But there have been other and greater deaths, beside which the mortality of a whole society of noblemen sinks into insignificance.  An empire is dead and another has arisen in the din of a vast war, begotten in bloodshed, brought forth in strife, baptized with fire.  The France we knew is gone, and the French Republic writes “Liberty, Fraternity, Equality” in great red letters above the gate of its habitation, which within is yet hung with mourning.  Out of the nest of kings and princes and princelings, and of all manner of rulers great and small, rises the solitary eagle of the new German Empire and hangs on black wings between sky and earth, not striking again, but always ready, a vision of armed peace, a terror, a problem—­perhaps a warning.

Old Rome is dead, too, never to be old Rome again.  The last breath has been breathed, the aged eyes are closed for ever, corruption has done its work, and the grand skeleton lies bleaching upon seven hills, half covered with the piecemeal stucco of a modern architectural body.  The result is satisfactory to those who have brought it about, if not to the rest of the world.  The sepulchre of old Rome is the new capital of united Italy.

The three chief actors are dead also—­the man of heart, the man of action and the man of wit, the good, the brave and, the cunning, the Pope, the King and the Cardinal—­Pius the Ninth, Victor Emmanuel the Second, Giacomo Antonelli.  Rome saw them all dead.

In a poor chamber of the Vatican, upon a simple bed, beside which burned two waxen torches in the cold morning light, lay the body of the man whom none had loved and many had feared, clothed in the violet robe of the cardinal-deacon.  The keen face was drawn up on one side with a strange look of mingled pity and contempt.  The delicate, thin hands were clasped together on the breast.  The chilly light fell upon the dead features, the silken robe and the stone floor.  A single servant in a shabby livery stood in a corner, smiling foolishly, while the tears stood in his eyes and wet his unshaven cheeks.  Perhaps he cared, as servants will, when no one else cares.  The door opened almost directly upon a staircase and the noise of the feet of those passing up and down upon the stone steps disturbed the silence in the death chamber.  At night the poor body was thrust unhonoured into a common coach and driven out to its resting-place.

In a vast hall, upon an enormous catafalque, full thirty feet above the floor, lay all that was left of the honest king.  Thousands of wax candles cast their light up to the dark, shapeless face, and upon the military accoutrements of the uniform in which the huge body was clothed.  A great crowd pressed to the railing to gaze their fill and go away.  Behind the division tall troopers in cuirasses mounted guard and moved carelessly about.  It was all tawdry, but tawdry on a magnificent scale—­all unlike the man in whose honour it was done.  For he had been simple and brave.