XIV.

No one ever afterwards quite knew how the crowd in the church broke up

and dispersed itself after this denouement. For a few minutes the crush

of people round the pulpit was terrific; all eyes were fixed on the

young black-browed peasant who had so nearly been a parricide,--and on

the father who publicly exonerated him,--and then there came a pressing

towards the doors which was excessively dangerous to life and limb.

Cardinal Bonpre, greatly moved by the whole unprecedented scene, placed

himself in front of Angela as a shield and defence from the crowd; but

before he had time to consider how he should best pilot her through the

pushing and scrambling throng, a way was made for him by Manuel,

who,--with a quiet step and unruffled bearing,--walked through the

thickest centre of the crowd, which parted easily on either side of

him, as though commanded to do so by some unheard but absolute

authority. Admiring and wondering glances were turned upon the boy,

whose face shone with such a grave peace and sweetness;--he had saved

the Abbe's life, the people whispered, by springing up the steps of the

pulpit, and throwing himself between the intended victim and the bullet

of his assailant. Who was he? Where did he come from? No one knew;--he

was merely the attendant of that tall ascetic-looking Cardinal, the

uncle of the famous Sovrani. So the words ran from mouth to mouth, as

Felix Bonpre and his niece moved slowly through the throng, following

Manuel;--then, when they had passed, there came a general hubbub and

confusion once more, and the people hustled and elbowed each other

through the church regardless of consequences, eager to escape and

discuss among themselves the sensation of the morning.

"C'est un drame! Un veritable drame!" said Miraudin, pausing, as he

found himself face to face with the Marquis Fontenelle.

Fontenelle stared haughtily.

"Did you speak to me, Monsieur?" he enquired, glancing the actor up and

down with an air of supreme disdain.

Miraudin laughed carelessly.

"Yes, I spoke to you, Marquis!" he replied, "I said that the public

confession of our dear priest Vergniaud was a veritable drame!"

"An unfortunate scandal in the Church!" said Fontenelle curtly.

"Yes!" went on the unabashed Miraudin, "If it were on the stage it

would be taken as a matter of course. An actor's follies help to

populate the world. But a priest's petite faute would seem to suggest

the crushing down of a universe!"

"Custom and usage make the rule in these things," said Fontenelle

turning away, "I have the honour to wish you good-day, Monsieur!"

"One moment!" said the actor smiling, "There is a curious personal

resemblance between you and me, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you ever

noticed it? We might almost be brothers by our looks--and also I

believe by our temperaments!"

Fontenelle's hazel eyes flashed angrily.

"I think not!" he said coldly, "A certain resemblance between totally

unrelated persons is quite common. For the rest, we are absolutely

different--absolutely!"

Again Miraudin laughed.

"As you will, Marquis!" and he raised his hat with a light,

half-mocking air, "Au revoir!"

Fontenelle scarcely acknowledged the salutation,--he was too much

annoyed. He considered it a piece of insolence on Miraudin's part to

have addressed him at all without previous introduction. It was true

that the famous actor was permitted a license not granted to the

ordinary individual,--as indeed most actors are. Even princes, who

hedge themselves round with impassable barriers to certain of their

subjects who are in all ways great and worthy of notice, unbend to the

Mime who today takes the place of the Court-jester, and allow him to

enter the royal presence, often bringing his newest wanton with him.

And there was not the slightest reason for the Marquis Fontenelle to be

at all particular in his choice of acquaintances. Yet somehow or other,

he was. The fine and sensitive instincts of a gentleman were in him,

and though in the very depths of his own conscience he knew himself to

be as much of a social actor as Miraudin was a professional

one,--though he was aware that his passions were as sensual, and

therefore as vulgar, (for sensuality is vulgarity), there was a latent

pride in him which forbade him to set himself altogether on the same

level. And now as he walked away haughtily, his fine aristocratic head

lifted a little higher in air than usual, he was excessively

irritated--with everything and everybody, but with himself in

particular. Abbe Vergniaud's sermon had stung him in several ways, and

the startling FINALE had vexed him still more.

"What folly!" he thought, as he entered his luxuriously appointed flat,

and threw himself into a chair with a kind of angry weariness, "How

utterly stupid of Vergniaud to blazon the fact that he is no better

than other men, in the full face of his congregation! He must be mad! A

priest of the Roman Church publicly acknowledging a natural son!

