“God has allowed me to read in your heart that you do not believe any of these accusations.”
At these words of Benedetto’s, the Pope knit his brows slightly.
“Now Your Holiness is thinking that I arrogate to myself a miraculous clairvoyance. No. It I is something which I see in your face, which I hear in your voice; poor, common, man that I am!”
“Perhaps you know who has recently visited me?” the Pope exclaimed.
He had summoned to Rome the parish priest of Jenne, and had questioned him concerning Benedetto. The priest, finding a Pope to his liking, a Pope who differed vastly from those two zealots who had intimidated him at Jenne, had seized the opportunity of thus easily making his peace with his own conscience, and had shown his remorse by praising and re-praising. Benedetto knew naught of this.
“No,” he answered, “I do not know.”
The Pontiff was silent; but his face, his hands, his whole person betrayed lively anxiety. Presently he leaned back in his great chair, let his head sink upon his breast, stretched out his arms, and rested his hands, side by side, on the little table. He was reflecting.
While he reflected, sitting motionless there, his eyes staring into space, the flame of the tiny petroleum lamp rose, red and smoky, in the tube. He did not notice it at once. When he did, he regulated it, and then broke the silence.
“Do you believe,” said he, “that you really have a mission?”
Benedetto answered with, an expression of humble fervour.