Cardinal Felix Bonpre sat alone in the largest and loneliest room of
the large and lonely suite of rooms allotted to him in the Palazzo
Sovrani,--alone at a massive writing table near the window, his head
resting on one hand, and his whole figure expressive of the most
profound dejection. In front of him an ancient silver crucifix gleamed
in the flicker of the small wood fire which had been kindled in the
wide cavernous chimney--and a black-bound copy of the Gospels lay open
as if but lately consulted. The faded splendour of certain gold
embroidered hangings on the walls added to the solemn and melancholy
aspect of the apartment, and the figure of the venerable prelate seen
in such darkening gloom and solitude, was the crowning completion of an
expressive and pathetic picture of patient desolation. So might a
martyr of the Inquisition have looked while the flames were getting
ready to burn him for the love of the gentle Saviour; and something of
the temper of such a possible predecessor was in the physically frail
old man, who just now was concentrating all the energies of his mind on
the consideration of a difficult question which is often asked by many
hearts in secret, but is seldom voiced to the public ear;--"Christ or
the Church? Which must I follow to be an honest man?"
Never had the good Cardinal been in such a strange predicament. Living
away from the great centres of thought and action, he had followed a
gentle and placid course of existence, almost unruffled, save by the
outside murmurs of a growing public discontent which had reached him
through the medium of current literature, and had given him cause to
think uneasily of possible disaster for the religious world in the near
future,--but he had never gone so far as to imagine that the Head of
the Church would, while being perfectly conscious of existing
threatening evils, deliberately turn his back to appeals for
help,--shut his ears to the cry of the "lost sheep of the House of
Israel", and even endeavour, with an impotence of indignation which was
as pitiable as useless, to shake a rod of Twelfth-century menace over
the advancement of the Twentieth!
"For the onward movement of Humanity is God's work," said the Cardinal,
"And what are we--what is even the Church--when it does not move side
by side in perfect and pure harmony with the order of Divine Law?"
And he was bitterly troubled in spirit. He had spent the whole morning
at the Vatican, and the manner of his reception there had been so
curiously divided between flattery and reproach that he had not known
what to make of it. The Pope had been tetchy and querulous,--precisely
in such a humour as one naturally expects so aged a man to be when
contradicted on any matter, whether trivial or important. For with such
advanced years the faculties are often as brittle as the bones, and the
failing powers of the brain are often brought to bear with more
concentration on inconsiderable trifles than on the large and important
affairs of life. He had questioned the Cardinal closely concerning the
miraculous cure performed at Rouen, and had become excessively angry
when the honest prelate earnestly disclaimed all knowledge of it. He
had then confronted him with Claude Cazeau, the secretary of the
Archbishop of Rouen, and Cazeau had given a clear and concise account
of the whole matter, stating that the child, Fabien Doucet, had been
known in Rouen since his babyhood as a helpless cripple, and that after
Cardinal Bonpre had prayed over him and laid hands on him, he had been
miraculously cured, and was now to be seen running about the city as
strong and straight as any other healthy child. And Bonpre listened
patiently;--and to all that was said, merely reiterated that if the
child WERE so cured, then it was by the special intervention of God, as
he personally had done no more than pray for his restoration. But to
his infinite amazement and distress he saw plainly that the Holy Father
did not believe him. He saw that he was suspected of playing a
trick,--a trick, which if he had admitted, would have been condoned,
but which if he denied, would cause him to be looked upon with distrust
by all the Vatican party. He saw that even the man Cazeau suspected
him. And then,--when the public confession of the Abbe Vergniaud came
under discussion,--the Pope had gathered together all the visible
remains of physical force his attenuated frame could muster, and had
hurled himself impotently against the wall of opposing fact with such
frail fury as almost to suggest the celebrated simile of "a reed shaken
with the wind". In vain had the Cardinal pleaded for Vergniaud's
pardon; in vain had he urged that after all, the sinner had branded
himself as such in the sight of all men; what further need to add the
ban of the Church's excommunication against one who was known to be
within touch of death? Would not Christ have said, "Go, and sin no
more"? But this simple quotation from the Gospels seemed to enrage the
representative of St. Peter more violently than before, and when Bonpre
left the Holy Presence he knew well enough that he was, for no fault of
