“It is a retribution!” said the Cardinal in a low voice, “And a terrible one!”

“Yes, I suppose it is.  I imagined you would consider it in that light,” and Vergniaud half closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair languidly, “But here I am, willing to set things as straight as I can, and it really seems impossible to arrange matters.  I am to die soon, according to the doctors;—­and so I have made my willleaving everything I possess to this ridiculous boy who wishes to kill me; and it is more than probable that he,—­considering how he has been brought up and educated—­will cast all the money into the dirt, and kick at my grave.  But what can I do?”

“Nothing,” said the Cardinal, “You can do nothing, Vergniaud!  That is the worst of having inflicted a wrong upon the innocent,—­you can never by any means retrieve it.  You can repent,—­and it is probable that your very repentance ensures your forgiveness at a higher tribunal than that of earth’s judgment,—­but the results of wrong cannot be wiped out or done away with in this life;—­they continue to exist, and alas!—­often multiply.  Even the harsh or unjust word cannot be recalled, and however much we may regret having uttered it, somehow it is never forgotten.  But—­” here leaning forward, he laid one hand gently on Vergniaud’s arm, “My dear friend—­my dear brother—­you have told me of your sin;—­it is a great sin,—­but God forbid that I should presume to judge you harshly when our Lord Himself declared that ’He came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance’.  It may be that I can find a way to help you.  Arrange for me to see this misguided son of yours,—­and I will endeavour to find a means of restitution to him and to the memory of his mother before you pass away from us,—­if indeed you are to pass away so soon.  Under the levity you assume I perceive you have deep feeling on this matter;—­you shall not die with a wrong on your soul, Vergniaud!—­you shall not if I can prevent it!  For there undoubtedly is another life; you must go into it as purely as prayer and penitence can make you.”

“I thought,” said the Abbe, speaking somewhat unsteadily, “that you might when you heard all, hurl some of Rome’s thunderous denunciations upon me . . .”

“What am I, and what is Rome, compared with the Master’s own word?” said the Cardinal gently.  “If our brothers sin against us seventy times seven we are still to forgive, and they are still our brothers!  Denunciations, judgments and condemnations of one another are not any part of our Lord’s commands.”

Vergniaud rose up and held out his hand.

“Will you take it,” he said, “as a pledge that I will faithfully do whatever you may see fitting and right to retrieve the past?—­and to clear my son’s soul from the thirst of vengeance which is consuming it?”

Cardinal Bonpre clasped the extended hand warmly.

“There is your answer!” he said, with a smile which irradiated his fine countenance with an almost supernatural beauty and tenderness, “You have sinned against Heaven, and you have sinned against the Church and your own calling,—­but the greatest sinner can do no more than repent and strive to make amends.  For I see you fully know and comprehend the extent of your sin.”