They had by this time passed out of the drawing-room, and now, ascending three steps, they went through a curtained recess into Angela Sovrani’s studio,—­a large and lofty apartment made beautiful by the picturesque disorder and charm common to a great artist’s surroundings.  Here, at a grand piano sat Angela herself, her song finished, her white hands straying idly over the keys,—­and near her stood the gentleman whom the Abbe Vergniaud had called “a terrible reformer and Socialist” and who was generally admitted to be something of a remarkable character in Europe.  Tall and fair, with very bright flashing eyes, and a wonderfully high bred air of concentrated pride and resolution, united to a grace and courtesy which exhaled from him, so to speak, with his every movement and gesture, he was not a man to pass by without comment, even in a crowd.  A peculiar distinctiveness marked him,—­out of a marching regiment one would have naturally selected him as the commanding officer, and in any crisis of particular social importance or interest his very appearance would have distinguished him as the leading spirit of the whole.  On perceiving the Cardinal he advanced at once to be presented, and as Angela performed the ceremony of introduction he slightly bent one knee, and bowed over the venerable prelate’s extended hand with a reverence which had in it something of tenderness.  His greeting of Abbe Vergniaud was, while perfectly courteous, not quite so marked by the grace of a strong man’s submission.

“Ah, Mr. Leigh!  So you have not left Paris as soon as you determined?” queried the Abbe with a smile, “I thought you were bound for Florence in haste?”

“I go to Florence to-morrow,” answered Leigh briefly.

“So soon!  I am indeed glad not to have missed you,” said Cardinal Bonpre cordially.  “Angela, my child, let me see what you have been doing.  All your canvases are covered, or turned with their faces to the wall;—­are we not permitted to look at any of them?”

Angela immediately rose from the piano, and wheeled a large oaken chair with a carved and gilded canopy, into the centre of the studio.

“Well, if you want to see my sketches—­and they are only sketches,” she said,—­“you must come and sit here.  Now,” as her uncle obeyed her, “you look enthroned in state,—­that canopy is just fitted for you, and you are a picture in yourself!—­Yes, you are, dearest uncle!  And not all the artists in the world could ever do you justice I Monsieur l’Abbe, will you sit just where you please?—­And Mr. Leigh, you have seen everything, so it does not matter.”

“It matters very much,” said Leigh with a smile, “For I want to see everything again.  If I may, I will stand here.”

And he took up his position close to the Cardinal’s chair.

“But where is the boy?” asked Vergniaud, “Where is the foundling of the Cathedral?”

“He left us some minutes ago,” said Angela, “He went to your room, uncle.”