“Such a marriage is ridiculous!” he declared,—­“Everyone can see how utterly unsuited the two are in tastes, habits and opinions!  They will rue the day they ever met!”

And not all the gentle remonstrances of his own fiancee Angela, could soothe his ruffled humour, or make him accept the inevitable with grace.  Angela was exceedingly troubled and puzzled by his almost childish waywardness,—­she did not yet understand the nature of a man who was to himself all in all, and who could not endure the idea that any woman whom he personally condescended to admire should become the possession of another, no matter how completely that woman might be beyond his own reach.  Poor Angela!  She was very simple—­very foolish indeed;—­she never imagined it could be possible for a man to carry on five or six love-affairs at once, and never be found out.  Yet this was the kind of life her “ideal” found the most suitable to his habit and temperament,—­and he had made a mental note of Sylvie Hermenstein as one whom he proposed to add to his little list of conquests.  So that her engagement of marriage to one who, though reserved in manner and without “go,” was yet every inch a gentleman, and a determined opposer of sophistry and humbug, had considerably disturbed his little plans, and the unsettlement of anything he had set his heart upon greatly displeased him.  He generally had his own way in most things, and could not at all comprehend why he was not to have it now.  But among all the people who discussed the intended marriage there were two who were so well satisfied as to be almost jubilant, and these were the Monsignori Moretti and Gherardi.  These worthies met together in one of the private chambers set apart for the use of the Papal court in the Vatican, and heartily congratulated each other on the subjugation and enthralment of Aubrey Leigh, which meant, as they considered, the consequent removal of a fierce opponent to the Roman Catholic movement in England.

“Did I not tell you,” said Moretti, as he untied some papers he had been carrying, and sat down at a table to glance over them, “Did I not tell you that when all other arguments fail, the unanswerable one of woman can be brought in to clinch every business?”

Gherardi, though in a way contented, was not altogether so sure of his goal.  He remembered, with an uncomfortable thrill of doubt, the little skirmish of words he had had with the fair Sylvie in the Pamphili woods.

“You take your thoughts for deeds, and judge them as fully accomplished while they are still in embryo!” he said, “It is true that the engagement of marriage is settled,—­but can you be certain that in religious matters the wife may not go with her husband?”

“What!” exclaimed Moretti, opening his dark eyes quickly, as a flash of hell-fire illumined them at the very idea, “Do you suggest that Sylvie Hermenstein,—­the last of her race—­a race which, back to its earliest source, has been distinguished for its faithful allegiance to Mother-Church, and has moreover added largely to the Papal revenues—­could be otherwise than our obedient and docile daughter?  Per la Santissima Madonna!—­if I thought she could turn against us her marriage should never take place!”