I
On the morning appointed for the visit to the Vatican, Roma dressed in
the black gown and veil prescribed by etiquette for ladies going to an
audience with the Pope.
The young Noble Guard in civilian clothes was waiting for her in the
sitting-room. When she came out of the bedroom he was standing with a
solemn face before the bust of David Rossi, which she had lately cast
afresh and was beginning to point in marble.
"This is wonderful," he said. "Perfectly wonderful! A most astonishing
study."
Roma smiled and bowed to him.
"Christ of course, and such reality, such feeling, such love! But shall
I tell you what surprises me most of all?"
"What?"
"What surprises me most is the extraordinary resemblance between your
Christ and the Pope."
"Really?"
"Indeed yes! Didn't you know it? No? It is almost incredible. Younger
certainly, but the same features, the same expression, the same
tenderness, the same strength! Even the same vertical lines over the
nose which make the shako dither on one's head when something goes wrong
and His Holiness is indignant."
Roma's smile was dying off her face like the sun off a field of corn,
and she was looking sideways out of the window.
"Has the Pope any relations?" she asked.
"None whatever, not a soul. The only son of an only son. You must have
been thinking of the Holy Father himself, and asking yourself what he
was like thirty years ago. Come now, confess it!"
Roma laughed. The soldier laughed. "Shall we go?" she said.
A carriage was waiting for them, and they drove by the Tor di Nona, a
narrow lane which skirts the banks of the Tiber, across the bridge of
St. Angelo, and up the Borgo.
Roma was nervous and preoccupied. Why had she been sent for? What could
the Pope have to say to her?
"Isn't it unusual," she asked, "for the Pope to send for any
one--especially a woman, and a non-Catholic?"
"Most unusual. But perhaps Father Pifferi...."
"Father Pifferi?"
"He is the Holy Father's confessor."
"Is he a Capuchin?"
"Yes. The General at San Lorenzo."
"Ah, now I understand," said Roma. Light had dawned on her and her
spirits began to rise.
"The Pope is very tender and fatherly, isn't he?"
"Fatherly? He is a saint on earth, that's what he is! Impetuous,
perhaps, but so sweet and generous and forgiving. Makes you shake in
your shoes if you've done anything amiss, but when all is over and he
puts his arm on your shoulder and tells you to think no more about it,
you're ready to die for him even at the stake."