"I told thee of the miracle in my house, and of the boy the Cardinal
found in the streets,--well!--these things have had their good effect
in my own family. My two children, Henri and Babette--ah! What
children! God be praised for them! As bright, as kind as the
sunlight,--and their love for me and their mother is a great thing--a
good thing, look you!--one cannot be sufficiently grateful for it. For
nowadays, children too often despise their parents, which is bad luck
to them in their after days; but ours, wild as they were a while ago,
are all obedience and sweetness. I used often to wonder what would
become of them as they grew up--for they were wilful and
angry-tempered, and ofttimes cruel in speech--but I have no fear now.
Henri works well at his lessons, and Babette too,--and there is
something better than the learning of lessons about them,--something
new and bright in their dispositions which makes us all happy. And this
has come about since the Cardinal stayed with us; and also since the
pretty boy was found outside the Cathedral!"
"That boy seems to have impressed thee more than the Cardinal himself!"
said Midon--"but now I remember well--on the day the Abbe Vergniaud
preached his last sermon, and was nearly shot dead by his own son,
there was a rumour that his life had been saved by some boy who was an
attendant on the Cardinal, and who interposed himself between the Abbe
and the flying bullet,--that must have been the one you mean?"
"No doubt--no doubt!" said Patoux, nodding gravely--"There was
something about him that seemed a sort of shield against evil--or at
least, so said my wife,--and so say my children. Only the other day, my
boy Henri--he is big and full of mischief as boys will be--was playing
with two or three younger lads, and one of them like a little sneak,
stole up behind him and gave him a blow with a stick, which broke in
two with the force of the way the young rascal went to work with it.
Now, thought I, there will be need for me to step out and stop this
quarrel, for Henri will beat that miserable little wretch into a jelly!
But nothing of the sort! My boy turned round with a bright
laugh--picked up the two pieces of the stick and gave them back to the
little coward with a civil bow "Hit in front next time!" he said. And
the little wretch turned tail and began to boo-hoo in fine
fashion--crying as if he had been hurt instead of Henri. But they are
the best friends in the world now. I asked Henri about it afterwards,
and he turned as red as an apple in the cheeks. 'I wanted to kill him,
father,' he said,--'but I knew that the boy who was with Cardinal
Bonpre would not have done it--and so I did not!' Now look you, for a
rough little fellow such as Henri, that was a great victory over his
passions--and there is no doubt the Cardinal's little foundling was the
cause of his so managing himself."
Pierre Midon had nothing to say in answer,--the subject was getting
beyond him, and he was a man who, when thought became difficult, gave
up thinking altogether.
And while these two simple-minded worthies were thus talking and
strolling together home through the streets of Paris, Cyrillon
Vergniaud, having parted from the few friends who had paid him the
respect of their attendance at his father's grave, was making his way
towards the Champs Elysees in a meditative frame of mind, when his
attention was suddenly caught and riveted by a placard set up in front
of one of the newspaper kiosks at the corner of a boulevard, on which
in great black letters, was the name "Angela Sovrani." His heart gave
one great bound--then stood still--the streets of the city reeled round
him, and he grew cold and sick. "Meurtre de la celebre Angela Sovrani!"
Hardly knowing what he was about, he bought the paper. The news was in
a mere paragraph briefly stating that the celebrated artist had been
found stabbed in her studio, and that up to the present there was no
trace of the unknown assassin.
