Intrigues

Groaning, supported by his faithful Lorenzo's arm, Pope Ganganelli
slowly moved through the walks of his garden. Some months had passed
since the suppression of the order of the Jesuits--how had these few
months changed poor Clement! Where was the peace and cheerfulness of
his face, where was the sublime expression of his features, the firm and
noble carriage of his body--where was it all?

Trembling, shattered, with distorted features, and with dull,
half-closed eyes, crawled he about with groans, his brow wrinkled, his
lips compressed by pain and inward sorrow.

No one dared to remain with him; he spoke to no one. But Lorenzo was yet
sometimes able to drive away the clouds from his brow, and to recall a
faint smile to his thin pale lips.

He had also to-day succeeded in this, and for the first time in several
weeks had Ganganelli, yielding to his prayers, consented to a walk in
the garden of the Quirinal.

"This air refreshes me," said the pope, breathing more freely; "it seems
as if it communicated to my lungs a renewed vital power and caused the
blood to flow more rapidly in my veins. Lorenzo, this is a singularly
fortunate day for me, and I will make the most of it. Come, we will
repair to our Franciscan Place!"

"That is an admirable idea," said Lorenzo, delighted. "If your holiness
can reach it, you will recover your health, and all will again be well."

Ganganelli sighed, and glanced toward heaven with a sad smile.

"Health!" said he. "Ah, Lorenzo, that word reminds me of a lost
paradise. The avenging angel has driven me from it, and I shall never
see it again."