‘Cardinal Sarto, the Patriarch-Archbishop of Venice.’
My face fell. I had scarcely heard of his Eminence of Venice by name. Certainly he was not among those cardinals—the Papabili, as they are termed—whose candidature was taken seriously by the ecclesiastical politicians of the Vatican.
‘Is Cardinal Sarto a possible candidate, sire?’ I ventured to object.
‘You must make him so,’ King Victor said earnestly. ‘I rely on you to secure his election.’
Although not lacking in self-confidence, I shrank before this tremendous task. Apart from my scruples as a Catholic—and I was by no means sure how far it was lawful for a layman to interfere in a Papal election—I doubted my power to influence the choice of the Sacred College in the short time at my disposal.
‘In ten days from now the Conclave will begin,’ I murmured reflectively.
‘I know it,’ broke in Victor Emmanuel. ‘I want you to be present in the Conclave as my secret agent.’
I trembled. The secrecy of the Conclave is guarded with the greatest care. In what way could I possibly gain admission to the private deliberations of the Cardinals?
The King answered my unspoken doubts.
‘In ten days the Cardinals will enter the Conclave, each with a single attendant, and the door will be walled up, not to be reopened until Christendom again has a Pope. It is necessary for you to be inside that walled-up door.’