"You know Selva?" said he. "What manner of man is he in private life?"
"He is a just man!" Benedetto hastened to answer. "A most just man. His
books have been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. They may,
perhaps, contain some bold opinions, but there is no comparison between
the deep, burning piety of Selva's works and the cold and meagre
formalism of certain other books, which are more often found in the
hands of the clergy than the Gospels themselves. Holy Father, the
condemnation of Selva would be a blow directed against the most active
and vital energies of Catholicism. The Church tolerates thousands of
stupid, ascetic books which unworthily diminish the idea of God in the
human mind; let her not condemn those which magnify it!" The hour struck
in the distance; half-past nine. Silently His Holiness took Benedetto's
hand, held it between his own, and communicated to him through that mute
pressure an understanding and approval which his prudent lips might not
utter.
He pressed the hand, shook it, caressed it, and pressed it again.
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