Meanwhile, unconscious of the miracle his prayer had wrought, Cardinal
Bonpre and his young charge Manuel, arrived in Paris, and drove from
the station direct to a house situated near the Bois du Boulogne, where
the Cardinal's niece, Angela Sovrani, only daughter of Prince Sovrani,
and herself famous throughout Europe as a painter of the highest
promise, had a suite of rooms and studio, reserved for her occasional
visits to the French capital. Angela Sovrani was a rare type of her
sex,--unlike any other woman in the world, so those who knew her best
were wont to declare. Without being actually beautiful, according to
the accepted lines and canons of physical perfection, she created
around her an effect of beauty, which was dazzling and exciting to a
singular degree,--people who came once within the charmed circle of her
influence could never forget her, and always spoke of her afterwards as
a creature apart;--a "woman of genius,--yes!"--they said, "But
something more even than that." And this "something more," was just the
inexplicable part of her which governed her whole being, and rendered
her so indescribably attractive. And she was not without beauty--or
perhaps it should be termed loveliness rather,--of an exquisitely
suggestive kind, which provoked the beholder into questioning where and
how the glamour of it fell. In her eyes, perhaps, the secret lay,--they
were violet-grey in hue, and drowsy-lidded, with long lashes that swept
the delicate pale cheeks in a dark golden fringe of shadow, through
which the sparkle of vision gleamed,--now warningly, now tenderly,--and
anon, these same half-shut and deep fringed lids would open wide,
letting the full brilliance of the soul behind the eyes pour forth its
luminance, in flashes of such lightning-like clearness and compelling
force, that it was impossible not to recognise something higher than
mere woman in the dazzle of that spiritual glory. In figure she was
wonderfully slight,--so slight indeed that she suggested a delicate
willow-withe such as can be bent and curved with one hand--yet this
slightness stood her in good stead, for being united with extreme
suppleness, it gave her a grace of movement resembling that of some
skimming mountain bird or sea-swallow, which flies with amazing
swiftness yet seeming slowness. Angela never moved quickly,--no one had
ever seen her in what is termed a "rush," or a vulgar hurry. She did
everything she had to do without haste, without noise, without
announcement or assertion of any kind;--and all that she did was done
as perfectly as her ability could warrant. And that ability was very
great indeed, and displayed itself in small details as well as large
attempts. Whether she merely twisted her golden-brown hair into a knot,
or tied a few flowers together and fastened them on her dress with a
pearl pin, either thing was perfectly done--without a false line or a
discordant hue. Her face, form, voice and colouring were like a chord
of music, harmonious,--and hence the impression of satisfaction and
composure her presence always gave. In herself she was a creature of
remarkable temperament and character;--true womanly in every delicate
sentiment, fancy and feeling, but with something of the man-hero in her
scorn of petty aims, her delight in noble deeds, her courage, her
ambition, her devotion to duty and her unflinching sense of honour.
Full of rare perceptions and instinctive knowledge of persons and
motives, she could only be deceived and blinded where her deepest
affections were concerned, and there she could certainly be fooled and
duped as completely as the wisest of us all. Looking at her now as she
stood awaiting her uncle's arrival in the drawing-room of her "suite,"
the windows of which faced the Bois, she expressed to the air and
surroundings the personality of a thoughtful, charming young woman,--no
more. Her black silk gown, cut simply in the prevailing mode of
definitely outlining the figure from throat to hips, and then springing
out in pliant folds of trailing drapery, had nothing remarkable about
it save its Parisian perfection of fit,--the pale "Gloire de France"
rose that rested lightly amongst the old lace at her neck, pinned, yet
looking as though it had dropped there merely out of a languid desire
to escape from further growing, was her only ornament. Her hair, full
of curious lights and shades running from brown to gold and gold to
brown again, in a rippling uncertain fashion, clustered thickly over
her brow and was caught back at the sides in a loose twist after the
style of the Greek vestals,--and her fine, small white hands and taper
fingers, so skilled in the use of the artist's brush, looked too tiny
and delicate to be of any service save to receive the kisses of a
lover's lips,--or to be raised, folded pure and calm, in a child-like
appeal to Heaven. Certainly in her fragile appearance she expressed
nothing save indefinable charm--no one, studying her physiognomy, would
have accredited her with genius, power, and the large conceptions of a
Murillo or a Raphael;--yet within the small head lay a marvellous
brain--and the delicate body was possessed by a spirit of amazing
potency to conjure with. While she watched for the first glimpse of the
carriage which was to bring her uncle the Cardinal, whom she loved with
a rare and tender devotion, her thoughts were occupied with a letter
she had received that morning from Rome,--a letter "writ in choice
Italian," which though brief, contained for her some drops of the
essence of all the world's sweetness, and was worded thus--
"MY OWN LOVE!--A century seems to have passed away since you left Rome.
The hours move slowly without you--they are days,--even years!--but I
feel your spirit is always with me! Absence for those who love, is not
absence after all! To the soul, time is nothing,--space is
nothing,--and my true and passionate love for you makes an invisible
bridge, over which my thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence,
carrying their delicious burden of a thousand kisses!--a thousand
embraces and blessings to the Angela and angel of my life! From her
devoted lover,
"Florian."
