"Tell me a little about the costumes," said Monsignor, as the two set out on foot from their lodgings in Versailles after breakfast next morning, to present their letters of introduction. "They seem to me rather fantastic, somehow."

Their lodgings were situated in one of the great palaces on the vast road that runs straight from the gates of the royal palace itself into Paris. They had come straight on by car from St. Germains, had been received with immense respect by the proprietor, who, it appeared, had received very particular instructions from the English Cardinal; and had been conducted straight upstairs to a little suite of rooms, decorated in eighteenth-century fashion, and consisting of a couple of bedrooms for themselves, opening to a central sitting-room and oratory; the two men-servants they had brought with them were lodged immediately across the landing outside.

"Fantastic?" asked Father Jervis, smiling. "Don't you think they're attractive?"

"Oh yes; but——"

"Remember human nature, Monsignor. After all, it was only intense self-importance that used to make men say that they were independent of exterior beauty. It's far more natural and simple to like beauty. Every child does, after all."

"Yes, yes; I see that, I suppose. But I didn't mean only that. I was on the point of asking you yesterday, again and again, but something marvellous distracted me each time," said the prelate, smiling. "They're extraordinarily picturesque, of course; but I can't help thinking that they must all mean something."

"Of course they do. And I never can imagine how people ever got on without the system. Why, even less than a hundred years ago, I understand that every one dressed, or tried to dress alike. How in the world could they tell who they were talking to?"

"I . . . I expect that was deliberate," faltered the other. "You see, I think people used to be ashamed of their trades sometimes, and wanted to be thought gentlemen."

Father Jervis shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, I don't understand it," he said. "If a man was ashamed of his trade, why did he follow it?"

"I've been thinking," said Monsignor animatedly, "that perhaps it's the new teaching on Vocation that has made the difference. Once a man understands that his Vocation is the most honourable thing he can do, I suppose——There! who's that man," he interrupted suddenly, "in blue with the badge?"

A tremendous figure was crossing the road just in front of them. He wore a short, full blue cloak, with a silver badge on the left breast, a tight-fitting cap of the same colour repeating the same badge, and from beneath his cloak in front hung a tunic, with enormous legs in tight blue hose and shoes moving underneath.

"Ah! that's a great man," said the priest. "He's a
Butcher, of course——"

"A butcher!"

"Yes; that's obvious—it's the blue, for one thing, and the cut, for another. Wait an instant. I shall see his badge directly."

As the great man came past them he saluted deferentially. The priests bowed with equal deference, lifting their hands to their broad-leaved hats.

"Yes: he's very high up," said the priest quietly. "A member of the Council of the National Guild, at least."

"Do you mean that man kills oxen?"

"Not now, of course; he's worked his way up. He probably represents the Guild in the Assembly."

"Do all the trades have guilds, and are they all represented in the Assembly?"

"Why, of course! How else could you be certain that the trade was treated fairly? If all the citizens voted as citizens, there'd simply be no fair representation at all. Look; there's a goldsmith—he has probably been to the King; that's a journeyman with him."

An open car sped past them. Two men were seated in it; both in clothes of some really beautiful metallic colour; but the cap of one was plain, while the cap of the other blazed with some device.

"And the women? I can't see any system among them."

"Ah! but there is, though it's harder to detect. They have much more liberty than the men; but, as a rule, each woman has a predominating colour, the colour of the head of her family, and all, of course, wear badges. There are sumptuary laws, I needn't say."

"I shouldn't have guessed it!"

"Well, not as regards price or material, certainly—only size. There are certain absolute limits on both sides; and fashions have to manage between the two. You see it's the same thing as in trades and professions, as I told you yesterday. We encourage the individual to be as individualistic as possible, and draw the limits very widely, beyond which he mustn't go. But those limits are imperative. We try to develop both extremes at once—liberty and law. We had enough of the via media—the mediocrity of the average—under Socialism."

"But do you mean to say that people submit to all this?"

"Submit! Why it's perfectly obvious to every one that it's simply human—besides being very convenient practically. Of course in Germany they still go in for what they call Liberty; and the result is simple chaos."

"Do you mean to say there's no envy or jealousy between the trades?"

