What were the poor monks to do? The devil evidently had awful designs on them that evening, and terrible temptation peered at them from every corner of the Cardinal’s waiting-room. As though by order, they all lowered their eyelids, and remained, as though turned into stone, with their gaze riveted on the floor.
The door opened, and Irene was asked to pass into the Cardinal’s presence.
A dimly illuminated ante-room led into the drawing-room. Here, the furniture was a little more comfortable, and there were pictures and flowers. The cardinal stood at his writing-table, not in his red robes, as Irene had expected, but in black with narrow red edgings. A somewhat worn red cardinal’s cap lay on the table. The great priest looked at Irene in silence, and with a questioning expression. She approached, kissed the ring on his left hand, and thanked him for the honour he was conferring on her by receiving her. He smiled, and the man of the world awoke in him. Asking Irene to sit down on a small sofa, he began to question her about Russia, his words revealing a great knowledge of Russian Church matters. He seemed specially interested in a certain small group of Russian priests, who had recently been sent by the Synod to do penance in far-distant monasteries.
“Mais enfin, que veulent-ils? Que demandent-ils? Quel est le but de leur révolte?” asked the Cardinal.
“I think,” answered Irene simply, “that they wanted to convoke a council, with the object of reinstating the Patriarchy.”
The Cardinal frowned, and a shadow passed over his face. “Totally unnecessary,” he muttered somewhat hurriedly. “Totally unnecessary.” And he changed the subject, asking Irene what she had seen in Rome, and how she liked the Catacombs.
“I like the Russian catacombs much better,” she answered.
“Yes—I know—you mean the Kieff ones. But they date only from the ninth century. Remember,” exclaimed the Cardinal rapturously, “that here, in Rome, the earliest Christian martyrs are buried.”
Irene asked where the remains of the Apostle Andrew were preserved.