the people into thinking him a holy man; and,--without any adequate
reason for his assumption,--the Archbishop had certainly prepared
himself to meet in Felix Bonpre, a shrewd, calculating, clever
priest, absorbed in acting the part of an excessive holiness in
order to secure such honour in his diocese as should attract the
particular notice of the Vatican. "Playing for Pope," in fact, had
been the idea with which the archbishop had invested the Cardinal's
reputed sanctity, and he was astonished and in a manner irritated to
find himself completely mistaken. He had opened the conversation by
the usual cordial trivialities of ordinary greeting, to which Bonpre
had responded with the suave courtesy and refined gentleness which
always dignified his manner,--and then the Archbishop had ventured
to offer a remonstrance on the unconventional--"Shall we call it
eccentric?" he suggested, smiling amicably,--conduct of the Cardinal
in choosing to abide in such a comfortless lodging as the Hotel
Poitiers.

"It would have been a pleasure and an honour to me to welcome you at
my house"--he said--"Really, it is quite a violation of custom and
usage that you should be in this wretched place; the accommodation
is not at all fitted for a prince of the Church."

Cardinal Felix raised one hand in gentle yet pained protest.

"Pardon me!" he said, "I do not like that term, 'prince of the
Church.' There are no princes in the Church--or if there are, there
should be none."

The archbishop opened his eyes widely.