“Mundo, who led the Compromissaries, is Patriarch of Lisbon. Nefski is Archbishop of Prague, poor fellow—”
“Why ‘poor fellow’?”
“Oh he was nearly killed by the anarchists.—Well then, Ferraio is Archbishop of Milan: Gentilotto is Prefect-General of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, and Fiamma is Archbishop of Bologna. The two last were candidates at first, but gave it up by consenting to become Compromissaries.”
“These, you say, are well-disposed to Us?”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
“A Kelt: an American: a Portugal: five Italians: and a Pole.”
“No, a Bohemian, Holiness.”
“Oh?” Hadrian directed the bishop to a writing-table. “Now, whether this be in accordance with regulations or not, We neither know nor care. Please write”—He sipped a glass of milk; and began to dictate—“ ‘Hadrian VII—Bishop—Servant of the servants of God—wills that you immediately shall come—to Him—in the Vatican Palace—at Rome. Nothing—except the gravest physical inability—or your duty to your family—if such there be—is to impede you. All Catholics—are to afford you—the comfort—conveyance—and assistance—of which you may stand in need.’ Please sign it with your own name and make five copies of it.”
The bishop, sighing for his typewriter, diligently wrote in an angular oblique almost illegible hand. Electric lights sprang up in the City. The Pope lighted candles, closed the curtains, and rolled a cigarette. Then He came and sat by the table, looking at the manuscripts—considering the huge ring on His Own index-finger. Smiling to Himself, He took a taper and a stick of sealing-wax; and produced the Little-Peter-in-a-Boat at the foot of the six sheets.
“Address them,” He continued, “to the Reverend George Semphill, St. Gowff’s, North Britain:—Reverend James Sterling, Oakheath, Stafford:—Reverend George Leighton, Shorham, Sussex:—Reverend Gerald Whitehead, Wilton, Warwick:—Reverend Robert Carvale, Duntellin, Ayrshire:—and—yes, do you know that eighteen years ago he had the most exquisitely beautiful face and the most exquisitely beautiful soul and the most exquisitely horrible voice of any boy in the college—address the sixth to Percy Van Kristen, 2023 Madison Avenue, New York.”
While Dr. Talacryn was closing the envelopes, the Pope Himself wrote on a sheet of paper which, also, He sealed:
Hadrianus P.M. VII dilectissimo filio Francisco Talacryni Caerleonis Episcopo.
Te in cardinalem Designamus et Approbamus: quod tamen sub silentio tenebis donec tempus idoneum aderit.
Datum Romae. Sub annulo Piscatoris. Anno pontificatus Nostri I, AD VIIII Kal. Mai.
“Now please come and kneel here,” He said.
The bishop looked an inquiry: but he came round the table, and kneeled before the Pope, Who addressed him in these words:—
“Well-beloved son, Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, We appoint thee to, and confirm thee in, the cardinalature. But thou shalt not disclose the fact until the proper time.”
So saying, He lightly pinched-together the bishop’s lips, putting the breve into his hand.
“Silence,” the Pontiff continued. “Now will you yourself go to San Silvestro—not to the post-office here—and stamp and post those letters. One thing more. There will be no hitch tomorrow? Right. Then, after leaving San Silvestro, will you find Prince Pilastro and Prince Orso, and tell them—We certainly shall have the support of these nine? Good.—Well, quite informally let those princes (as Princes-Assistant at the Pontifical Throne) know of Our insuing incoronation. When you have named that to Prince Pilastro, say, also informally, that the Supreme Pontiff wishes the Syndic of Rome to know that, when He has received the crowns, He intends to go to Lateran to take possession of His episcopal see. No. There is to be no fuss. We will go as simply as possible and on foot. Will you always be quite near? We name you trainbearer; and will make your office a sinecure. God bless you. Da b’och a dibechod.”
Hadrian remained standing at the antechamber-door, watching the bishop’s big figure disappear along the corridor. He thought it a pity that a tendency to corpulency was not checked by healthy physical exercise. A detachment of the Swiss Guard stood armed and motionless at regular intervals. “For me,” was His plebeian thought. A small man appeared, bowing. He had a servile air. Hadrian’s second glance recognized him. “Is there an apartment on the top storey above this?” He inquired.
“But yes, Holiness, a large apartment of smaller rooms not having the altitude of these.”
“You will cause them to be emptied by noon tomorrow. Now you can go to bed. Please take care that no one comes inside this door until the morning.”
The Pope closed the door: and returned through the antechambers and the throne-room to the table where He had been working. He sat on the edge of the table for about an hour, swinging a leg, thinking, and sipping milk. Then He took a candle, and went into a dressing-room with huge oak clothespresses. Opening their doors, He looked for a cloak among piles and festoons of new clothes. There were several of crimson velvet. After vainly searching for something plain, He put on one of these and proceeded to the outer door, taking a breviary from the table on the way. Out in the corridor, He signed to the nearest guard. The black-red-yellow-and-steel figure came and kneeled.
“Do you know the way into St. Peter’s?” the Pope said.
“But yes, Most Holy Father.”
“Procure what keys are necessary and conduct Us thither, son.”
“But securely, Most Holy Father.”
The Swiss went on before. Hadrian followed, feeling annoyed by the salutes with which He was received along the way. He had been so long unnoted that notice irritated and abashed Him. Life would be unbearable if trumpets and quaint halberds greeted every movement. He had not the stolidity of born personages. Presently, He threw back His cloak and kept head and hand raised in a gesture which petrified. They passed through innumerable passages and descended stairs, emerging in a chapel where lights burned about a tabernacle of gilded bronze and lapis lazuli. Here He paused, while His escort unlocked the gates of the screen. Once through that, He sent-back the guard to his station: but He Himself went-on into the vast obscurity of the basilica. He walked
