A fanfare of trumpets came from the piazza, and with a cry of delight
Roma ran into the balcony, followed by all the women and most of the
men.
"Only the signal that the cortège has started," said Don Camillo.
"They'll be some minutes still."
"Santo Dio!" cried Roma. "What a sight! It dazzles me; it makes me
dizzy!"
Her face beamed, her eyes danced, and she was all aglow from head to
foot. The American Ambassador stood behind her, and, as permitted by his
greater age, he tossed back the shuttlecock of her playful talk with
chaff and laughter.
"How patient the people are! See the little groups on camp-stools
munching biscuits and reading the journals. 'La Vera Roma!'" (mimicking
the cry of the newspaper sellers). "Look at that pretty girl--the fair
one with the young man in the Homburg hat! She has climbed up the
obelisk, and is inviting him to sit on an inch and a half of corbel
beside her."
"Ah, those who love take up little room!"
"Don't they? What a lovely world it is! I'll tell you what this makes me
think about--a wedding! Glorious morning, beautiful sunshine, flowers,
wreaths, bridesmaids ready; coachman all a posy, only waiting for the
bride!"
"A wedding is what you women are always dreaming about--you begin
dreaming about it in your cradles--it's in a woman's bones, I do
believe," said the American.
"Must be the ones she got from Adam, then," said Roma.
Meantime the Baron was still parading the hearthrug inside and listening
to the warnings of his Minister of War.
"You are resolved to arrest the man?"
"If he gives us an opportunity--yes."
"You do not forget that he is a Deputy?"
"It is because I remember it that my resolution is fixed. In Parliament
he is a privileged person; let him make half as much disorder outside
and you shall see where he will be."
"Anarchists!" said Roma. "That group below the balcony? Is David Rossi
among them? Yes? Which of them? Which? Which? Which? The tall man in the
black hat with his back to us? Oh! why doesn't he turn his face? Should
I shout?"
"Roma!" from the little Princess.
"I know; I'll faint, and you'll catch me, and the Princess will cry
'Madonna mia!' and then he'll turn round and look up."
"My child!"
"He'll see through you, though, and then where will you be?"
"See through me, indeed!" and she laughed the laugh a man loves to hear,
half-raillery, half-caress.
"Donna Roma Volonna, daughter of a line of princes, making love to a
nameless nobody!"
"Shows what a heavenly character she is, then! See how good I am at
throwing bouquets at myself?"
"Well, what is love, anyway? A certain boy and a certain girl agree to
go for a row in the same boat to the same place, and if they pull
together, what does it matter where they come from?"
"What, indeed?" she said, and a smile, partly serious, played about the
parted mouth.
"Could _you_ think like that?"
"I could! I could! I could!"
The clock struck eleven. Another fanfare of trumpets came from the
direction of the Vatican, and then the confused noises in the square
suddenly ceased and a broad "Ah!" passed over it, as of a vast living
creature taking breath.
"They're coming!" cried Roma. "Baron, the cortège is coming."
"Presently," the Baron answered from within.
Roma's dog, which had slept on a chair through the tumult, was awakened
by the lull and began to bark. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm
and ran back to the balcony, where she stood by the parapet, in full
view of the people below, with the young Roman on one side, the American
on the other, and the ladies seated around.
By this time the procession had begun to appear, issuing from a bronze
gate under the right arm of the colonnade, and passing down the channel
which had been kept open by the cordon of infantry.
Roma abandoned herself to the fascinations of the scene, and her gaiety
infected everybody.
"Camillo, you must tell me who they all are. There now--those men who
come first in black and red?"
"Laymen," said the young Roman. "They're called the Apostolic Cursori.
When a Cardinal is nominated they take him the news, and get two or
three thousand francs for their trouble."
"And these little fat folk in white lace pinafores?"
"Singers of the Sistine Chapel. That's the Director, old Maestro
Mustafa--used to be the greatest soprano of the century."
"And this dear old friar with the mittens and rosary and the comfortable
linsey-woolsey sort of face?"
"That's Father Pifferi of San Lorenzo, confessor to the Pope. He knows
all the Pope's sins."
"Oh!" said Roma.
At that moment her dog barked furiously, and the old friar looked up at
her, whereupon she smiled down on him, and then a half-smile played
about his good-natured face.
"He is a Capuchin, and those Frati in different colours coming behind
him...."
"I know them; see if I don't," she cried, as there passed under the
balcony a double file of friars and monks. "The brown ones--Capuchins
and Franciscans! Brown and white--Carmelites! Black--Augustinians and
Benedictines! Black with a white cross--Passionists! And the monks all
white are Trappists. I know the Trappists best, because I drive out to
Tre Fontane to buy eucalyptus and flirt with Father John."
"Shocking!" said the American.