[Footnote: ROME, August 19, 1899--A grave scandal has just burst upon

the world here. The Gazetta di Venezia having attacked the bishops

attending the recent conclave of "Latin America," that is,

Spanish-speaking America, as men of loose morality, the Osservatore

Cattolico, the Vatican organ, replied declaring that the life of the

bishops present at the conclave was above suspicion. The Gazetta di

Venezia responds, affirming that the majority of the bishops brought

with them to Rome their mistresses, and in some instances their

children. The Gazetta offers to disclose the names of these bishops,

and demands that the Pope shall satisfy the Catholic world by taking

measures against them.--Central News.] Has ever such a thing been heard

of! And the result is merely to create scandal and invite his own

disgrace! A quoi bon!"

He lit a cigarette and puffed at it impatiently. His particular "code"

of morality had been completely upset;--things seemed to have taken a

turn for general offence, and the simplest thoughts became like

bristles in his brain, pricking him uncomfortably in various sore and

sensitive places. Then, added to his general sense of spleen was the

unpleasant idea that he was really in love, where he had never meant to

be in love. "In love", is a wide term nowadays, and covers a multitude

of poor and petty passing emotions,--and it is often necessary to add

the word "really" to it, in order to emphasise the fact that the

passion has perhaps,--and even then it is only a perhaps,--taken a

somewhat lasting form. Why could not Sylvie Hermenstein have allowed

things to run their natural course?--this natural course being

according to Fontenelle, to drop into his arms when asked, and leave

those arms again with equal alacrity also when asked! It would have

been quite pleasant and satisfactory to him, the Marquis;--and for

Sylvie--well!--for Sylvie, she would soon have got over it! Now there

was all this fuss and pother about virtue! Virtue, quotha! In a woman,

and in Paris! At this time of day! Could anything be more preposterous

and ridiculous!

"One would imagine I had stumbled into a convent for young ladies," he

grumbled to himself, "What with Sylvie actually gone, and that pretty

pattern of chastity, Angela Sovrani, preaching at me with her big

violet eyes,--and now Vergniaud who used to be 'bon camarade et bon

vivant', branding himself a social sinner--really one would imagine

that some invisible Schoolmaster was trying to whip me into order . .

."

"Peut-on entrer?" called a clear voice outside at this juncture, and

without waiting for permission the speaker entered, a very pretty woman

in an admirably fitting riding habit, which she held daintily up with

one gloved hand, extending the other as she came to the Marquis who

gracefully bent over it and kissed it.

"Charme de vous voir Princesse!" he murmured.

"Not at all! Spare me your falsehoods!" was the gay reply, accompanied

by a dazzling smile, "You are not in the least charmed,

nothing,--nobody charms you,--I least of all! Did you not see me in

church? No! Where were your eyes? On the courageous Vergniaud, who so

nearly gave us the melancholy task of arranging a 'Chapelle ardente'

for him this afternoon?" She laughed, and her eyes twinkled

maliciously,--then she went on, "Do you know he is quite a delightful

boy,--the peasant son and assassin? I think of taking him to my Chateau

and making something of him. I waited to see the whole play out, and

bring you the news. Papa Vergniaud has gone home with his good-looking

offspring--then Cardinal Bonpre--do you know the Cardinal Bonpre?"

"By reputation merely," replied the Marquis, setting a chair for his

fair visitor, "And as the uncle of Donna Sovrani."

"Oh, reputation is nothing," laughed the lady, known as the Princesse

D'Agramont, an independent beauty of great wealth and brilliant

attainments, "Your butler can give you a reputation, or take it away

from you! But the Cardinal's reputation is truly singular. It is

goodness, merely! He is so good that he has become actually famous for

it! Now I once thought that to become famous for goodness must surely

imply that the person so celebrated had a very hypocritical

nature,--the worst of natures indeed;--that of pretending to be what he

was not,--but I was mistaken. Cardinal Bonpre IS good. Absolutely

sincere and noble--therefore a living marvel in this age!"

"You are pleased to be severe, Princesse," said the Marquis, "Is

sincerity so difficult to find?"

"The most difficult of virtues!" answered the Princesse, lightly

tapping out a little tune with the jewelled handle of her riding whip

on the arm of her chair, "That is why I like horses and dogs so

much--they are always honest. And for that reason I am now inclined to

like Abbe Vergniaud whom I never liked before. He has turned honest!

