“Jerry Sant the Liblab, aided by the woman and a clot of worms who had turned;” Leighton said to Ragna.
“Let them be smothered in the dunghill. Anathema sint.” Ragna growled.
Again there was an exposition of silence in the throne-room. George was frozen hard and white. Ragna and Leighton continued to look at each other. Carvale’s eyes had the blue brilliance of wet stars. Saviolli, Semphill, Talacryn, Whitehead, were as though they had seen the saxificous head of the Medoysa. Stirling gazed straight before him, in the manner of the sphinx carven of black basalt. George was watching them with half-shut eyes from the illimitable distance of his psychic altitude. Presently, the pure pale old face of Gentilotto and the pure pale young face of Van Kristen simultaneously were lifted; and their eyes met His. He blushed: slowly drew out the pontifical ring: and put it on His finger.
“Lord Cardinals, it is Our will to be alone:” the Supreme Pontiff said.
They came one by one and kissed His ring; and retired in silence.
XXIII
When the door was shut, Hadrian remained quite motionless on the throne; and set Himself to review what He had said. He wondered whether He for once had got-down to and laid-bare the root of the matter: whether He for once had made His argument clear and convincing.—Good God! Who even could hope to be convincing?—He flung the thing away from Him; and forever closed that volume of the book of His life.
He rose; and went straight into the bedroom. Here He stripped, and stood erect, knees and feet close: gripped a pair of ten-pound dumbbells; and swung them with the alternating gesture of a right and left overhand bowler, rhythmically swaying from the hips. He counted up to a hundred; and went to another movement: a full round overhead sweep of both arms together, expanding the long-breathing lungs, quickening the pulses, brightening the eyes. His skin became moist and warm. He washed His face and hands in oatmeal-water with no soap; and went into the bathroom, turning on the high tap and letting the cold soft water rain-down upon Him until He was numbed. He quickly dried Himself; and put on completely clean clothes, rolling up those which He had discarded and thrusting them into a linen bag. Then, He emerged all flushed and white and fresh; and summoned Sir Iulo to the secret chamber.
“And so you are thinking of marriage, carino;” Hadrian said, putting the young man into a chair and bestowing fumificables.
Sir Iulo went almost as scarlet as his uniform: his eyes and teeth gleamed. Hadrian handed to him a sheet of paper containing six stanzas of passionate expression in rhyme, under the heading “Vorrei che tu ascoltassi la mia voce.”
“Don’t leave your sonnets about. And don’t be so terrified, you silly boy. Well: is it true?”
The lover’s face twitched rather. “I l‑o‑v‑e her,” he said with an enormous vocal expansion of the middle word. “But I will not to abandon You, Santità:” he added with fixed eyes.
“Who is she? Is she good? Has she any money?”
“She is the little daughter of the dentist. But good? But, yes. But no money:” was the categorical reply.
“Does she love you?”
“Oh, but how she loves me!”
“How long have you known her?”
“Since Christmas, Santità, when the father of that has scaled the my tooths.”
“Have you spoken to ‘the father of that’ about ‘that’?”
“Oh, but not yet, Santità. Nothing of less, he knows. I gave him to know without the word.”
“And he didn’t drive you out of the house?”
“But no: for behold me not the assassin of that dentist.”
Hadrian laughed. “Can you describe her?”
“Oh that I might to describe her to one who is so dear, so wise—”
“Describe her.”
“Is named Evnica. Is example of goodness, of intellectuality. For example: yesterday with the favour of the Most Holy I make a visit. I am entering the saloon in the manner of cat, softly, softly. Behold in a book reads the Signorina Evnica—not book of novels, not journal of Don Chisciotte. No. I look over her shoulder, reading titles. Behold, book of piety entitled Office to the Proximate—”
“Office to the Proximate? What book of piety is that?”
Sir Iulo repeated the title in Italian.
“Ah yes, The Duty Towards Our Neighbour. Yes: a very good sign in a girl. Go on.”
Sir Iulo fixed his bright green eyes upon a mental image; and described each point as he observed it, using his gorgeously florid Tuscan idiom. “Has a face to make burn Jove, and to return to ram, eagle or bull; and to make scorn to medals old and new. Blond she has the hair like thread of gold. The cheeks appear like a rose damasked. The mouth and the eyes are worth a treasure. Has looks angelic, divine: but in the effects and all the motions, human; and the her excellencies not have end. She has what they call a good and fine hand: is white like snow of mountains. Is literate; and makes to talk Tuscan; and in life not a flaw can be found. There is not who better to a swan understands me. Does great things, enough facts, little eats: not drinks never in the middle of eating and not at afternoon-tea (merenda). More, I say. She is in her proper acts so learned, that all I have in the world, or small or great, I should have given to her pleasure at a stroke. The more beautiful to my day I never saw: none more servitial: none more prudent: nor acts in a girl more courteous and gay. Has Petrarch and Dante in her hand; and, at time and place if I command, she vomits a little sonnet lightly. Girl of all perfect qualities; and holds me in pledge there if mine—”
“Well now: suppose that you marry her, will you be good to her?”
“Oh, that
