And this is a mistake many
men make. Fontenelle wished to treat me as Miraudin would have
treated his 'leading lady';--he judged that quite sufficient for
happiness. Now Aubrey treats me as his comrade,--his friend as well
as his love, and that makes our confidence perfect. By the way, he
spoke to me a great deal yesterday about the Abbe Vergniaud, and
told me all he knew about his son Cyrillon."
"Ah, the poor Abbe!" said Angela. "They are angry with him still at
the Vatican--angry now with his dead body! But 'Gys Grandit' is not
of the Catholic faith, so they can do nothing with him."
"No. He is what they call a 'free-lance,'" said Sylvie. "And a
wonderful personage he is! I You have seen him?"
A faint colour crept over Angela's pale cheeks.
"Yes. Once. Just once, in Paris, on the day his father publicly
acknowledged him. But I wrote to him long before I knew who he
realty was."
"Angela! You wrote to him?"
"Yes. I admired the writings of Gys Grandit--I used to buy all his
books as they came out, and study them. I wrote to him--as many
people will write to a favourite author--not in my own name of
course--to express my admiration, and he answered. And so we
corresponded for about two years, not knowing each other's identity
till that scene in Paris brought us together--"
"How VERY curious,--ve--ry!" said Sylvie, with a little mischievous
smile.
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