A smile that was brilliant, but which conveyed no meaning whatever, illumined his features; but for all reply to these words Aubrey simply bowed and remained silent. Gherardi glanced at him sharply. Was he intimidated already?—overawed at being in the presence of one who was known to be a friend and confidant of the Pope? No—there was nothing of fear or embarrassment in the composed attitude, proud manner, and reserved expression of this slim, muscular man, with the bright hair and keen eyes,—and Gherardi dropped his tone of patronage for one of courtesy.
"Pray sit down!" he said, "I understand that you wish to obtain a private audience of the Holy Father. That of course is impossible!"
Aubrey drew a chair slowly towards the desk where Gherardi had resumed his own usual seat, and raised his eyes with a curious look of half satirical questioning.
"Impossible!" he said, "And why?"
Gherardi almost laughed.
"Why? My dear sir, is it necessary to ask? Your name is sufficiently well-known! and—I am sorry to tell you so,—but it is quite as unpleasant at the Vatican as that of Gys Grandit!"
"Gys Grandit is a friend of mine," responded Aubrey composedly, "In fact, I may almost say he is my disciple. I found him working in the fields as a little peasant lad,—the love child, or 'bastard,' to put it roughly, of some priest whose name he never told me. He was helping to earn daily bread for his deserted mother whose maiden name he then bore; and I helped to train his evident genius in the way it has since developed."
"I cannot congratulate you on your pupil!" said Gherardi, smiling coldly, "The offspring of a priest's sin is not likely to do the world any credit. The son of the renegade Abbe Vergniaud may become notorious, but never famous!"
Aubrey Leigh started up from his chair doubting whether he had heard aright.
"The son of Abbe Vergniaud!" he exclaimed, "Is it possible! No, you must surely be mistaken!—I know the Abbe,—I saw him in Paris but a fortnight ago!"