Roma's spirits were rising every minute, and her nervousness was fading

away. Since things had fallen out so, she could take advantage of her

opportunities. She would tell the Pope everything, and he would advise

with her and counsel her. She would speak about David Rossi, and the

Pope would tell her what to do.

The great clock of the Basilica was striking ten with a solemn boom as

the carriage rattled over the stones of the Piazza of St. Peter's--wet

with the play of the fountains and bright with the rainbows made by the

sun.

They alighted at the bronze gate, ascended the grand staircase, crossed

a courtyard, passed through many gorgeous chambers, and arrived finally

at an apartment hung with tapestries and occupied by a Noble Guard, who

wore a brass helmet and held a drawn sword. The next room was the throne

room, and beyond it were the Pope's private apartments.

A chaplain of the Pope's household came to say that by request of Father

Pifferi the lady was to step into an anteroom; and Roma followed him

into a small adjoining chamber, carpeted with cocoanut matting and

furnished with a marble-topped table and two wooden chest-seats, bearing

the papal arms. The little room opened on to a corridor overlooking a

courtyard, a secret way to the Pope's private rooms, and it had a door

to the throne room also.

"The Father will be here presently," said the chaplain, "and His

Holiness will not be long."

Roma, who was feeling some natural tremors, tried to reassure herself by

asking questions about the Pope. The chaplain's face began to gleam. He

was a little man, with round red cheeks and pale grey eyes, and the

usual tone of his voice was a hushed and reverent whisper.

"Faint? Yes, ladies do faint sometimes--often, I may say--and they

nearly always cry. But the Holy Father is so gentle, so sweet."

The door to the throne room opened and there was a gleam of violet and

an indistinct buzz of voices. The chaplain disappeared, and at the next

moment a man in the dress of a waiter came from the corridor carrying a

silver soup dish.

"You're the lady the Holy Father sent for?"

Roma smiled and assented.

"I'm Cortis--Gaetano Cortis--the Pope's valet, you know--and of course I

hear everything."

Roma smiled again and bowed.

"I bring the Holy Father a plate of soup every morning at ten, but I'm

afraid it is going to get cold this morning."

"Will he be angry?"

"Angry? He's an angel, and couldn't be angry with any one."




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