"Ah, the poor Abbe!" said Angela. "They are angry with him still at the
Vatican—angry now with his dead body! But 'Gys Grandit' is not of the
Catholic faith, so they can do nothing with him."
"No. He is what they call a 'free-lance,'" said Sylvie. "And a wonderful personage he is! I You have seen him?"
A faint colour crept over Angela's pale cheeks.
"Yes. Once. Just once, in Paris, on the day his father publicly acknowledged him. But I wrote to him long before I knew who he realty was."
"Angela! You wrote to him?"
"Yes. I admired the writings of Gys Grandit—I used to buy all his books as they came out, and study them. I wrote to him—as many people will write to a favourite author—not in my own name of course—to express my admiration, and he answered. And so we corresponded for about two years, not knowing each other's identity till that scene in Paris brought us together—"
"How VERY curious,—ve—ry!" said Sylvie, with a little mischievous smile. "And so you are quite friends?"
"I think so—I believe so—" answered Angela—"but since we met, he has ceased to write to me."
Sylvie made a mental note of that fact in her own mind, very much to the credit of "Gys Grandit," but said nothing further on the subject. Time was hastening on, and she had to return to the Casa D'Angeli to receive Monsignor Gherardi.
"I am going to be lectured I suppose," she said laughingly. "I have not seen the worthy Domenico since my engagement to Aubrey was announced!"