“Maybe!” replied Moretti, “But perhaps not if it were administered in the way I mean.  You seem to have forgotten the chief influence of any that can be brought to bear upon the heart and mind of a man,—­ and that is, Woman.”

Gherardi laughed outright.

“Upon my word I think it would be difficult to find the woman suited to this case!” he said.  “But you who have a diplomacy deeper than that of any Jew usurer may possibly have one already in view?”

“There is now in Rome,” pursued Moretti, speaking with the same even deliberation of accent, “a faithful daughter of the Church, whose wealth we can to a certain extent command, and whose charm is unquestionable,—­the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein—­”

Gherardi started.  Moretti eyed him coldly.

“You are not stricken surely by the childlike fascination with which this princess of coquettes rules her court?” he enquired sarcastically.

“I?” echoed Gherardi, shifting his position so that Moretti’s gaze could not fall so directly upon him.  “I?  You jest!”

“I think not!” said Moretti, “I think I know something about women—­ their capabilities, their passions, their different grades of power.  Sylvie Hermenstein possesses a potent charm which few men can resist, and I should not wonder if you yourself had been occasionally conscious of it.  She is one of those concerning whom other women say ‘they can see nothing in her’.  Ah!” and Moretti smiled darkly, “What a compliment that is from the majority of women to one!  This woman Sylvie is unique.  Where is her beauty?  You cannot say—­yet beauty is her very essence.  She cannot boast perfection of features,—­she is frequently hidden away altogether in a room and scarcely noticed.  And so she reminds me of a certain flower known to the Eastern nations, which is difficult to find, because so fragile and small that it can scarcely be seen, but when it is found, and the scent of it unwittingly inhaled, it drives men mad!”

Gherardi looked at him with a broadly wondering smile.

“You speak so eloquently,” he said, “that one would almost fancy—­”

“Fancy nothing!” retorted Moretti quickly, “Fancy and I are as far apart as the poles, except in the putting together of words, in which easy art I daresay I am as great an adept as Florian Varillo, who can write verses on love or patriotism to order, without experiencing a touch of either emotion.  What a humbug by the way, that fellow is!—­” and Moretti broke off to consider this new point--"He rants of the honour of Italy, and would not let his finger ache for her cause!  And he professes to love the ‘Sovrani’ while all Rome knows that Pon-Pon is his mistress!”

Gherardi wisely held his peace.

“The Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein is the little magic flower you must use;” resumed Moretti, emphasising his words with an authoritative movement of his hand, “Use her to madden Aubrey Leigh.  Bring them together;—­he will lose his head as surely as all men do when they come under the influence of that soft deep-eyed creature, with the full white breast of a dove, and the smile of an angel,—­and remember, it would be an excellent thing for the Church if he could be persuaded to marry her,—­there would be no more preaching then!—­ for the thoughts of love would outweigh the theories of religion.”