“Wonderful Christian charity,” murmured Sovrani under his breath, “to excommunicate a corpse!  For that is all they can do.  The Soul of the man is God’s affair!”

Cardinal Bonpre answered nothing, for just then the young Manuel entered the room, in readiness to accompany his venerable protector and friend to the Vatican, and the old man’s eyes rested upon him with a wistful, wondering trouble and anxiety which he could not conceal.  Manuel smiled up at him—­that rare and beautiful smile which was like sunshine in darkness—­but the Cardinal’s sad expression did not alter.

“The Abbe Vergniaud is no more,” he said gently, as the boy drew near, “His sins and sufferings are ended!”

“And his joys have begun!” answered Manuel, “For he set his life right with the world before he left it!”

“Child, you talk as a very wise man might!” said Prince Sovrani, his rugged brows smoothing into a kindly smile.  “But the unfortunate Abbe is not likely to be judged in that way.  It will be said of him that he scandalized the world before he left it!”

“When truth is made scandal, and right is made wrong,” said Manuel, “It will surely be a God-forgotten world!”

“Will be?  I think it is already!” said Prince Pietro.  “It is said that the patience of the Almighty is unwearied,—­but I do not feel sure of that in my own mind.  Science teaches us that many a world has been destroyed before now,—­and sometimes I feel as if our turn were soon coming!”

Here the man-servant having completely finished arranging the Cardinal’s attire, made respectful obeisance and left the room, and the Cardinal himself proceeded into the adjoining salon, where he found his niece Angela waiting to see him.

“Dearest uncle,” she said, making her pretty genuflection as he approached her, “I must ask you to forgive me for coming to your rooms just now when your time is so much taken up, and when I know you have to go to the Vatican,—­but I want to tell you one thing that may perhaps please you,—­my picture is finished!”

“Finished!” echoed the Cardinal—­then tenderly taking her hands, he added, “I congratulate you, dear child, with all my heart!—­and I pray that the reward of your long and patient toil may be worthy of you.  And when are we to see your work?”

“To-morrow!” answered Angela, and her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled, “I shall be busy all today arranging it for exhibition in the best light.  To-morrow morning Florian is to see it first,—­then my father will come, and you—­and Manuel!” and she smiled as she met the boy’s gentle look,—­“And Queen Margherita has promised to be here at mid-day.”

“Florian first!  And then your father!” said Prince Pietro, with a touch of melancholy in his tone, “Ah well, Angela mia!—­I suppose it must always be so!  The lover’s love—­the stranger’s love,—­is greater than the love of years, the love of home!  Yet sometimes, I fancy that the lover’s love often turns out to be a passing impulse more than a real truth, and that the home-love reasserts itself afterwards with the best and the holiest power!”