ereign will of the Church. And, besides, why write
at all? For there is already rebellion in expressing an opinion of one's
own. It is always the temptation of the devil which puts a pen in an
author's hand. Why, then, incur the risk of being for ever damned by
yielding to the pride of intelligence and domination? Your book again, my
dear son--your book is literature, literature!"

This expression again repeated was instinct with so much contempt that
Pierre realised all the wretchedness that would fall upon the poor pages
of his apostolate on meeting the eyes of this prince who had become a
saintly man. With increasing fear and admiration he listened to him, and
beheld him growing greater and greater.

"Ah! faith, my dear son, everything is in faith--perfect, disinterested
faith--which believes for the sole happiness of believing! How restful it
is to bow down before the mysteries without seeking to penetrate them,
full of the tranquil conviction that, in accepting them, one possesses
both the certain and the final! Is not the highest intellectual
satisfaction that which is derived from the victory of the divine over
the mind, which it disciplines, and contents so completely that it knows
desire no more? And apart from that perfect equilibrium, that explanation
of the unknown by the divine, no durable peace is possible for man. If
one desires that truth and justice should reign upon earth, it is in God
that one must place them. He that does not believe is like a battlefield,
the scene of every disaster. Faith alone can tranquillise and deliver."

For an instant Pierre remained silent before the great figure rising up
in front of him. At Lourdes he had only seen suffering humanity rushing
thither for health of the body and consolation of the soul; but here was
the intellectual believer, the mind that needs certainty, finding
satisfaction, tasting the supreme enjoyment of doubting no more. He had
never previously heard such a cry of joy at living in obedience without
anxiety as to the morrow of death. He knew that Boccanera's youth had
been somewhat stormy, traversed by acute attacks of sensuality, a flaring
of the red blood of his ancestors; and he marvelled at the calm majesty
which faith had at last implanted in this descendant of so violent a
race, who had no passion remaining in him but that of pride.

"And yet," Pierre at last ventured to say in a timid, gentle voice, "if
faith remains essential and immutable, fo