To-day indeed he has been as straightforward as if he were not a man at

all!--and I admire him for it. He and his son will be my guests at the

Chateau D'Agramont."

"What a very strange woman you are!" said Fontenelle, with a certain

languid admiration beginning to glimmer in his eyes, "You always do

things that nobody else would dare do--and yet . . . no lovers!"

She turned herself swiftly round and surveyed him with a bright scorn

that swept him as with a lightning flash from head to heel.

"Lovers! Who would be bored by them! Such delightful company! So

unselfish in their demands--so tender and careful of a woman's

feelings! Pouf! Cher ami!--you forget! I was the wife of the late

Prince D'Agramont!"

"That explains a great many of your moods certainly," said the Marquis

smiling.

"Does it not? Le beau Louis!--romantic Louis!--poet Louis!--musician

Louis!--Louis, who talked pretty philosophies by the hour,--Louis who

looked so beautiful by moonlight,--who seemed fastidious and refined to

a degree that was almost ethereal!--Louis who swore, with passion

flashing in his eyes, that I was the centre of the universe to him, and

that no other woman had ever occupied, would ever occupy, or SHOULD

ever occupy his thoughts!--yes, he was an ideal lover and husband

indeed!" said the Princesse smiling coldly, "I gave him all my life and

love, till one day, when I found I was sharing his caresses with my

plumpest dairymaid, who called him "HER Louis"! Then I thought it was

time to put an end to romance. TIENS!" and she gave a little shrug and

sigh, "It is sad to think he died of over-eating."

The Marquis laughed.

"You are incorrigible, belle Loyse!" he said, "You should write these

things, not speak them."

"Really! And do I not write them? Yes, you know I do, and that you envy

me my skill. The Figaro is indebted to me for many admirable essays. At

the same time I do not give you permission to call me Loyse."

"Forgive me!" and the Marquis folded his hands with an air of mock

penitence.

"Perhaps I will, presently," and she laughed, "But meanwhile I want you

to do something for me."

"Toujours a votre service, madame!" and Fontenelle bowed profoundly.

"How theatrical you look! You are alarmingly like Miraudin;--and one

MUST draw the line at Miraudin! This is a day of truth according to the

Abbe Vergniaud; how dare you say you are at my service when you do not

mean it?"

"Princesse, I protest . . ."

"Oh, protest as much as you like,--on the way to Rome!"

The Marquis started.

"To Rome?"

"Yes, to Rome. I am going, and I want someone to look after me. Will

you come? All Paris will say we have eloped together." She laughed

merrily.

The Marquis stood perplexed and silent.

"Well, what is it?" went on the Princesse gaily, "Is there some faint

sense of impropriety stealing over you? Not possible! Dear me, your

very muscles are growing rigid! You will not go?"

"Madame, if you will permit me to be frank with you,--I would rather

not!"

"A la bonheur!--then I have you!" And the Princesse rose, a dazzling

smile irradiating her features, "You have thrown open your heart! You

have begun to reform! You love Sylvie Hermenstein--yes!--you positively

LOVE her!"

"Princesse--" began the Marquis, "I assure you--"

"Assure me nothing!" and she looked him straight in the eyes, "I know

all about it! You will not journey with me because you think the

Comtesse Sylvie will hear of it, and put a wrong construction on your

courtesy. You wish to try for once, to give her no cause for doubting

you to be sans peur et sans reproche. You wish to make her think you

something better than a sort of Miraudin whose amorous inclinations are

not awakened by one woman, but by women! And so you will not do

anything which, though harmless in itself, may seem equivocal. For this

you refuse the friendly invitation of one of the best known 'society

leaders' in Europe! CHER Marquis!--it is a step in the right direction!

Adieu!"

"You are not going so soon," he said hurriedly, "Wait till I explain .

. ."

"There is nothing to explain!" and the pretty Princesse gave him her

hand with a beneficent air, "I am very pleased with you. You are what

the English call 'good boy'! Now I am going to see the Abbe and place

the Chateau D'Agramont at his disposal while he is waiting to be

excommunicated,--for of course he will be excommunicated--"

"What does it matter!--Who cares?" said the Marquis recklessly.

"It does not matter, and nobody cares--not in actual Paris. But very

very nice people in the suburbs, who are morally much worse than the

Abbe, will perhaps refuse to receive him. That is why my doors are open

to him, and also to his son."

"Original, as usual!"

