The Daughter of an Empress

"And your beloved, what became of her?" asked the cardinal. "Did she

pardon your treason, and console herself in the arms of another?"

"In the arms of death!" said Ganganelli, with a low voice. "My silence

and my apparent forgetfulness of her broke her heart; she died of grief,

but she died like a saint, and her last words were: 'May God forgive

him, as I do! I curse him not, but bless him, rather; for through him

am I released from the burden of this life, and all sorrow is overcome!'

She therefore died in the belief of my unfaithfulness; she did, indeed,

pardon me, but yet she believed me a faithless betrayer! And the

consciousness of this was to me a new torment and a penance which I

shall suffer forever and ever! This is the story of my love," continued

Ganganelli, after a short silence. "I have truly related it to you as

it is. May you, my son, learn from it that, when we wish to do right, we

can always succeed, in spite of our own hearts and sinful natures, and

that with God's help we can overcome all and suffer all. You see that

I have loved, and nevertheless had strength to renounce. But it was God

who gave me this strength, God alone! Turn you, also, to God; pray to

Him to destroy in you your sinful love; and, if you implore Him with the

right words, and with the right fervor, then will God be near you with

His strength, and in the pains of renunciation will He purify your soul,

preparing it for virtue and all that is good!"

"And do you call that virtue?" asked the cardinal. "May Heaven preserve

me from so cruel a virtue! Do you call it serving God when this virtue

makes you the murderer of your beloved, and, more savage than a wild

beast, deaf to the amorous complaints of a woman whom you had led into

love and sin, whose virtue you sacrificed to your lust, and whom you

afterward deserted because, as you say, God called to yourself,

but really only, because satiated, you no longer desired her. Your

faithfulness cunningly clothes itself in the mantle of godliness,

nothing further. No, no, holy father of Christendom, I envy you not this

virtue which has made you the murderer of God's noblest work. That is a

sacrilege committed in the holy temple of nature. Go your way, and think

yourself great in your bloodthirsty, murderous virtue! You will not

convert me to it. Let me still remain a sinner--it at least will not

lead me to murder the woman I love, and provide for her torment and

suffering, instead of the promised pleasure. Believe me, Corilla has

never yet cursed me, nor have her fine eyes ever shed a tear of sorrow

on my account. You have made your beloved an unwilling saint and

martyr--possibly that may have been very sublime, and the angels may

have wept or rejoiced over it. I have lavished upon my beloved ones

nothing but earthly happiness. I have not made them saints, but only

happy children of this world; and even when they have ceased to love me,

they have always continued to call me their friend, and blessed me for

making them rich and happy. You have set of crown of thorns upon the

head of your beloved, I would bind a laurel-crown upon the beautiful

brow of my Corilla, which will not wound her head, and will not cause

her to die of grief. You are not willing to aid me in this, my work?

You refuse me this laurel-wreath because you have only martyr-crowns to

dispose of? Very well, holy father of Christendom, I will nevertheless

compel you to comply with my wishes, and you shall have no peace in your

holy city from my mad tricks until you promise me to crown the great

improvisatrice in the capitol. Until then, addio, holy father of

Christendom. You will not see me again in the Vatican or Quirinal, but

all Rome shall ring with news of me!"