ithout intermission celebrate
the divine sacrifice on those four altars. The Cardinal, indeed, had
desired that the Divine Blood should flow without pause under his roof
for the redemption of those two dear souls which had flown away together.
And thus in that mourning mansion, through those funeral halls the bells
scarcely stopped tinkling for the elevation of the host, whilst the
quivering murmur of Latin words ever continued, and consecrated wafers
were continually broken and chalices drained, in such wise that the
Divine Presence could not for a moment quit the heavy atmosphere all
redolent of death.

On the other hand, however, Pierre, to his great astonishment, found the
throne-room much as it had been on the day of his first visit. The
curtains of the four large windows had not even been drawn, and the grey,
cold, subdued light of the gloomy winter morning freely entered. Under
the ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work there were the customary red
wall-hangings of _brocatelle_, worn away by long usage; and there was the
old throne with the arm-chair turned to the wall, uselessly waiting for a
visit from the Pope which would never more come. The principal changes in
the aspect of the room were that its seats and tables had been removed,
and that, in addition to the improvised altar arranged beside the throne,
it now contained the state bed on which lay the bodies of Benedetta and
Dario, amidst a profusion of flowers. The bed stood in the centre of the
room on a low platform, and at its head were two lighted candles, one on
either side. There was nothing else, nothing but that wealth of flowers,
such a harvest of white roses that one wondered in what fairy garden they
had been culled, sheaves of them on the bed, sheaves of them toppling
from the bed, sheaves of them covering the step of the platform, and
falling from that step on to the magnificent marble paving of the room.

Pierre drew near to the bed, his heart faint with emotion. Those tapers
whose little yellow flamelets scarcely showed in the pale daylight, that
continuous low murmur of the mass being said at the altar, that
penetrating perfume of roses which rendered the atmosphere so heavy,
filled the antiquated, dusty room with a spirit of infinite woe, a
lamentation of boundless mourning. And there was not a gesture, not a
word spoken, save by the priest officiating at the altar, nothing but an
occasional faint sound of stifled sobbing among the few pers