“Oh! La nouvelle vérité ne sortira jamais de l’église,” he remarked with conviction.
Irene was amazed.
“I don’t understand,” she stammered questioningly.
Monsignor smiled. “Comment voulez vous qu’un prêtre émette une idée nouvelle,” he said, “quand la coupole de Saint Pierre pèse sur des épaules?”
“Yes, but we Russians have no ‘Saint Peter’s,’” observed Irene quietly.
“Eh bien, vous avez la coupole de Moscou! Dans chaque religion, toujours une coupole quelconque pesera sur le prêtre et lui fermera la bouche”—and a deep sadness trembled in poor Lefrène’s voice.
“But even if so,” said Irene, “the council might improve the education of our clergy, and teach them to cultivate warmer relations with their flocks.” And in her turn she could not restrain the note of personal sorrow and regret that echoed in her words.
“Oh, I have heard all those complaints before, especially from your late philosopher, Vladimir Solovyof,” replied Monsignor. “He once related me a very characteristic legend in this connection,” and, with his subtle smile, Lefrène repeated the legend of Saint Nicholas, supposed to be of Russian origin.
Saint Nicholas, accompanied by the Reverend Cassian, once came down from heaven, on a visit to earth. On the great highway they met a poor peasant, the wheels of whose cart had become embedded in the mud of the roadside, and he was vainly exerting himself almost beyond his strength to extricate them.