Hadrian the Seventh by Frederick Rolfe — Read

The Liblab deputation had returned to England: but Jerry Sant and Mrs. Crowe hung on at a decent little hotel in Two Shambles Street, which was convenient to the English quarter. Their idea was to wait for an opportunity to push their scheme of blackmail. Most of each day, Mrs. Crowe was in the Square of St. Peter's, looking up at the Vatican, hoping for the apparition of Hadrian at His window. In the evenings, she saw Him walking to and fro on the steps of the basilica. There always was something of a crowd there. The poorest of the poor, by the common consent of the most courteous of nations, were placed in front; and she used to see the Pope giving words and gold to persons whom she deemed disreputable. She would have sacrificed her new wig for one of those coins. Once, she pushed into the front row and kneeled with the riffraff. She heard a blind boy tell his miserable tale: she heard the Apostle's gentle words and saw the munificent careless gift. It was her turn. She felt the distant inflexible eyes on her bent head: "God bless you, daughter; go in peace" dropped on her; and Hadrian passed on. The poor girl on her left bitterly wept -- the police-doctor had refused her certificate -- her occupation was gone.

-- Hadrian's kind of charity did not appeal to Mrs. Crowe: she called it "disgusting" and "highly improper" to the table d'hôte. There were several quaint visitors at the Hotel Nike. They chiefly were English; and they listened in silence, with shy strange eyes, when she vented her views. Afterwards, though, she used to find herself the recipient of the confidence of weird old-maids and worn-out matrons, who drew her into corners of the garden away from the cabin where Sant smoked, and nervously whispered, "My dear, I'm sure you'll excuse me addressing you, but I feel bound to say I think I'm right in saying that I owe everything to Him Whom you're speaking about. I hope you don't mind me saying this but I feel sure you wouldn't wish to do anyone an injustice. You see I used to know Him years ago and, I hardly know how to put it, but a certain sum was named between us which would make me safe for life; and just now, since last April you see, that very sum, a regular income all my days, my dear, has come to me through the Bank of England; and I feel sure it's Him, for there isn't another soul in the world able to do such a thing: and, my dear, although of course I can't approve of the indiscriminate charity you've named, I thought I'd just mention this to you because the fact is I've come here to try and see Him and let him know how thankful I am."