And now Irene was gazing with rapture at the frescoed walls of the immense Sala Clementina, into which, little by little, the extraordinarily mixed assemblage, whose like one can hardly meet anywhere, was making its way. There were foreigners shivering in furs; aristocratic Roman ladies in elegant black dresses, long white gloves, and family pearls; prelates; cardinals; nuns in white starched headdresses; Capucins in sandals, and with ropes round their waists; little girls in white dresses and lace veils, with curls framing their flushed, excited faces; officers of the papal guard; dominicans in white cloth cassocks; attachés of the various foreign embassies in gold embroidered uniforms—all this formed one heterogeneous, palpitating mass of humanity. The variety of the crowd pleased and interested Irene. It struck her that all this was just as it should be in the Palace of the Roman Pontiff, the only sovereign who acknowledged neither rank nor position nor class distinctions, and who did not surround himself with a Chinese wall, guarded by a handful of privileged people, in no way more deserving than their fellows. “It is in most countries these privileged classes,” thought Irene, “who by energetically pushing to a safe distance from the precincts of the throne all who really work for the good of their country, always manage artificially to create enemies for their King.” The Pope believed in a very different policy. He was accessible to everybody, without distinction of nationality, faith, or social position, and he was ready to receive and to bless everyone alike. Perhaps, indeed, it may be owing to this wise policy that no attempt has ever been made on his life, in spite of the fact that the Vatican employs neither spies nor secret guards. Such a Court, thought Irene, should have existed under Constantine the Great or Louis IX.