and thus it was that the bon vivants of the old world loved the favoured spot—that Baiæ was the Brighton of the Romans. Between it and Puteoli rolled the Lucrine Lake, over which skimmed the small yachts of fashionable visitors, while around were the oyster-beds for the luxurious tables of Rome. It was there Sergius Orata of blessed memory established the fine oyster-beds which have ever since been a model for all succeeding ages, and a name grateful in the ears of the epicure.
The lady and her guest had coffee served up in an adjoining apartment. The lady lit up her cigarette, the gentleman did the same. It is wonderful how tobacco quickens the conversational powers. High-born dames, as well as Irish fish women, in this respect own the influence of the seductive weed.
‘Ah, father,’ said the Countess, ‘you have known me long. I have confidence in you.’
‘Yes; I have known madame long—friend of the good cause, a supporter of the true Church—liberal with her money and her time, strict in the observance of holy days. What would you, my daughter?’
‘Ah, father,’ said the lady with a sigh; ‘it was not always so—I have lived.’
‘Yes; many of us who now pose as saints can say as much,’ said the holy father. ‘What a blessed thing it is to be able to find out what is true life, what are true joys—the ecstasy of being lost in the Divine Being, of being waited on by angels, hasting to guide one the way to Paradise, of appealing to the sweet Virgin Mary, of having her as an intercessor night and day for our sins in the court of Heaven! Compared with these things, what are the pleasures of sense and sin—which are soon vanished, and always leave a sting behind?’
‘Oh yes, father; I can feel and realize all this, but I am not happy. I am in great anxiety—I have a great weight on my mind. My medical man tells me to avoid excitement, that I suffer from disease of the heart, that any day I may have an attack which may be attended with fatal consequences.’
‘Oh, dear madame, calm yourself. You look well—madame speaks and walks well. There is assuredly little serious to contemplate. These doctors, who are they?—ignorant quacks who, for their own selfish ends, make us believe that we are on the way to death when in reality we are in the enjoyment of health and strength. Remember how, in a cholera year, Death met the Devil as he was on his way to Vienna. “I shall slay twenty thousand people,” said Death. In a day or two they met again. “Ah!” said the Devil, “only ten thousand died of cholera.” “Ah,” said Death, “that is true.” “How, then,” asked the Devil, “did you make up your number?” “Easy enough,” was the reply; “ten thousand were killed by the cholera and the other ten died of fright!” Ah, these doctors, they do a lot of mischief! They are also, I fear, men of science—that is, men of no religion. It is dangerous for one’s soul to have them about us. It is the priest, your ladyship, who is the true friend of all in sickness or adversity, or doubt or sorrow.’
‘Oh, father, I believe you. And now to business.’
‘With all my heart.’