And this very discovery made him the more timid.  For he began to wonder whether there were not yet further discoveries which he would have to make—­workings out and illustrations of the principles he had begun to perceive.  How, for example, he began to ask himself, would the Church deal with those who did not recognize her claims—­those solitary individuals or groups here and there who, he knew, still clung pathetically to the old dreams of the beginning of the century—­to the phantom of independent thought and the intoxicating nightmare of democratic government?  It was certain now that these things were dreams—­that it was ludicrously absurd to imagine that a man could profitably detach himself from Revelation and the stream of tradition and development that flowed from it; that it was ridiculous to turn creation upside-down and to attempt to govern the educated few by the uneducated many.  Yet people did occasionally hold impossible and absurd theories. . . .  How, then, would these be treated by the Church when once her power had been finally consolidated?  How was she to reconcile the gentleness of the Christian spirit with the dogmatism of the Christian claim? . . .  He recalled one or two hints that Father Jervis had let drop, and he was conscious of a touch of fear.

He woke up to externals again at the sound of a sentence or two from the monk.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.  “What was that?”

“I was saying that the news from Germany is disquieting.”

“Why?”

“Oh! nothing definite.  They expect trouble.  They say that the Emperor is extraordinarily interested in this girl’s case, and that the Socialists of Berlin are watching him.  Berlin is their last stronghold, you know.”

“By the way,” interrupted Father Jervis suddenly, “I’ve enquired about that man with the curious name—­Zola.  I find he had quite a vogue at one time.  And now I come to think of it, I believe Manners mentioned him.”

“Zola?” mused the monk.  “Yes, I’m nearly sure I’ve heard of him.  Wasn’t he an Elizabethan?”

“No, no.  He died at the end of the last century.  I find he did write a little romance about Lourdes.  There was even a copy in the library here.  I hadn’t time to look at it; but M. Meurot told me it was one of those odd little attacks on religion that were popular once.  That’s all I could find out.”

Monsignor compressed his lips.  Somewhere out of his abysmal memory there lurked a consciousness that Zola had once been of some importance; but he could add nothing to the discussion.

Dom Adrian stood up and stretched himself.

“It’s time for bed,” he said.  “Look” (he nodded towards the window), “the devotions are just ending.”