The Saint Part 30

He smote his forehead. In the Vision he had seen himself in conversation with the Pope. This he had never been able to forget. But he had forgotten--and now the memory of it had flashed back to him--that a spirit had led him through the Vatican to the Pope. He moved along the left-hand wall, near which he had stumbled against the great chair. He was convinced that at the end of the Gallery he should find an exit, and light at last. He did remember that, at the end, was the gateway leading to the Chiaramonti Museum. He went on, often pressing his hand against the wall, against the tombstones. Suddenly he became aware that what he was touching was neither marble nor stone. Gently, he beat upon the wall with his fist. It was wood--a door! Involuntarily he stopped and waited.

He heard a step behind the door; a key turned in the lock; a blade of light slanted across the Gallery and broadened; a black figure appeared; the priest who had abandoned Benedetto on the stairs! He came out, moving rapidly, closed the door behind him, and said to Benedetto, as if nothing strange had taken place:

"You are about to find yourself in the presence of His Holiness."

He signed to Benedetto to enter, and again closed the door, he himself remaining outside.

On entering, Benedetto could distinguish only a small table, a little lamp with a green shade, and a white figure seated behind the table, and, facing him. He sank upon his knees.

The white figure stretched out its arm, and said: "Rise. How did you come?"

The singularly sweet face, framed in grey hair, wore an expression of astonishment. The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion:

Benedetto rose, and answered:

"From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I came alone."

"Were you familiar with the Vatican? Did they tell you, you would find me here?"

When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed in thought. Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a chair opposite him:

"Be seated, my son."

Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope's ascetic and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise, while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some papers which were scattered upon the little table. This was indeed a strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old furniture. One would have p.r.o.nounced it the ante-room of some library, of some museum, which was being rearranged. But he was lost in contemplation of the Pope's face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness. He drew nearer, bent his knee, and kissed the hand which the Holy Father extended to him, saying, with sweet dignity:

"_Non mihi, sed Petro._"

Then Benedetto sat down. The Pope pa.s.sed him a sheet of paper, and pushed the little lamp nearer to him.

"Look," said he. "Do you know that writing?"

Benedetto looked and shuddered, and could not check an exclamation of reverent sorrow.

"Yes," he replied. "It is the writing of a holy priest, whom I dearly loved, who is dead, and whose name was Don Giuseppe Flores."

His Holiness continued:

"Now read. Read aloud."

Benedetto read:

"Monsignore,--

"I entrust to my Bishop the sealed packet enclosed, with this note, in an envelope bearing your address. It was left with me, to be opened after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of ascertaining. I believe the packet contains an account of a vision of a supernatural nature which visited Maironi when he returned to G.o.d out of the fire of a sinful pa.s.sion. I hoped at that time that the Almighty had chosen him as the instrument of some special work of His own. I hoped that the holiness of the work would be confirmed, after Maironi's death, by the perusal of this doc.u.ment, which might come to be looked upon in the light of a prophecy. I hoped this, although I was at great pains to prudently hide my secret hopes from Maironi.

"Two years have elapsed since the day of his disappearance, and nothing has since been heard of him. Monsignore, when you read these words, I also shall have disappeared. I beg you to take my place in this pious stewards.h.i.+p. You will act as your conscience may dictate, as you may deem best.

"And pray for the soul of

Your poor

DON GIUSEPPE FLORES."

Benedetto laid the paper down, and gazed into the Pontiff's face, waiting.

"Are you Piero Maironi?" he said.

"Yes, your Holiness."

The Pontiff smiled pleasantly.

"First of all, I am glad you are alive," he said. "That Bishop believed you were dead; he opened the packet, and deemed it his duty to entrust it to the Vicar of Christ. This happened about six months ago, while my saintly predecessor was still living. He mentioned it to several cardinals and to me also. Then it was discovered that you were still alive, and we knew where you lived and how. Now I must ask you a few questions, and I exhort you to answer with perfect truth."