Her devoted lover, Florian! Yes; Florian Varillo--her comrade in art,
was her lover,--a genius himself, who had recognised HER genius and who
bowed before it, conquered and subdued! Florian, the creator of
exquisitely delicate landscapes and seascapes, with nymphs and cupids
and nereids and sirens all daintily portrayed therein,--pictures so
ethereal and warm and bright in colour that they were called by some of
the best Italian critics, the "amoretti" of painting,--he, this
wonderful man, had caught her soul and heart by storm, in a few sudden,
quickly-whispered words one night when the moon was at the full,
hanging high over the gardens of the Pincio,--and, proud of her
security in the love she had won, Angela had risen by leaps and bounds
to a magnificence of creative effort and attainment so far beyond him,
that old and wise persons, skilled in the wicked ways of the world,
would sometimes discourse among themselves in dubious fashion thus: "Is
it possible that he is not jealous? He must surely see that her work is
superior to his own!" And others would answer, "Oh no! No man was ever
known to admit, even in thought, that a woman can do better things in
art than himself! If a masculine creature draws a picture on a
paving-stone he will assure himself in his own Ego, that it is really
much more meritorious simply as 'man's work' than the last triumph of a
Rosa Bonheur. Besides, you have to remember that in this case the man
is the woman's lover--he could soon kill her genius if he chose. He has
simply to desert her,--such an easy thing!--so often done!--and she
will paint no more. Women are all alike,--they rest on love,--when that
fails, then everything fails, and they drop into old age without a
groan." And then perhaps a stray cynic would say, "But Angela Sovrani
need not depend on one lover surely?--" and he would get for answer,
"No, she need not--but it so happens that she does,"--which to
everybody seemed extraordinary, more particularly in Italy, where
morals are so lax, that a woman has only to be seen walking alone in
the public gardens or streets with one of the opposite sex, and her
reputation is gone for ever. It is no use to explain that the man in
question is her father, her brother or her uncle,--he simply could not
be. He is THE man, the one inevitable. Few Italians (in Italy) believe
in the chastity of English women,--their reasons for doubt being simply
because they see the fair and free ones going to parties, theatres and
other places of amusement with their friends of the other sex in
perfect ease and confidence. And in the case of Angela Sovrani, though
she was affianced to Florian Varillo with her father's consent,
(reluctantly obtained,) and the knowledge of all the Roman world of
society, she saw very little of him,--and that little, never alone.
Thus it was very sweet to receive such consoling words as those she had
had from him that day--"Time is nothing,--space is nothing,--and my
true and passionate love for you makes an invisible bridge over which
my thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence!" The letter lay warm in
her bosom just under the "Gloire de France" rose; she pressed it
tenderly with her little hand now simply for the childish pleasure of
hearing the paper rustle, and she smiled dreamily.
"Florian," she murmured half aloud!--"MY Florian!" And she recalled
certain lines of verse he had written to her,--for most Italians write
verse as easily as they eat maccaroni;--and there are countless rhymes
to "amor" in the dulcet Dante-tongue, whereas our rough English can
only supply for the word "love" some three or four similar
sounds,--which is perhaps a fortunate thing. Angela spoke English and
French as easily and fluently as her native Tuscan, and had read the
most notable books in all three languages, so she was well aware that
of all kinds of human speech in the world there is none so adapted for
making love and generally telling lies in, as the "lingua Toscana in
bocca Romana." And this particular "lingua" Florian possessed in
fullest perfection of sweetness, so far as making love was
concerned;--of the telling of lies he was, according to Angela's
estimate of him, most nobly ignorant. She had not many idle moments,
however, for meditation on her love matters, or for dreamy study of the
delicate beginnings of the autumnal tints on the trees of the Bois, for
the carriage she had been awaiting soon made its appearance, and
bowling rapidly down the road drew up sharply at the door. She had just
time to perceive that her uncle had not arrived alone, when he
entered,--and with a pretty grace and reverence for his holy calling,
she dropped on one knee before him to receive his benediction, which he
gave by laying a hand on her soft hair and signing the cross on her
brow. After which he raised her and looked at her fondly.
"My dear child!"--he said, tenderly,--and again "My dear child!"
Then he turned towards Manuel, who had followed him and was now
standing quietly on the threshold of the apartment.
"Angela, this is one of our Lord's 'little ones,'" he said,--"He is
alone in the world, and I have made myself his guardian and protector
for the present. You will be kind to him--yes--as kind as if you were
his sister, will you not?--for we are all one family in the sight of
Heaven, and sorrow and loneliness and want can but strengthen the love
which should knit us all together."
Raising her candid eyes, and fixing them on Manuel, Angela smiled. The
thoughtful face and pathetic expression of the boy greatly attracted
her, and in her heart she secretly wondered where her uncle had found
so intelligent and inspired-looking a creature. But one of her
UNfeminine attributes was a certain lack of curiosity concerning other
people's affairs, and an almost fastidious dislike of asking questions
on matters which did not closely concern her. So she contented herself
with giving him that smile of hers which in itself expressed all
sweetness, and saying gently,--
"You are very welcome! You must try to feel that wherever my uncle
is,--that is 'home'."
"I have felt that from the first,"--replied Manuel in his soft musical
voice, "I was all alone when my lord the Cardinal found me,--but with
him the world seems full of friends."
