"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——"
The late Whistler would have loved to draw Franz’s face while the future Emperor of the Slavs listened with covetousness and fanaticism, the zealot’s ardour and the brute’s vindictiveness written large in his usually stony face.
"Will have to make submission to Rome," he interrupted, pounding the table.
"As you like, King of Rome." To offset the Duke’s holy fervour, the War Lord affected a tone of calmness utterly at variance with his ideas.
"The coming union of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches——" he continued.
"The absorption of the schismatic Church by the only true Church," insisted Franz.
"Will make it particularly important for you to have the office of Pontifex Maximus in addition to that of Emperor and King," said the War Lord. "I’ll let Bülow talk details."
"After consultation with my father confessor?" asked Franz anxiously.
"Why not unfold our plans to a council of Archduchesses and the whole priest-ridden pest?" cried the War Lord, momentarily forgetful of his rôle. "I beg your pardon," he added quickly; "I was quoting Bismarck. What I meant to say is: that our _pourparlers_ are strictly confidential—not a word to any one, confessor, Francis Joseph, or the Princess herself. I have your word as an officer?"