"
Pierre Midon had nothing to say in answer,--the subject was getting
beyond him, and he was a man who, when thought became difficult,
gave up thinking altogether.
And while these two simple-minded worthies were thus talking and
strolling together home through the streets of Paris, Cyrillon
Vergniaud, having parted from the few friends who had paid him the
respect of their attendance at his father's grave, was making his
way towards the Champs Elysees in a meditative frame of mind, when
his attention was suddenly caught and riveted by a placard set up in
front of one of the newspaper kiosks at the corner of a boulevard,
on which in great black letters, was the name "Angela Sovrani." His
heart gave one great bound--then stood still--the streets of the
city reeled round him, and he grew cold and sick. "Meurtre de la
celebre Angela Sovrani!"
Hardly knowing what he was about, he bought the paper. The news was
in a mere paragraph briefly stating that the celebrated artist had
been found stabbed in her studio, and that up to the present there
was no trace of the unknown assassin.
Passionate and emotional as his warm nature was, the great tears
rushed to Cyrillon's eyes. In one moment he realized what he had
been almost unconsciously cherishing in his own mind ever since
Angela's beautiful smile had shone upon him.
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