n," which,
by the way, had become "this afternoon" by the time I left the Hotel
Wagram.

When I entered the house once more, it was to be shown into the large
lecture-room previously described, which was already three parts full,
and very shortly entirely so.

Lady Caithness had kindly reserved a front seat for me, so I could see
and hear without difficulty. On the raised platform stood my friend the
Abbe looking very grave and rather nervous. A cardinal, two bishops, and
some half-dozen priests were seated close to him, and very shortly the
lecture, which was, I think, extempore, began.

The Abbe was so manifestly in dead earnest and without any suspicion of
_pose_, that one could not fail to be deeply impressed by the scene. It
needed all the help of a sincere purpose and a brave heart, to stand up
amongst those of his own cloth, and, in face of a partially indifferent
and partially unfriendly audience, to declare boldly "the faith that was
in him"--a faith that burned all the more brightly and warmly from the
fact that it was being purged of the superstitions which must always
become the accretions of every form of religion; the clinging refuse of
weed and shell, which from time to time must be scraped off the bottom
of the grand old ship if it is to convey us safely from port to harbour.

The Cardinal sat twirling his big seal ring, with a look of cynical
amusement on his face, or so it seemed to me.

As the Abbe proceeded to mention the advances made in science and the
necessity for a restatement of old truths, which should bring them into
line with other truths of the nineteenth century, proving the essential
unity of _all truth_, and breaking down the fallacy that the vital part
of religion and the vital part of science have anything to fear from one
another, the Cardinal's face was a study to me.

"Yes, of course, we know all that, you and I, but what is the use of
making this fuss about it? We belong to a system, and this system has
worked very well for centuries past, and will work very well for
centuries to come if fools don't attempt to upset the coach by
restatements and readjustments, as they are called. The people _don't
want restatements_; they want a dead certainty, and that is just what we
give them."

All this I seemed to read in his clever, cynical countenance, in direct
opposition to the thrilling sentences of the Abbe Petit as he leant
forward and said, with uplifted finger and prophetic in