After the concert we walked slowly along the line of the boulevards.  It was early May, and the wheel of green which we traversed, together with the brilliant picture made by the crowds, put us both in a happy temper.  It was not long before Monsignor heard the confession of my ideals.  He smiled quickly when I raved of music, but the moment I drifted into the theme of mysticism—­the transposition is ever an easy one—­I saw his interest leap to meet mine.

“So, you have read St. John of the Cross?” I nodded my head.

“And St. Teresa, that marvellous woman?  The Americans puzzle me,” he continued.  “You are the most practical people on the globe and yet the most idealistic.  When I hear of a new religion, I am morally certain that it is evolved in America.”

“A new religion!” I started.  This phrase had often assailed me, both in print and in the depths of my imagination.  He divined my thought—­ah! he was a wonder-worker in the way he noted a passing nuance.

“When we wear out the old one, it will be time for a new religion,” he blandly announced; “you Americans, because of your new mechanical inventions, fancy you have free entry into the domain of the spiritual.  But come, my dear young friend.  Here is my hotel.  Can’t I invite you to dinner?” We had reached the Boulevard Malsherbe and, as I was miles out of my course, I consented.  The priest fascinated me with his erudition, which swam lightly on the crest of his talk.  He was, so I discovered during the evening, particularly well versed in the mystical writers, in the writings of the Kabbalists and the books of the inspired Northman, Swedenborg.  As we sat drinking our coffee at one of the little tables in the spacious courtyard, I revived the motive of a new religion.

“Monsignor, have you ever speculated on the possible appearance of a second Mahomet, a second Buddha?  What if, from some Asiatic jungle, there sallied out upon Europe a terrible ape-god, a Mongolian with exotic eyes and the magnetism of a religious madman—­”

“You are speaking of Antichrist?” he calmly questioned.

“Antichrist!  Do you really believe in the Devil’s Messiah?”

“Believe, man! why, I have seen him.”

I leaned back in my chair, wondering whether I should laugh or look solemn.  He noted my indecision, and his eyes twinkled—­they were the blue-gray of the Irish, the eyes of a seer or an amiable ironist.

“Listen! but first let us get some strong cigars.  Garcon!” As we smoked our panatelas he related this history:—­