“Filiberto is a queer little chap,” Victor Emanuel continued: “he says the most extraordinary things;—came running into the stables the other morning crying because some dog had barked and startled him. ‘Stamp at ’em,’ I said; ‘and after all, you can run faster than a dog,’ said I to hearten him. ‘Yes’ says he ‘but you see, father, when I do run, I’m always putting out one leg at the back for the dog to bite!’ ”
“But I can tell you something better than that,” the Empress put in. “He was a bad boy in the chapel at benediction on Sunday. I’m afraid, Holiness, that this is rather a naughty story—”
“Tell it instantly and relieve your sinful soul, daughter;” the haughty pontiff commanded.
How the three roared! She continued, “He persisted in trying to balance a pile of prayer-books on the ledge of his chair-back; and every now and then they came down with a crash. At last I took him on my knee; and told him that the holy angels were looking at him, and that they would go and tell the Lord God what a wicked little ruffian he was. And then he said—he said, ‘Dirty little sneaks!’ ”
“Oh, oh, the exquisite boy!” Hadrian shouted with laughter.
“Well, I’ll go and fetch him;” said the Southern Emperor, running-out of the door, just as the Northern Emperor came-in by the other, prepared to play the part of peacemaker. That, now, was not necessary; and England, Germany, and Italy, chattered like children till the children came. Their father did not return. His men were having a bad time, trying to beat the record for getting a sovereign into his habit of ceremony.
The fair Prince Filiberto solemnly approached the Pope. “Are You the White Father which formerly I have seen in somebody’s forest?”
“Yes,” said Hadrian.
“Are You quite good now?” the boy continued, with great black basilic eyes.
“No,” said Hadrian, feeling the horror of the end of youth confronted with the flower of innocence.
“Are You truly contrite for having been a naughty boy—no, man I mean?”
“Yes,” said Hadrian.
“Are You sitting on my father’s sofa because he has forgiven You?”
“Yes,” said Hadrian, thinking what a frightful old fool He must appear.
“I liked You when I saw You in that forest; and I like You now: but mother told me that the White Father was not my father’s friend.”
“Mother made a mistake, little son;” said the Empress, leaning forward in sudden confusion. “The White Father is father’s best friend.”
“Oh, how I am glad for that: because now You can be also my friend!” the prince cried, scattering his deliberate English to the four quarters of the globe.
“Most willingly,” said Hadrian, taking the rose-brown hand, and drawing the child towards Him. Innocence put up its pretty lips. The Apostle lost one breath;—and stooped and kissed the stainless brow. Then He turned to greet the girls.
“This child once asked my husband a very awkward question,” the mother said, presenting the Princess Yolanda. “The King of England was coming here; and Victor was showing her His Majesty’s incoronation portrait. Ah, but how she admired it! And she said, ‘Father why don’t you wear a hat like that king?’ ”
The Supreme Pontiff looked at the blushing child. “You would not call it a ‘hat,’ Princess, now that you are grown up?”
“No, Papa Inglese—a crown.”
“You would like your father to have a crown? Tell him that there are two waiting for him, one at Monza, and another in the Lateran.”
The Roman Emperors escorted the Pope returning to Vatican. On the way, carriages met them, and disgorged sovereigns: state-coaches met them, and emitted cardinals: courtiers alighted from horseback and emerged from motorcars. The return became a procession of the powers, led by the Power of the Keys. They had crossed the Ponte Santangelo, and were about to turn to the left by the Castle, when a dishevelled man in black contrived to break out from the ranks of the people. He got through the bersaglieri and stepped into the middle of the road: pointed a revolver at Hadrian; and fired. The bullet struck His Holiness high up on the left breast, piercing the pulmonary artery just above the lung.
The slim white figure stopped—wavered—and sank down. The whole world seemed to stand still, while the human race gasped once.
A frantic woman in a fox-coloured wig pitched out of the opposite crowd; and grovelled. “Love, Love,” she howled hideously: “oh and I loved him so! Oh! Oh! I really did love him. Yes I did, I did, I did, I did …” she yelped to the sun in the firmament of heaven. The discord resembled the baying of a dog which breaks the cadence of Handel’s “Largo” on arch-lutes.
God’s Vicegerent moved—looked at her from a distance, gently, even curiously. “Daughter, go in peace,” He said and turned away. She remained there grovelling, longing to touch Him, forlorn, gorgonized.
The Roman Emperors also kneeled to right and left, fiercely looking among their aides for the help which did not come, which could not come, from man.
The assassin was in a hundred tearing hands. Screeches shot out of his gullet when they silently and inevitably began to tear him to pieces. Roman knives flashed over the parapet; and slid into Tiber: hooked hands, like the curving talons of griffins, were the weapons for this work. But the Supreme Pontiff beckoned him; and the gesture was unmistakeable—universally authoritative. Shaken and violently shaking, jagged, lacerated, a disreputable wreck of Pictish ready-made tailoring, Jerry Sant staggered forward, staggered like one fascinated. Cardinals and sovereigns drew away from him, and the mob hemmed him in.
“… for they know not. …” The Apostle raised himself a little, supported by imperial hands. How bright the sunlight was, on the warm grey stones, on the ripe Roman skins, on vermilion and lavender and blue and ermine and green and gold, on the indecent grotesque blackness of two blotches, on apostolic whiteness and the rose of blood.
“Augustitudes, Our will and pleasure is—”
“Speak it, Most
