"Then he knows where I am?" she asked.
"If he believes ME, he knows," replied Loyse D'Agramont, "But
perhaps he does not believe me! All Paris was talking about the Abbe
Vergniaud and his son 'Gys Grandit', when I left, and the Marquis
appeared as interested in that esclandre as he can ever be
interested in anything or anybody. So perhaps he forgot my visit as
soon as it was ended. Abbe Vergniaud is very ill by the way. His
self-imposed punishment, and his unexpected reward in the
personality of his son, have proved a little too much for him,--both
he and 'Grandit' are at my Chateau," here she raised her lorgnon,
and peered through it with an inquisitive air, "Tiens! There is the
dear Varillo making himself agreeable as usual to all the ladies!
When does the marriage come off between him and our gifted Sovrani?"
"I do not know," answered Sylvie, with a little dubious look,
"Nothing is contemplated in that way until Angela's great picture is
exhibited."
The Princesse D'Agramont looked curiously at the opposite wall where
an enormous white covering was closely roped and fastened across an
invisible canvas, which seemed to be fully as large as Raffaelle's
"Transfiguration".
"Still a mystery?" she queried, "Has she never shown it even to
you?"
Sylvie shook her head.
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