"Perfectly! I am going to write a column for the Figaro on the amazing

little scene of this morning. Au revoir! My poor horse has been waiting

too long already,--I must finish my ride in the Bois, and then go to

Angela Sovrani; for all the dramatis personae of to-day's melodrama are

at her studio, I believe."

"Who is that boy with the Cardinal?" asked the Marquis suddenly.

"You have noticed him? I also. A wonderful face! A little acolyte, no

doubt. And so you will not go to Rome with me?"

"I think not," and Fontenelle smiled.

"Comme il vous plaira! I will tell Sylvie."

"The Comtesse Hermenstein is not in Paris."

"No!" and the Princesse laughed mischievously, "She is in Rome! She

must have arrived there this morning. Au revoir, Marquis!" Another

dazzling smile, and she was gone.

Fontenelle stood staring after her in amazement. Sylvie was in Rome

then? And he had just refused to accompany the Princesse D'Agramont

thither! A sudden access of irritation came over him, and he paced the

room angrily. Should he also go to Rome? Never! It would seem too close

a pursuit of a woman who had by her actions distinctly shown that she

wished to avoid him. Now he would prove to her that he also had a will

of his own. HE would leave Paris;--he would go--yes, he would go to

Africa! Everybody went to Africa. It was becoming a fashionable

pasture-land for disappointed lives. He would lose himself in the

desert,--and then--then Sylvie would be sorry when she did not know

where he was or what he was doing! But also,--he in his turn would not

know where Sylvie was, or what she was doing! This was annoying. It was

certain that she would not remain in Rome a day longer than she chose

to,--well!--then where would she go? In Africa he would find some

difficulty in tracing her movements. On second thoughts he resolved

that he would lose himself in another fashion--and would go to Rome to

do it!

"She shall not know I am there!" he said to himself, with a kind of

triumph in his own decision, "I shall amuse myself--I shall see

her--but she shall not see me."

Satisfied with this as yet vague plan of entertainment, he began at

once making his arrangements for departure;--meanwhile, the Princesse

D'Agramont riding gracefully through the Bois on her beautiful Arab,

was amusing herself with her thoughts, and weighing the PROS and CONS

of the different lives of her friends, without giving the slightest

consideration to her own. Here was a strange nature,--as a girl she had

been intensely loving, generous and warm-hearted, and she had adored

her husband with exceptional faith and devotion. But the handsome

Prince's amours were legion, though he had been fairly successful in

concealing them from his wife, till the unlucky day when she had found

him making desperate love to a common servant,--and after that her

confidence, naturally, was at an end. One discovery led to

another,--and the husband around whom she had woven her life's romance,

sank degraded in her sight, never to rise again. She was of far too

dignified and proud a nature to allow her sense of outrage and wrong to

be made public, and though she never again lived with D'Agramont as his

wife, she carried herself through all her duties as mistress of the

household and hostess of his guests, with a brave bright gaiety, which

deceived even the closest observer,--and the gossips of Paris used to

declare that she did not know the extent of her husband's follies. But

she did know,--and while filled with utter disgust and loathing for his

conduct she nevertheless gave him no cause of complaint against

herself. And when he died of a fever brought on through over-indulgence

in vice, she conformed to all the strictest usages of society,--wore

her solemn widow's black for more than the accustomed period,--and then

cast it off,--not to dash into her fashionable "circle" again with a

splurge of colour, but rather to glide into it gracefully, a vision of

refinement, arrayed in such soft hues as may be seen in some rare

picture; and she took complete possession of it by her own unaided

charm. No one could really tell whether she grieved for D'Agramont's

death or not; no one but herself knew how she had loved him,--no one

guessed what agonies of pain and shame she had endured for his sake,

nor how she had wept herself half blind with despair when he died. All

this she shut up in her own heart, but the working of the secret

bitterness within her had made a great change in her disposition. Her

nature, once as loving and confiding as that of a little child, had

been so wronged in its tenderest fibres that now she could not love at

all.

"Why is it," she would ask herself, "that I am totally unable to care

for any living creature? That it is indifferent to me whether I see any

person once, or often, or never? Why are all men like phantoms,

drifting past my soul's immovability?"

The answer to her query would be, that having loved greatly once and

been deceived, it was impossible to love again. Some women,--the best,

and therefore the unhappiest--are born with this difficult temperament.

