M. l’AbbÉ, candidate for the episcopacy, was ushered into the study of the Nuncio, Monseigneur Cima, whose appearance at first sight came as a surprise, for his pale, large-featured countenance, on which the years had left traces of fatigue, showed no signs of age. At forty, he looked rather like a sickly youth, and when he cast down his eyes his face was as the face of a dead man. He signed to the visitor to be seated, and, assuming his usual attitude, leaned back in his easy chair, and prepared to listen to him. With his right elbow in his left hand, and his head resting in the hollow of his right hand, he had a grace that struck one as vaguely funereal, and called to mind certain figures on ancient bas-reliefs. When in repose his face was veiled in melancholy, but as soon as he smiled it radiated humour. The gaze of his beautiful dark eyes gave one a feeling of discomfort; at Naples he was said to possess the evil eye; in France he passed for a clever politician.

M. l’AbbÉ Guitrel thought it advisable to make only a passing allusion to the object of his visit.

Mother Church in her wisdom might dispose of him as she judged good. All his feelings of love for her were blended in an entire obedience to her will!

“Monseigneur,” he added, “I am a priest, in other words a soldier, and I aspire to the glory of obedience!”

Slowly bending his head, as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima asked the AbbÉ if he had been in any way acquainted with M. Duclou, the late Bishop of Tourcoing.

“I knew him when he was CurÉ at Orleans, Monseigneur.”

“Orleans? A pleasant town, I have relations there, distant cousins of mine. M. Duclou was very old when he died. Do you know what caused his death?”

“Stone, Monseigneur.”

“The cause of the death of many old men, although science has discovered many things to mitigate this terrible malady.”

“Yes, indeed, Monseigneur!”

“I used to know M. Duclou at Rome; he often had a rubber of whist with me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Guitrel?”

“Monseigneur, that is a joy so far denied me, but I have long sojourned there in thought. My spirit has outstripped my body in its journey to the Vatican.”

“Yes, yes; the Pope would be very pleased to see you. He likes France very much. The best time for a visit to Rome is during the spring, for in summer malaria is rife in the countryside, and in some parts of the city even.”

“I do not fear malaria.”

“Of course not. Besides, provided one takes certain precautions, one can always ward off fevers; you must never go out at night without your cloak, and foreigners especially should never go out in open vehicles after the sun has set.”

“I have heard, Monseigneur, that the Coliseum by moonlight is a truly wonderful sight.”

“The air is treacherous in that district, and the gardens of the Villa Borghese are also to be avoided for the same reason.”

“Really, Monseigneur?”

“Yes, yes! I, who am Roman-born, cannot endure the climate of Rome. I prefer to go to Brussels. I was there for a year some time ago, and can think of no town that I like better. I have relations there. Tourcoing, is that a large town?”

“About 40,000 inhabitants, I believe, Monseigneur. It is a manufacturing town.”

“I know! I know! M. Duclou used to tell me in Rome that he could only find one fault with his flock: they drank beer. He used to say that if they would only drink the light wines of Orleans they would be the most perfect Christians in the world, but hops made them melancholy.”

“M. Duclou was a very witty man.”

“He disliked beer, and once I surprised him very much by telling him that it was quite popular in Italy nowadays. There are very prosperous German beer-houses in Florence, Rome, Naples, and most of the other towns. Do you like beer, M. Guitrel?”

“I do not dislike it, Monseigneur.”

The Nuncio gave his ring to the priest, who kissed it and took a respectful leave.

The Nuncio rang the bell.

“Show M. Lantaigne in.”

Having kissed the ring, the director of the Grand SÉminaire was invited to sit down and state his business.

He said:

“Monseigneur, I have sacrificed to the Pope and to necessity all the ties that bound me to the Royal House of France; I have trampled down the dearest hopes of my heart, which was only what I owed to the Father of the Faithful and the unity of the Church. If His Holiness raises me to the see of Tourcoing, I will rule it in his interest and in the interest of France. A bishop is a ruling power, and I can answer for my steadfastness and devotion.”

Slowly bending his head as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima asked AbbÉ Lantaigne whether he had been in any way acquainted with M. Duclou, the late Bishop of Tourcoing.

“I only knew him slightly,” replied M. Lantaigne, “and long before his elevation to the bishopric. I remember having lent him some of my sermons when I had more of them than I knew what to do with.”

“He was not young when we lost him. Do you know what caused his death?”

“I do not know.”

“I knew M. Duclou in Rome; he often used to play a rubber of whist with me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Lantaigne?”

“Never, Monseigneur.”

“You should go. The Pope would be very pleased to see you; he likes France very much. But you must be careful when you go; the climate of Rome is bad for foreigners. During the summer malaria is rife in the countryside, and even in some parts of the city. The best season to visit Rome is the spring. I was born in Rome, of Roman parents, and I much prefer Paris or Brussels. Brussels is a very pleasant town. I have relations there. Tell me, Tourcoing, is it a very large town?” “It is one of the oldest sees of Northern France, Monseigneur, and is notorious for its long line of saintly bishops, from the blessed St. Loup to Monseigneur de la ThrumelliÈre, the immediate predecessor of M. Duclou.”

“Tell me, what are the people of Tourcoing like?”

“They are good Church people, Monseigneur, and tend more to the Belgian form of Catholicism than to the French.”

“Yes, yes, I know. M. Duclou, the late lamented Bishop of Tourcoing, told me one day in Rome that he had only one fault to find with his flock: they drank beer. He used to say that if they would only drink the light wines of Orleans, they would be the most perfect Christians in the world, but the juice of the hop filled them with its melancholy and bitterness.”

“Monseigneur, allow me to say one thing: Monseigneur Duclou was both weak and brainless. He never brought out the energetic qualities of the sturdy northerners under his care. He was not a bad man, but his dislike of evil was only moderate. The Catholic town of Tourcoing must shine out on the whole of the Catholic world. Should His Holiness judge me worthy to fill the seat of the blessed St. Loup, I swear in ten years’ time to have won all hearts by the sacred energy of good works; to have stolen back all the souls gone over to the enemy and to re-establish around me the oneness of belief. In the depths of her innermost soul, France is Christian, and only needs energetic leaders. The Church is dying from sheer inanition.”

Monseigneur Cima rose from his chair, and held out to AbbÉ Lantaigne his golden ring, saying:

“You must go to Rome, M. l’AbbÉ, you must go to Rome!”