"Italy being a sort of apanage to the Emperor of the Slavs"—more bowing and scraping—"you wouldn't care to have a rival court on your hands, would you? And that's what the Vatican will always be so long as it is allowed to exist."
"You would abolish it?" cried Franz, alarmed.
"Not completely; I would retain the Holy Father as a sort of Christian Sheikh-ul-Islam, yourself to be the real responsible head of the Church."
"The Pope is not a married man."
"Alexander VI. was, and also some others. Besides, the Tsar whom you are to succeed as orthodox pope never was a stickler for celibacy."
"Orthodox pope?" echoed Franz, his Jesuit blood a-tingle.
To his pietist understanding the mere mention of a rival Church was as a red rag to a bull, and no one realised that condition of his mind more fully than the War Lord. But would he allow the even tenor of these pourparlers to be disturbed by the conscientious scruples of the surly individual smoking his echte? Not he!
Conscientious scruples, indeed, and in world politics too! He had not previously given the subject any thought, but on his desk lay a letter marked: "On the Service of the Holy See"—a happy coincidence and a suggestion.
The papal breve dealt with nothing more momentous than the shifting of the protectorate over the Christians in Turkey, but the mysterious word State-secret covers a multitude of lies.
"My dear Franz," said the War Lord, weighing the Pope's letter in his hand, "the problems you seem to approach with fears and trepidation are fully treated in this document. However, without the Holy Father's consent, I dare not reveal his intentions. But this much I can say on my own responsibility: after we get through with Russia, there will be no orthodox question. The orthodox Church will have to unite with the Catholic——"