Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (romantic novels in english .TXT) 📖

CHAPTER I

CARDINAL LUIGI CAPRAROLA

 

The evening service in the Basilica of St. Peter was over; pilgrims,

peasants and monks had departed; the last chant of the officiating

Cardinal’s train still trembled on the incense-filled air and the slim

novices were putting out the lights, when a man, richly and

fantastically dressed, entered the bronze doors and advanced a little

way down the centre aisle.

 

He bent his head to the altar, then paused and looked about him with

the air of a stranger. He was well used to magnificence, but this

first sight of the chapel of the Vatican caused him to catch his

breath. Surrounding him were near a hundred pillars, each of a

different marble and carving; they supported a roof that glittered

with the manifold colours of mosaic; the rich walls were broken by

numerous chapels, from which issued soft gleams of purple and violet

light; mysterious shrines of porphyry and cipolin, jasper and silver

showed here and there be—hind red lamps. A steady glow of candles

shone on a mosaic and silver arch, beyond which the high altar

sparkled like one great jewel; the gold lamps on it were still alight,

and it was heaped with white lilies, whose strong perfume was

noticeable even through the incense.

 

To one side of the high altar stood a purple chair, and a purple

footstool, the seat of the Cardinal, sometimes of the Pontiff. This

splendid and holy beauty abashed, yet inspired the stranger; he leant

against one of the smooth columns and gazed at the altar.

 

The five aisles were crossed by various shafts of delicate trembling

light that only half dispersed the lovely gloom; some of the columns

were slender, some massive—the spoils from ancient palaces and

temples, no two of them were alike; those in the distance took on a

sea-green hue, luminous and exquisite; one or two were of deep rose

red, others black or dark green, others again pure ghostly white, and

all alike enveloped in soft shadows and quivering lights, violet, blue

and red.

 

The novices were putting out the candles and preparing to close the

church; their swift feet made no sound; silently the little stars

about the high altar disappeared and deeper shadows fell over the

aisles.

 

The stranger watched the white figures moving to and fro until no

light remained, save the purple and scarlet lamps that cast rich rays

over the gold and stained the pure lilies into colour, then he left

his place and went slowly towards the door.

 

Already the bronze gates had been closed; only the entrance to the

Vatican and one leading into a side street remained open.

 

Several monks issued from the chapels and left by this last; the

stranger still lingered.

 

Down from the altar came the two novices, prostrated themselves, then

proceeded along the body of the church.

 

They extinguished the candles in the candelabra set down the aisles,

and a bejewelled darkness fell on the Basilica.

 

The stranger stood under a malachite and platinum shrine that blinded

with the glimmer and sparkle of golden mosaic; before it burnt

graduated tapers; one of the novices came towards it, and the man

waiting there moved towards him.

 

“Sir,” he said in a low voice, “may I speak to you?”

 

He spoke in Latin, with the accent of a scholar, and his tone was deep

and pleasant.

 

The novice paused and looked at him, gazed intently and beheld a very

splendid person, a man in the prime of life, tall above the ordinary,

and, above the ordinary, gorgeous to the eyes; his face was sunburnt

to a hue nearly as dark as his light bronze hair, and his Western eyes

showed clearly bright and pale in contrast; in his ears hung long

pearl and gold ornaments that touched his shoulders: his dress was

half Eastern, of fine violet silk and embroidered leather; he carried

in his belt a curved scimitar inset with turkis, by his side a short

gold sword, and against his hip he held a purple cap ornamented with a

plume of peacocks’ feathers, and wore long gloves fretted in the palm

with the use of rein and sword.

 

But more than these details did the stranger’s face strike the novice;

a face almost as perfect as the masks of the gods found in the

temples; the rounded and curved features were over-full for a man, and

the expression was too indifferent, troubled, almost weak, to be

attractive, but taken in itself the face was noticeably beautiful.

 

Noting the novice’s intent gaze, a flush crept into the man’s dark

cheek.

 

“I am a stranger,” he said. “I want to ask you of Cardinal Caprarola.

He officiated here to—day?”

 

“Yea,” answered the novice. “What can I tell you of him? He is the

greatest man in Rome–now his Holiness is dying,” he added.

 

“Why, I have heard of him—even in Constantinople. I think I saw him—

many years ago, before I went to the East.”

 

The novice began to extinguish the candles round the shrine.

 

“It may be, sir,” he said. “His Eminence was a poor youth as I might

be; he came from Flanders.”

 

“It was in Courtrai I thought I saw him.”

 

“I know not if he was ever there; he became a disciple of Saint

Ambrose of Menthon when very young, and after the saint’s death he

joined the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris—you have heard that,

sir?”

 

The stranger lowered his magnificent eyes.

 

“I have heard nothing—I have been away—many years; this man,

Cardinal Caprarola—he is a saint also—is he not?…tell me more of

him.”

 

The youth paused in his task, leaving half the candles alight to cast

a trembling glow over the man’s gold and purple splendour; he smiled.

 

“Born of Dendermonde he was, sir, Louis his name, in our tongue Luigi,

Blaise the name he took in the convent—he came to Rome, seven, nay,

it must be eight years ago. His Holiness created him Bishop of Ostia,

then of Caprarola, which last name he retains now he is Cardinal–he

is the greatest man in Rome,” repeated the novice.

 

“And a saint?” asked the other with a wistful eagerness.

 

“Certes, when he was a youth he was famous for his holy austere life,

now he lives in magnificence as befits a prince of the Church…he is

very holy.”

 

The novice put out the remaining candles, leaving only the flickering

red lamp.

 

“There was a great service here to-day?” the stranger asked.

 

“Yea, very many pilgrims were here.”

 

“I grieve that I was too late—think you Cardinal Caprarola would see

one unknown to him?” “If the errand warranted it, sir.”

 

From the rich shadows came a sigh.

 

“I seek peace—if it be anywhere it is in the hands of this servant of

God—my soul is sick, will he help me heal it?”

 

“Yea, I do think so.”

 

The youth turned, as he spoke, towards the little side door.

 

“I must close the Basilica, sir,” he added.

 

The stranger seemed to rouse himself from