Passionate and emotional as his warm nature was, the great tears rushed
to Cyrillon's eyes. In one moment he realized what he had been almost
unconsciously cherishing in his own mind ever since Angela's beautiful
smile had shone upon him. When in the few minutes of speech he had had
with her she admitted herself to be the mysterious correspondent who
had constantly written to him as "Gys Grandit," fervently sympathising
with his theories, and urging him on to fresh and more courageous
effort, he had been completely overcome, not only with surprise, but
also with admiration. It had taken him some time to realize that she,
the greatest artist of her day, was actually his unknown friend of more
than two years' correspondence. He knew she was engaged to be married
to her comrade in art, Florian Varillo, but that fact did not prevent
him from feeling for her all the sudden tenderness, the instinctive
intimacy of spirit with spirit, which in the highest natures means the
highest love. Then,--they had all been brought together so
strangely!--his father, and himself, with Cardinal Bonpre,--and
she--the Cardinal's fair niece, daughter of a proud Roman house,--she
had not turned away from the erring and repentant priest whom the
Church had cast out; she had given him her hand at parting, and had
been as sweetly considerate of his feelings as though she had been his
own daughter. And when he was ill and dying at the Chateau D'Agramont,
she had written to him two or three times in the kindest and tenderest
way, and her letters had not been answered, because the Abbe was too
ill to write, and he, Cyrillon, had been afraid--lest he should say too
much! And now--she was dead?--murdered? No!--he would not believe it!
"God is good!" said Cyrillon, crushing the paper in his hand and
raising his eyes to the cloudy heavens--"He does nothing that is
unnecessarily cruel. He would not take that brilliant creature away
till she had won the reward of her work--happiness! No!--something
tells me this news is false!--she cannot be dead! But I will start for
Rome to-night."
He returned to the cheap pension where he had his room, and at once
packed his valise. With all his fame he was extremely poor; he had for
the most part refused to take payment for his books and pamphlets which
had been so freely spread through France, preferring to work for his
daily bread in the fields of an extensive farm near his birthplace in
Touraine. He had begun there as a little lad, earning his livelihood by
keeping the birds away from the crops--and had steadily risen by
degrees, through his honesty and diligence, to the post of
superintendent or bailiff of the whole concern. No one was more trusted
than he by his employers,--no one more worthy of trust. But his wages
were by no means considerable,--and though he saved as much as he
could, and lived on the coarsest fare, it was a matter of some trouble
for him to spare the money to take him from Paris to Rome. What cash he
had, he carried about him in a leathern bag, and this he now emptied on
the table to estimate the strength of his finances. Any possibility of
changing his mind and waiting for further news from Rome did not occur
to him. One of his chief characteristics was the determined way he
always carried through anything he had set his mind upon. In one of his
public speeches he had once said--"Let all the powers of hell oppose
me, I will storm them through and pass on! For the powers of Heaven are
on MY side!"--the audacity and daring of this utterance carrying away
his audience in a perfect whirlwind of enthusiasm. And though it is
related of a certain cynical philosopher, that when asked by one of his
scholars for a definition of hell, he dashed into the face of his
enquirer an empty purse for answer, the lack of funds was no obstacle
to Cyrillon's intended journey.
"Because if I can go no other way, I will persuade the guard to let me
ride in the van, or travel in company with a horse or dog--quite as
good animals as myself in their way," he thought.
With a characteristic indifference to all worldly matters he had
entirely forgotten that the father whom he had just buried had died
wealthy, and that his entire fortune had been left to the son whom he
had so lately and strangely acknowledged. And when,--while he was still
engaged in counting up his small stock of money,--a knock came at the
door, and a well-dressed man of business-like appearance entered with a
smiling and propitiatory air, addressing him as "Monsieur Vergniaud,"
Cyrillon did not know at all what to make of his visitor. Sweeping his
coins together with one hand, he stood up, his flashing eyes glancing
the stranger over carelessly.
"Your name, sir?" he demanded--"I am not acquainted with you."
The smiling man unabashed, sought about for a place to put down his
shiny hat, and smiled still more broadly.
"No!" he said--"No! You would not be likely to know me. I have not the
celebrity of Gys Grandit! I am only Andre Petitot--a lawyer, residing
in the Boulevard Malesherbes. I have just come from your father's
funeral."
Cyrillon bowed gravely, and remained silent.
"I have followed you," pursued Monsieur Petitot affably, "as soon as I
could, according to the instructions I received, to ask when it will be
convenient for you to hear me read your father's will?"
The young man started.
