Chapter 101 Hope Blue Diamond (XVIII)

◎The Saint's Kiss◎

"Please discuss the follow-up matters with Ferrante." Raphael stretched out his hand and knocked three times on the golden bell beside him, indicating that the meeting was over. Without looking at other people's expressions, he stood up and left leisurely.

The cardinals stood up one after another, bowed and saw the Pope off. Ferrante followed the Pope like his shadow and disappeared at the door. Only the cardinals in luxurious red robes were left in the room. A few of them nodded politely to others and left. The remaining cardinals looked at each other without saying a word, but each of them had a smug smile on their faces.

The risk of this move was really great, but the benefits were also considerable. They took the risk of being retaliated by Sistine I and snatched a piece of fat meat from the lion's claws. The subsequent distribution of benefits still needed to be considered, and more importantly...

They were not fools, and they would not treat Sistine I, who was able to sit firmly on the throne of Saint Lear, as a fool. From any perspective, Raphael was not a man who would willingly be bullied, but he let them go so easily and allowed them to grab such rich rewards. Even in extreme ecstasy, the cardinals could not ignore the uneasiness in their hearts.

He must have some trick up his sleeve waiting for them, or there must be a hook in this piece of fat meat.

But no matter how deep the trap ahead is, the cardinals cannot restrain their ambition to swallow the fat meat. Even if it is a trap, they will definitely take a chance.

But at the same time, they also became wary of Raphael again.

As long as you can get out of it in time, as long as you don't get stuck in it, you can leave safely with the fruits of victory - everyone thinks so.

They saw the same thing in the eyes of others, that is, the prying of wealth and power, and the viciousness of trying to push others to take the blame when facing the danger of flesh and blood.

The cooperation just now seemed to disappear in an instant. They smiled hypocritically politely, and as soon as they left the Pope's Palace, they parted ways and embarked on different paths.

After leaving the Notre Dame Hall, Raphael wanted to walk by himself. As soon as he turned the corner, Ferrante half-pressed and half-supported him into a wheelchair. Raphael frowned in dissatisfaction: "I can walk by myself."

"Dr. Polly said you can't walk too much." Ferrante's expression was firm, and his deep blue eyes revealed a stubbornness that would not waver even if he was beaten or scolded.

Raphael almost laughed at his expression.

"Go to the Grand Gallery." The Pope raised his chin, and his handsome face showed an air of arrogance that was intended to provoke others. This sly and mean temperament was a little out of place on him. Not only did it not have that frightening effect, but it looked like a cat standing on its master's head and looking down on the world.

Ferrante indulged Raphael's dissatisfaction and pushed the wheelchair towards the Grand Gallery. The servants behind him cleverly stopped other people and hung golden bells on several arches of the Grand Gallery to symbolize the Pope's presence.

The large gallery covered with scarlet carpet was as quiet as usual. The figures in the huge golden frames hanging on the wall looked out of the paintings in various postures. The overly lifelike brushwork made their eyes vivid, as if they were moving with every person who walked past the painting. If you stay here for a long time, you will feel like you are being stared at by countless people. The cold and gloomy gazes of the dead are quietly attached to your back, like greedy tentacles, sucking the vitality and warmth of the living.

Ferrante pushed Raphael through the gazes of countless portraits on both sides. The wheelchair rolled on the thick carpet without making any sound. Brilliant and cool golden sunlight leaked through the large arched stained glass windows. They walked in the regularly spaced light and shadow, sometimes covered with golden light, sometimes walking into dim shadows. Such changing light and shadow gave people the illusion that time was constantly stretched, as if they had passed through infinite echoes and walked into endless history.

In the corners of the frames, small pieces of parchment are used to mark the names of the portraits and the painters. Most of them have turned yellow, and there are hairy circles around the edges of the ink. Ferrante is not keen on this "art", even though each of them is a priceless treasure and outsiders are unable to take a look at it.

"Last year, the Florence Seminary proposed to establish an art academy. The main research purpose is to train poor painters with artistic talent to serve the Vatican. The paintings of the Florence Cathedral are all done by masters, but many ordinary small churches are very short of such talents. The financial burden of learning painting is too high, and noble families are ashamed of their children engaging in art. The seminary has submitted relevant applications to the Papal Palace, hoping to get some support."

Raphael looked at the art treasures on the corridor and suddenly remembered this incident. It was indeed a small matter to him, so much so that he had forgotten it for more than half a year. If he had not passed by the Grand Gallery this time, he might not have remembered it until the next time the dean of the seminary came to meet him.

