“Why?” asked Cyrillon quietly.

“My dear young man!  Can you ask?  Why emphasise the fact of your illegitimacy to the public!”

“Why disguise it?” returned Cyrillon.  “You must remember that I have another public than the merely social,—­the people!  They all know what I am, and who I am.  They have honoured me.  They shall not despise me.  And they would despise me if I sought to hold back from them what my father bade me tell.  Moreover, this will gives my mother the honour of wifehood in the sight of God,—­and I must tell you, monsieur l’avocat, that I am one of those who care nothing what the world says so long as I stand more or less clear with the world’s Creator!”

His great dark eyes were brilliant,—­his face warm with the fire of his inward feeling.  Monsieur Petitot folded up his document and looked at him with an amiable tolerance.

“Wonderful—­wonderful!” he said—­“But of course eccentricities will appear in the world occasionally!—­and you must pardon me if I venture to think that you are certainly one of them.  But I imagine you have nograsped the whole position.  The money—­I should saythe fortune—­which your father has left to you, will make you a gentleman—­”

He paused, affrighted.  Drawing himself up to his full height, young Vergniaud confronted him in haughty amazement.

“Gentleman!” he cried—­“What do you mean by the term?  A loafer?—­a lounger in the streets?—­a leerer at women?  Or a man who works for daily food from sunrise to sunset, and controls his lower passions by hard and honest labour!  Gentleman!  What is that?  Is it to live lazily on the toil of others, or to be up and working one’s self, and to eat no bread that one has not earned?  Will you answer me?”

“My dear sir, you must really excuse me!” said Petitot nervously—­” I am quite unable to enter into any sort of discussion with you on these things!  Please recollect that my life as a lawyer, depends entirely on men’s stupidities and hypocrisies,—­if they all entertained your views I should have to beg in the streets, or seek another profession.  In my present business I should have nothing whatever to do.  You perceive the position?  Yes, of course you do!” For Cyrillon with one of the quick changes of mood habitual to him, smiled, as his temporary irritation passed like a cloud, and his eyes softened—­“You see, I am a machine,—­educated to be a machine; and I am set down to do certain machine-like duties,—­and one of these duties is,—­regardless of your fame, your eccentric theories, your special work which you have chosen to make for yourself in the world,—­to put you in possession of the money your father left you—­ "

“Can you now—­at once—­” said Cyrillon suddenly—­“give me enough money to go to Rome to-night?”

Monsieur Petitot stared.

“To go to Rome to-night?” he echoed—­“Dear me, how very extraordinary!  I beg your pardon! . . . of course—­most certainly!  I can advance you any sum you want—­would ten thousand francs suffice?”