And Felix Bonpre sighed—­he knew not why—­except that he was always sorry for women who loved men with any very great exaltation or devotion.  That curiously tender adoration of a true woman’s heart which is so often wasted on an unworthy object, seemed to him like lifting a cup of gold to a swine’s snout.  He found no actual fault with Florian Varillo,—­he was just a man as men go, with nothing very pronounced about him, except a genius for fine mosaic-like painting.  He was not a great creator, but he was a delicate and careful artist,—­a man against whom nothing particular could be said, except perhaps that his manner was often artificial, and that his conduct was not always sincere.  But he had a power of fascinating the opposite sex,—­and Angela had fallen a willing victim to his candid smile, clear eyes, charming voice, and courteous ways,—­and with that strange inconsistency so common to gifted women, she was so full of “soul” and “over-soul” herself, that she could not imagine “soul” lacking in others;—­and never dreamed of making herself sure that it elevated the character or temperament of the man she loved.

    “Alas, the love of women! it is known
     To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
     For all of theirs upon that die is thrown
     And, if ’tis lost, life hath no more to bring!”
                                [Footnote:  Byron]

During the time that matters were thus pending in Rome, Claude Cazeau, well satisfied with himself, and the importance of being entrusted with a special message from the Vatican to the Archbishop of Rouen, returned to the Normandy capital with many ambitious speculations rife in his brain, and schemes for improving the position of confidence with which he had, by the merest chance, and the fluctuations of the Pope’s hunxour, been suddenly thrust.  He took the Patoux family by surprise on the evening of his arrival in Rouen, and much to his secret satisfaction found Martine Doucet in their company.  The children were gone to bed, and the appearance of Cazeau in Papa Patoux’s kitchen was evidently not altogether the most agreeable circumstance that could have happened at the Hotel Poitiers.  He was civilly received, however, and when he expressed his pleasure at seeing Madame Doucet present, that worthy female lifted her eyes from her knitting and gave him a suspicious glance of exceeding disfavour.

“I do not see what pleasure my company can give you, Monsieur,” she said curtly, “I am only a poor marketwoman!”

“But you have been singularly favoured by the protection and confidence of a great Cardinal,—­” began Cazeau.

“Protection—­confidence—!” echoed Martine snappishly, “Nom de Jesus!  What is the man talking about!  I never set eyes on the Cardinal in my life.  But that he cured my Fabien is enough to make me think of him as a saint for ever,—­though it seems there are some that would almost make him out to be a devil for having done a good deed!  And ever since my boy was cured I have lived a life of torture and trouble—­yes, truly!—­torn between two things, our Blessed Lord and the Church!  But I am trying my best to keep fast hold of our Lord, whatever the Church may do to me!”