"Alas, Miss Marsh," replied Hautefeuille, "if there is anything more painful than living in a new country, it is living in one that wants to become new at any price when it is filled to overflowing with relics of the past, of a glorious past,—a country where every one is making desperate efforts to destroy everything.—France has had that mania for about a hundred years."
"Yes, and Italy has had it for twenty-five years," said the American girl. "But we are here," she added gayly, "to buy everything and to preserve it.—Oh! what an exquisite chapel.—Just look at it!—Now I'll bet you that those frescoes will finish their existence in Chicago or Marionville."
As she spoke she pointed out to Pierre the mural paintings that decorated the chapel they entered at the moment. The little place where the cardinal-pirate had doubtless often officiated was embellished with a vast symbolical composition from floor to ceiling. It was the work of one of those unknown masters whose creations confront one at every step in Italy and which anywhere else would be celebrated. But there, as the soldiers in the famous charge say, they are too numerous! This particular painter, influenced by the marvellous frescoes with which Lorenzo Lotto had beautified the Suardi Chapel at Bergamo, had represented, above the altar, Christ standing up and holding out His hands. From the Saviour's finger-tips a vine shoot spread out, climbing up and up to the dome, covered with grapes. The tendrils wound round, making frames for the figures of five saints on one side, and on the other five female figures. Above the head of Christ the inscription, "Ego sum vitis, vos palmites," gave an evangelical significance to the fantastic decoration.
The principal episodes in the legend of St. Laurence, the patron saint of the cathedral at Genoa, were painted on the walls and in the panels made by the pillars. These were: Decius slaying the Emperor Philip in his tent; the young sou of the dead Emperor confiding his father's treasures to Sixtus to be distributed among the poor; Sixtus being led to the scene of his martyrdom, followed by Laurence, crying, "Where art thou going, O father, without thy son? Where art thou going, O priest, without thy deacon?" Laurence receiving the treasures in his turn and confiding them to the poor widow; Laurence in prison converting the officer of the guard; Laurence in Sallust's gardens collecting together the poor, the halt, and the blind, saying at the same time to Decius, "Behold the treasures of the Church!" Laurence surrounded by flames upon a bed of fire!—The picturesqueness of the costumes, the fancy displayed in the architecture, the fruitful nature of the landscape, the breadth of the drawing, and the warmth of the coloring revealed the influence of the Venetian school, although attenuated and softened by the usury of time, which had effaced the too glaring brilliancy and toned down the too vivid warmth of the painting. It had taken on something of the faded tone of old tapestry.
The whole gave to the marriage that was being celebrated in the old oratory of the ancient palace of an aged prince by a Gallophobe priest a fantastic character that was both delightful and droll. The ultra-modern Corancez kneeling with the descendants of the doges with Don Fortunato to bless them, in a setting of the sixteenth century, was one of those paradoxes that only nature dare present, so pronounced are they as to be almost incredible! And equally incredible was the simple-mindedness of the abbé, the impassioned worshipper of Count Camillo. He rolled out a little oration to the young fiancés before uniting them. This oration was in French, a condescension he had determined upon making, in spite of his political hatreds, for the sake of the foreigner to whom he was to marry his dear marchesa.
"Noble lady! Honored sir! I do not intend to say much.—Tongueless birds furnish no auguries.—Sir, you are going to marry this dear lady in the presence of God. In thus consecrating the union of a great Venetian name with that of a noble French family, it seems as though I were asking once more for the blessing of Him Who can do all things, that I were appealing to Him to consecrate the friendship between two countries which ought to be only one in heart; I mean, my lady, our dear Italy, and your beautiful France, my lord!—Italy resembles that figure painted by a master, a genius, upon the wall of this chapel. It is from her that proud Spain and brilliant France, two young branches of the Latin race, have sprung as from a fruitful vine. The same vigorous sap courses through the veins of the three nations. May they be reunited some day! May the mother once more have her two daughters by her side! May they be united some day as they are already by the relationship of their languages, by the communion of their religion! May they be bound together by a bond of love that nothing can break, such as is going to unite you, my dear lord and lady! Amen!"
"Did you hear him?" Corancez asked Hautefeuille an hour later.
The Ita missa est had been spoken; the solemn "I will" had been exchanged, and the luncheon—including the mullet that surpassed those of Leghorn—had been brought to an end amid toasts, laughter, and the reading of the epithalamium upon which Don Fortunato had worked so long and so patiently. The entire company had adjourned to the gallery for coffee, and the two young men were chatting in the angle of a window close to the repaired Artemis.
"Did you hear him? The good old abbé simply worships me.—He worships me even too much, for I am not as noble as he has made me out.—He has given Andryana a proof of inalienable affection in consenting to our secret marriage. He is as intelligent as it is possible to be. He knows Navagero to the very marrow and dreaded an unhappy future for Andryana if she did not escape from her brother's clutches. He is also a clever diplomatist, for he persuaded his old companion in carcere duro to lend us his little chapel.—Well, intelligence, diplomacy, friendship, and all the rest are swept on one side in the Italian soul by the law of primogeniture. Did you not hear how, in his quality of Cavour's friend, he made us feel that France was only the youngest scion of the great Latin family?—In this case the youngest has fared better than the eldest! But I pardoned all Don Fortunato's presumption when I thought of the face my brother-in-law will pull, Italian though he is, when he is shown the piece of paper which bears your name beside that of the Prince.—Would you like another proof of Corancez's luck? Look over yonder."
He pointed through the window to the sky covered with black clouds and to the street below, at the foot of the palace, where the north wind, sweeping along, made the promenaders huddle up in their cloaks.