"Not in the social sense, in the very least, though there's tremendous competition. Why, every one under Royalty has to be a member of some trade. Of course only those who practise the trade wear the full costume; but even the dukes have to wear the badges. It's perfectly simple, you know."

"Tell me an English duke who's a butcher,"

"Butcher? . . . I can't think of one this minute. Southminster's a baker, though."

Monsignor was silent. But it certainly seemed simple.

They were passing up now between the sentry-guarded gates of the enormous and exquisite palace of Versailles; and, beyond the great expanse of gravel on which they had just set foot, rose up the myriad windows, pinnacles, and walls where the Kings of France lived again as they had lived two hundred years before. Far up, against the tender summer sky, flapped the Royal Standard; and the lilies of France, once more on their blue ground, indicated that the King was in residence. Even as they looked, however, the banner seemed to waver a little; and simultaneously a sudden ringing sound from a shadowed portico a couple of hundred yards away brought Father Jervis to a sudden stop.

"We'd better step aside," he said. "We're right in the way."

"What's the matter?"

"Some one's coming out. . . . Look."

From out of the shadow into the full sunlight with a flash of silver lightning whirled a body of cuirassiers, wheeled into line, and came on, reforming as they came, at a canter.

A couple of heralds rode in front; and a long trumpet-cry pealed out, was caught, echoed, and thrown back by the crowding walls of the palace.

Behind, as Father Jervis drew him to one side, Monsignor caught a glimpse of white horses and a gleam of gold. He glanced hastily back at the gates through which they had just come, and, as if sprung out of the ground, there was the crowd standing respectfully on either side of the avenue to see its Sovereign. (It was up this avenue to Paris, Monsignor reflected, that the women had come on their appalling march to the Queen who ruled them then.)

As he glanced back again the heralds were upon them, and the thunder of hoofs followed close behind. But beyond the line of galloping guards, in the midst, drawn by white horses, ran the great gilded coach with glass windows, and the crown of France atop.

Two men were seated in the coach, bowing mechanically as they came—one a small, young, vivacious-looking man with a pointed dark beard; the other a heavy, fair-haired, sanguine-featured, clean-shaven man. Both alike were in robes in which red and gold predominated; and both wore broad feathered hats, shaped like a priest's.

Then the coach was gone through the tall gilded gates, and a cloud of dust, beaten up by the galloping hoofs on all sides, hid even the cuirassiers who closed the company. And as the two turned the banner sank on the tall pole.

"The King and the German Emperor," observed Father Jervis, replacing his hat. "Now there's the other side of the picture for you."

"I don't understand."

"Why, we treat our kings like kings," smiled the other. "And, at the same time, we encourage our butchers to be really butchers and to glory in it. Law and liberty, you see. Absolute discipline and the cultivation of individualism. No republican stew-pot, you see, in which everything tastes alike."

(II)

They had to wait a few minutes in an ante-room before presenting their letters, as the official was engaged, and Father Jervis occupied the time in running over again the names and histories of three or four important personages to whom they would perhaps have to speak. He had given an outline of these at breakfast.

There were three in particular about whom Monsignor must be informed.

First, the King; and Monsignor learned again thoroughly of the sensational reaction which, after the humiliation of France in the war of 1914—the logical result of a conflict between a republicanism worked out to mediocrity and a real and vivid monarchy—had placed this man's father—the undoubted legitimate heir—upon the throne. He had died only two years ago, when the Dauphin, who had ascended the throne, was just eighteen years old. The present King was not yet married, but there were rumours of a love-match with a Spanish princess. He was a boyish king, it seemed, but he played his royal part with intense enjoyment and dignity, and had restored, to the delight of this essentially romantic and imaginative people, most of the glories of the eighteenth-century court, without its scandals. Certainly France was returning to its old chivalry, and thence to its old power.

Next there was the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, Cardinal Guinet, a very old ecclesiastic, very high in the counsels of the Church, who would almost certainly have been elected Pope at the last vacancy if it had not been for his age. He was an "intellectual," it seemed, and, among other things, was one of the first physicists of Europe. He had been ordained comparatively late in life.

Thirdly there was the Archbishop's secretary—Monsignor Allet—a rising man and an excellent diplomatist.

There were two or three more, but Father Jervis was content with scarcely more than recounting their names. The King's brother, and the heir-presumptive, was something of a recluse and seldom appeared at court. Of the German Emperor, Monsignor had already learned, it seemed, sufficient.