his own, under the displeasure of the Vatican. How had it all come
about? Nothing could have been simpler than his life and actions since
he left his own Cathedral-town,--he had prayed for a sick child,--he
had sympathised with a sorry sinner,--that was all. And such deeds as
these were commanded by Christ. Yet--the Head of the Church for these
same things viewed him with wrath and suspicion! Wearily he sat,
turning over everything in his mind, and longing, with a weakness which
he fully admitted to his own conscience, to leave Rome at once and
return to his own home, there to die among his roses at peace. But he
saw it would never do to leave Rome just yet. He was bound fast hand
and foot. He was "suspect"! In his querulous fit the Pope had ordered
Claude Cazeau to return to Rouen without delay, and there gather
further evidence respecting the Cardinal's stay at the Hotel Poitiers,
and if possible, to bring the little Fabien Doucet and his mother back
to Rome with him. Pending the arrival of fresh proof, Bonpre, though he
had received no actual command, knew he was expected to remain where he
was. Weary and sick at heart, the venerable prelate sighed as he
reviewed all the entangling perplexities, which had, so unconsciously
to himself, become woven like a web about his innocent and harmless
personality, and so absorbed was he in thought that he did not hear the
door of his room open, and so was sot aware that his foundling Manuel
had stood for some time silently watching him. Such love and compassion
as were expressed in the boy's deep blue eyes could not however radiate
long through any space without some sympathetic response,--and moved by
instinctive emotion, Cardinal Felix looked up, and seeing his young
companion smiled,--albeit the smile was a somewhat sad one.
"Where have you been, my child?" he asked gently, "I have missed you
for some hours."
Manuel advanced a little, and stood between the pale afternoon light
reflected through the window, and the warmer glow of the wood fire.
"I have been to the strangest place in all the world!" he answered,
"The strangest,--and surely one of the most wicked!"
The Cardinal raised himself in his chair, and bent an anxious wondering
look upon the young speaker.
"One of the most wicked!" he echoed, "What place are you talking of?"
"St. Peter's!" answered Manuel, with a thrill of passion in his voice
as he uttered the name, "St. Peter's,--the huge Theatre misnamed a
Church! Oh, dear friend!--do not look at me thus! Surely you must feel
that what I say is true? Surely you know that there is nothing of the
loving God in that vast Cruelty of a place, where wealth and
ostentation vie with intolerant officialism, bigotry and
superstition!--where even the marble columns have been stolen from the
temples of a sincerer Paganism, and still bear the names of Isis and
Jupiter wrought in the truthful stone;--where theft, rapine and murder
have helped to build the miscalled Christian fane! You cannot in your
heart of hearts feel it to be the abode of Christ; your soul, bared to
the sight of God, repudiates it as a Lie! Yes!"--For, startled and
carried away by the boy's fervour, Cardinal Felix had risen, and now
stood upright, making a feeble gesture with his hands, as though
seeking to keep back the crushing weight of some too overwhelming
conviction,--"Yes--you would silence me!--but you cannot!--I read your
heart! You love God . . . and I--I love Him too! You would serve
Him!--and I--I would obey Him! Ah, do not struggle with yourself, dear
and noble friend! If you were thrice crowned a martyr and saint you
could not see otherwise than clearly--you could not but accept Truth
when Truth is manifested to you,--you could not swear falsely before
God! Would the Christ not say now as He said so many centuries ago--'My
House is called the house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of
thieves!' Is it not truly a den of thieves? What has the Man of Sorrows
to do with all the evil splendour of St. Peter's?--its bronzes, its
marbles, its colossal statues of dead gods, its glittering altars, its
miserable dreary immensity, its flaring gilding and insolent vulgarity
of cost! Oh, what a loneliness is that of Christ in this world! What a
second Agony in Gethsemane!"
The sweet voice broke--the fair head was turned away,--and Cardinal
Felix, overcome by such emotion as he found it impossible to explain,
suddenly sank on his knees, and stretched out his arms to the young
slight creature who spoke with such a passion and intensity of yearning.
"Child!" he said, with tremulous appeal in his accents, "For God's
sake'--you who express your thoughts with such eloquence and fervent
pain!--tell me, WHO ARE YOU? My mind is caught and controlled by your
words,--you are too young to think as you do, or to speak as you
do,--yet some authority you seem to possess, which I submit to, not
knowing why; I am very old, and maybe growing foolish in my age--many
troubles are gathering about me in these latter days,--do not make them
more than I can bear!"
