our impertinence, we care not!  Monsignor Moretti has just left the house, wrapt up in his wrath like a bird of prey in a thunder-cloud, muttering menaces against ‘Gys Grandit’ the Socialist writer.  Now what in the world has Gys Grandit to do with him or with us?  Salut, cher Abbe!”—­and she gave Vergniaud her hand with charming friendliness; “I came here really to see you, and place the Chateau D’Agramont at your disposal, while I am away passing the winter in Italy.  Pray make yourself at home there—­and your son also . . .”

“Madame,” said the Abbe, profoundly touched by the sincerity of her manner, and by the evident cordiality of her intention, “I thank you from my heart for your friendship at this moment when friendship is most needed!  But I feel I ought not to cast the shadow of my presence on your house under such circumstances—­and as for my son—­ it would certainly be unwise for you to extend your gracious hospitality to him . . . he is my son—­yes truly!—­and I acknowledge him as such; but he is also another person of his own making—­Gys Grandit!”

Angela Sovrani gave a slight cry, and a wave of colour flushed her face,—­the Princesse stood amazed.

“Gys Grandit!” she echoed in a low tone, “And Vergniaud’s son!  Grand Dieu!  Is it possible!” Then advancing, she extended both her hands to Cyrillon, “Monsieur, accept my homage!  You have a supreme genius,—­and with it you command more than one-half of the thoughts of France!”

Cyrillon took her hands,—­lightly pressed, and released them.

“Madame, you are too generous!”

But even while he exchanged these courtesies with her, his eyes were fixed on Angela Sovrani, who, moving close to her uncle’s chair, had folded her hands upon its sculptured edge and now stood beside it, a graceful nymph-like figure of statuesque repose.  But her breath came and went quickly, and her face was very pale.

“No wonder Monsignor Moretti was so exceedingly angry,” resumed the Princesse D’Agramont with a smile, “I understand the position now.  It is a truly remarkable one.  Monseigneur,” this with a profound reverence to the Cardinal, “you have found it difficult to be umpire in the discussion.”

“The discussion was not mine,” said the Cardinal slowly, “But the cause of the trouble is a point which affects many,—­and I am one of those who desire to hear all before I presume to judge one.  I have asked the son of my old friend Vergniaud to tell me what led him to make his assumed name one of such terror and confusion in the world; he is but six-and-twenty, and yet . . .”

“And yet people talk much of me you would say, Monseigneur,” said Cyrillon, a touch of scorn lighting up his fine eyes, “True, and it is easy to be talked of.  That is nothing, I do not wish for that, except in so far as it helps me to attain my ambition.”

“And that ambition is?” queried the Princesse.

“To lead!” answered Cyrillon with a passionate gesture, “To gather the straying thoughts of men into one burning focus—­and turn that fire on the world!”