A Death-Sentence

They now saw a tall, manly form hastening down the alley directly toward
the pope.

"Who is it?" asked Ganganelli, half turning toward Lorenzo, who was
following him.

"It is Juan Angelo Braschi, the former treasurer, to whom you yesterday
sent the cardinal's hat."

"Ah, the beautiful Braschi," sadly murmured Ganganelli. "The beloved of
the favorite of my nephew, of the Cardinal Rezzonico. Ah, how bad the
world is!"

In fact, he whom Ganganelli called the "beautiful" Braschi, well
deserved that epithet. No nobler or more plastic beauty was to be
seen; no face that more reminded one of the divine beauty of ancient
sculpture, no form that could be called a better counterfeit of the
Belvedere Apollo. And it was this beauty which liberal Nature had
imparted to him as its noblest gift, which helped Juan Angelo Braschi,
the son of a poor nobleman of Cesara, to his good fortune, his highest
offices and dignities. Not for his merits, but solely for his beauty,
did the women bestow upon him their love; and as among these women there
were some who exercised an important influence upon powerful cardinals,
Braschi had quickly mounted from step to step, crowding aside those who
had nothing but their merits and services to speak for them.

With a free and noble demeanor, Braschi now approached the pope, who
remained standing at some distance awaiting him, with a calm and proud
self-possession. Braschi dropped upon one knee, and pressing the hem of
the pope's garment in his lips, said: "Pardon me, most holy father, that I have ventured to seek you here.
But my lively gratitude would not be longer restrained. It impelled me
toward you with the wings of the wind. I must be the first to fall at
your feet to stammer out to you my inexpressible thanks."