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Updated: June 24, 2025
Sweeping his coins together with one hand, he stood up, his flashing eyes glancing the stranger over carelessly. "Your name, sir?" he demanded "I am not acquainted with you." The smiling man unabashed, sought about for a place to put down his shiny hat, and smiled still more broadly. "No!" he said "No! You would not be likely to know me. I have not the celebrity of Gys Grandit!
On their way out of the house, through Angela's studio, the Princesse D'Agramont paused for a few minutes to say further kind words to the Abbe respecting the invitation she had given him to her Chateau , and while she was thus engaged, Angela turned hurriedly to Cyrillon. "As 'Gys Grandit' you receive many letters from strangers, do you not?"
"If he believes ME, he knows," replied Loyse D'Agramont, "But perhaps he does not believe me! All Paris was talking about the Abbe Vergniaud and his son 'Gys Grandit', when I left, and the Marquis appeared as interested in that esclandre as he can ever be interested in anything or anybody. So perhaps he forgot my visit as soon as it was ended. Abbe Vergniaud is very ill by the way.
I should like to hear him, though my very slight knowledge of English would be rather against me in the comprehension of what he might say. For all other news you must wait till we meet. Expect me in Paris in a few days, and ask my Angela to rouse herself sufficiently to give her old father a smile of welcome. My compliments to "Gys Grandit," and to you the assurance of my devoted homage.
Gherardi raised his dark eyes and fixed them, full of bitterest scorn, on the speaker. "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 "
Angela Sovrani gave a slight cry, and a wave of colour flushed her face, the Princesse stood amazed. "Gys Grandit!" she echoed in a low tone, "And Vergniaud's son! Grand Dieu! Is it possible!" Then advancing, she extended both her hands to Cyrillon, "Monsieur, accept my homage! You have a supreme genius, and with it you command more than one-half of the thoughts of France!"
"Ce sont des fleurs etranges, Et traitresses, avec leurs airs de sceptres d'anges, De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de seraphins, Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins." "It is strange," she thought, "that I should have corresponded so many months with 'Gys Grandit' through my admiration for his books and that he should turn out to be the son of poor Abbe Vergniaud! Cyrillon!
The son, known to the world as Gys Grandit, was present in the church, and fired a pistol shot at his father, hoping to murder him, then came the theatrical denouement of the whole scene; the Abbe ordered the gendarmes to release the assassin, pronouncing him to be his son.
Gys Grandit! the writer of fierce political polemics and powerful essays that were the life and soul, meat and drink of all the members of the Christian Democratic party! "Gys Grandit is my nom-de-plume," pursued the young man, composedly, "I never had any hope of being acknowledged as Cyrillon Vergniaud, son of my father, I had truly no name and resolved to create one.
He raised his head as he said this, his face expressed mingled agony and fury; but meeting Cyrillon's eyes he shrank again as if he were suddenly whipped by a lash, and with one quick stride, reached the door, and disappeared. There was a moment's silence after his departure. Then Aubrey Leigh spoke. "My dear Grandit! You are a marvellous man! How came you to know Gherardi's secrets?"
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