Angela looked at him still more attentively; and the fascination of his
presence became intensified. She would have liked to continue the
conversation, but her uncle was fatigued by his journey, and expressed
the desire for an hour's rest. She therefore summoned a servant to show
him to the rooms prepared for his reception, whither he went, Manuel
attending him,--and when, after a little while, Angela followed to see
that all was arranged suitably for his comfort, she found that he had
retired to his bed-chamber, and that just outside his door in a little
ante-room adjoining, his "waif and stray" was seated, reading. There
was something indescribable about the boy even in this reposeful
attitude of study,--and Angela observed him for a minute or two,
herself unseen. His face reminded her of one of Fra Angelico's
seraphs,--the same broad brow, deep eyes and sensitive lips, which
seemed to suggest the utterance of wondrous speech or melodious
song,--the same golden hair swept back in rich clusters,--the same
eager, inspired, yet controlled expression. A curious fluttering of her
heart disturbed the girl as she looked--an indefinable dread--a kind of
wonder, that almost touched on superstitious awe. Manuel himself,
apparently unconscious of her observation, went on reading,--his whole
attitude expressing that he was guarding the door to deter anyone from
breaking in upon the Cardinal's rest, and Angela at last turned away
reluctantly, questioning herself as to the cause of the strange
uneasiness which thrilled her mind.
"It is foolish, of course,"--she murmured, "but I feel just as if there
were a supernatural presence in the house, . . . however,--I always do
have that impression with Uncle Felix, for he is so good and
noble-minded,--almost a saint, as everyone says--but to-day there is
something else--something quite unusual--"
She re-entered the drawing-room, moving slowly with an abstracted air,
and did not at once perceive a visitor in the room,--a portly person in
clerical dress, with a somewhat large head and strongly marked
features,--a notable character of the time in Paris, known as the Abbe
Vergniaud. He had seated himself in a low fauteuil, and was turning
over the pages of the month's "Revue de Deux Mondes", humming a little
tune under his breath as he did so,--but he rose when he saw Angela,
and advanced smilingly to greet her as she stopped short, with a little
startled exclamation of surprise at the sight of him.
"Forgive me" he said, with an expressively apologetic gesture,--"Have I
come at an inopportune moment? I saw your uncle arrive, and I was
extremely anxious to see him on a little confidential matter--I
ventured to persuade your servant to let me enter--"
"No apologies are necessary, Monsieur l'Abbe" said Angela, quickly, "My
uncle Felix is indeed here, but he is tired with his journey and is
resting--"
"Yes, I understand!" And Monsieur l'Abbe, showing no intention to take
his leave on account of the Cardinal's non-presence, bowed low over the
extended hand of "the Sovrani" as she was sometimes called in the world
of art, where her name was a bone for envious dogs-in-the-manger to
fight over--"But if I might wait a little while--"
"Your business with my uncle is important?" questioned Angela with
slightly knitted brows.
"My dear child, all business is important,"--declared the Abbe, with a
smile which spread the light of a certain satirical benevolence all
over his plump clean-shaven face, "or so we think--we who consider that
we have any business,--which is of course a foolish idea,--but one that
is universal to human nature. We all imagine we are busy--which is so
curious of us! Will you sit here?--Permit me!" And he dexterously
arranged a couple of cushions in an arm-chair and placed it near the
window. Angela half-reluctantly seated herself, watching the Abbe under
the shadow of her long lashes as he sat down opposite to her.
"Yes,--the emmets, the flies, the worms and the men, are all of one
equality in the absurd belief that they can do things--things that will
last. Their persistent self-credulity is astonishing,--considering the
advance the world has made in science, and the overwhelming proofs we
are always getting of the fact that we are only One of an eternal
procession of many mighty civilizations, all of which have been swept
away with everything they have ever learnt, into silence,--so that
really all we do, or try to do, amounts to doing nothing in the end!"
"That is your creed, I know," said Angela Sovrani with a faint sigh,
"But it is a depressing and a wretched one."
"I do not find it so," responded the Abbe, complacently looking at a
fine diamond ring that glittered on the little finger of his plump
white hand, "It is a creed which impresses upon us the virtue of being
happy during the present moment, no matter what the next may bring. Let
each man enjoy himself according to his temperament and capabilities.
Do not impose bounds upon him--give him his liberty. Let him alone. Do
not try to bamboozle him with the idea that there is a God looking
after him. So will he be spared much disappointment and useless
blasphemy. If he makes his own affairs unpleasant in this world', he
will not be able to lift up his hands to the innocent skies, which are
only composed of pure ether, and blame an impossible Large Person
sitting up there who can have no part in circumstances which are
entirely unknown outside the earth's ridiculously small orbit."
He smiled kindly as he spoke, and looked paternally at "the Sovrani,"
who flushed with a sudden warmth that sent a wave of pale rose over her
face, and made her cheeks the colour of the flower she wore.
"How cruel you are!" she said,--"How cold--how didactic! You would give
each man his freedom according to habit and temperament,--no matter
whether such habit and temperament led to crime or otherwise,--you
would impose upon him no creed,--no belief in anything higher than
himself,--and yet--you remain in the Church!"
The Abbe laughed softly.
