On his arrival home one afternoon he found Father Schumacher engaged in a serious conversation with his mother. Father Schumacher was a picturesque figure, prematurely gray with a fine head set upon broad shoulders and a pair of brown eyes that twinkled mirthfully. There was something in his shrewd eyes that seemed to say, “I know all the meanness and frailties of human nature, I know this earthly planet is no paradise, but we are here and must make the best of it.” He was loved by all regardless of creed. After the French had conquered the city and reopened the Lyceum, he was named rector. The new ruler knew that Father Schumacher could be trusted in spite of his German allegiance. He was very learned and familiar with all the philosophies—from Socrates to Kant—which he taught at the Lyceum without, however, interfering with his loyalty to Rome. The friendship between the former priest and Bessie Zorn ran back to the time she was a little girl, when he was a classmate of her brother, Joseph, and was almost a daily visitor at her father’s home. Since her father’s death and her marriage to David, Father Schumacher was a frequent visitor at the Zorn home, and of late Albert had been an added attraction. The rector was very fond of the boy and often gave the mother encouragement when her enthusiasm waned. Albert was about to enter the living-room, where his mother and the visitor were seated, when he overheard his mother saying, “Indeed, he is quite a problem. If I could only keep him away from poetry and French novels I could knock his poetic nonsense out of his head.” “I’ve let him attend my class in philosophy,” the rector struck in. “Perhaps that will put some reason into his head.” “Yes, that might turn him into a Kantian,” laughed the mother, “and I don’t know which is worse, a befogged Kantian or a beggarly rhymester.” After the briefest pause she added, “I am going to get him a special tutor for mathematics. He doesn’t seem to grasp any scientific subject—I’d like him to study banking.” “You’ll never make a banker of that boy,” he replied. “He isn’t cut out for a mercantile career and you’ll but waste your efforts. Why don’t you give him to the Church? I might be able to be of good service to you in that direction. I know quite a few dignitaries in Rome.” “I don’t think a priest’s robe would be becoming to Albert’s style of beauty,” she said laughingly. “Ah, you haven’t seen how chic the abbes in Rome wear their garb,” he returned in a tone of levity. “No, I am afraid this is out of the question.” “It’s better to give him to Rome than to Greece,” the former priest pressed his point symbolically. “It was the Church that saved the Italian masters from idolatry. Don’t you think it would have been far better for Voltaire, and mankind, if he had been won by the Church? I know Albert, he needs the Church. He might carve for himself a glorious career in Rome!”