"His will!" he ejaculated. He had never given it a thought. "Yes. May I
take a chair? There are only two in the room, I perceive! Thanks!" And
the lawyer sat down and began drawing off his gloves,--"Your father had
considerable means,--though he parted with much that he might have
kept, through his extraordinary liberality to the poor--"
"God bless him!" murmured Cyrillon.
"Yes--yes--no doubt God will bless him!" said Monsieur Petitot
amicably--"According to your way of thinking, He ought to do so. But
personally, I always find the poor extremely ungrateful, and God
certainly does not bless ME whenever I encourage them in their habits
of idleness and vice! However, that is not a question for discussion at
present. The immediate point is this--your father made his will about
eighteen months ago, leaving everything to you. The wording of the will
is unusual, but he insisted obstinately on having it thus set down--"
Here the lawyer drew a paper out of his pocket, fixed a pair of
spectacles on his nose, and studied the document intently--"Yes!--it
reads in this way:--' Everything of which I die possessed to my son,
Cyrillon Vergniaud, born out of wedlock, but as truly my son in the
sight of God, as Ninette Bernadin was his mother, and my wife, though
never so legalised before the world, but fully acknowledged by me
before God, and before the Church which I have served and disobeyed.' A
curious wording!" said Petitot, nodding his head a great many
times--"Very curious! I told him so--but he would have it his own
way,--moreover, I am instructed to publish his will in any Paris paper
that will give it a place. Now this clause is to my mind exceedingly
disagreeable, and I wish I could set it aside."
"Why?" asked Cyrillon quietly.
"My dear young man! Can you ask? Why emphasise the fact of your
illegitimacy to the public!"
"Why disguise it?" returned Cyrillon. "You must remember that I have
another public than the merely social,--the people! They all know what
I am, and who I am. They have honoured me. They shall not despise me.
And they would despise me if I sought to hold back from them what my
father bade me tell. Moreover, this will gives my mother the honour of
wifehood in the sight of God,--and I must tell you, monsieur l'avocat,
that I am one of those who care nothing what the world says so long as
I stand more or less clear with the world's Creator!"
His great dark eyes were brilliant,--his face warm with the fire of his
inward feeling. Monsieur Petitot folded up his document and looked at
him with an amiable tolerance.
"Wonderful--wonderful!" he said--"But of course eccentricities WILL
appear in the world occasionally!--and you must pardon me if I venture
to think that you are certainly one of them. But I imagine you have
nograsped the whole position. The money--I should saythe fortune--which
your father has left to you, will make you a gentleman--"
He paused, affrighted. Drawing himself up to his full height, young
Vergniaud confronted him in haughty amazement.
"Gentleman!" he cried--"What do you mean by the term? A loafer?--a
lounger in the streets?--a leerer at women? Or a man who works for
daily food from sunrise to sunset, and controls his lower passions by
hard and honest labour! Gentleman! What is that? Is it to live lazily
on the toil of others, or to be up and working one's self, and to eat
no bread that one has not earned? Will you answer me?"
"My dear sir, you must really excuse me!" said Petitot nervously--" I
am quite unable to enter into any sort of discussion with you on these
things! Please recollect that my life as a lawyer, depends entirely on
men's stupidities and hypocrisies,--if they all entertained your views
I should have to beg in the streets, or seek another profession. In my
present business I should have nothing whatever to do. You perceive the
position? Yes, of course you do!" For Cyrillon with one of the quick
changes of mood habitual to him, smiled, as his temporary irritation
passed like a cloud, and his eyes softened--"You see, I am a
machine,--educated to be a machine; and I am set down to do certain
machine-like duties,--and one of these duties is,--regardless of your
fame, your eccentric theories, your special work which you have chosen
to make for yourself in the world,--to put you in possession of the
money your father left you--"
"Can you now--at once--" said Cyrillon suddenly--"give me enough money
to go to Rome to-night?"
Monsieur Petitot stared.
"To go to Rome to-night?" he echoed--"Dear me, how very extraordinary!