"Why not? What are their vows of celibacy but conspiracies against us
poor women? Nearly every man a woman wants is either mated or has sworn
off in some way. Oh, how I should love to meet one of those anchorites
in real life and make him fly!"
"Well, I dare say the whisk of a petticoat would be more frightening
than all his doctors of divinity."
"Listen!"
From a part of the procession which had passed the balcony there came
the sound of harmonious voices.
"The singers of the Sistine Chapel! They're singing a hymn."
"I know it. '_Veni, Creator!_' How splendid! How glorious! I feel as if
I wanted to cry!"
All at once the singing stopped, the murmuring and speaking of the crowd
ceased too, and there was a breathless moment, such as comes before the
first blast of a storm. A nervous quiver, like the shudder that passes
over the earth at sundown, swept across the piazza, and the people stood
motionless, every neck stretched, and every eye turned in the direction
of the bronze gate, as if God were about to reveal Himself from the Holy
of Holies. Then in that grand silence there came the clear call of
silver trumpets, and at the next instant the Presence itself.
"The Pope! Baron, the Pope!"
The atmosphere was charged with electricity. A great roar of cheering
went up from below like the roaring of surf, and it was followed by a
clapping of hands like the running of the sea off a shingly beach after
the boom of a tremendous breaker.
An old man, dressed wholly in white, carried shoulder-high on a chair
glittering with purple and crimson, and having a canopy of silver and
gold above him. He wore a triple crown, which glistened in the sunlight,
and but for the delicate white hand which he upraised to bless the
people, he might have been mistaken for an image.
His face was beautiful, and had a ray of beatified light on it--a face
of marvellous sweetness and great spirituality.
It was a thrilling moment, and Roma's excitement was intense. "There he
is! All in white! He's on a gilded chair under the silken canopy! The
canopy is held up by prelates, and the chairmen are in knee-breeches and
red velvet. Look at the great waving plumes on either side!"
"Peacock's feathers!" said a voice behind her, but she paid no heed.
"Look at the acolytes swinging incense, and the golden cross coming
before! What thunders of applause--I can hardly hear myself speak. It's
like standing on a cliff while the sea below is running mountains high.
No, it's like no other sound on earth; it's human--fifty thousand
unloosed throats of men! That's the clapping of ladies--listen to the
weak applause of their white-gloved fingers. Now they're waving their
handkerchiefs. Look! Like the wings of ten thousand butterflies
fluttering up from a meadow."
Roma's abandonment was by this time complete; she was waving her
handkerchief and crying "_Viva il Papa Re!_"
"They're bearing him slowly along. He's coming this way. Look at the
Noble Guard in their helmets and jackboots. And there are the Swiss
Guard in Joseph's coat of many colours! We can see him plainly now. Do
you smell the incense? It's like the ribbon of Bruges. The pluviale?
That gold vestment? It's studded on his breast with precious stones. How
they blaze in the sunshine! He is blessing the people, and they are
falling on their knees before him."
"Like the grass before the scythe!"
"How tired he looks! How white his face is! No, not white--ivory! No,
marble--Carrara marble! He might be Lazarus who was dead and has come
back from the tomb! No humanity left in him! A saint! An angel!"
"The spiritual autocrat of the world!"
"_Viva il Papa Re!_ He's going by! _Viva il Papa Re!_ He has
gone.... Well!"
She was rising from her knees and wiping her eyes, trying to cover up
with laughter the confusion of her rapture.
"What is that?"
There was a sound of voices in the distance chanting dolorously.
"The cantors intoning _Tu es Petrus_," said Don Camillo.
"No, I mean the commotion down there. Somebody is pushing through the
Guard."
"It's David Rossi," said the American.
"Is that David Rossi? Oh, dear me! I had forgotten all about him." She
moved forward to see his face. "Why ... where have I ... I've seen him
before somewhere."
A strange physical sensation tingled all over her at that moment, and
she shuddered as if with sudden cold.
"What's amiss?"
"Nothing! But I like him. Do you know, I really like him."
"Women are funny things," said the American.
"They're nice, though, aren't they?" And two rows of pearly teeth
between parted lips gleamed up at him with gay raillery.
Again she craned forward. "He is on his knees to the Pope! Now he'll
present the petition. No ... yes ... the brutes! They're dragging him
away! The procession is going on! Disgraceful!"
"Long live the Workmen's Pope!" came up from the piazza, and under the
shrill shouts of the pilgrims were heard the monotonous voices of the
monks as they passed through the open doors of the Basilica intoning the
praises of God.
"They're lifting him on to a car," said the American.
"David Rossi?"
"Yes; he is going to speak."
"How delightful! Shall we hear him? Good! How glad I am that I came! He
is facing this way! Oh, yes; those are his own people with the banners!
Baron, the Holy Father has gone on to St. Peter's, and David Rossi is
going to speak."
"Hush!"
A quivering, vibrating voice came up from below, and in a moment there
was a dead silence.