In the middle of these instructions, the door suddenly opened, and an ecclesiastic hurried in with outstretched hands, and apologies in a torrent of Latin.

("Monsignor Allet," whispered Father Jervis, as he appeared.)

Monsignor Masterman stood bewildered. The dilemma had not occurred to him; but Father Jervis, it seemed, was prepared. He said a rapid sentence to the secretary, who turned, bowing, and immediately began in English without the trace of any accent.

"I perfectly understand—perfectly indeed. These doctors rule us with a rod of iron, don't they? It'll be arranged directly. We all talk English here; and I'll say a word to His Eminence. The very same thing happened to himself a year or two back. He was forbidden to talk in French. It is astonishing, is it not? the subtlety of these doctors! And yet how natural. No two languages have the same mental reaction, after all. They're perfectly right."

Monsignor caught a glimmering of what he was at. But he thought he had better be cautious.

"I'm afraid I shall give a lot of trouble," he murmured, looking doubtfully at this sparkling-eyed, blue-chinned young man, who spoke with such rapidity.

"Not in the least, I assure you." He turned to the older priest.
"The Cardinal left here only half an hour ago. How unfortunate!
He came over to arrange the final details of the disputation.
You've heard of that?"

"Not a word."

The young prelate beamed.

"Well, you'll hear the finest wit in France! It's for this afternoon." (His face fell.) "But it's Latin. Perhaps Monsignor ought not——"

"Ah! so long as he doesn't talk—-!" (Father Jervis turned to his friend.) "I was telling Monsignor here that the doctor ordered you to engage in no business that did not interest you; and that Latin was rather a strain to you just now——"

This seemed adroit enough. But Monsignor was determined to miss no new experience.

"It will simply delight me," he said. "And what is the subject?"

"Well," said the Frenchman, "it's for the benefit of the Emperor. Two of the Parisian theologians are disputing De Ecclesia. The thesis of the adversary, who opens, is that the Church is merely the representative of God on earth—a Society that must, of course, be obeyed; but that Infallibility is not necessary to her efficiency."

Father Jervis' eyes twinkled.

"Isn't that a little too pointed? Why, that's the Emperor's one difficulty! I understand that he allows, politically speaking, the need for the Church, but denies her divinity."

"I assure you," said the French priest solemnly, "that the thesis is his own selection. You see, he's sick of these Socialists. He understands perfectly that the one sanction of human authority must come from God, or from the people; and he's entirely on God's side! But he cannot see the infallibility, and therefore, as he's a sincere man—-!" he ended with an eloquent shrug.

"Well," said Father Jervis, "if the Cardinal's not here——"

"Alas! He is back in Paris by now. But give me your letters! I'll see that they are presented properly; and you shall receive a royal command for the disputation in plenty of time."

They handed over their letters; they exchanged compliments once more; they were escorted as far as the door of the room by the prelate, across the next ante-chamber by an imposing man in black velvet with a chain, across the third by a cuirassier, and across the hall to the bottom of the steps by two tremendous footmen in the ancient royal livery.

Monsignor was silent for a few yards.

"Aren't you afraid of an anti-clerical reaction?" he asked suddenly.

"How do you mean? I don't understand."

Then Monsignor launched out. He had accepted by now the theory that he had had a lapse of memory, and that so far as his intellect was concerned, he was practically a man of a century ago, owing to the history he had happened to be reading shortly before his collapse; and he talked therefore from that standpoint.

He produced, that is to say, with astonishing fluency all those arguments that were common in the mouths of the more serious anti-clericals of the beginning of the century—the increase of Religious Orders, the domineering tendency of all ecclesiastics in the enjoyment of temporal power, the impossibility of combating supernatural arguments, the hostility of the Church to education—down even to the celibacy of the clergy. He paused for breath as they turned out of the great gateway.

Father Jervis laughed aloud and patted him on the arm.

"My dear Monsignor, I can't compete with you. You're too eloquent. Of course, I remember from reading history that those things used to be said, and I suppose Socialists say them now. But, you know, no educated man ever dreams of such arguments; nor indeed do the uneducated! It's the half-educated, as usual, who's the enemy. He always is. The Wise Men and the shepherds both knelt in Bethlehem. It was the bourgeois who stood apart."

