"Indeed! Well, since that time strange things have happened," said Gherardi, still preserving his calm inscrutability of demeanour, "We have had our news from Monsignor Moretti, an envoy of ours in Paris, on secret service. To put it briefly,—Vergniaud, for no particular cause whatever, save perhaps the idea—(which may be only an idea)—that he is going to die soon, has made a public confession of his twenty-five-year-old crime and hypocrisy, in a blasphemous address preached from the pulpit of Notre Dame de Lorette. The son, known to the world as Gys Grandit, was present in the church, and fired a pistol shot at his father, hoping to murder him,—then came the theatrical denouement of the whole scene;—the Abbe ordered the gendarmes to release the assassin, pronouncing him to be his son. And finally—the saddest incident of all—there took place the mutual pardon and reconciliation of both parties in the presence of one of our most respected and beloved Princes of the Church, Cardinal Felix Bonpre, whose grave error in this matter is causing poignant and loving sorrow to the Holy Father!"
A curious expression began to appear in the delicate lines of Aubrey's face—an expression which some of his London audiences knew so well, and which generally meant war.
"You surprise me, Monsignor," he said in quiet accents,—"Events move quickly, I know, in a quickly moving age,—still your news is entirely unexpected. I never knew till now who the father of my friend Gys Grandit was;—but now that I do know I think the public confession you tell me of, was the only fitting reparation such a man as the Abbe could make to the dead woman who was his wife in the sight of God, as well as to his living son, and the public generally. I never quite liked or trusted the Abbe; but if all this be true, he has risen a hundred per cent, in my opinion! As for Cardinal Bonpre, one of the noblest and purest of men, you surely cannot be in earnest when you speak of his having committed a grave error!"
"You know the Cardinal?" asked Gherardi evading the question.
"I was presented to him in Paris the day before I left for Florence," replied Aubrey, "at the studio of his niece, Donna Angela Sovrani."
"Ah!" and Gherardi balanced a paper-knife lightly on the point of his long forefinger, "An unpleasant woman that! One of the female 'geniuses' who presume nowadays to compete with men in art and literature."
"In Donna Sovrani's case there can be no question of competition," answered Leigh quietly, "She is by far and away the best artist of her time."
"You think so? Very good, very good!" and Gherardi laughed a little, "You are very chivalrous! You have a touch of the American in you, have you not?—there is a tendency in the men of the New World to be always on their knees before women. Strange, very strange!"
"We begin our lives in that way," replied Leigh, "We kneel to our mothers!"
A slight flush reddened Gherardi's yellow paleness, but he kept his smile well in evidence.