"Chere Sovrani! You are angry--deliciously angry! Impulsively,
enthusiastically, beautifully vexed with me! I like to see you so,--you
are a woman of remarkable genius, and yet you are quite a little child
in heart,--a positive child, with beliefs and hopes! I should not
wonder if you even believed that love itself is eternal!--that most
passing of phantoms!--yes--and you exclaim against me because I venture
to think for myself? It is appalling that I should think for myself and
yet remain in the Church? My dear lady, you might just as well, after
unravelling the dirty entanglement of the Dreyfus case, have turned
upon our late friend Faure and exclaimed 'And yet you remained
President!'"
Angela's violet eyes glowed.
"He was not allowed to remain President," she said.
"No, he was not. He died. Certainly! And I know you think he would not
have died if he had done his best to clear the character of an innocent
man. To women of your type, it always seems as if God--the Large Person
up above--stepped in exactly at the right moment. It would really
appear as if it were so at times. But such things are mere
coincidences."
"I do not believe in coincidences," said Angela decisively, "I do not
believe in 'chance' or 'luck', or what you call 'fortuitous' haphazard
arrangements of any sort. I think everything is planned by law from the
beginning; even to the particular direction in which a grain of dust
floats through space. It is all mathematical and exact. And the moving
Spirit--the Divine Centre of things, whom I call God,--cannot dislodge
or alter one particle of the majestic system without involving the
whole in complete catastrophe. It is our mistake to 'chance' things--at
least, so I think. And if I exclaim against you and say,--"Why do you
remain in the Church?' it is because I cannot understand a man of
conscience and intellect outwardly professing one thing while inwardly
he means another. Because God will take him in the end at his own
interior valuation, not at his outward seeming."
"Uncomfortable, if true," said the Abbe, still smiling. "When one has
been at infinite pains all one's life to present a charmingly virtuous
and noble aspect to the world, it would be indeed distressing if at the
last moment one were obliged to lift the mask . . ."
"Sometimes one is not given the chance to lift it," interposed Angela,
"It is torn off ruthlessly by a force greater than one's own. 'Call no
man happy till his death,' you know."
"Yes, I know," and the Abbe settled himself in his chair more
comfortably;--he loved an argument with "the Sovrani", and was wont to
declare that she was the only woman in the world who had ever made him
wish to be a good man,--"But that maxim can be taken in two ways. It
may mean that no man is happy till his death,--which I most potently
believe,--or it may mean that a man is only JUDGED after his death, in
which case it cannot be said to affect his happiness, as he is past
caring whether people think ill or well of him. Besides, after death it
must needs be all right, as every man is so particularly fortunate in
his epitaph!"
Angela smiled a little.
"That is witty of you," she said, "but the fact of every man having a
kindly-worded epitaph only proves goodness of heart and feeling in his
relatives and friends--"
"Or gratitude for a fortune left to them in his will," declared the
Abbe gaily, "or a sense of relief that the dear creature has gone and
will never come back. Either motive, would, I know, inspire me to write
most pathetic verses! Now you bend your charming brows at me,--mea
culpa! I have said something outrageous?"
"Not from the point of view at which YOU take life," said Angela
quietly, "but I was just then thinking of a cousin of mine,--a very
beautiful woman; her husband treated her with every possible sort of
what I should term civil cruelty,--polite torture--refined agony. If he
had struck her or shot her dead it would have been far kinder. But his
conduct was worse than murder. He finally deserted her, and left her
penniless to fight her own way through the world. Then he died
suddenly, and she forgot all his faults, spoke of him as though he had
been a model of goodness, and lives now for his memory, ever mourning
his loss. In her case the feeling of regret had nothing to do with
money, for he spent all her fortune and left her nothing even of her
own. She has to work hard for her living now,--but she loves him and is
as true to him as if he were still alive. What do you say to that?"
"I say that the lady in question must be a charming person!" replied
the Abbe, "Perfectly charming! But of course she is deceiving herself;
and she takes pleasure in the self-deception. She knows that the man
had deserted her and was quite unworthy of her devotion;--but she
pretends to herself that she does NOT know. And it is charming, of
course! But women will do that kind of thing. It is extraordinary,--but
they will. They all deceive themselves in matters of love. Even you
deceive yourself."
Angela started.
"I?" she exclaimed.
"Yes--you--why not?" And the Abbe treated her to one of his
particularly paternal smiles. "You are betrothed to Florian
Varillo,--but no man ever had or ever could have all the virtues with
which you endow this excellent Florian. He is a delightful creature,--a
good artist--unique in his own particular line,--but you think him
something much greater than even artist or man--a sort of god, (though
the gods themselves were not impeccable) only fit to be idealised. Now,
I am not a believer in the gods,--but of course it is delightful to me
to meet those who are."
"Signor Varillo needs neither praise nor defence," said Angela with a
slight touch of hauteur, "All the world knows what he is."
"Yes, precisely! That is just it,--all the world knows what he is,--"
and the Abbe rubbed his forehead with an air of irritation, "And I am
vexing you by my talk, I can see! Well, well!--You must forgive my
garrulity;--I admit my faults--I am old--I am a cynic--I talk too
much--I have a bad opinion of man, and an equally bad opinion of the
Forces that evolved him. By the way, I met that terrible reformer and
socialist Aubrey Leigh at the Embassy the other day--the man who is
making such a sensation in England with his 'Addresses to the People.'
He is quite an optimist, do you know? He believes in everything and
everybody,--even in me!"
