The echo of his footsteps on the marble floors of the Vatican galleries seemed to measure the weight of the centuries. Beneath the vertiginous ceilings, where Renaissance frescoes seemed to suspend the flight of angels, the air vibrated with a silence of almost physical density. He walked between Swiss Guards in their motionless armor, wax figures from another age, toward an encounter that belonged as much to a dream as to history.
The man entrusted with the leadership of the Church stepped forward, a discreet smile reshaping the lines of his tired face. When his hand rested upon his, the warmth in his gaze swept away all protocol. In that suspended moment, greatness no longer lay in titles or rituals, but in an authentic and profound human fraternity, an absolute attentiveness in which time itself seemed to lose its hold.
The Sovereign Pontiff had just concluded a memorable audience with the distinguished and providential patron of the most famous cathedral in the world, “Notre-Dame de Paris.”
The atmosphere of the room remained imbued with the resonance of that exchange, in which the resurrected stone of the Parisian spire seemed, for a fleeting moment, to have conversed with the Sovereign Pontiff himself. Carried by the emotion of this encounter, dedicated to the rebirth of the Gothic masterpiece, the Pope then turned toward him, his eyes still shining with a universal gratitude, seemingly telling him that Paradise was already assured for him and his family.
At least, that’s what I imagine. I, for my part, donated €1,000 to the cathedral. But I wasn’t invited. The bubble had probably burst!