He paused.  No one spoke.

“He was to have come to Rome to-day, and a full explanation of his absence would have been given.  But last night the monastery was set on fire—­”

“Thank God!” said Sovrani.

Gherardi looked at him with an air of admirably affected sorrowful reproach.

“I grieve for your injustice and cruelty, Prince!” he said—­“Some natural regret there should surely be in your mind at the tragic end of one so highly gifted—­one whom you had accepted as your future son-in-law.  He met with a terrible death!  The monastery was set on fire, as I have told you—­but the doors had all been previously locked within, it is supposed by one of the monks named Ambrosio, who was subject to fits of insanity—­with the tragic result that he and Varillo perished in the flames, there being no possibility of rescue.”

“Then the guillotine is saved unnecessary soiling,” said Sovrani fiercely.  “And you, Monsignor Gherardi, should have a special ‘Jubilate’ sung for the world being well-rid of an exceptionally damned and damnable villain!”

There was something terrific in the aspect of Sovrani’s face and threatening attitude, and for a moment Gherardi hesitated to go on with his prepared sequence of lies.  Rallying his forces at last with an effort he made a very good assumption of his most authoritative manner.

“Prince, I must ask you to be good enough to hear me patiently,” he said.  “Your mind has been grossly abused, and you are not aware of the true position of affairs.  You imagine with some few gossips in Rome, that Florian Varillo, your daughter’s betrothed husband, was guilty of the murderous attack upon her life—­you are mistaken!”

“Mistaken!” Prince Pietro laughed scornfully.  “Prove my mistake!—­ prove it!”

“I give you my word!” said Gherardi.  “And I also swear to you that the picture yonder, which, though offensive to the Church and blasphemous in its teaching, is nevertheless a great masterpiece of painting, is the work of the unfortunate dead man you so greatly wrong!”

“Liar!” And Cyrillon Vergniaud sprang forward, interposing himself between Sovrani and the priest.  “Liar!”

Gherardi turned a livid white.

“Who is this ruffian?” he demanded, drawing his tall form up more haughtily than before.  “A servant of yours?”

“Ay, a servant of his, and of all honest men!” returned Cyrillon.  “I am one whom your Church has learned to fear, but who has no fear of you!—­one whom you have heard of to your cost, and will still hear of,—­Gys Grandit!”

Gherardi glanced him up and down, and then turned from him in disgust as from something infected by a loathly disease.

“Prince Sovrani!” he said.  “I cannot condescend to converse with a street ranter, such as this misguided person, who has most regrettably obtained admission to your house and society!  I came to see your brother-in-law Cardinal Bonpre,—­who has left Rome, you tell me—­therefore my business must be discussed with you alone.  I must ask you for a private audience.”