When in the few minutes
of speech he had had with her she admitted herself to be the
mysterious correspondent who had constantly written to him as "Gys
Grandit," fervently sympathising with his theories, and urging him
on to fresh and more courageous effort, he had been completely
overcome, not only with surprise, but also with admiration. It had
taken him some time to realize that she, the greatest artist of her
day, was actually his unknown friend of more than two years'
correspondence. He knew she was engaged to be married to her comrade
in art, Florian Varillo, but that fact did not prevent him from
feeling for her all the sudden tenderness, the instinctive intimacy
of spirit with spirit, which in the highest natures means the
highest love. Then,--they had all been brought together so
strangely!--his father, and himself, with Cardinal Bonpre,--and she-
-the Cardinal's fair niece, daughter of a proud Roman house,--she
had not turned away from the erring and repentant priest whom the
Church had cast out; she had given him her hand at parting, and had
been as sweetly considerate of his feelings as though she had been
his own daughter. And when he was ill and dying at the Chateau
D'Agramont, she had written to him two or three times in the kindest
and tenderest way, and her letters had not been answered, because
the Abbe was too ill to write, and he, Cyrillon, had been afraid--
lest he should say too much! And now--she was dead?--murdered? No!--
he would not believe it!
"God is good!" said Cyrillon, crushing the paper in his hand and
raising his eyes to the cloudy heavens--"He does nothing that is
unnecessarily cruel.
Pages:
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757