FROM TIME to time, Charlemagne comes face to face with a pope. The first occasion was in the year 800 when Leo III placed a crown on his head and proclaimed him emperor of a reborn Roman Empire. More recently, it has become a ritual for a new pope—the latest is another Leo—to thank the scribes who have covered his election, this time including your columnist. Since 2005 the death of a pope has also been marked by a new ritual. Barely is the poor man’s body cold than articles appear in Italian newspapers arguing that the chances have never been better of a return to normality (John Paul II had been the first non-Italian pope for 455 years) and predicting that the next pope will be an Italian. When lists are published of cardinals deemed papabile (literally, pope-able), half or more are invariably Italians. Non-Italian commentators, who assume their Italian counterparts have an inside track, repeat these names until, by the time the cardinals are locked into the Sistine Chapel, it has become a near-certainty they will choose an Italian. It happened again this time. The odds on Pietro Parolin becoming pope had shrunk to 6 to 4 on; but it was an American who emerged onto the balcony of St Peter’s.