Groaning, supported by his faithful Lorenzo's arm, Pope Ganganelli

slowly moved through the walks of his garden. Some months had passed

since the suppression of the order of the Jesuits--how had these few

months changed poor Clement! Where was the peace and cheerfulness of

his face, where was the sublime expression of his features, the firm and

noble carriage of his body--where was it all?

Trembling, shattered, with distorted features, and with dull,

half-closed eyes, crawled he about with groans, his brow wrinkled, his

lips compressed by pain and inward sorrow.

No one dared to remain with him; he spoke to no one. But Lorenzo was yet

sometimes able to drive away the clouds from his brow, and to recall a

faint smile to his thin pale lips.

He had also to-day succeeded in this, and for the first time in several

weeks had Ganganelli, yielding to his prayers, consented to a walk in

the garden of the Quirinal.

"This air refreshes me," said the pope, breathing more freely; "it seems

as if it communicated to my lungs a renewed vital power and caused the

blood to flow more rapidly in my veins. Lorenzo, this is a singularly

fortunate day for me, and I will make the most of it. Come, we will

repair to our Franciscan Place!"

"That is an admirable idea," said Lorenzo, delighted. "If your holiness

can reach it, you will recover your health, and all will again be well."

Ganganelli sighed, and glanced toward heaven with a sad smile.

"Health!" said he. "Ah, Lorenzo, that word reminds me of a lost

paradise. The avenging angel has driven me from it, and I shall never

see it again."

"Say not so!" begged Lorenzo, secretly wiping a tear from his cheek.

"No, say not so, you will certainly recover!"

"Yes, recover!" replied the pope. "For death is a recovery, and in the

end perhaps the most real."

They silently walked on, and making a path through the bushes, they at

length arrived at the place, with the construction of which Lorenzo had

some months before surprised the pope, and which Ganganelli had since

named the "Franciscan Place."

"So," joyfully exclaimed Lorenzo, while the exhausted pope glided down

upon the grass-bank--"so, brother Clement, now let us be cheerful!

You know that here we have nothing more to do with the pope. You have

yourself declared that here you would be brother Clement, and nothing

more; now brother Clement was always a healthy man, full of juvenile

spirits and strength."

"Ah, my friend," responded Ganganelli, "I fear the pope has secretly

followed brother Clement even to this place, and even here no longer

leaves him free! No, no, it is no longer brother Clement who sits

groaning here, it is the vicegerent of God, the father of Christendom,

the holy and blessed pope! And if you knew, Lorenzo, what this

vicegerent of God has to suffer and bear, how his blood like streams of

fire runs through his veins, carbonizing his entrails and parching the

roof of his mouth, so that the tongue fast cleaves to it, and he has

no longer the power to complain of his misery! And such a crushed

earth-worm this miserable, infatuated people call the vicegerent of

God, before whom they bow in the dust! Ah, foolish children, are you not

yourselves disgusted with your masquerade, and do you not blush for this

jest?"




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