“You remember, Madame la comtesse, the mystery which still shrouds the double death of the Archduke Rudolph, the Austrian Crown Prince, and of his young bride, Maria Wettsyera, Princess Grazioli’s niece, who was found in a dying condition beside him.... Suicide, it was said. But the pistol was put there merely as a blind to public opinion; the truth is they were both poisoned. A cousin of the Archduke’s--an Archduke himself--who, alas! was madly in love with Maria Wettsyera, had been unable to bear seeing her the bride of another.... After this abominable crime, Jean-Salvador de Lorraine, son of Marie-Antoinette, Grand-Duchess of Tuscany, left the court of his cousin, the Emperor Francis Joseph. Knowing that he was discovered at Vienna, he went to Rome to confess his guilt to the Pope--to throw himself at his feet--to implore his pardon. He obtained it. Monaco, however--Cardinal Monaco-la-Valette--alleging the necessity of penance, had him confined in the Castle of St. Angelo, where he has been languishing for the last three years.” The canon delivered the whole of this speech in a voice that was perfectly level; at this point he paused for a moment; then, emphasising his words with a slight tap of his foot: “This is the man,” he cried, “that Monaco has made jailer-in-chief to Leo XIII.” “What, the Cardinal!” exclaimed the Countess. “Can a cardinal be a freemason?” “Alas!” said the canon pensively, “the Church has suffered sad inroads from the Lodge. You can easily see, Madame la comtesse, that if the Church had defended herself better, none of this would have happened. The Lodge was enabled to seize the person of the Holy Father only through the connivance of a few highly placed accomplices.” “But it’s appalling!” “What more is there to tell you, Madame la comtesse? Jean-Salvador imagined he was the prisoner of the Church, when in reality he was the prisoner of the freemasons. He will not consent to work for the liberation of our Holy Father unless he is at the same time enabled to flee himself. And he can flee only to a very distant country, where there is no extradition. He demands two hundred thousand francs.” Valentine de Saint-Prix had sunk back in her chair and let her arms drop beside her; at these words she flung her head back, uttered a feeble moan and lost consciousness. The canon darted forward. “Courage, Madame la comtesse”--he patted her hands briskly--“it’s not so bad as all that, God save us!”--he put the smelling-salts to her nose. “A hundred and forty of the two hundred thousand have been subscribed already”--and as the Countess opened one eye: “The duchesse de Lectoure has not promised more than fifty; there remain sixty to be found.” “You shall have them,” murmured the Countess, almost inaudibly. “Countess, the Church never doubted you.” He rose very gravely--almost solemnly--paused a moment, and then: