Meanwhile a somewhat embarrassing interview had taken place between the
Archbishop of Rouen and Cardinal Bonpre. The archbishop, seen by the
light of the one small lamp which illumined the "best room" of the
Hotel Poitiers was certainly a handsome and imposing personage,
broad-chested and muscular, with a massive head, well set on strong
square shoulders, admirably adapted for the wearing of the dark violet
soutane which fitted them as gracefully as a royal vesture draping the
figure of a king. One disproportionate point, however, about his attire
was, that the heavy gold crucifix which depended by a chain from his
neck, did not, with him, look so much a sacred symbol as a trivial
ornament,--whereas the simple silver one that gleamed against the rusty
black scarlet-edged cassock of Cardinal Bonpre, presented itself as the
plain and significant sign of holiness without the aid of jewellers'
workmanship to emphasize its meaning. This was a trifle, no
doubt;--still it was one of those slight things which often betray
character. As the most brilliant diamond will look like common glass on
the rough red hand of a cook, while common glass will simulate the
richness of the real gem on the delicate white finger of a
daintily-bred woman, so the emblem of salvation seemed a mere bauble
and toy on the breast of the Archbishop, while it assumed its most
reverent and sacred aspect as worn by Felix Bonpre. Yet judged by mere
outward appearance, there could be no doubt as to which was the
finer-looking man of the two. The Cardinal, thin and pale, with shadows
of thought and pain in his eyes, and the many delicate wrinkles of
advancing age marking his features, would never possess so much
attractiveness for worldly and superficial persons as the handsome
Archbishop, who carried his fifty-five years as though they were but
thirty, and whose fresh, plump face, unmarred by any serious
consideration, bespoke a thorough enjoyment of life, and the things
which life,--if encouraged to demand them,--most strenuously seeks,
such as good food, soft beds, rich clothing, and other countless
luxuries which are not necessities by any means, but which make the
hours move smoothly and softly, undisturbed by the clash of outside
events among those who are busy with thoughts and actions, and
who,--being absorbed in the thick of a soul-contest,--care little
whether their bodies fare ill or well. The Archbishop certainly did not
belong to this latter class,--indeed he considered too much thought as
mischievous in itself, and when thought appeared likely to break forth
into action, he denounced it as pernicious and well-nigh criminal.
"Thinkers," he said once to a young and ardent novice, studying for the
priesthood, "are generally socialists and revolutionists. They are an
offence to the Church and a danger to the community."
"Surely," murmured the novice timidly,--"Our Lord Himself was a
thinker? And a Socialist likewise?"