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?"