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Updated: October 8, 2025
We are alone in the building! I have locked the doors, the fire is kindled inside! We shall be dead before the flames burst through!" "Madman!" shrieked Varillo, recoiling as the thick volumes of smoke rolled up from the blazing altar. "Die if you must! but I will not! Where are the windows? the doors? "Locked and bolted fast," said Ambrosio, with a smile of triumph.
As an Allegory the picture was a daring yet sublime reproach to the hypocrisy of the religious world, as a picture it was consummate in every detail, and would have been freely admitted as a masterpiece of Raffaelle had Raffaelle been fortunate enough to paint it. Still Varillo kept silence. Angela's heart beat so loudly that she could almost hear it in the deep silence of the room.
Varillo looked up and smiled kindly. He could assume any expression at command, and it suited his purpose just now to be all gentleness. "My poor friend!" he said compassionately. "Your wits are far astray! Devil? Nay he who has just left us is more of a saint!" Ambrosio's brown eyes flashed, but he maintained a grave and immovable aspect.
But whether he was forgiven, the story does not say!" "It is a stupid story!" said Varillo, opening his eyes, and smiling in the clear, candid way he always assumed when he had anything to hide. "It has neither point nor meaning." "You think not?" said Ambrosio. "But perhaps you are not conscious of God. If you were, that sunbeam we see now should make you careful, lest an angel should be in it!"
Like charity, it covers a multitude of sins!" "It exists for that object," answered Gherardi with a touch of ironical humor. "Its own sins it covers, and shows up the villainies of those who sin outside its jurisdiction. Angela Sovrani is one of these, her uncle the Cardinal is another, Sylvie Hermenstein " "What of her?" cried Varillo, his eyes sparkling. "Is her marriage broken off?"
But the private door of Angela's studio through which Florian Varillo had fled, and the key of which he had thrown into the Tiber, had been forced open, and set in use again, and through this the harmless prelate, with his young companion, passed without notice or hindrance, and under the escort of Aubrey Leigh and Cyrillon Vergniaud, reached the railway station unintercepted by any message or messenger from the Papal court, and started for Paris and London.
He recognised her genius at once, and marvelled at it. And still more did he marvel at her engagement of marriage with Florian Varillo. That such a fair, proud creature so splendidly endowed, could consent to unite herself to a man so vastly inferior, was an interesting puzzle to him.
These two had gone to the suite of rooms prepared for the reception of His Eminence, but Angela, after hastily changing her travelling dress, had come down to her father, anxious not only to give, but to hear news especially news of Florian Varillo.
Truth to tell, she had obtained very little encouragement during her long days and months of work, though in the sweetness of her nature she pleased herself by imagining that Florian Varillo gave her a complete and perfect sympathy.
With an effort Varillo tried to control the tremor of his nerves, and to understand and reason out these enigmatical sentences of his companion. He began to think and then to remember, and by and by was able to conjure up the picture of himself as he had last been conscious of existence, himself standing outside the gates of a great building on the Campagna, and shaking the iron bars to and fro.
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