"Impossible!" he said, "And why?"
Gherardi almost laughed.
"Why? My dear sir, is it necessary to ask? Your name is sufficiently
well-known! and--I am sorry to tell you so,--but it is quite as
unpleasant at the Vatican as that of Gys Grandit!"
"Gys Grandit is a friend of mine," responded Aubrey composedly, "In
fact, I may almost say he is my disciple. I found him working in the
fields as a little peasant lad,--the love child, or 'bastard,' to
put it roughly, of some priest whose name he never told me. He was
helping to earn daily bread for his deserted mother whose maiden
name he then bore; and I helped to train his evident genius in the
way it has since developed."
"I cannot congratulate you on your pupil!" said Gherardi, smiling
coldly, "The offspring of a priest's sin is not likely to do the
world any credit. The son of the renegade Abbe Vergniaud may become
notorious, but never famous!"
Aubrey Leigh started up from his chair doubting whether he had heard
aright.
"The son of Abbe Vergniaud!" he exclaimed, "Is it possible! No, you
must surely be mistaken!--I know the Abbe,--I saw him in Paris but a
fortnight ago!"
"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.
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