"That's no answer," persisted the other.

"Well, let's see," said the priest good-humouredly. "We'll begin with celibacy. Now it's perfectly true that it's thought almost a disgrace for a man not to have a large family. The average is certainly not less than ten in civilized nations. But for all that a priest is looked upon without any contempt at all. Why? Because he's a spiritual father; because he begets spiritual children to God, and feeds and nourishes them. Of course to an atheist this is nonsense; and even to an agnostic it's a very doubtful benefit. But, my dear Monsignor, you must remember that these hardly exist amongst us. The entire civilized world of to-day is as absolutely convinced of Heaven and Grace and the Church, and the havoc that Sin makes not only as regards the next world but in this—so absolutely convinced that he understands perfectly that a priest is far more productive of general good than a physical father possibly can be. It's the priest who keeps the whole thing going. Don't you see? And then, in a Catholic world, the instinct that the man who serves the altar should be without physical ties—well, that's simply natural."

"Go on. What about education?"

"My dear friend," said Father Jervis. "The Church controls the whole of education, as she did, in fact, up to the very time when the State first took it away from her and then abused her for neglecting it. Practically all the scientists; all the specialists in medicine, chemistry, and mental health; nine-tenths of the musicians; three-quarters of the artists—practically all those are Religious. It's only the active trades, which are incompatible with Religion, that are in the hands of the laity. It's been found by experience that no really fine work can be done except by those who are familiar with divine things; because it's only those who see things all round, who have, that is to say, a really comprehensive intuition. Take history. Unless you have a really close grasp of what Providence means—of not only the End, but the Means by which God works; unless you can see right through things to their Intention, how in the world can you interpret the past? Don't you remember what Manners said about Realism? We don't want misleading photographs of externals any more. We want Ideas. And how can you correlate Ideas, unless you have a real grasp of the Central Idea? It's nonsense."

"Go on with the other things."

"There's a lot more about education. There's the graduated education we have now (entirely an ecclesiastical notion, by the way). We don't try to teach everybody everything. We teach a certain foundation to every one—the Catechism, of course, two languages perfectly, the elements of physical science, and a great deal of history. (You can't understand the Catechism without history, and vice-versa); but after that we specialize. Well, the world understands now——"

"That's enough, thank you. Go on with the other things."

Father Jervis laughed again.

"We're nearly home. Let's turn in here, and get into the gardens for a bit. . . . Well, I think you'll find that the root of all your difficulties is that you seem not to be able to get into your head that the world is really and intelligently Christian. There are the Religious Orders you spoke of. Well, aren't the active Religious Orders the very finest form of association ever invented? Aren't they exactly what Socialists have always been crying for, with the blunders left out and the gaps filled in? As soon as the world understood finally that the active Religious Orders could beat all other forms of association at their own game—that they could teach and work more cheaply and effectively, and so on—well, the most foolish Political Economist had to confess that the Religious Orders made for the country's welfare. And as for the Contemplative Orders——"

Father Jervis' face grew grave and tender.

"Yes?"

"Why, they're the princes of the world! They are models of the Crucified. So long as there is Sin in the world, so long must there be Penance. The instant Christianity was accepted, the Cross stood up dominant once more. . . . And then . . . then people understood. Why, they're the Holy Ones of the universe—higher than angels; for they suffer. . . ."

There was a moment's silence.

"Yes?" said Monsignor softly.

"My dear Monsignor, just force upon your mind the fact that the world is really and intelligently Christian. I think it'll all be plain then. You seem to me, if I may say so, to be falling into the old-fashioned way of looking at 'Clericalism,' as it used to be called, as a kind of department of life, like Art or Law. No wonder men resented its intrusion when they conceived of it like that. Well, there is no 'Clericalism' now, and therefore there is no anti-Clericalism. There's just religion—as a fact. Do you see? … Shall we sit down for a few minutes? Aren't the gardens exquisite?"

Monsignor Masterman sat that night at his window, looking out at the stars and the night and the blotted glimmering gardens beneath; and it seemed to him as if the Dream deepened every day. Things grew more, not less marvellous, with his appreciation of the simplicity of it all.

