"Thirty-five years ago," said Father Pifferi, "the Holy Father had not
even dreamt of being Pope. He was the only child of a Roman banker,
living in a palace on the opposite side of the piazza. The old Baron had
visions, indeed, of making his son a great churchman by the power of
wealth, but these were vain and foolish, and the young man did not share
them. His own aims were simple but worldly. He desired to be a soldier,
and to compromise with his father's disappointed ambitions he asked for
a commission in the Pope's Noble Guard."
The old friar put his hands into the vertical pockets in the breast of
his habit, and looked up at the ceiling as he went on speaking.
"All this is no secret, but what follows is less known. The soldier, who
had the charm of an engaging personality, led the life of an ordinary
young Roman of his day, frequenting cafés, concerts, theatres, and
balls. In this character he met a poor woman of the people, and came to
love her. She was a good girl, with soft and gentle manners, but a heart
of gold and a soul of fire. He was a good man and he meant to marry her.
He did marry her. He married her according to the rites of the Church,
which are all that religion requires and God calls for."
Roma was leaning forward on her seat and breathing between
tightly-closed lips.
"Unhappily, then as now, a godless legislature had separated a religious
from a civil marriage, and the one without the other was useless. The
old Baron heard of what had happened and tried to defeat it. A cardinal
had just been created in Australia, and an officer of the Noble Guard
had to be sent with the Ablegate to carry the biglietto and the
skull-cap. At the request of the Baron his son was appointed to that
mission and despatched in haste."
Roma could scarcely control herself.
"The young husband being gone, the father set himself to deal with the
wife. He had not yet relinquished his hopes of seeing his son a
churchman, and marriage was a fatal impediment. A rich man may have many
instruments, and the Baron was able to use some that were evil. He
played upon the conscience of the girl, who was pure and virtuous; told
her she was not legally married, and that the laws of her country
thought ill of her. Finally, he appealed to her love for her husband,
and showed her that she was standing in his way. He was not a bad man,
but he loved his son beyond truth and to the perversion of honour, and
was ready to sacrifice the woman who stood between them. She allowed
herself to be sacrificed. She wiped herself out that she might not be an
obstacle to her husband. She drowned herself in the Tiber."
Roma could not control herself any longer, and made a half-stifled
exclamation.
"Then the young husband returned. He had been travelling constantly, and
no letters from his wife had reached him. But one letter was waiting for
him at Rome, and it told him what she had done. It was then all over;
there was no help for it, and he was overwhelmed with horror. He could
not blame the poor dead girl, for all she had done had been done in
love; he could not blame himself, for he had meant no wrong in making
the religious marriage, and had hastened home to complete the civil one;
and he could not reproach his father, for if the Baron's conduct had led
to fearful consequences, it had been prompted by affection for himself.
But the hand of God seemed to be over him, and his soul was shaken to
its foundations. From that time forward he renounced society and all
worldly pleasures. For eight days he went into retreat and prayed
fervently. On the ninth day he joined a religious house, the Novitiate
of the Capuchins at San Lorenzo. The young soldier, so gay, so handsome,
so fond of social admiration, became a friar."
The old Capuchin looked tenderly at Roma, whose wet eyes and burning
cheeks seemed to tell of sympathy with his story.
"In those days, my daughter, the nuns of Thecla served the Foundling of
Santo Spirito."
Roma began to look frightened and to feel faint.
"It was usual for a member of our house to live in the hospital in order
to baptize the children and to confess the sick and the dying. We took
it in turns to do so, staying one year, two years, three years, and then
going back to the monastery. I was myself at Santo Spirito for this
purpose at the time I speak about, and it was not until three or four
years afterwards that I became Superior of our House and returned to San
Lorenzo. There I found the young Noble Guard, and, wisely or unwisely, I
told him a new phase of his own story."
"There was a child?" said Roma, in a strange voice.
The Capuchin bent his head. "That much he knew already by the letter his
wife had left for him. She had intended that the child should die when
she died, and he supposed that it had been so. But pity for the little
one must have overtaken the poor mother at the last moment. She had put
the babe in the rota of the hospital, and thus saved the child's life
before carrying out her purpose upon her own."
The Capuchin crossed his knees, and one of his bare feet in its sandal
showed from under the edge of his habit.
"We had baptized the boy by a name which the mother had written on a
paper attached to his wrist, and the identity of that name with the name
of the Noble Guard led to my revelation. Nature is a mighty thing, and
on hearing what I told him the young brother became restless and
unhappy. The instincts of the man began to fight with the feelings of
the religious, and at last he left the friary in order to fulfil the
duty which he thought he owed to his child."
"He did not find him?"
"He was too late. According to custom, the boy had been put out to nurse
on the Campagna, by means of the little dower that was all his
inheritance from the State. His foster parents passed him over to other
hands, and thus by the abuse of a good practice the child was already
lost."
Roma tried to speak, but she could not utter a word.
"What happened then is a long story. The old Baron was now dead and the
young friar had inherited his princely fortune. Dispensations got over
canonical difficulties, and in due course he took holy orders. His first
work was to establish in Rome an asylum for friendless orphans. He went
out into the streets to look for them, and brought them in with his own
hands. His fame for charity grew rapidly, and he knew well what he was
doing. He was looking for the little fatherless one who owned his own
blood and bore his name."
Roma was now sitting with drooping head, and her tears were falling on
her hands.
"Five years passed, and at length he came upon a trace of the boy and
heard that he had been sent to England. The unhappy father obtained
permission and removed to London. There he set up the same work as
before and spent in the same way his great wealth. He passed five years
more in a fruitless search, looking for his lost one day and night,
winter and summer, in cold and heat, among the little foreign boys who
play organs and accordions in the streets. Then he gave up hope and
returned to Rome. His head was white and his heart was humble, but in
spite of himself he rose from dignity to dignity until at length the old
Baron's perverted ambitions were fulfilled. For his great and abounding
charity, and still greater piety, he was promoted to be Bishop; seven
years afterwards he was created Cardinal; and now he is Pope Pius the
Tenth, the saint, the saviour of his people, once the storm-tossed,
sorrowing, stricken man...."
"David Leone?"
The Capuchin bowed. "That was the Holy Father's name. He committed no
sin and has nothing to reproach himself with, but nevertheless he has
known what it is to fall and to rise again, to suffer and be strong.
Tell me, my daughter, is there anything you would be afraid to confide
to him?"
"Nothing! Nothing whatever!" said Roma, with tears choking her voice and
streaming down her cheeks.
The door to the throne room opened again and a line of Cardinals came
out and passed down the secret corridor, talking together as they
walked, old men in violet, most of them very feeble and looking very
tired. At the next moment the chaplain came in for Roma.
"The Holy Father will be ready to receive you presently," he said in a
hushed and reverent whisper, and she rose to follow him.
A moment later Roma was at the door of the grand throne room. A
chamberlain took charge of her there, and passed her to a secret
chamberlain at the door of an anteroom adjoining. This secret
chamberlain handed her on to a Monsignor in a violet cassock, and the
Monsignor accompanied her to the door of the room in which the Pope was
sitting.
"As you approach," he said in a low tone, "you will make three
genuflexions--one at the door, another midway across the floor, the
third at the Holy Father's feet. You feel well?"
"Yes," she faltered.
The door was opened, the Monsignor stepped one pace into the room, and
then knelt and said--
"Donna Roma Volonna, your Holiness."
Roma was on her knees at the threshold; a soft, full, kindly voice,
which she could have believed she had heard before, called on her to
approach; she rose and stepped forward, the Monsignor stepped back, and
the door behind her was closed.
She was in the Presence.