"Art." Ferrante muttered. He knew nothing about it. All his skills were related to stealing intelligence, interrogation and protection. The only ability that was slightly related to them was to judge the value of the works of art that were searched. It was undeniable that he was gifted in this regard. The category of "artwork" included not only paintings, but also various types of jewelry and gemstone raw materials.

In simple terms, Ferrante is a walking property value appraiser.

Raphael knew what he was thinking when he heard his ambiguous words: "The value of art is not in the contemporary era. Send my letter of consent to the dean this afternoon and ask him to start recruiting students. The Pope's Palace will bear 80% of the tuition fees for the first three years. The cost of basic painting materials will also be borne by the Pope's Palace. Ask them to make the application list clearer. Later... let the students connect with various churches."

Ferrante was about to agree, but Raphael added: "Tell him that although the Academy of Art was established in the seminary and was created by the Vatican, it cannot prohibit students from creating other themes."

Ferrante was stunned for a moment, thinking of the character of the extremely pious and old-fashioned dean of the seminary, and hesitated: "...if he saw his students painting genre paintings, he might faint from anger."

Raphael had the same idea as him. The corners of his lips curled up slightly, and he said lightly: "Tell him that this is my order. If he has any objection, I will consider revoking his right to bring students to the Grand Gallery for observation."

Well, the Holy Father's command meant more to that old conservative than anything else.

The two men quickly let the matter go. At that time, neither of them had thought that this impromptu order from the Pope would make Florence the birthplace of the world's most outstanding art school in the future and an insurmountable monument in the art world. Countless artists would graduate from here, and the names listed in the alumni yearbook would form the outline of the world art history. All artists were eager to visit this holy land of art, and every student would choose religious paintings as their graduation works before graduation. Without exception, the theme of the paintings would always be related to Saint Sistine I.

In 1780, democratic ideas swept the entire continent. The Academy of Art allowed students to freely recommend respected scholars to serve as president. The rebellious artists pushed the long-deceased Pope Saint Sistine I to the podium with an overwhelming majority of 123 votes. Thus, Saint Sistine I Raphael became the honorary president of the Academy of Art in a dramatic way, which lasted for hundreds of years and never changed.

Even in the era when autocratic ideas were most serious, the Academy of Art adhered to the orders left by the Holy Father and never prohibited students from creating any subject matter. They walked freely and firmly on their own paths, leaving behind the most precious works for future generations. In such an environment, the graduation works dedicated by graduates to the "best dean" were collected in the storage room of the Pope's Palace. The names on them were either unknown or world-shaking, but Raphael knew nothing about it at the moment.

The two finally stopped at the wall at the end of the Grand Gallery. There was only a huge portrait hanging on the wall with dark red velvet curtains. The crowned Pope sat on the saint's throne, with snow-white robes flowing down and scarlet and gold patterns on the surplice. The young Pope had a compassionate and holy smile on his face. He had long golden hair and lavender eyes. The painter portrayed him like an angel descending to the earth. His eyes looking out of the painting were gentle and majestic, full of divinity that transcended the world.

It was a bit strange to look at his own portrait from this angle. Raphael tilted his head, wondering a little confusedly, was he like this at that time? Only a few years had passed, yet it seemed like a lifetime. How could he have looked so energetic then?

Raphael recalled with some difficulty. He had just escaped from a near-death dream. The claws of fear grabbed his soul. He was uneasy and suspicious, afraid and wary of everyone around him. He thought he looked very bad at that time - a mentally ill patient with neurasthenia, a ghost full of vengeful rage, how good could he be? But in the eyes of others, he actually looked pretty good.

Raphael laughed at himself in his heart, and Ferrante also looked up, but his mood was obviously completely different from Raphael's.

"I went to see it secretly," he said suddenly. "The parade passed through the lower city, and all the orphans in the church were asked to do volunteer work. I left the team and mixed in with the crowd, waiting until your car passed by."

Ferrante gazed at the splendid portraits on the wall. He would always remember that glimpse. The Pope's golden carriage slowly left in the midst of thousands of people. The attendants waved perfumed petals and ribbons. He secretly broke away from the church team and fiercely squeezed into the crowd, stretching out his arms to grab the black bread and dried meat distributed by the attendants. Among the countless crowded heads, he saw the Pope sitting on the golden carriage turned his head and cast a blank glance at the crowd.

He panted in exhaustion from running wildly, chasing after that look. Perhaps the Pope just glanced over here unintentionally, or he might not even remember what he saw, but Ferrante was just foolishly and stubbornly chasing and running. He kept replaying that look in his mind.

He had never seen a look like that before.

It was like a dead person climbing out of the flames of hell and seeing a pool of sweet spring water. Beyond the ecstasy and disbelief were twisted pain and resentment. He was both the happiest and the saddest person in the world.

