At this precise moment, however, Pierre felt that the white and
motionless shadow behind those windowpanes was held erect by pride, by
the ever present conviction of victory. If man could not achieve it, a
miracle would intervene. He, the Pope, was absolutely convinced that he
or some successor would recover possession of Rome. Had not the Church
all eternity before it? And, moreover, why should not the victor be
himself? Could not God accomplish the impossible? Why, if it so pleased
God, on the very morrow his city would be restored to him, in spite of
all the objections of human reason, all the apparent logic of facts. Ah!
how he would welcome the return of that prodigal daughter whose equivocal
adventures he had ever watched with tears bedewing his paternal eyes! He
would soon forget the excesses which he had beheld during eighteen years
at all hours and in all seasons. Perhaps he dreamt of what he would do
with those new districts with which the city had been soiled. Should they
be razed, or left as evidence of the insanity of the usurpers? At all
events, Rome would again become the august and lifeless city, disdainful
of such vain matters as material cleanliness and comfort, and shining
forth upon the world like a pure soul encompassed by the traditional
glory of the centuries. And his dream continued, picturing the course
which events would take on the very morrow, no doubt.
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