I beg your pardon! . . . of course--most certainly! I can advance you
any sum you want--would ten thousand francs suffice?"
"Ten thousand francs!" Cyrillon laughed. "I never had so much money in
all my life!"
"No? Well, I have not the notes about me at the moment, but I will send
you up that sum in an hour if you wish it. Your father's will entitles
you to five million francs, so you see I am not in any way endangering
myself by advancing you ten thousand."
Cyrillon was quite silent. The lawyer studied him curiously, but could
not determine whether he was pleased or sorry at the announcement of
his fortune. His handsome face was pale and grave,--and after a pause
he said simply--
"Thank you! Then I can go to Rome. If you will send me the money you
speak of I shall be glad, as it will enable me to start to-night. For
the rest,--kindly publish my father's will as he instructed you to
do,--and I--when I return to Paris, will consult you on the best way in
which I can dispose of my father's millions."
"Dispose of them!" began Petitot amazedly. Young Vergniaud interrupted
him by a slight gesture.
"Pardon me, Monsieur, if I ask you to conclude this interview! For the
present, I want nothing else in the world but to get to Rome as quickly
as possible!--apres ca, le deluge!"
He smiled--but his manner was that of some great French noble who
gently yet firmly dismisses the attentions of a too-officious
servant,--and Petitot, much to his own surprise, found himself bowing
low, and scrambling out of the poorly furnished room in as much
embarrassment as though he had accidentally stumbled into a palace
where his presence was not required.
And Cyrillon, left to himself, gathered up all the coins he had been
counting out previous to the lawyer's arrival, and tied them again
together in the old leathern bag; then having closed and strapped his
little travelling valise, sat down and waited. Punctually to the time
indicated, that is to say, in one hour from the moment Petitot had
concluded his interview with the celebrated personage whom he now
mentally called "an impossible young man," a clerk arrived bringing the
ten thousand francs promised. He counted the notes out
carefully,--Cyrillon watching him quietly the while, and taking
sympathetic observation of his shabby appearance, his thread-bare coat,
and his general expression of pinched and anxious poverty.
"You will perceive it is all right, Monsieur," he said humbly, as he
finished counting.
"What are you, mon ami?" asked Cyrillon; scarcely glancing at the notes
but fixing a searching glance on the messenger who had brought them.
"I?" and the clerk coughed nervously and blushed,--"Oh, I am nothing,
Monsieur! I am Monsieur Petitot's clerk, that is all!"
"And does he pay you well?"
"Thirty francs a week, Monsieur. It is not bad,--only this--I was young
a few years ago, and I married--and two dear little ones came--so it is
a pull at times to make everything go as it should--not that I am sorry
for myself at all, oh no! For I am well off as the people go--"
Cyrillon interrupted him.
"Yes--as the people go! That is what you all say, you patient, brave
souls! See you, my friend, I do not want all this money--"and he took
up a note for five hundred francs--"Take this and make the wife and
little ones happy!"
"Monsieur!" stammered the astonished clerk--"How can I dare--!"
"Dare! Nay, there is no daring in freely taking what your brother
freely gives you! You must let me practise what I preach, my friend,
otherwise I am only a fraud and unfit to live. God keep you!"
The clerk still stood trembling, afraid to take up the note, and unable
through emotion to speak a word, even of thanks. Upon which, Cyrillon
folded up the note and put it himself in the man's pocket.
"There!--go and make happiness with that bit of paper!" he said--"Who
can tell through what dirty usurer's hand it has been, carrying curses
with it perchance on its way! Use it now for the comfort of a woman and
her little children, and perhaps it will bring blessing to a living man
as well as to a departed soul!"
And he literally put the poor stupefied fellow outside his door,
shutting it gently upon him.
That night he left for Rome. And as the express tore its grinding way
along over the iron rails towards the south, he repeated to himself
over and over again as in a dream--
"No--Angela Sovrani is not dead! She cannot be dead! God is too good
for that. He will not let her die before she knows--before she knows I
love her!"