The Pontiff looked with serious eyes into Benedetto's eyes; Benedetto bowed his head slightly. "You have written here," the Pontiff began, "that when you were in that little church in the Veneto, you had a vision of yourself in the Vatican, conversing with the Pope. What can you recall concerning that part of your vision?"

"My vision," Benedetto answered, "grew more and more indistinct in my memory during the time I spent at Santa Scolastica--about three years--partly because my spiritual director there, as well as poor Don Giuseppe Flores, always counselled me not to dwell upon it. Certain parts remained clear to me, others became indistinct. The fact that I had seen myself in the Vatican, face to face with the Sovereign Pontiff, remained fixed in my mind; but only the bare fact. A few moments ago, however, there in the dark gallery from whence I entered this room, I suddenly remembered that in the vision I was guided to the Pontiff by a spirit. I recalled this when I found myself alone in the night, in the darkness, in a place unknown to me, or practically unknown, for I had been there only once, many years before, when, having no idea what direction to take, I was about to retrace my steps, and an inward voice, very clear, very loud, commanded me to press forward."

"And when you knocked at the door," the Pope inquired, "did you know you would find me here? Did you know you were knocking at the door of the library?"

"No, Your Holiness. I did not even intend to knock. I was in the dark; I could see nothing, I was simply touching, the wall with my hand."

The Pope was silent for some time, lost in thought; then he remarked that the ma.n.u.script contained the words: "At first a man dressed in black guided me." Benedetto did not remember this.

"You know," the Pope continued, "that prophecy alone is not sufficient proof of saintliness. You know there are such things (such cases have been met with) as prophetic visions which were the work of-well, perhaps not of malign spirits, we know too little of these matters to a.s.sert that--but of occult powers, of powers innate in human nature, or of powers superior to human nature, but which most certainly have nothing to do with holiness. Can you describe to me the state of your soul when you had the vision?"

"I was feeling most bitter sorrow at having drawn away from G.o.d, at having been deaf to His calls, an infinite grat.i.tude for His patient kindness, and an infinite desire of Christ. In my mind I had just seen, really seen, s.h.i.+ning clear and white against a dark background, those words of the Gospel, which long ago, in the time of goodness had been so dear to me: _'Magister adest et vocat te.'_ Don Giuseppe Flores was officiating, and Ma.s.s was nearly over, when, as I prayed, my face buried in my hands, the vision came to me. It was instantaneous; like a flas.h.!.+"

Benedetto's chest heaved, so violent was this revulsion of memory.

"It may have been a delusion," he said; "but it was not the work of malign spirits."

"The evil spirits," the Pontiff said, "do sometimes masquerade as angels of light. Perhaps, at that time, they were striving against the spirit of goodness which was within you. Did you take pride in this vision, later on?"

Benedetto bowed his head, and reflected for some time.

"Perhaps--on one occasion," said he, "for one moment, at Santa Scolastica, when my master, in the Abbot's name, offered me the habit of a lay-brother, that habit which was afterwards taken from me at Jenne.

Then I thought for a moment that this unexpected offer confirmed the last part of my vision, and I felt a wave of satisfaction, deeming myself the object of divine favour. I immediately entreated G.o.d to pardon me, as I now entreat Your Holiness to pardon me."

The Pontiff did not speak, but he raised his hand with wide-spread fingers, and lowered it again, in an act of absolution.

Then he began to examine the different papers lying on the little table, seeming to consult more than one attentively, as he turned them over.

He laid them down, arranged them in a packet, which he pushed aside, and once more broke the silence:

"My son," he said, "I must ask you other questions. You have mentioned Jenne. I was not even aware of the existence of this Jenne. It has been described to me. To tell the truth, I cannot understand why you ever went to Jenne."

Benedetto smiled quietly, but did not attempt to justify himself, not wis.h.i.+ng to interrupt the Pope, who continued:

"It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little favour?"