From three to seven he had sat in one of the seats on the right of the royal dais, reserved for prelates, almost immediately opposite the double-pulpited platform, itself set in the midst of the long outer side of the great gallery of Versailles, through which access was to be had to the little old private rooms of Marie Antoinette, and had listened spell-bound to two of the greatest wits of France, respectively attacking and defending, with extraordinary subtlety and fire, the claim of the Church to Infallibility. The disputation had been conducted on scholastic lines, all verbal etiquette being carefully observed; again and again he had heard, first on one side a string of arguments adduced against the doctrine, then on the other a torrent of answers, with the old half-remembered words "Distinguo," "Nego," "Concedo"; and the reasoning on both sides had appeared to him astonishingly brilliant. And all this before two sovereigns: the one keen, vivacious, and appreciative; the other heavy, patient, considerate—two sovereigns, treated, as the elaborate etiquette of the whole affair showed plainly enough, as kings indeed—men who stood for authority, and the grades and the differentiation of functions, as emphatically as the old democratic hand-shaking statesmen, dressed like their own servants, stood for the other complementary principle of the equality of men. For alongside of all this tremendous pomp there was a very practical recognition of the "People"; since the whole disputation was conducted in the presence of a crowd drawn, it seemed, from almost every class, who pressed behind the barriers, murmured, laughed gleefully, and now and again broke out into low thunders of applause, as the Catholic champion drove logic home, or turned aside the infidel shaft.

The very thesis amazed the man, for the absolute necessity of an authoritative supra-national Church, with supernatural sanctions, seemed assumed as an axiom of thought, not merely by these Catholics, but by the entire world, Christian and un-Christian alike. More than once the phrase "It is conceded by all men" flashed out, and passed unrebuked, in support of this claim. The only point of dispute between reasoning beings seemed to be not as to whether or no the Church must be treated practically as infallible, but whether dogmatically and actually she were so!

As he sat here now at his window, Father Jervis' words began to come back with new force. Was it indeed true that the only reason why he found these things strange was that he could not yet quite bring home to his imagination the fact that the world now was convincedly Christian as a whole? It began to appear so.

For somewhere in the back of his mind (why, he knew not) there lurked a sort of only half-perceived assumption that the Catholic religion was but one aspect of truth—one point of view from which, with sufficient though not absolute truth, facts could be discerned. He could not understand this; yet there it was. And he understood, at any rate intellectually, that if he could once realize that the dogmas of the Church were the dogmas of the universe; and not only that, but that the world convincedly realized it too;—why then, the fact that the civilization of to-day was actually moulded upon it would no longer bewilder him.

(IV)

It was on the following morning that he spoke with the King.

The two priests had said Mass in their oratory, and an hour later were walking in the park beneath the palace windows.

It was one more of that string of golden days, of which they had already enjoyed so many, and the splendour of that amazing landscape was complete.

They had passed below the enclosure known as the "King's Garden," and were going in the direction of the Trianon, which Monsignor had expressed a desire to see, and had just emerged into the immense central avenue which runs straight from the palace to the lake. Above them rose the forest trees, enormous now, yet tamed by Lenotre's marvellous art, resembling a regiment of giants perfectly drilled; the grass was like carpets on all sides; the sky blazed like a blue jewel overhead; the noise of singing birds and falling water was in the air. But above all there towered on their right, beyond the almost endless terraces, the splendid palace of the kings of France, royal at last once more. And there, as symbol of the Restoration, there hung round the flagstaff as he had seen it yesterday the blue folds and the lilies of the monarchy.

It was no good trying to frame words as to what he felt. He had said all he could, and it was useless. Father Jervis seemed unable to understand the fierce enthusiasm of a man who now experienced all this, as it appeared, for the first time. He walked silently—exulting.

There seemed not many people abroad this morning. The two had presented an order, obtained through Monsignor Allet, at the gates below the Orange Gardens, and had learned from the sentry that until the afternoon this part of the park was closed to the public. Here and there, however, in the distance a single figure made its appearance, walking in the shade or hurrying on some errand.

The priests had just come out from the line of trees and had set foot in the avenue itself, when, twenty yards farther up, from the entrance to some other path parallel to their own, a group came out, and an instant later they heard themselves hailed and saw Monsignor Allet himself, in all his purple, hurrying towards them.

