They are talking together--and that young man--Cyrillon--the son,
you know--"
"Is that his name?--Cyrillon?" queried the Princesse.
"Yes,--he has been brought up as a peasant. But he is not ignorant.
He has written books and music, so it appears--yet he still keeps to
his labour in the fields. He seems to be a kind of genius; another
sort of Maeterlinck--"
"Oh, capricious Destiny!" exclaimed the Princesse, "The dear Abbe
scandalises the Church by acknowledging his son to all men,--and
lo!--the son he was ashamed of all these years, turns out a prodigy!
The fault once confessed, brings a blessing! Angela, there is
something more than chance in this, if we could only fathom it!"
"This Cyrillon is all softness and penitence now,' Angela went on,
"He is overcome with grief at his murderous attempt,--and has asked
his father's pardon. And they are going away together out of Paris
till--"
"Till excommunication is pronounced," said the Princesse, "Yes, I
thought so! I came here to place my Chateau at the Abbe's disposal.
I am myself going to Rome; so he and his son can be perfectly at
home there. I admire the man's courage, and above all I admire his
truthfulness. But I cannot understand why he was at such pains to
keep silence all these years, and THEN to declare his fault? He must
have decided on his confession very suddenly?"
Angela's eyes grew dark and wistful.
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