Now, as she rode quietly along, sometimes allowing her horse to prance

upon the turf for the delight of its dewy freshness, she was weaving

quite a brilliant essay on modern morals out of the scene she had

witnessed at the Church of the Lorette that morning. She well knew how

to use that dangerous weapon, the pen,--she could wield it like a wand

to waken tears or laughter with equal ease, and since her husband's

death she had devoted a great deal of time to authorship. Two witty

novels, published under a nom-de-plume had already startled the world

of Paris, and she was busy with a third. Such work amused her, and

distracted her from dwelling too much on the destroyed illusions of the

past. The Figaro snatched eagerly at everything she wrote; and it was

for the Figaro that she busied her brain now, considering what she

should say of the Abbe Vergniaud's confession.

"It is wisest to be a liar and remain in the Church? or tell the truth

and go out of the Church?" she mused, "Unfortunately, if all priests

told the truth as absolutely as the Abbe did this morning we should

have hardly any of them left."

She laughed a little, and stroked her horse's neck caressingly.

"Good Rex! You and your kind never tell lies; and yet you are said to

have no souls. Now I wonder why we, who are mean and cunning and

treacherous and hypocritical should have immortal souls, while horses

and dogs who are faithful and kind and honest should be supposed to

have none."

Rex gave a gay little prance forward as one who should say, "Yes, but

it is only you silly human beings who suppose such nonsense. We know

what WE know;--we have our own secrets!"

"Now the Church," went on Loyse D'Agramont, pursuing the tenor of her

thoughts, "is in a bad way all over the world. It is possible that God

is offended with it. It is possible, that after nearly two thousand

years of patience He is tired of having come down to us to teach us the

path of Heaven in vain. Something out of the common has surely moved

the Abbe Vergniaud to speak as he spoke to-day. He was quite unlike

himself and beyond himself; if all our preachers were seized by the

spirit of frankness in like manner--"

Here she broke off for she had arrived at Angela Sovrani's door, and a

servant coming out, assisted her to alight, and led her horse into the

courtyard there to await her leisure. She was an old friend of Angela's

and was accustomed to enter the house without announcement, but on this

occasion she hesitated, and after ascending the first few steps leading

to the studio paused and rang the bell. Angela herself answered the

summons.

"Loyse! Is it you! Oh, I am so glad!" and Angela caught her by both

hands,--"You cannot imagine the confusion and trouble we have been in

this morning!"

"Oh yes, I can!" answered the Princesse smiling, as she put an arm

round her friend's waist and entered the studio, "You have certainly

had an excitement! What of the courageous Abbe? Where is he?"

"Here!" And Angela's eyes expressed volumes,--"Here, with my uncle.

They are talking together--and that young man--Cyrillon--the son, you

know--"

"Is that his name?--Cyrillon?" queried the Princesse.

"Yes,--he has been brought up as a peasant. But he is not ignorant. He

has written books and music, so it appears--yet he still keeps to his

labour in the fields. He seems to be a kind of genius; another sort of

Maeterlinck--"

"Oh, capricious Destiny!" exclaimed the Princesse, "The dear Abbe

scandalises the Church by acknowledging his son to all men,--and

lo!--the son he was ashamed of all these years, turns out a prodigy!

The fault once confessed, brings a blessing! Angela, there is something

more than chance in this, if we could only fathom it!"

"This Cyrillon is all softness and penitence now,' Angela went on, "He

is overcome with grief at his murderous attempt,--and has asked his

father's pardon. And they are going away together out of Paris till--"

"Till excommunication is pronounced," said the Princesse, "Yes, I

thought so! I came here to place my Chateau at the Abbe's disposal. I

am myself going to Rome; so he and his son can be perfectly at home

there. I admire the man's courage, and above all I admire his

truthfulness. But I cannot understand why he was at such pains to keep

silence all these years, and THEN to declare his fault? He must have

decided on his confession very suddenly?"

Angela's eyes grew dark and wistful.

"Yes," she answered slowly,--then with a sudden eagerness in her manner

she added, "Do you know, Loyse, I feel as if some very strange

influence had crept in among us! Pray do not think me foolish, but I

assure you I have had the most curious sensations since my uncle,

Cardinal Bonpre arrived from Rouen--bringing Manuel--"

"Manuel? Is that the boy I saw in the church this morning? The boy who

threw himself as a shield between Verginaud and the flying shot? Yes?

And do you not know who he is?"

