Try to speak for half an hour on religion; you will utter heresies at first; but hire a learned and discreet theologian to help you with your sermons, and warn you of your mistakes, you can put them right the day after."
The kind of misery which a crossed love brings to the soul has this effect, that everything which requires attention and action becomes an atrocious burden.
But Fabrizio told himself that his influence with the people, if he acquired any, might one day be of use to his aunt, and also to the Conte, his veneration for whom increased daily, as his public life taught him to realise the dishonesty of mankind.
He decided to preach, and his success, prepared for him by his thinness and his worn coat, was without precedent.
People found in his utterances a fragrance of profound sadness, which, combined with his charming appearance and the stories of the high favour that he enjoyed at court, captivated every woman's heart.
They invented the legend that he had been one of the most gallant captains in Napoleon's army.
Soon this absurd rumour had passed beyond the stage of doubt.
Seats were reserved in the churches in which he was to preach; the poor used to take their places there as a speculation from five o'clock in the morning.
His success was such that Fabrizio finally conceived the idea, which altered his whole nature, that, were it only from simple curiosity, the Marchesa Crescenzi might very well come one day to listen to one of his sermons.
Suddenly the enraptured public became aware that his talent had increased twofold.
He allowed himself, when he was moved, to use imagery the boldness of which would have made the most practised orators shudder; at times, forgetting himself completely, he gave way to moments of passionate inspiration, and his whole audience melted in tears.
But it was in vain that his aggrottato eye sought among all the faces turned towards the pulpit that one face the presence of which would have been so great an event for him.
"But if ever I do have that happiness," he said to himself, "either I shall be taken ill, or I shall stop short altogether."
To obviate the latter misfortune, he had composed a sort of prayer, tender and impassioned, which he always placed in the pulpit, on a footstool; his plan was to begin reading this piece, should the Marchesa's presence ever place him at a loss for a word.
He learned one day, through those of the Marchesa's servants who were in his pay, that orders had been given to prepare for the following evening the box of the casa Crescenzi at the principal theatre.
It was a year since the Marchesa had appeared at any public spectacle, and it was a tenor who was creating a furore and filling the house every evening that was making her depart from her habit.
Fabrizio's first impulse was an intense joy.
"At last I can look at her for a whole evening!
They say she is very pale."
And he sought to imagine what that charming face could be like, with its colours half obliterated by the war that had been waged in her soul.
His friend Ludovico, in consternation at what he called his master's madness, found, with great difficulty, a box on the fourth tier, almost opposite the Marchesa's.
An idea suggested itself to Fabrizio;
"I hope to put it into her head to come to a sermon, and I shall choose a church that is quite small, so as to be able to see her properly."
As a rule, Fabrizio preached at three o'clock.
On the morning of the day on which the Marchesa was to go to the theatre, he gave out that, as he would be detained all day at the Palace by professional duties, he would preach as a special exception at half past eight in the evening, in the little church of Santa Maria della Visitazione, situated precisely opposite one of the wings of the palazzo Crescenzi.
Lodovico, on his behalf, presented an enormous quantity of candles to the nuns of the Visitation, with the request that they would illuminate their church during the day.
He had a whole company of Grenadier Guards, a sentry was posted, with fixed bayonet, outside each chapel, to prevent pilfering.
The sermon was announced for half past eight only, and by two o'clock the church was completely filled; one may imagine the din that there was in the quiet street over which towered the noble structure of the palazzo Crescenzi.
Fabrizio had published the announcement that, in honour of Our Lady of Pity, he would preach on the pity which a generous soul ought to feel for one in misfortune, even when he is guilty.
Disguised with all possible care, Fabrizio reached his box in the theatre at the moment when the doors were opened, and when there were still no lights.
The performance began about eight o'clock, and a few minutes later he had that joy which no mind can conceive that has not also felt it, he saw the door of the Crescenzi box open; a little later the Marchesa appeared; he had not had so clear a view of her since the day on which she had given him her fan.
Fabrizio thought that he would suffocate with joy; he was conscious of emotions so extraordinary that he said to himself:
"Perhaps I am going to die!
What a charming way of ending this sad life!
Perhaps I am going to collapse in this box; the faithful gathered at the Visitation will wait for me in vain, and to-morrow they will learn that their future Archbishop forgot himself in a box at the Opera, and, what is more, disguised as a servant and wearing livery!
Farewell my whole reputation!
And what does my reputation mean to me?"
However, about a quarter to nine, Fabrizio collected himself with an effort; he left his box on the fourth tier and had the greatest difficulty in reaching, on foot, the place where be was to doff his livery and put on a more suitable costume.
It was not until nearly nine o'clock that he arrived at the Visitation, in such a state of pallor and weakness that the rumour went round the church that the Signor Coadiutore would not be able to preach that evening.
One may imagine the attention that was lavished on him by the Sisters at the grille of their inner parlour, to which he had retired.
These ladies talked incessantly; Fabrizio asked to be left alone for a few moments, then hastened to the pulpit.
One of his assistants had informed him, about three o'clock, that the Church of the Visitation was packed to the doors, but with people of the lowest class, attracted apparently by the spectacle of the illumination.
On entering the pulpit, Fabrizio was agreeably surprised to find all the chairs occupied by young men of fashion, and by people of the highest distinction.
A few words of excuse began his sermon, and were received with suppressed cries of admiration.
Next came the impassioned description of the unfortunate wretch whom one must pity, to honour worthily the Madonna della Pieta, who, herself, had so greatly suffered when on earth.
The orator was greatly moved; there were moments when he could barely pronounce his words so as to be heard in every part of this small church.
In the eyes of all the women, and of a good many of the men, he had himself the air of the wretch whom one ought to pity, so extreme was his pallor.
A few minutes after the words of apology with which he had begun his discourse, it was noticed that he was not in his normal state; it was felt that his melancholy, this evening, was more profound and more tender than usual.
Once he was seen to have tears in his eyes; in a moment there rose through the congregation a general sob, so loud that the sermon was completely interrupted.
This first interruption was followed by a dozen others; his listeners uttered cries of admiration, there were outbursts of tears; one heard at every moment such exclamations as: