Monday, 17 July 1876

Well, I for one shall be the Pope’s niece!
In thirty-two degrees of heat, de Mouzay, my aunt and I went to see Mme Mongruel, a somnambulist.
There was already someone there, we were made to wait, and meanwhile Mouzay told me stories of magnetism, things she had seen and experienced herself.
The somnambulist is a fair-haired Englishwoman, exceedingly beautiful but no longer in her first youth. A stout, ugly woman is the magnetiser; she put the Englishwoman to sleep and left us alone with her.
“If you wish to consult about persons who are absent, you must have an object belonging to them,” the woman said before she fell asleep.
When she was asleep I put into her hands the Cardinal’s portrait with his signature, in an envelope. I took her hand and questioned her. She slid her fingers into the envelope and, without taking the portrait out, pressing it against her breast, she described the Cardinal to us as exactly as could be.
“But what is his position in the world?” I asked.
“An exceedingly high position, in power, in name and in fortune.”
“Do you see him?”
“Yes, since I have just described him to you.”
“What is he doing? Look.”
“He is extremely busy with some matter; he is thinking of you... and in his thoughts you are with a young man who is very close to him.”
“Can you say exactly what his position is, his rank?”
“His rank is exceedingly high; he is above princes and yet he is not a king, but he has a kind of... occult power over men; he governs them and it does not show.”
“What change do you see in this man’s future?”
“Wait...”
“Look, then! Come!”
“A great..., he will be more powerful still, he will be like a king, but it will be a kingship lately gone unrecognised, so to speak... fallen... For the moment few faithful remain to him, but... but he will triumph. He will have glory and power, he will be almost a king, not a king, but he will have a power of another kind, and just as great.”
“Soon?”
“Yes... but he has a rival... a man who keeps him from becoming what he wants... It is strange... this rival disappears, as if assassinated.”
“But he himself, will he succeed?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you see him?”
“He is very far away, in a very hot country; he is surrounded by people of colour.”
“Colour of their dress?”
“Of their dress.”
“Will he live long after his triumph?”
“No.”
“How long?...”
“Two years.”
“But after he has succeeded?”
“Of course, I have told you so already.”
“What do you say to that, Madame de Mouzay? Let us go on to the other one.”
“Follow this one,” I said, giving the somnambulist Pietro’s letter.
“Yes...”
“Look, come now..., do you see him?”
“Yes, yes...”
“Where is he?”
“Far away, one must cross the sea...”
“Go on, go on...”
“I see!”
“What is he like?”
“He is a good-looking fellow, he is young... Oh! but it is the same one as before...”
“Where?”
“The one that the man I have just seen is thinking of...”
“Is he a relation of his?”
“Yes... he is even...” and the woman began to smile.
“What?” I asked, devouring her with my eyes and holding her hand. “What?”
“He is almost his son...”
I turned round, smiling, for in Rome that is what people say.
“And yet,” she went on, “he is not his son, but he loves him very much and their interests are the same; both of them are thinking of you.”
“But where is the one whose handwriting you are holding?”
“He is... in a country that looks like Spain... it is hot, mountains... the sea... yes, the sea... (it is Terracina). He is not alone...”
“Ah!”
“He is with a woman...”
“Young?”
“Not quite; she is past thirty, chestnut hair, plump.”
“What is she to him?”
“She is not his mistress... and there is no blood tie between them, yet she is related to him by marriage, and he is kept near her by... deference. He is not settled in that place, he comes and goes, I cannot follow him well.”
“Does he intend to come here?”
“Not exactly; he will join you, however, but he is kept near this woman, though not by love...”
“It is Countess Antonelli, née Garcia, is it not? That is her to the life,” I whispered in Mme de Mouzay’s ear.
“Exactly,” she answered.
“He is waiting,” the somnambulist went on, “for the arrival of another lady, an older one; that one is his mother, I think. He is waiting for her, and that keeps him from leaving.”
“Does this man love me?”
“Ye...es.”
“Very much?”
“He loves... but in a way that does not satisfy you, that is not of a nature to satisfy; he is a cunning, crafty man, there is something Machiavellian in his character, an ambitious, sombre character, somewhat greedy; you serve his ambition... There is something of the conspirator in this man; his is a closed character, and he will always be so, but he loves you... in his own way.”
“What tie is there between him and me?”
“None yet, but you will marry.”
“Ah!”
“It will not be for love. There is a way of loving that does not show... he is reserved, he withdraws into himself... in short, you are dissatisfied. But you will marry him.”
“When?”
“Soon... towards winter, the end of next winter, but it will be a marriage of calculation more than of love... on both sides, moreover... You will not stay with him.”
“Being his wife, I shall not stay with him?!”
“You will leave him, but you will be exceedingly rich.”
“Through him?”
“No, but because of him; you will be rich through the one I saw first.”
“And he, is he rich?”
“At present, no.”
“How much does he have? Be precise!”
“Little... little, something like a hundred and fifty thousand francs, and he does not have it in hand; for the moment he has nothing, but in the future...”
“How so?”
“He will be exceedingly rich; he will inherit the fortune of the first one, of the one who... who is like his father.”
“You say that I shall not stay with him?”
“Yes, but you will have a great fortune.”
“How rich shall I be, roughly? Come, look!”
“A m... millionaire.”
“Now that is a consolation.”
“This man, is he thinking of joining me?”
“He will join you.”
“When?”
“Very shortly.”
“Exactly when!”
“At the beginning of August... he will pass through Paris to join you, and then the two of you will find yourselves in a town by the sea, not far from here.”
“And it is there that I shall be married.”
“No! You will be married at the end of this winter, very far away.”
We knocked on the door and the magnetiser came to wake the sleeper.
I came out all excited, pulling Mme de Mouzay by the arm, by her dress, by her bonnet, pointing out to her how accurate the somnambulist had been, laughing, working myself up, talking of conspiracy, of revolution, of the papacy, of the conspirator Antonelli, comparing him to Rienzi... to..., in short I said so much that the Countess declared with profound conviction that I had only to marry Pierre Antonelli to acquire enough influence in Rome to have my uncle made Pope. Then she cited two examples from history where women had had that much influence. I stayed at her house until seven o’clock, holding forth, making plans, laughing, and together we marvelled at the singular things the somnambulist had said. For, apart from the prediction of the future, whose truth we cannot judge yet, she said surprising things.
I am half mad!
What is the matter with me..., I do not know; I have an immoderate desire to consult another somnambulist.
I am happy, excited rather. I accept Pietro’s absence; that is how I explain his silence. I forgive him for not loving me; I consent to a match of interest. Pietro will serve me as a stepping-stone. I believe the prediction; one believes what one desires. She has worked me up dreadfully, and, with a woman like me, things happen because they have been predicted rather than being predicted because they must happen.
I spent my evening crying out to my aunt: “The Pope’s niece!”, painting her pictures of the most brilliant future, singing love songs and Latin hymns, talking of the Pope, of the past and the future, working myself up so much that if I were alone now I would lie down on the floor, for I am half frantic, half in love, and I think of Pietro with a contempt mingled with love, ambition, caprice, reproach and passion.
It seems to me that I must hold the world in my hands, that I would subjugate cardinals and Pope, that I would make everyone love me, [now] by the suppleness, now by the harshness of my character, by my ambition, by my energy!
God, what good feelings wasted! If I were given the means to act I would move the world! Courage, energy, ambition, will! What use are you to me? When shall I employ you worthily? When will my ardent aspirations be anything but a dream, the delirium of an ambition too vast for the narrow space in which it is confined?
The Pope’s niece! To gather everyone at my house, buy some, coax others, win everyone over, prepare the moment and make a revolution.
To drive the King out of Rome! To render unto the Pope what is due to him, to raise him above the princes of the earth, as is fitting. To give Rome back her sovereignty over the world by giving her back her Pope, her religious influence, her originality, her exceptional position, since we can no longer give her the empire of the world!
Vain dreams, follies, the extravagance of an unbridled mind! Oh! yes, but if by a miracle of God I made these dreams come true... [words crossed out]: inspirations from heaven, prophecies of genius!
The maddest idea, sanctioned by success, becomes an idea of genius; the wisest, if it miscarries, becomes an absurd folly. Such is the judgement and the nature of men.
How truly she spoke, that woman: he loves me, but in his own way, and I am dissatisfied.
It is true, this love is not enough for me, it makes me unhappy; I ask for a love that is all mine, wholly devoted, eternal!
But God does not want me to be loved like that; I shall not have that joy, that incomparable happiness, longed for, unique. The crown of every fortune, of every glory, the heavenly ray, the pearl of life... But this pearl must be set in gold, surrounded with diamonds, otherwise it is lost, it falls into the mud of triviality and is crushed under the feet of the very men who would have admired it had it been mounted in gold.
Let God satisfy my ambition and I shall satisfy my love. Ambition without love can still suffice... but love all by itself, love such as everyone has, is not love, it is bestiality.

Notes

Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli, Secretary of State to Pope Pius IX since 1848, died in Rome on 6 November 1876, less than four months after this séance; he never became pope (Wikipedia, “Giacomo Antonelli”). Marie learns of his death from a telegram in Russia and gives up the prophecy: «Comme rien ne s’est accompli de la prédiction de la Mongruel je n’en parlerai plus jamais» (15 November 1876). ↩
Italian troops had taken Rome on 20 September 1870, ending the Papal States; Rome became the capital of the Kingdom of Italy under King Victor Emmanuel II, while Pope Pius IX refused to recognise the loss and stayed within the Vatican (Wikipedia, “Capture of Rome”). Marie’s dream of driving «le roi» out of Rome is the cause of the papal party, to which the Antonelli family belonged. ↩