"Mistaken!" Prince Pietro laughed scornfully. "Prove my mistake!—prove it!"
"I give you my word!" said Gherardi. "And I also swear to you that the picture yonder, which, though offensive to the Church and blasphemous in its teaching, is nevertheless a great masterpiece of painting, is the work of the unfortunate dead man you so greatly wrong!"
"Liar!" And Cyrillon Vergniaud sprang forward, interposing himself between Sovrani and the priest. "Liar!"
Gherardi turned a livid white.
"Who is this ruffian?" he demanded, drawing his tall form up more haughtily than before. "A servant of yours?"
"Ay, a servant of his, and of all honest men!" returned Cyrillon. "I am one whom your Church has learned to fear, but who has no fear of you!—one whom you have heard of to your cost, and will still hear of,—Gys Grandit!"
Gherardi glanced him up and down, and then turned from him in disgust as from something infected by a loathly disease.
"Prince Sovrani!" he said. "I cannot condescend to converse with a street ranter, such as this misguided person, who has most regrettably obtained admission to your house and society! I came to see your brother-in-law Cardinal Bonpre,—who has left Rome, you tell me—therefore my business must be discussed with you alone. I must ask you for a private audience."
Sovrani looked at him steadily.
"And I must refuse it, Monsignor! If in private audience you wish to repeat the amazing falsehood you have just uttered respecting my daughter's work—I am afraid I should hardly keep my hands off you! Believe me you are safest in company!"