emphasize its meaning.  This was a trifle, no doubt;—­still it was one of those slight things which often betray character.  As the most brilliant diamond will look like common glass on the rough red hand of a cook, while common glass will simulate the richness of the real gem on the delicate white finger of a daintily-bred woman, so the emblem of salvation seemed a mere bauble and toy on the breast of the Archbishop, while it assumed its most reverent and sacred aspect as worn by Felix Bonpre.  Yet judged by mere outward appearance, there could be no doubt as to which was the finer-looking man of the two.  The Cardinal, thin and pale, with shadows of thought and pain in his eyes, and the many delicate wrinkles of advancing age marking his features, would never possess so much attractiveness for worldly and superficial persons as the handsome Archbishop, who carried his fifty-five years as though they were but thirty, and whose fresh, plump face, unmarred by any serious consideration, bespoke a thorough enjoyment of life, and the things which life,—­if encouraged to demand them,—­most strenuously seeks, such as good food, soft beds, rich clothing, and other countless luxuries which are not necessities by any means, but which make the hours move smoothly and softly, undisturbed by the clash of outside events among those who are busy with thoughts and actions, and who,—­being absorbed in the thick of a soul-contest,—­care little whether their bodies fare ill or well.  The Archbishop certainly did not belong to this latter class,—­indeed he considered too much thought as mischievous in itself, and when thought appeared likely to break forth into action, he denounced it as pernicious and well-nigh criminal.

“Thinkers,” he said once to a young and ardent novice, studying for the priesthood, “are generally socialists and revolutionists.  They are an offence to the Church and a danger to the community.”

“Surely,” murmured the novice timidly,—­“Our Lord Himself was a thinker?  And a Socialist likewise?”

But at this the Archbishop rose up in wrath and flashed forth menace;—­

“If you are a follower of Renan, sir, you had better admit it before proceeding further in your studies,” he said irately,—­“The Church is too much troubled in these days by the members of a useless and degenerate apostasy!” Whereupon the young man had left his presence abashed, puzzled, and humiliated; but scarcely penitent, inasmuch as his New Testament taught him that he was right and that the Archbishop was wrong.

Truth to tell, the Archbishop was very often wrong.  Wrapped up in himself and his own fixed notions as to how life should be lived, he seldom looked out upon the larger world, and obstinately refused to take any thoughtful notice of the general tendency of public opinion in all countries concerning religion and morality.  All that he was unable to explain, he flatly denied,—­and his prejudices were as violent as his hatred of contradiction was keen.