He is such a miserable person that the sense of brokenness and resentment that comes from his soul deeply attracted Ferrante, who is also not so complete.

He wanted to catch up, to see the broken soul clearly, and to ask the other party, how did you get shattered into this state and then piece yourself together?

Before they got to know each other, Ferrante had already been attracted by the unpredictable mystery of fate. It was the phantom in his dreams, the salvation told to him in the holy book, and the saint he prayed day and night.

However, after he got really close to Raphael, he no longer dared to ask the questions he wanted to ask at the beginning. It was an unreasonable cowardice. Ferrante was unwilling to find out what had caused Raphael such pain. He only hoped that he would be the one to accompany Raphael and heal him.

The deep blue eyes moved away from the portrait and stared at Raphael's back intently, just like countless times before.

Raphael was confused because he stayed here too long. He tilted his head slightly and met Ferrante's overly focused eyes. There was no one else here, so Ferrante's eyes were filled with passionate love that was about to overflow.

He looked at him with more piety than a believer looks at a saint, and with more loyalty than a lover looks at his partner.

Raphael was stunned for a moment.

The Pope, who had always been accustomed to planning and calculating others, felt a slight regret for the first time. Perhaps he should not have let Ferrante follow him. He could have given him power, wealth, fame, and even everything he wanted, but he could not squeeze out a little sweet love in response from his empty and barren heart.

The Pope's mind was full of thoughts and he raised his hand. Ferrante immediately lowered his head and put his face closer. This action was indeed a bit insulting given his current status, but he did not look unhappy at all.

Raphael paused, then gently pushed his face away, saying in a cold tone, "You are the head of the Arbitration Bureau, so you must be aware of your identity."

Ferrante laughed in a low voice and pressed his face closer again. This time he even held Raphael's hand, not letting him pull it away. "I have always paid attention to my identity. Compared to those useless titles and names, isn't my first identity the dog of the Holy Father?"

He smiled, blinked, moved his lips and made a mouth shape.

Raphael was immediately brought back to the shock of facing Ferrante's barking that day by the soundless lip shape. Even though such a long time had passed, the impact could not be completely worn away by time. The young Pope's whole body stiffened uncontrollably.

Ferrante seemed very satisfied with his little trick. Of course, the well-behaved dog also has some bad intentions. When it comes to grabbing the owner's attention and love, dogs are no more innocent than other animals. These animals domesticated from wolves still retain the wildness and possessiveness of their ancestors, but they are better at camouflage and hiding.

Ferrante lowered his eyelids, carefully covering the horrified emotion in his pupils with his long eyelashes, cautiously turned his face away, and devoutly kissed Raphael's palm.

"Holy Father, please look at me." He said vaguely, suppressing the word he wanted to say most deep in his heart.

He is the supreme saint, the incarnation of the Lord on earth. How dare despicable human beings try to win his love? Even making him fall in love is a sin. The Pope cannot conclude marriage, and the Holy Book condemns homosexual love. As the Pope, Raphael knows this fact better than Ferrante, but he never mentions it.

So every kiss was a painful and sweet torture for Ferrante.

He was addicted to such love, yet also afraid of the vague notion of sin. He wanted to get closer, yet also wanted to stay away.

He didn't know what Raphael was thinking. As for Ferrante, he had already prepared for Raphael to withdraw, but in this limited time, he was madly immersed in it and unwilling to extricate himself.

Raphael stared at Ferrante's profile calmly, the tingling numbness in his palm spread to his brain, and he moved a moist kiss from his palm to the inside of his wrist. Raphael looked at him for a while, bent his fingers, and grabbed Ferrante's curly long hair. The man whose hair was savagely pulled obediently let him bully him, raised his head following Raphael's force, and was greeted by a kiss with a bit of coolness and the scent of myrrh.

They kissed at the end of the Grand Gallery, in the gazes of countless saints, and embraced each other secretly and briefly. The white doves in the Grand Square outside the window took off at regular intervals, fluttering their wings, blocking the path of the sunlight and generously sending the shattered light through the glass and splashing on them.

The falling feather of the white dove floated down and was caught by a bony hand. The hand twisted the soft feather, turned it twice, and threw it casually into the garden outside the window.

The author has something to say:

Today is a victory for the puppy! But victory is temporary, war is permanent! Next contestant, please come on the track!

Damn it, a world where people can only kiss is so boring. Isn't the biggest selling point of writing a dignified and abstinent protagonist just to see him being a little bit shy? [Loudly] [I can’t describe it any more in detail, just understand it]