Angela laughed, and her laughter sweet and low, thrilled the air with a
sense of music.
"That is wonderful!" she said gaily,--"Even in you! And how does he
manage to believe in you, Monsieur l'Abbe? Do tell me!"
A little frown wrinkled the Abbe's brow.
"Well! in a strange way," he responded. "You know he is a very strange
man and believes in very strange things. When I treat humanity as a
jest--which is really how it should be treated--he looks at me with a
grand air of tolerance, 'Oh, you will progress;' he says, 'You are
passing through a phase.' 'My dear sir,' I assure him, 'I have lived in
this "phase", as you call it, for forty years. I used to pray to the
angels and saints and to all the different little Madonnas that live in
different places, till I was twenty. Then I dropped all the pretty
heaven-toys at once;--and since then I have believed in
nothing--myself, least of all. Now I am sixty--and yet you tell me I am
only passing through a phase.' 'Quite so,' he answered me with the
utmost coolness, 'Your forty years--or your sixty years, are a Moment
merely;--the Moment will pass--and you will find another Moment coming
which will explain the one which has just gone. Nothing is simpler.'
And when I ask him which will be the best Moment,--the one that goes,
or the one that comes--he says that I am making the coming Moment for
myself--'which is so satisfactory' he adds with that bright smile of
his, 'because of course you will make it pleasant!' 'Il faut que tout
homme trouve pour lui meme une possibilite particuliere de vie
superieure dans l'humble et inevitable realite quotidienne.' I do not
find the 'possibilite particuliere'--but this man assures me it is
because I do not trouble to look for it. What do you think about it?"
Angela's eyes were full of dreamy musing.
"I think Mr. Leigh's ideas are beautiful," she said, slowly, "I have
often heard him talk on the subject of religion--and of art, and of
work,--and all he says seems to be the expression of a noble and
sincere mind. He is extraordinarily gifted."
"Yes,--and he is becoming rather an alarming personage in England, so I
hear,--" returned the Abbe--"He writes books that are distinctly
dangerous, because true. He wants to upset shams like our Socialist
writer Gys Grandit. Gys Grandit, you know, will never be satisfied
till, like Rousseau, he has brought about another French Revolution. He
is only a peasant, they say, but he writes with the pen of a prophet.
And this Englishman is of the same calibre,--only his work is directed
against religious hypocrisies more than social ones. I daresay that is
why I always feel so uneasy in his presence!" And Vergniaud laughed
lightly. "For the rest, he is a brilliant creature enough, and
thoroughly manly. The other evening at the Club that little Vicomte de
Lorgne was chattering in his usual offensive manner about women, and
Leigh astonished everyone by the way in which he pulled him up. There
was almost a very pretty quarrel,--but a stray man happened to mention
casually,--that Leigh was considered one of the finest shots in
England. After that the dear Vicomte vanished, and did not return."
Angela laughed.
"Poor de Lorgne! Yes--I have heard that Mr. Leigh excels in everything
that is distinctly English--riding, shooting, and all that kind of
thing. He is not effeminate."
"Few Englishmen are," said the Abbe,--"And yet to my mind there is
something not altogether English in this man. He has none of the heavy
British mental and physical stolidity. He is strong and muscular
certainly,--but also light and supple,--and with that keen,
intellectual delicate face of his, he is more of the antique Greek type
than like a son of Les Isles Sans-Soleil."
"Sans-Soleil," echoed Angela, "But there is plenty of sunshine in
England!"
"Is there? Well, I have been unfortunate,--I have never seen any,--"
and the Abbe gave a shrug of half regret, half indifference. "It is
very curious the effect that this so brave England has upon me! In
crossing to its shores I suffer of course from the mal de mer--then
when I arrive exhausted to the white cliffs, it is generally
raining--then I take train to London, where it is what is called black
fog; and I find all the persons that I meet either with a cold, or
going to have a cold, or just recovering from a cold! It is not
lively--the very funerals are dull. And you--this is not your
experience?"
"No--frankly I cannot say it is," replied Angela, "I have seen rain and
fog in Rome that cannot be surpassed for wretchedness anywhere. Italy
is far more miserable in cold weather than England. I passed a summer
once in England, and it was to me like a glimpse of Paradise. I never
saw so many flowers--I never heard so many birds--(you know in Italy we
kill all the singing birds and eat them), and I never met so many kind
and gentle people."
"Well!--perhaps the religious sects in England are responsible for the
general feeling of depression in the English atmosphere," said the Abbe
with a light laugh, "They are certainly foggy! The one round Sun of one
Creed is unknown to them. I assure you it is best to have one light of
faith, even though it be only a magic lantern,--a toy to amuse the
children of this brief life before their everlasting bedtime comes--"
He broke off abruptly as a slow step was heard approaching along the
passage, and in another moment Cardinal Bonpre entered the room.
"Ah, le bien aime Felix!" cried Vergniaud, hastening to meet him and
clasp his outstretched hand, bowing slightly over it as he did so, "I
have taken the liberty to wait for you, cher Monseigneur, being anxious
to see you--and I understand your stay in Paris will not be long?"
"A few days at most, my dear Abbe",--replied the Cardinal, gently
pressing the hand of Vergniaud and smiling kindly. "You are well? But
surely I need not ask--you seem to be in the best of health and
spirits."
