Passionate and emotional as his warm nature was, the great tears rushed to Cyrillon's eyes. In one moment he realized what he had been almost unconsciously cherishing in his own mind ever since Angela's beautiful smile had shone upon him. When in the few minutes of speech he had had with her she admitted herself to be the mysterious correspondent who had constantly written to him as "Gys Grandit," fervently sympathising with his theories, and urging him on to fresh and more courageous effort, he had been completely overcome, not only with surprise, but also with admiration. It had taken him some time to realize that she, the greatest artist of her day, was actually his unknown friend of more than two years' correspondence. He knew she was engaged to be married to her comrade in art, Florian Varillo, but that fact did not prevent him from feeling for her all the sudden tenderness, the instinctive intimacy of spirit with spirit, which in the highest natures means the highest love. Then,—they had all been brought together so strangely!—his father, and himself, with Cardinal Bonpre,—and she—the Cardinal's fair niece, daughter of a proud Roman house,—she had not turned away from the erring and repentant priest whom the Church had cast out; she had given him her hand at parting, and had been as sweetly considerate of his feelings as though she had been his own daughter. And when he was ill and dying at the Chateau D'Agramont, she had written to him two or three times in the kindest and tenderest way, and her letters had not been answered, because the Abbe was too ill to write, and he, Cyrillon, had been afraid—lest he should say too much! And now—she was dead?—murdered? No!—he would not believe it!
"God is good!" said Cyrillon, crushing the paper in his hand and raising his eyes to the cloudy heavens—"He does nothing that is unnecessarily cruel. He would not take that brilliant creature away till she had won the reward of her work—happiness! No!—something tells me this news is false!—she cannot be dead! But I will start for Rome to-night."
He returned to the cheap pension where he had his room, and at once packed his valise. With all his fame he was extremely poor; he had for the most part refused to take payment for his books and pamphlets which had been so freely spread through France, preferring to work for his daily bread in the fields of an extensive farm near his birthplace in Touraine. He had begun there as a little lad, earning his livelihood by keeping the birds away from the crops—and had steadily risen by degrees, through his honesty and diligence, to the post of superintendent or bailiff of the whole concern. No one was more trusted than he by his employers,—no one more worthy of trust. But his wages were by no means considerable,—and though he saved as much as he could, and lived on the coarsest fare, it was a matter of some trouble for him to spare the money to take him from Paris to Rome. What cash he had, he carried about him in a leathern bag, and this he now emptied on the table to estimate the strength of his finances. Any possibility of changing his mind and waiting for further news from Rome did not occur to him. One of his chief characteristics was the determined way he always carried through anything he had set his mind upon. In one of his public speeches he had once said—"Let all the powers of hell oppose me, I will storm them through and pass on! For the powers of Heaven are on MY side!"—the audacity and daring of this utterance carrying away his audience in a perfect whirlwind of enthusiasm. And though it is related of a certain cynical philosopher, that when asked by one of his scholars for a definition of hell, he dashed into the face of his enquirer an empty purse for answer, the lack of funds was no obstacle to Cyrillon's intended journey.
"Because if I can go no other way, I will persuade the guard to let me ride in the van, or travel in company with a horse or dog—quite as good animals as myself in their way," he thought.
With a characteristic indifference to all worldly matters he had entirely forgotten that the father whom he had just buried had died wealthy, and that his entire fortune had been left to the son whom he had so lately and strangely acknowledged. And when,—while he was still engaged in counting up his small stock of money,—a knock came at the door, and a well-dressed man of business-like appearance entered with a smiling and propitiatory air, addressing him as "Monsieur Vergniaud," Cyrillon did not know at all what to make of his visitor. Sweeping his coins together with one hand, he stood up, his flashing eyes glancing the stranger over carelessly.
"Your name, sir?" he demanded—"I am not acquainted with you."
The smiling man unabashed, sought about for a place to put down his shiny hat, and smiled still more broadly.
"No!" he said—"No! You would not be likely to know me. I have not the celebrity of Gys Grandit! I am only Andre Petitot—a lawyer, residing in the Boulevard Malesherbes. I have just come from your father's funeral."
Cyrillon bowed gravely, and remained silent.
"I have followed you," pursued Monsieur Petitot affably, "as soon as I could, according to the instructions I received, to ask when it will be convenient for you to hear me read your father's will?"