Angela flushed, and lifted her fair head with a touch of pride.

“Mr. Leigh is a friend,” she said, “He is welcome in the studio always.  His criticism of a picture is valuable,—­besides—­he is a celebrated Englishman!” She laughed, and her eyes flashed.

“Ah!  To a celebrated Englishman all things are conceded!” said the Abbe satirically, “Even the right to enter the sanctum of the most exclusive lady in Europe!  Is it not a curious thing that the good Britannia appears to stick her helmet on the head, and put her sceptre in the hand of every one of her sons who condescends to soil his boots by walking on foreign soil?  With the helmet he defies the gemdarme,—­with the sceptre he breaks open every door,—­we prostrate ourselves before his face and curse him behind his back,—­c’est drole!—­yet we are all alike, French, Germans, Austrians, and Italians;—­we hate the Englishman, but we black his boots all the same,—­which is contemptible of us,—­Mais, que faire!  He is so overwhelming in sheer impudence!  With culture and politeness we might cross swords in courtly duel,—­but in the presence of absolute bluff, or what is called ‘cheek’, we fall flat in sheer dismay!  What delicious music!  I see that it charms our young friend,—­he is fond of music.”

“Yes,” said Manuel speaking for himself before any question could be put to him, “I love it!  It is like the fresh air,—­full of breath and life.”

“Come then with me,” said Angela, “Come into the studio and we will hear it more closely.  Dearest uncle,” and she knelt for a moment by the Cardinal’s chair, “Will you come there also when Monsieur l’Abbe has finished talking with you?”

Cardinal Bonpre’s hand rested lovingly on her soft hair.

“Yes, my child, I will come.”  And in a lower tone he added,—­“Do not speak much to Manuel,—­he is a strange lad; more fond of silence and prayer than other things,—­and if such is his temperament I would rather keep him so.”

Angela bowed her head in acquiescence to this bidding,—­then rising, left the room with a gentle gesture of invitation to the boy, who at once followed her.  As the two disappeared a chill and a darkness seemed to fall upon the air, and the Cardinal sank back among the cushions of his fauteuil with a deep sigh of utter exhaustion.  Abbe Vergniaud glanced at him inquisitively.

“You are very tired, I fear?” he said.

“Physically, no,—­mentally, yes.  Spiritually, I am certainly fatigued to the death.”

The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.

“Helas!  There is truly much in spiritual matters to engender weariness!” he said.

With a sudden access of energy the Cardinal gripped both arms of his chair and sat upright.

“For God’s sake, do not jest,” he said earnestly, “Do not jest!  We have all been jesting too long, and the time is near when we shall find out the bitter cost of it!  Levity—­carelessness—­doubt and final heresy—­I do not mean heresy against the Church, for that is nothing—­”