This was indeed a
strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old
furniture. One would have pronounced 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 passed 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.
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