The Daughter of an Empress

Two men were walking up and down in the garden of the Quirinal, engaged

in a lively discourse. One of them was an old man of more than sixty

years. Long white locks waved about his forehead, falling like a halo on

both sides of his cheeks. An infinite mildness and clearness looked out

from his dreamy eyes, and a smile of infinite kindness played about his

mouth, but so full of sorrow and resignation that it filled one's heart

with sadness and his eyes with tears. His tall herculean form was bent

and shrunken; age had broken it, but could not take away that noble and

dignified expression which distinguished that old man and involuntarily

impelled every one to reverence and a sort of adoration. To his friends

and admirers this old man seemed a super-terrestrial being, and often in

their enthusiasm they called him their Saviour, the again-visible Son

of God! The old man would smile at this, and say: "You are right in one

respect, I am indeed a son of God, as you all are, but when you compare

me with our Saviour, it can only be to the crucified. I am, indeed, a

crucified person like Him, and have suffered many torments. But I have

also overcome many."

And, when so speaking, there lay in his face an almost celestial

clearness and joyfulness, which would impel one involuntarily to bow

down before him, had he not been, as he was, the vicegerent of God upon

earth, the Pope Ganganelli.

The man who was now walking with him formed a singular contrast with

the mild, reverence-commanding appearance of the pope. He was a man of

forty, with a wild, glowing-red face, whose eyes flashed with malice and

rage, whose mouth gave evidence of sensuality and barbarity, and whose

form was more appropriate for a Vulcan than a prince of the Church. And

yet he was such, as was manifested by his dress, by the great cardinal's

hat over his shoulder, and by the flashing cross of brilliants upon his

breast. This cardinal was very well known, and whenever his name was

mentioned it was with secret curses, with a sign of the cross, and a

prayer to God for aid in avoiding him, the terror of Rome, the Cardinal

Albani.

Sighing and reluctantly had the pope finally resolved to have the

cardinal near his person, that he might attempt by mild and gentle

persuasion to soften his stubborn disposition; but the cardinal had

replied to all his gentle words only with a contemptuous shrug of the

shoulders, with low murmured words, with a darkly clouded brow.

"It is in no one's power to change and make a new being of himself," he

finally said, in a harsh tone, as the pope continued his exhortations

and representations. "You, my blessed father, cannot convert yourself

into a monster such as you describe me; and I, Cardinal Albani, cannot

attain to the sublime godliness which we all admire in your holiness.

Every one must walk in his own path, taking especial care not to disturb

others in theirs."