacious.