"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!"