"So the Pope is a good man, is he?"
"Good man, sir? He's not a man at all, he's an angel! Only two aims in
life--the glory of the Church and the welfare of the rising generation.
Gave away half his inheritance founding homes all over the world for
poor boys. Boys--that's the Pope's tender point, sir! Tell him anything
tender about a boy and he breaks up like an old swordcut."
The eyes of the young Roman were straying away from the Frenchman to a
rather shabby single-horse hackney carriage which had just come into the
square and taken up its position in the shadow of the grim old palace.
It had one occupant only--a man in a soft black hat. He was quite
without a sign of a decoration, but his arrival had created a general
commotion, and all faces were turning toward him.
"Do you happen to know who that is?" said the gay Roman. "That man in
the cab under the balcony full of ladies? Can it be David Rossi?"
"David Rossi, the anarchist?"
"Some people call him so. Do you know him?"
"I know nothing about the man except that he is an enemy of his
Holiness."
"He intends to present a petition to the Pope this morning,
nevertheless."
"Impossible!"
"Haven't you heard of it? These are his followers with the banners and
badges."
He pointed to the line of working-men who had ranged themselves about
the cab, with banners inscribed variously, "Garibaldi Club," "Mazzini
Club," "Republican Federation," and "Republic of Man."
"Your friend Antichrist," tipping a finger over his shoulder in the
direction of the palace, "has been taxing bread to build more
battleships, and Rossi has risen against him. But failing in the press,
in Parliament and at the Quirinal, he is coming to the Pope to pray of
him to let the Church play its old part of intermediary between the poor
and the oppressed."
"Preposterous!"
"So?"
"To whom is the Pope to protest? To the King of Italy who robbed him of
his Holy City? Pretty thing to go down on your knees to the brigand who
has stripped you! And at whose bidding is he to protest? At the bidding
of his bitterest enemy? Pshaw!"
"You persist that David Rossi is an enemy of the Pope?"
"The deadliest enemy the Pope has in the world."
II
The subject of the Frenchman's denunciation looked harmless enough as he
sat in his hackney carriage under the shadow of old Baron Leone's gloomy
palace. A first glance showed a man of thirty-odd years, tall, slightly
built, inclined to stoop, with a long, clean-shaven face, large dark
eyes, and dark hair which covered the head in short curls of almost
African profusion. But a second glance revealed all the characteristics
that give the hand-to-hand touch with the common people, without which
no man can hope to lead a great movement.