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?”