Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗

that,” said Michael II wildly.

 

“And they proclaim you,” continued Orsini in an agitated manner, “an

impostor, one given to evil practices, and by these means incite the

people against you; Cardinal Orvieto has led a thousand men across the

marshes to the Emperor’s army—”

 

“And Theirry of Dendermonde has denounced me!” said the Pope.

 

As he spoke one beat for admission on the gilt door. The secretary

opened and there entered an Eastern chamberlain.

 

“Holiness,” he cried fearfully, “the people have set fire to your

palace on the Palatine Hill, and Cardinal Colonna, with his brother

Octavian, have seized Castel San Angelo for the Emperor, and hold it

in defiance of your Grace.”

 

As he finished the lightning darted info the now darkening chamber,

and the thunder mingled with the howling of the mob that surged

beneath the Vatican walls.

 

“The captain of my guard and those faithful to me,” answered the Pope,

“will know how to do what may be done—apprise me of the approach of

Balthasar’s host, and now go.”

 

They left him; he stood for a while listening to those ominous sounds

that filled the murky air, then he pressed a spring in one of the

mother-of-pearl panels and stepped into the secret chamber that was

revealed.

 

Cautiously he closed the panel by which he had entered, and looked

furtively about him.

 

The small windowless space was lit only by one blood-red lamp, locked

cupboards lined the walls, and a huge globe of faint gold, painted

with curious and mystic signs, hung from the ceiling.

 

The Pope’s stiff garments made a soft rustling sound as he moved; his

quick desperate breathing disturbed the heavy confined air.

 

In his pallid face his eyes rolled and gleamed.

 

“Sathanas, Sathanas,” he muttered, “is this the end?”

 

A throbbing shook the red-lit gloom, his last words were echoed

mournfully—

 

“The end.”

 

He clutched his hands into the jewelled embroidery on his breast.

 

“Now you mock me—by my old allegiance, is this the end?”

 

Again the echo from the dark walls—

 

“The end.”

 

The Pope glared in front of him.

 

“Must I die, Sathanas—must I swiftly die?”

 

A little confused laughter came before the echo “swiftly die.”

 

He paced up and down the narrow space.

 

“I staked my fortunes on that man’s faith and he has forsaken me, and

I have lost, lost!” “Lost! lost!”

 

The Pope laughed frantically.

 

“At least she died, Sathanas, her yellow hair rots in the plague pit

now; I had some skill left…but what was all my skill if I could not

keep him faithful to me—”

 

He clasped his jewelled hand over his eyes; utter silence followed his

words now; the globe of pallid gold trembled in the darkness of the

domed ceiling, and the mystic characters on it began to writhe and

move.

 

“Long had I lived with the earth beneath my feet had I not met that

fair sweet fool, and I go to ruin for his sake who has denounced me—”

 

The red lamp became dull as a dying coal.

 

“Ye warned me,” breathed the Pope, “that this man would be my bane—

you promised on his truth to you and me to halve the world between us;

he was false, and you have utterly forsaken me?”

 

The echo answered—

 

“Utterly forsaken…”

 

The lamp went out.

 

The pale luminous globe expanded to a monstrous size, the circle of

dark little fiends round it danced and whirled madly. .

 

Then it burst and fell in a thousand fragments at the Pope’s feet.

 

Out of the darkness came a wail as of some thing hurt or dying, then

long sighing shook the close air…

 

The Pope felt along the wall, touched the spring and stepped into the

ebony cabinet. He looked quite old and small and bowed.

 

Night had fallen; the chamber was lit by perfumed candles in curious

carved sticks of soapstone; faint veils of incense floated in the air.

 

Without the thunder rolled and threatened, and the factions of Rome

fought in the streets.

 

The Pope sank into a chair and folded his hands in his lap; his head

fell forward on his breast; his lips quivered and two tears rolled

down his cheeks.

 

The Angelus bells rang out over the city, there were not many to ring

now; as they quivered away a clock struck, quite near.

 

The Pope did not move.

 

Once again Paolo Orsini entered, and Michael II averted his face.

 

“Holiness, Balthasar marches on Rome,” said the secretary, “the mob

rush forth to join him, and if the gates were brass, and five times

brass, the Vatican could not withstand them.” The Pope spoke without

looking round.

 

“Will they storm the Vatican?”

 

“Ay, that they will, Holiness,” answered Orsini.

 

Now the Pontiff turned his white face.

 

“What may I do?”

 

“The captain of the guard suggests that ye come to terms with the

Emperor, and by submission save your life.”

 

“That I will not.”

 

“Then it were well if your Holiness would flee; there is a secret way

out of the Vatican—” “And that I will not.”

 

Orsini, too, was very pale.

 

“Then are you doomed to fall into the hands of Balthasar, and he and

his faction say—horrible things.”

 

The Pope rose.

 

“You think they would lay hands on me?

 

“I do fear it!

 

“It would be a shameful death, Orsini?”

 

“Surely not that! I cannot think the Emperor would do more than

imprison your Holiness.” “Well, you are very faithful, Orsini.”