"No," and Angela repeated the story of the way in which Manuel had been

found and rescued by the Cardinal; "You see," she continued, "it is not

possible to ask him any questions since he has declined to tell us more

than we already know."

"Strange!" And the Princesse D'Agramont knitted her delicate brows

perplexedly. "And you have had curious feelings since he came, you say?

What sort of feelings?"

"Well, you will only laugh at me," replied Angela, her cheeks paling a

little as she spoke, "but it really is as if some supernatural being

were present who could see all my inward thoughts,--and not only mine,

but the thoughts of everyone else. Someone too who impels us to do what

we have never thought of doing before--"

The Princesse opened her eyes in amazement.

"My dear girl! You must have been over-working to get such strange

fancies into your head! There is nothing supernatural left to us

nowadays except the vague idea of a God,--and even that we are rather

tired of!"

Angela trembled and grew paler than usual.

"Do not speak in that way," she urged, "The Abbe talked in just such a

light fashion until the other day here,--yet this morning I think--nay,

I am sure he believes in something better than himself at last."

The Princesse was silent for a minute.

"Well, what is to happen next?" she queried, "Excommunication of

course! All brave thinkers of every time have been excommunicated, and

many of our greatest and most valuable scientific works are on the

Index Expurgatorius. It is my ambition to get into that Index,--I shall

never rest till I win the honour of being beside Darwin's 'Origin of

Species'!"

Angela smiled, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

"I hope the Abbe will go away at once," she said meditatively, "But you

have no idea how happy and at ease he is! He seems to be ready for

anything."

"What does Cardinal Bonpre think?" asked the Princesse.

"My uncle never thinks in any way except the way of Christ," replied

Angela. "He says, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee; arise and walk', to every

soul stricken with the palsy of pain and repentance. He helps the

fallen; he does not strike them down more heavily."

"Ah, so! And is he fit to be a Cardinal?" queried the Princesse

D'Agramont dubiously.

Angela gave her a quick look, but had no time to reply as at that

moment a servant entered and announced, "Monsignor Moretti!"

Angela started nervously.

"Moretti!" she said in a low tone, "I thought he had left Paris!"

Before she had time to say any more the visitor himself entered, a tall

spare priest with a dark narrow countenance of the true Tuscan type,--a

face in which the small furtive eyes twinkled with a peculiarly hard

brilliancy as though they were luminous pebbles. He walked into the

room with a kind of aggressive dignity common to many Italians, and

made a slight sign of the cross in air as the two ladies saluted him.

"Pardon me, Mesdames, for this intrusion," he said in a harsh metallic

voice, "But I hear that the Abbe Vergniaud is in this house,--and that

Cardinal Felix Bonpre has received him here SINCE" (and he emphasised

the word "since") "the shameful scene of this morning. My business in

Paris is ended for the moment; and I am returning to Italy

to-night,--but I wish to know if the Abbe has anything to say through

me to His Holiness the Pope in extenuation of his conduct before I

perform the painful duty of narrating this distressing affair at the

Vatican."

"Will you see him for yourself, Monsignor?" said Angela quietly,

offering to lead the way out of the studio, "You will no doubt obtain a

more direct and explicit answer from the Abbe personally."

For a moment Moretti hesitated. Princesse D'Agramont saw his

indecision, and her smile had a touch of malice in it as she said,

"It is a little difficult to know how to address the Abbe to-day, is it

not, Monsignor? For of course he is no longer an Abbe--no longer a

priest of Holy Church! Helas! When anybody takes to telling the truth

in public the results are almost sure to be calamitous!"

Moretti turned upon her with swift asperity.

"Madame, you are no true daughter of the Church," he said, "and my

calling forbids me to enter into any discussion with you!"

The Princesse gave him a charming upward glance of her bright eyes, and

curtsied demurely, but he paid no heed to her obeisance, and moving

away, went at once with Angela towards the Cardinal's apartments. In

the antechamber he paused, hearing voices.

"Is there anyone with His Eminence, besides Vergniaud?" he asked.

"The Abbe's son Cyrillon," replied Angela timidly.

Moretti frowned.

"I will go in alone," he said, "You need not announce me. The Abbe

knows me well, and--" he added with a slight sneer, "he is likely to

know me better!"

Without further words he signed to Angela to retire, and passing

through the antechamber, he opened the door of the Cardinal's room and

entered abruptly.