The book was put on the Index, and the author had to do penance. Needless to say, this excess of zeal on the part of the Jesuit Fathers did much more harm than could ever have been done by poor Monsignor Lefrène. Few people, indeed, took the trouble to read the condemned book; but everyone talked about it, and the idea became prevalent that Lefrène held the same views as those for which the Orthodox Church had excommunicated Tolstoi, which probability proved that heresies had stolen into the fold of Rome. Believers spoke of Lefrène with horror, and demanded that he should be expelled from the priesthood. Atheists, on the contrary, rubbed their hands in triumph. And all this storm in a teacup had been raised by nothing more serious than Monsignor Lefrène’s sense of humour. Minds such as his, indeed, are comparatively rare, and are of true and deep value to society. A witty, well-aimed pleasantry may often point out to us very clearly the absurdity or grotesqueness of some pet idea or enthusiasm, and by so doing may bring us sharply back to reason. Thousands of people owe their abandonment of some baneful caprice to a chance word of ridicule; yet it is a strange fact that a satirical mind always renders its owner unpopular. The public may perhaps sometimes forgive a satirical writer of short stories, but a satirical priest—never! People will not understand that when Nature endows her children with talent, she cannot foresee what uniform they will wear later on. Monsignor Lefrène’s sparkling epigrams were repeated all over Rome, and cost him, according to rumour, the Cardinal’s hat. Not that the witty Monsignor was very anxious for this honour. Truly talented people always value God’s gift to them above all earthly honours, and a successful epigram gives as much personal satisfaction to a wit, as a successful novel to a writer. Both, indeed, are on the same level. It is, however, undoubted that popular malice, animosity, and failure to understand or recognize their genius, can deeply wound a talented nature; and it is strange that these carping tongues often distinguish themselves, in their own immediate circles, by delicacy and charity. Monsignor Lefrène occupied the second floor of one of Rome’s most splendid palaces. The magnificent antique ceilings and walls, the beautiful furniture, the wealth of sunlight that filled this luxurious abode, seemed more suited to the tastes of a scientist philosopher than to those of a priest. In a line with the reception-rooms was a covered terrace, full of tropical plants, among which strayed a number of tame pigeons. Irene loved pigeons, and stepped out on the terrace to observe them more closely. It was here that Monsignor Lefrène found her, and greeted her with his always humorous smile, and a quick glance from his keen, intelligent eyes. “I am admiring your birds, Monsignor,” said Irene as they shook hands.