And the excitement over the great picture became more
and more intense--especially when it was known that it would soon be
taken away from Rome never to be seen there again. Angela herself
knew little of her rapidly extending fame,--she was in Paris with
the Princesse D'Agramont who had taken her there immediately after
Monsignor Gherardi's visit to her father. She was not told of
Florian Varillo's death till she had been some days in the French
capital, and then it was broken to her as gently as possible. But
the result was disastrous. The strength she had slowly regained
seemed now to leave her altogether, and she was stricken with a mute
despair which was terrible to witness. Hour after hour, she lay on a
couch, silent and motionless,--her large eyes fixed on vacancy, her
little white hands clasped close together as though in a very
extremity of bodily and mental anguish, and the Princesse
D'Agramont, who watched her and tended her with the utmost devotion,
was often afraid that all her care would be of no avail, and that
her patient would slip through her hands into the next world before
she had time to even attempt to save her. And Cyrillon Vergmaud,
unhappy and restless, wandered up and down outside the house, where
this life, so secretly dear to him, was poised as it were on the
verge of death, not daring to enter, or even enquire for news, lest
he should hear the worst.
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