 

The young Roman shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Cardinal Narbonne is a Colonna, Holiness, and I have always found you

a generous master.”

 

The Pope went to the window. “How they howl!” he said through his

teeth, “and Balthasar comes nearer, nearer—”

 

He checked himself abruptly.

 

“I will dine here tonight, Orsini, see that everything is done as

usual.”

 

The secretary bowed himself out of the gilt door. Michael II went to

the table on the dais and took from it a scroll of parchment.

 

Standing in the centre of the room he unrolled it; some verses were

written in a scarlet ink on the smooth surface; in a low voice he read

aloud the two last.

 

“If Love were all!

 

I had lived glad and meek, Nor heard Ambition call And Valour speak.

 

If Love were all!”

 

He smiled bitterly. “But Love is weak.

 

And often leaves his throne, Among his scattered roses pale To weep

and moan.

 

And I, apostate to his whispered creed.

 

Shall miss his wings above my pall.

 

Nor find his face in this my bitter need.

 

When Love is all!”

 

“The metre halts,” said Michael II, “the metre … halts.”

 

He tore the parchment into fragments and scattered them on the floor.

Again the gilt doors were opened, this time a chamberlain entered. A

herald had brought a fierce and grim message from Balthasar.

 

It spoke of the Pope as Antichrist, and called on him to submit if he

would keep his life.

 

The Pope read it with haughty eyes; when he had finished he rent it

across and cast the pieces down among the others.

 

“And ye shall hang the herald,” he said. “We have so much authority.”

The chamberlain handed him a second packet, sealed.

 

“This also the herald brought, Holiness.” “From whom?”

 

“From Theirry of Dendermonde.”

 

“Theirry of—of Dendermonde?”

 

“Yea, Holiness.”

 

The Pope took the packet.

 

“Let the herald live,” he said, “but cast him into the dungeons.”

 

The chamberlain withdrew.

 

For a while Michael II stood staring at the packet, while the thunder

crashed over Rome. Then he slowly broke the seal.

 

“What curses have you for me?” he cried wildly. “What curses? You!”

 

He unfolded the long strip of vellum, and went nearer the candles to

read it.

 

Thus it ran—

 

“The Emperor’s camp, marching on Rome, Theirry of Dendermonde to

Michael, Pope of Rome, thus—

 

“I am approaching madness, I cannot sleep or rest—after days of

torment I write to you whom I have twice betrayed. She died on my

breast, but I do not care; Balthasar says he saw her walking on the

Maremma, but I saw nothing…before she died she said something. I

think of you and of nothing else, though I have betrayed you, I have

never uttered what she said. No one guesses.

 

“The uncertainty, the horror, gnaw away my heart. So I write this to

you.”

 

“This is my message—”

 

“If you are a devil, be satisfied, for your devil’s work is done.”

 

“If you are a man, you have befriended, wronged me, and I have avenged

myself.”

 

“If you are that other thing you may be, then I know you love me, and

that I kissed you once.”

 

“If this last be true, as I do think it true, have some pity on my

long ignorance and believe I have it in me to love even as you have

loved.”

 

“Oh, Ursula, I know a city in India where we might live, and you

forget you ever ruled in Rome; yonder are other gods who are so old

they have forgot to punish, and they would smile on you and me there,

Ursula. Balthasar marches on the city, and you must be ruined and

discovered—brought to an end so horrible. You have showed me a secret

way out of the Vatican, use it now, this night. I am in advance of the

host—I shall be without the Appian Gate tonight, and I have means

whereby we may fly to the coast and there take ship to India; until we

meet, farewell! and in the name of all the passions you have roused in

me—come!”

 

As the Pope read, all the colour slowly left his face; when he had

finished he mechanically rolled up the parchment, then unrolled it

again.

 

Thunder shook the Vatican and the mob howled without.

 

Again he read the letter.

 

Then he thrust it into one of the candles and watched it blacken,

curl, burst into flame. He flung it on the marble floor and set his

gold heel on it, grinding it into ashes.

 

At the usual hour they served his sumptuous supper; when it was

finished and removed, Paolo Orsini came again.

 

“Will not your Holiness fly, before it is too late?” All traces of

anguish and woe had vanished from his master’s features; he looked

proud and beautiful.

 

“I shall stay here; but let them who will, seek safety.”

 

He dismissed Orsini and the attendants.

 

It was now late in the evening—and the thunder unceasing.

 

The Pope locked the door of the cabinet, then went to the gilt table,

and wrote a letter rapidly–this he folded, sealed with purple wax

and stamped with his great thumb ring.

 

He sat silent a little while after this and stared with great luminous

eyes before him, then roused himself and unlocked a drawer in the

table.

 

From this he took some documents, tied together with orange silk, and

a ring with a red stone in it.

 

One by one he burnt the parchments in the candle, and when they were

reduced to a little pile of ashes he cast the ring into the midst of

it and turned away.

 

He crossed to the window, drew the curtains and looked out over Rome.

 

In the black heavens, above the black hills, hung a huge