my holy friend, Cardinal Guerillot, should be the dupe of that
intriguer. But I, Monsieur, who have received the sacrament by the side
of a Sonis, I can not admit that one should make use of what was the
faith of that hero to thrust one's self into the world. I do not admit
that one should play the role of dupe and accomplice to an old man whom
I venerate and whom I shall enlighten, I give you my word."

"And as for this ancient relic," he continued, again showing the
volume, "you may think it childish that I do not wish it mixed up in the
shameful comedy. But no, it shall not be. They shall not exhibit with
words of emotion, with tearful eyes, this breviary on which once prayed
that grand soldier; yes, Monsieur, that great believer. She has done
nothing to me," he repeated, growing more and more excited, his red
face becoming purple with rage, "but they are the quintessence of what
I detest the most, people like her and her father. They are the
incarnation of the modern world, in which there is nothing more
despicable than these cosmopolitan adventurers, who play at grand
seigneur with the millions filibustered in some stroke on the Bourse.
First, they have no country. What is this Baron Justus Hafner--German,
Austrian, Italian? Do you know? They have no religion. The name, the
father's face, that of the daughter, proclaim them Jews, and they are
Protestants--for the moment, as you have too truthfully said, while they
prepare themselves to become Mussulmen or what not. For the moment,
when it is a question of God!... They have no family. Where was this man
reared? What did his father, his mother, his brothers, his sisters do?
Where did he grow up? Where are his traditions? Where is his past, all
that constitutes, all that establishes the moral man?... Just look. All
is mystery in this personage, excepting this, which is very clear: if he
had received his due in Vienna, at the time of the suit of the 'Credit
Austro-Dalmate', in 1880, he would be in the galleys, instead of in
Rome. The facts were these: there were innumerable failures. I know
something about it. My poor cousin De Saint-Remy, who was with the Comte
de Chambord, lost the bread of his old age and his daughter's dowry.
There were suicides and deeds of violence, notably that of a certain
Schroeder, who went mad on account of that crash, and who killed
himself, after murdering his wife and his two children. And the Baron
came out of it unsullied. It is not ten