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."