"Ah, my seeming is always excellent," returned the Abbe, "However, I do
not fare badly. I have thrown away all hard thinking!"
"And you are happier so?"
"Well, I am not quite sure! There is undoubtedly a pleasure in
analysing the perplexities of one's own mind. Still, on the whole, it
is perhaps better to enjoy the present hour without any thought at all."
"Like the butterflies!" laughed Angela.
"Yes,--if butterflies DO enjoy their hour,--which I am not at all
prepared to admit. In my opinion they are very dissatisfied
creatures,--no sooner on one flower than off they go to another. Very
like human beings after all! But I imagine they never worry themselves
with philosophical or religious questions."
"And do you?" enquired Bonpre, smiling, as he sat down in the easy
chair his niece placed for him.
"Not as a rule!--" answered Vergniaud frankly, with a light laugh--"But
I confess I have done a little in that way lately. Some of the new
sciences puzzle me,--I am surprised to find how closely they approach
to the fulfilment of old prophecies. One is almost inclined to believe
that there must be a next world and a future life."
"I think such belief is now placed beyond mere inclination," said the
Cardinal--"There is surely no doubt of it."
Vergniaud gave him a quick side-glance of earnest scrutiny.
"With you, perhaps not--" he replied--"But with me,--well!--it is a
different matter. However, it is really no use worrying one's self with
the question of 'To be, or not to be.' It drove Hamlet mad, just as the
knotty point as to whether Hamlet himself was fat or lean nearly killed
our hysterical little boy, Catullus Mendes. It's best to leave eternal
subjects like God and Shakespeare alone."
He laughed again, but the Cardinal did not smile.
"I do not agree with you, Vergniaud," he said--"I fear it is because we
do not think sufficiently for ourselves on the One eternal subject that
so much mischief threatens us at the present time. To take gifts and
ignore the Giver is surely the blackest ingratitude, yet that is what
the greater part of humanity is guilty of in these days. Never was
there so much beholding and yet ignoring of the Divine as now. Science
is searching for God, and is getting closer to Him every day;--the
Church remains stationary and refuses to look out beyond her own pale
of thought and conventional discipline. I know,--" and the Cardinal
hesitated a moment, "I know I can speak quite plainly to you, for you
are what is called a freethinker--yet I doubt whether you are really as
free as you imagine!"
The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.
"I imagine nothing!" he declared airily, "Everything is imagined for me
nowadays,--and imagination itself is like a flying Geni which overtakes
and catches the hair of some elusive Reality and turns its face round,
full-shining on an amazed world!"
"A pretty simile!" said Angela Sovrani, smiling.
"Is it not? Almost worthy of Paul Verlaine who was too 'inspired' to
keep either his body or his soul clean. Why was I not a poet!
Helas!--Fact so much outweighs fancy that it is no longer any use
penning a sonnet to one's mistress's eyebrow. One needs to write with
thunderbolts in characters of lightning, to express the wonders and
discoveries of this age. When I find I can send a message from here to
London across space, without wires or any visible means of
communication,--and when I am told that probably one of these days I
shall be able at will to SEE the person to whom I send the message,
reflected in space while the message is being delivered,--I declare
myself so perfectly satisfied with the fairy prodigies revealed to me,
that I have really no time, and perhaps no inclination to think of any
other world than this one."
"You are wrong, then," said the Cardinal, "Very wrong, Vergniaud. To me
these discoveries of science, this apparent yielding of invisible
forces into human hands, are signs and portents of terror. You remember
the line 'the powers of heaven shall be shaken'? Those powers are being
shaken now! We cannot hold them back;--they are here, with us;--but
they mean much more than mere common utility to our finite selves. They
are the material declarations of what is spiritual. They are the
scientific proofs that Christ's words to 'THIS generation,' namely,
this particular phase of creation,--are true. 'Blessed are they which
have not seen and yet believed,' He said;--and many there are who have
passed away from us in rapt faith and hope, believing not seeing, and
with whom we may rejoice in spirit, knowing that all must be well with
them. But now--now we are come upon an age of doubt in the world--doubt
which corrodes and kills the divine spirit in man, and therefore we are
being forced to SEE that we may believe,--but the seeing is terrible!"
"Why?"
"Because in the very beholding of things we remain blind!" answered the
Cardinal, "Our intense selfishness obscures the true light of every
fresh advance. We accept new marvels of knowledge, as so much practical
use to us, and to the little planet we live on,--but we do not see that
they are merely reflections of the Truth from which they emanate. The
toy called the biograph, which reflects pictures for us in a dazzling
and moving continuity, so that we can see scenes of human life in
action, is merely a hint to us that every scene of every life is
reflected in a ceaseless moving panorama SOMEWHERE in the Universe, for
the beholding of SOMEONE,--yes!--there must be Someone who so elects to
look upon everything, or such possibilities of reflected scenes would
not be,--inasmuch as nothing exists without a Cause for existence. The
wireless telegraphy is a stupendous warning of the truth that 'from God
no secrets are hid', and also of the prophecy of Christ 'there is
nothing covered that shall not be revealed'--and, 'whatsoever ye have
spoken in darkness shall be revealed in light.' The latter words are
almost appalling in their absolute accord with the latest triumphant
discoveries of science."
Abbe Vergniaud looked at the Cardinal, and slightly raised his eyebrows
in a kind of wondering protest.