"You are the very men," he cried, again stretching out his hands in a welcoming French gesture. "His Majesty was speaking of you not five minutes ago. He is here, in the garden. Shall I present you now?"

Father Jervis glanced at his friend.

"His Majesty is very kind——" he began.

"Not a word more! If you will follow me and wait an instant at the entrance, I will speak with His Majesty and bring you in."

"I have not my ferraiuola—-" began Monsignor.

"The King will excuse travellers," smiled the Frenchman.

The entrance to the "King's Garden" on this side passes beneath an arch of yew, and here the two waited.

Somewhere beyond the green walls they could hear talking, and now and again a burst of laughter. Then the talking ceased, and they heard a single voice.

"In what language——" began Monsignor Masterman nervously.

"Oh! English, no doubt. You can't talk French?"

Monsignor shook his head.

"Not a hundred words," he said.

Again came the quick footstep, and the French priest appeared, still gay, but with a certain solemnity. "Come this way, gentlemen," he said. "The King will see you." (He glanced at the prelate.) "You won't forget to kneel, Monsignor."

To the English prelate the scene that he saw, on emerging at last into the open space in the middle, protected by the ancient yews—even though he should have been prepared for it by all that he had already seen—simply once more dazed and stupefied him.

The centre of the space was occupied by a round pond, perhaps thirty yards across, of absolutely still water, and in this mirror, shaded by the masses of foliage overhead, was reflected a picture that might have been taken straight from some painting two hundred years old. For, on the semicircle of marble seats that stood beyond the water, sat a company of figures dressed once more in all the bravery of real colour and splendour, as from days when men were not ashamed to use publicly and commonly these glittering gifts of God.

Monsignor hardly noticed the rest (there were perhaps twelve or fifteen all told, with half a dozen women amongst them); he looked only, as he came round the pond, at the central figure that advanced to meet him. Twice he had seen him yesterday—yet those occasions had been public. But to see the King now, at ease amongst his friends, yet still royally dressed in his brilliant blue suit and feathered hat, with his tall cane—to see the whole company, gay and brilliant, talking and laughing, taking their pleasure in the air before breakfast—the whole thing somehow brought home to him the reality of what appeared to him as a change, more than had all the pomps and glories of the day before. Splendour no longer seemed ceremonial, but natural.

Monsignor Allet was explaining something in rapid French in the King's ear, and as the two came up, the face that listened smiled suddenly with intelligence.

"I give you welcome," he said in excellent English. "Come, gentlemen" (he turned to the others, who had risen to their feet as he rose), "we must be getting homewards. Monsignor!" (and he beckoned to the two English priests to walk with him.)

That walk seemed like a dream.

They went leisurely upwards towards the palace, through yew alley after yew alley, French chattering sounding behind them as they went; and the King, still in fluent English, though with an accent that increased as he talked, questioned them courteously as to England, spoke of the disputation of yesterday, discussed frankly enough the situation in Germany, and listened with attention to the remarks of Father Jervis; for Monsignor Masterman was discreetly silent for the most part.

It was not until the great doors of the palace flew open at last, and the rows of liveried men showed within, that the King dismissed them. He turned on the steps and gave them his hand to kiss. Then he raised them from their knees with a courteous gesture.

"And you go to Rome, you say?"

"Almost immediately, sire. We shall be there for SS. Peter and Paul."

"Present my homage at the feet of the Holy Father," smiled the King. "You are fortunate indeed. I have not seen His Holiness for three months. Good day—gentlemen."

The two passed again in silence down the terraces on their way to the Trianon.

"It is amazing," burst out Monsignor suddenly. "And the people.
What of them? Is there no resentment?"

"Why should there be?" asked the other.

"But they are excluded from the palace and the park. It was not so a hundred years ago."

"Do you think they are any the less happy?" asked Father Jervis. "My dear Monsignor, surely you know human nature better than that! They have lost the vulgarity of Versailles, and they have regained its royalty. Don't you see that?"

"Well!"—Monsignor paused. "It's simply medievalism back again, it seems to me."

"Exactly!" said the other. "You have hit it at last. It is medievalism—that is to say, human nature with faith and reverence, and without cant."

He paused again, and his eyes twinkled.

"You know honours and privileges are worth nothing if every one has them. If we all wore crowns, the kings would go bareheaded."