Thrusting this note into an envelope he hastily sealed it, but decided not to post it till late at night, in order that Sylvie might only receive it with the early morning, when her mind was fresh, and unswayed by any opinions or events of a long day.  And to pass the time he strolled out to one of the many “osterie,” or wine-houses which abound in Rome,—­a somewhat famous example of its kind in the Via Quattro Fontane.  Choosing a table where he could sit with his back turned towards the door, so as to avoid being seen by either strangers or possible friends, he took up the Giornale Romano, and ordered a “mezzo-litro” of the “Genzano” wine, for which that particular house has long been celebrated.  He sat there about half an hour thus quietly reading,—­scarcely hearing the loud voices and louder laughter of the men who came and went around him, when suddenly the name “Sylvie Hermenstein” caught his ear.  It was spoken carelessly and accompanied with a laugh.  Quietly laying down his newspaper, he sat very still in his chair, keeping his back turned to the groups of wine drinkers who were gathering in large numbers as the evening advanced, and listened.

“The most delicious little bonbon in the whole box!  Jolie a craquer!” said a man’s voice.

“Chocolat fondant!  Garantie tres pure!” cried another, his words being followed by a shout of laughter.

Fontenelle gripped the arm of his chair, and held himself rigid, but ready to spring.

“The Church always knows where to find the prettiest women,” said the first man who had spoken, “from the Santissima Madonna downwards!  What would become of the Pope if it were not for the women!”

“Bah!  The Pope is only one man, but what would become of all the Monsignori?” asked a voice different to the rest in mellowness and deep quality, but with a touch of insolent mockery in its tone.

Another burst of laughter answered him.

Fontenelle turned in his chair and looked at the last speaker, and to his amazement saw the actor, Miraudin.  He was leaning carelessly against the wine counter, a half-emptied “fiaschetto” in front of him, and a full glass of wine in his hand.

“The Monsignori would be all desolate bachelors!” he went on, lazily, “And the greatest rascal in the Vatican, Domenico Gherardi, would no longer be the fortunate possessor of the wealth, the influence, and the dear embraces of the fascinating Hermenstein!”

Scarcely had he spoken when the glass he held was dashed out of his hand, and Fontenelle, white with fury, struck him smartly and full across the face.  A scene of the wildest confusion and uproar ensued.  All the men in the wine-shop crowded around them, and for a moment Miraudin, blinded by the blow, and the wine that had splashed up against his eyes, did not see who had struck him, but as he recovered from the sudden shock and stared at his opponent, he broke into a wild laugh.

“Diantre!  Ban soir, Monsieur le Marquis!  Upon my life, there is something very strange in this!  Fate or the devil, or both!  Well!  What now!”