"Look you, Michel," said the marquis, taking Pier-Angelo's hand in his right hand and Fra Angelo's in his left; "all men are noble! And I would stake my head that the Lavoratori family is quite as good as the family of Castro-Reale. If we are to judge the dead by the living, surely here are two men who must have had men of worth, men of heart and brain for ancestors; whereas the _Destatore_, a mixture of great qualities and deplorable faults, prince and bandit, repentant devotee and desperate suicide by turns, as surely gave the lie many a time to the nobility of the haughty personages whose images surround us. If you are rich some day, Michel, you will begin a family gallery without realizing it, for you will paint these two noble faces, your father's and your uncle's, and you will never sell them!" "And his sister's!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he will not forget hers either, for it will serve some day as a proof that our race was not unpleasant to look upon." "Well," continued the marquis, still addressing Michel, "do you not consider that you have every reason to regret that you do not know the story of your father's and your uncle's father?" "He was a worthy man!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he was once a soldier, then an honest mechanic, and I knew him as a most excellent father." "And his brother was a monk like myself," said Fra Angelo. "He was pious and wise; my memory of him had great influence on me when I was hesitating about taking the frock." "There you see the influence of family memories!" said the marquis. "But your grandfather and great-uncle, my friends, what were they?" "As for my great-uncle," replied Pier-Angelo, "I don't know that I ever had one. But my grandfather was a peasant." "What was his life?" "I was told in my childhood probably, but I don't remember." "And your great-grandfather?" "I never heard of him." "I have a vague remembrance that we had a great-great-grandfather who was a sailor, and one of the bravest of sailors. But his name has escaped me. For us the name of Lavoratori dates back but two generations. It is a sobriquet like most plebeian names. It marks the transition from one trade to another in our family, when our grandfather ceased to be a peasant in the mountains to become a mechanic in the town. Our grandfather's name was Montanari; that was a sobriquet too. His grandfather had a different name, doubtless. But at that point everlasting night begins for us, and our genealogy enters into oblivion so complete that it is equivalent to non-existence."