"One would imagine you were bitten by the new 'Christian Democratic'
craze," said Moretti with a cold smile, "And that you were a reader
and follower of the Socialist, Gys Grandit!"

At this name, Vergniaud's son Cyrillon stirred, and lifting his dark
handsome head turned his flashing eyes full on the speaker.

"Did you address me, Monsignor?" he queried, in a voice rich with
the musical inflexions of Southern France, "I am Gys Grandit!"

Had he fired another pistol shot in the quiet room as he had fired
it in the church, it could hardly have created a more profound
sensation.

"You--you--" stammered Moretti, retreating from him as from some
loathsome abomination, "You--Gys Grandit!"

"You, Cyrillon!--you!--you, my son!"--and the Abbe almost lost
breath in the extremity of his amazement, while Cardinal Bonpre half
rose from his chair doubting whether he had heard aright. 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.
That is the sole explanation. My history has made me--not myself."