“For Paris?  And then?”

“I go to Rome with my niece, Angela Sovrani,—­she is in Paris awaiting my arrival now.”

“Ah!  You must be very proud of your niece!” murmured the Archbishop softly—­“She is famous everywhere,—­a great artist!—­a wonderful genius!”

“Angela paints well—­yes,” said the Cardinal quietly,—­“But she has still a great deal to learn.  And she is unfortunately much more alone now than she used to be,—­her mother’s death last year was a terrible blow to her.”

“Her mother was your sister?”

“My only sister,” answered the Cardinal—­“A good, sweet woman!—­may her soul rest in peace!  Her character was never spoilt by the social life she was compelled to lead.  My brother-in-law, Prince Sovrani, kept open house,—­and all the gay world of Rome was accustomed to flock thither; but now—­since he has lost his wife, things have changed very much,—­sadness has taken the place of mirth,—­and Angela is very solitary.”

“Is she not affianced to the celebrated Florian Varillo?”

A fleeting shadow of pain darkened the Cardinal’s clear eyes.

“Yes.  But she sees very little of him,—­you know the strictness of Roman etiquette in such matters.  She sees little—­and sometimes—­so I think—­knows less.  However, I hope all will be well.  But my niece is over sensitive, brilliantly endowed, and ambitious,—­at times I have fears for her future.”

“Depression again!” declared the Archbishop, rising and preparing to take his leave—­“Believe me, the world is full of excellence when we look upon it with clear eyes;—­things are never as bad as they seem.  To my thinking, you are the last man alive who should indulge in melancholy forebodings.  You have led a peaceful and happy life, graced with the reputation of many good deeds, and you are generally beloved by the people of whom you have charge.  Then, though celibacy is your appointed lot, heaven has given you a niece as dear to you as any child of your own could be, who has won a pre-eminent place among the world’s great artists, and is moreover endowed with beauty and distinction.  What more can you desire?”

He smiled expansively as he spoke; the Cardinal looked at him steadfastly.

“I desire nothing!” he answered—­“I never have desired anything!  I told you before that I consider I have received many more blessings than I deserve.  It is not any personal grief which at present troubles me,—­it is something beyond myself.  It is a sense of wrong,—­an appeal for truth,—­a cry from those who are lost in the world,—­the lost whom the Church might have saved!”

“Merely fancy!” said the Archbishop cheerily—­“Like the music in the Cathedral!  Do not permit your imagination to get the better of you in such matters!  When you return from Rome, I shall be glad to see you if you happen to come through Normandy on your way back to your own people.  I trust you will so far honour me?”