"TRES-SAINT Felix!" he murmured, "Are you turning into a mystic? One of
those doubtful personages who are seeking to reconcile science with the
Church?--"
"Stop!" interposed the Cardinal, raising his hand with an eloquent
gesture, "Science is, or should be, the Church!--science is Truth, and
Truth is God! God cannot be found anywhere in a lie; and the Church in
many ways would make our Divine Redeemer Himself a lie were it not that
His words are every day taking fresh meaning, and bringing new and
solemn conviction to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear!"
He spoke as if carried beyond himself,--his pale cheeks glowed,--his
eyes flashed fire,--and the combined effect of his words and manner was
startling to the Abbe, and in a way stupefying to his niece Angela. She
had never heard him give utterance to such strong sentiments and she
shrank a little within herself, wondering whether as a Cardinal of the
Roman Church he had not been too free of speech. She glanced
apprehensively at Vergniaud, who however only smiled a little.
"If you should be disposed to express yourself in such terms at the
Vatican,--" he began.
The Cardinal relapsed into his usual calm, and met the Abbe's
questioning, half cynical glance composedly. "I have many things to
speak of at the Vatican," he answered,--"This matter will probably be
one of them."
"Then--" But whatever Vergniaud was about to say was interrupted by the
entrance of the boy Manuel, who at that moment came into the room and
stood beside the Cardinal's chair. The Abbe gave him an upward glance
of surprise and admiration.
"Whom have we here?" he exclaimed, "One of your acolytes, Monseigneur?"
"No," replied the Cardinal, his eyes resting on the fair face of the
lad with a wistful affection, "A little stray disciple of our Lord,--to
whom I have ventured to offer protection. There is none to question my
right to do so, for he is quite alone in the world."
And in a few words he related how he had discovered the boy on the
previous night, weeping outside the Cathedral in Rouen. Angela Sovrani
listened attentively, her violet eyes darkening and deepening as she
heard,--now and then she raised them to look at the youthful waif who
stood so quietly while the story of his troubles was told in the gentle
and sympathetic way which was the Cardinal's usual manner of speech,
and which endeared him so much to all. "And for the present," finished
Bonpre, smiling--"he stays with me, and already I have found him
skilled in the knowledge of many things,--he can read Scripture with a
most musical and clear emphasis,--and he is a quick scribe, so that he
will be valuable to me in more ways than one."
"Ah!" and the Abbe turned himself round in his chair to survey the boy
more attentively, "You can read Scripture? But can you understand it?
If you can, you are wiser than I am!"
Manuel regarded him straightly.
"Was it not once said in Judaea that "IT IS THE SPIRIT THAT
QUICKENETH'?" he asked.
"True!--And from that you would infer . . . ?"
"That when one cannot understand Scripture, it is perhaps for the
reason that 'THE LETTER KILLETH, BECAUSE LACKING THE SPIRIT THAT GIVETH
LIFE."
The boy spoke gently and with grace and modesty,--but something in the
tone of his voice had a strange effect on the cynical temperament of
Abbe Vergniaud.
"Here," he mused, "is a lad in whom the principle of faith is strong
and pure,--shall I drop the poison of doubt into the open flower of his
mind, or leave it uncontaminated?" Aloud he said, kindly,
"You speak well,--you have evidently thought for yourself. Who taught
you to recognise 'the Spirit that giveth life'?"
Manuel smiled.
"Does that need teaching?" he asked.
Radiance shone in his eyes,--the look of purity and candour on his
young face was infinitely touching to the two men who beheld it,--the
one worn with age and physical languors, the other equally worn in
mind, if not in body. In the brief silence which followed,--a silence
of unexpressed feeling,--a soft strain of organ-music came floating
deliciously towards them,--a delicate thread of grave melody which wove
itself in and out the airspaces, murmuring suggestions of tenderness
and appeal. Angela smiled, and held up one finger, listening.
"That is Mr. Leigh!" she said, "He is in my studio improvising."
"Happy Mr. Leigh!" said the Abbe with a little malicious twinkle in his
eyes, "To be allowed to improvise at all in the studio of the Sovrani!"
Angela flushed, and lifted her fair head with a touch of pride.
"Mr. Leigh is a friend," she said, "He is welcome in the studio always.
His criticism of a picture is valuable,--besides--he is a celebrated
Englishman!" She laughed, and her eyes flashed.
"Ah! To a celebrated Englishman all things are conceded!" said the Abbe
satirically, "Even the right to enter the sanctum of the most exclusive
lady in Europe! Is it not a curious thing that the good Britannia
appears to stick her helmet on the head, and put her sceptre in the
hand of every one of her sons who condescends to soil his boots by
walking on foreign soil? With the helmet he defies the gemdarme,--with
the sceptre he breaks open every door,--we prostrate ourselves before
his face and curse him behind his back,--c'est drole!--yet we are all
alike, French, Germans, Austrians, and Italians;--we hate the
Englishman, but we black his boots all the same,--which is contemptible
of us,--MAIS, QUE FAIRE! He is so overwhelming in sheer impudence! With
culture and politeness we might cross swords in courtly duel,--but in
the presence of absolute bluff, or what is called 'cheek', we fall flat
in sheer dismay! What delicious music! I see that it charms our young
friend,--he is fond of music."
