"So YOU are Gys Grandit!" he said in accents which thrilled with an
intensity of hatred. "You are the busy Socialist, the self-
advertising atheist, who, like a yelping cur, barks impotently under
the wheels of Rome! You--Vergniaud's bastard--"
"Give that name to your children at Frascati!" cried Cyrillon
passionately. "And own them as yours publicly, as my father owned me
before he died!"
With a violent start, Gherardi reeled back as though he had been
dealt a sudden blow, and over his face came a terrible change, like
the grey pallor of creeping paralysis. White to the lips, he
struggled for breath . . . he essayed to speak,--then failing, made a
gesture with his hands as though pushing away some invisible foe.
Slowly his head drooped on his breast, and he shivered like a man
struck suddenly with ague. Startled and awed, everyone watched him
in fascinated silence. Presently words came slowly and with
difficulty between his dry lips.
"You have disgraced me!" he said hoarsely--"Are you satisfied?" He
took a step or two close up to the young man. "I ask you--are you
satisfied? Or--do you mean to go on--do you want to ruin me?--"
Here, moved by uncontrollable passion he threw up his hands with a
gesture of despair.
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