"Yes," said Manuel speaking for himself before any question could be
put to him, "I love it! It is like the fresh air,--full of breath and
life."
"Come then with me," said Angela, "Come into the studio and we will
hear it more closely. Dearest uncle," and she knelt for a moment by the
Cardinal's chair, "Will you come there also when Monsieur l'Abbe has
finished talking with you?"
Cardinal Bonpre's hand rested lovingly on her soft hair.
"Yes, my child, I will come." And in a lower tone he added,--"Do not
speak much to Manuel,--he is a strange lad; more fond of silence and
prayer than other things,--and if such is his temperament I would
rather keep him so."
Angela bowed her head in acquiescence to this bidding,--then rising,
left the room with a gentle gesture of invitation to the boy, who at
once followed her. As the two disappeared a chill and a darkness seemed
to fall upon the air, and the Cardinal sank back among the cushions of
his fauteuil with a deep sigh of utter exhaustion. Abbe Vergniaud
glanced at him inquisitively.
"You are very tired, I fear?" he said.
"Physically, no,--mentally, yes. Spiritually, I am certainly fatigued
to the death."
The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.
"Helas! There is truly much in spiritual matters to engender
weariness!" he said.
With a sudden access of energy the Cardinal gripped both arms of his
chair and sat upright.
"For God's sake, do not jest," he said earnestly, "Do not jest! We have
all been jesting too long, and the time is near when we shall find out
the bitter cost of it! Levity--carelessness--doubt and final heresy--I
do not mean heresy against the Church, for that is nothing--"
"Nothing!" exclaimed the Abbe, "YOU say this?"
"I say it!" And Bonpre's thin worn features grew transfigured with the
fervour of his thought. "I am a priest of the Church--but I am also a
man!--with reason, with brain, and with a love of truth;--and I can
faithfully say I have an almost jealous honour for my Master--but I
repeat, heresy against the Church is nothing,--it is heresy against
Christ which is the crime of the age,--and in that, the very Church is
heretic! Heresy against Christ!--Heresy against Christ! A whole system
of heresy! 'I never knew you,--depart from me, ye workers of iniquity,'
will be our Lord's words at the Last Judgment!"
The Abbe's wonderment increased. He looked down a moment, then looked
up, and a quizzical, half-melancholy expression filled his eyes.
"Well, I am very much concerned in all this," he said, "I wanted to
have a private talk with you on my own account, principally because I
know you to be a good man, while I am a bad one. I have a trouble
here,--" and he touched the region of his heart, "which the wise
doctors say may end my days at any moment; two years at the utmost is
the ultimatum of my life, so I want to know from you, whom I know to be
intelligent and honest, whether you believe I am going to another
existence,--and if so, what sort of a one you think is in prospect for
such a man as I am? Now don't pity me, my dear Bonpre,--don't pity
me!--" and he laughed a little huskily as the Cardinal took his hand
and pressed it with a silent sympathy more eloquent than words, "We
must all die,--and if I am to go somewhat sooner than I expected, that
is nothing to compassionate me for. But there is just a little
uncertainty in my mind,--I am not at all sure that death is the end--I
wish I could be quite positive of the fact. I was once--quite positive.
But science, instead of giving me this absolute comfort has in its
later progress upset all my former calculations, and I am afraid I must
own that there is indubitably Something Else,--which to my mind seems
distinctly disagreeable!"
Though the Abbe spoke lightly, the troubled look remained in his eyes
and the Cardinal saw it.
"My dear Vergniaud," he began gently, "I am grieved at what you tell
me--"
"No, don't be grieved," interrupted Vergniaud, "because that is not it.
Talk to me! Tell me what you truly think. That this life is only a
schoolroom where we do our lessons more or less badly?--That death is
but the name for another life? Now do not FORCE your faith for me. Tell
me your own honest conviction. Do we end?--or do we begin again? Be
frank and fair and true; according to the very latest science,
remember!--not according to the latest hocus-pocus of twelfth-century
mandate issued from Rome. You see how frank I am, and how entirely I go
with you. But I am going further than you,--I am bound for the last
voyage--so you must not offer me the wrong pass-word to the shore!"
"No, I will give you the right pass-word," said the cardinal, a fervid
glow of enthusiasm lighting up his features. "It is CHRIST in all, and
through all! Christ only;--Christ, the friend and brother of man;--the
only Divine Teacher this world has ever had, or ever will have!"
"You believe in Him really,--truly,--then?" exclaimed the Abbe
wonderingly.
"Really--truly, and with all my heart and soul!" responded the Cardinal
firmly,--"Surely, you too, believe?"
"No," said the Abbe firmly, "I do not! I would as soon believe that the
lad you have just rescued from the streets of Rouen is divine, as that
there is any divinity in the Man of Nazareth!"
He rose up as he spoke in a kind of petulance,--then started slightly
as he found himself face to face with Manuel. The boy had entered
noiselessly and stood for a moment glancing from one priest of the
Church to the other. A faint smile was on his face,--his blue eyes were
full of light.
"Did you call me, my lord Cardinal?" he asked.
The Cardinal looked up.
"No, my child!"
"I thought I heard you. If you should need me, I am close at hand."
He went away as quietly as he had entered; and the same silence
followed his departure as before,--a silence which was only disturbed
by the occasional solemn and sweet vibrations of the distant music from
the studio.