His words were to himself incoherent, and yet it seemed as if Manuel
understood them. Suffering himself to be clasped for a moment by the
old man's trembling hands, he nevertheless gently persuaded and
assisted him to rise, and when he was once more seated, stood quietly
by his side, waiting till he should have recovered from his sudden
agitation.
"Dear friend, you are weary and troubled in spirit," he said tenderly
then, "And my words seem to you only terrible because they are true! If
they grieve you, it is because the grief in your heart echoes mine! And
if I do think and speak more seriously than I should, it is for the
reason that I have been so much alone in the world,--left to myself,
with my own thoughts of God, which are not thoughts such as many care
for. I would not add to your sorrows,--I would rather lighten them if I
could--but I feel and fear that I shall be a burden upon you before
long!"
"Never!" exclaimed Bonpre fervently, "Never a burden on me, child!
Surely while I live you will not leave me?"
Manuel was silent for a little space. His eyes wandered from the
Cardinal's venerable worn features to the upstanding silver crucifix
that gleamed dully in the glow of the wood-embers.
"I will not leave you unless it is well for you that I should go," he
answered at last, "And even then, you will always know where to find
me."
The Cardinal looked at him earnestly, and with a searching
interrogation,--but the boy's face though sweetly composed, had a
certain gravity of expression which seemed to forbid further
questioning. And a deep silence fell between them,--a silence which was
only broken by the door opening to admit Prince Sovrani who, pausing on
the threshold, said,
"Brother, if you will allow yourself to be disturbed, Angela would like
to see you in her studio. There are several people there,--her fiance,
Varillo among the number,--and I think the girl would be glad of your
presence."
The Cardinal started as from a dream, and rose from his chair.
"I will come at once--yes--I will come," he said, "I must not be
selfish and think only of my own troubles!" He stood erect,--he was
still in the scarlet robes in which he had made his appearance at the
Vatican, and they fell regally about his tall dignified form, the vivid
colour intensifying the pallor of his thin features. A servant entering
at the moment with two large silver candelabra ablaze with lights,
created an effect of luminance in the room that made him appear to even
greater advantage as an imposing figure of ecclesiastical authority,
and Prince Pietro looked at him with the admiring affection and respect
which he, though a cynic and sceptic, had always felt for the brother
of his wife,--affection and respect which had if anything become
intensified since that beloved one's untimely death.
"You were well received at the Vatican?" he said tentatively.
"Not so well as I had hoped," replied the Cardinal patiently--"Not so
well! But the cloud will pass. I will go with you to the
studio,--Manuel, will you stay here?"
Manuel bent his head in assent; he had just closed the before open copy
of the Gospels, and now stood with his hand upon the Book.
"I will wait till you call me, my lord Cardinal," he replied.
Prince Pietro then led the way, and Cardinal Bonpre followed, his
scarlet robes sweeping behind him with a rich rustling sound, and as
the two entered the large lofty studio, hung with old tapestries, and
panelled with deeply carved and gilded oak, the room which was Angela
Sovrani's special sanctum, all the persons there assembled rose from
their different sitting or lounging attitudes, and respectfully bent
their heads to the brief and unostentatious benediction given to them
by the venerable prelate of whom all present had heard, but few had
seen, and everyone made way for him as Angela met and escorted him to a
seat on one of the old, throne-like chairs with which the Sovrani
palace was so amply supplied. When he was thus installed, he made the
picturesque centre of a brilliant little scene enough,--one of those
vivacious and bright gatherings which can be found nowhere so perfectly
blended in colour and in movement as in a great art-studio in Rome.
Italians are not afraid to speak, to move, to smile,--unlike the
Anglo-Saxon race, their ease of manner is inborn, and comes to them
without training, hence there is nothing of the stiff formality and
awkward gloom which too frequently hangs like a cloud over English
attempts at sociality,--and that particular charm which is contained in
the brightness and flashing of eyes, creates a dazzling effect
absolutely unknown to colder northern climes. Eyes,--so potent to
bewitch and to command, are a strangely neglected influence in certain
forms of social intercourse. English eyes are too often dull and
downcast, and wear an inane expression of hypocrisy and prudery; unless
they happen to be hard and glittering and meaningless; but in southern
climes, they throw out radiant invitations, laughing assurances,
brilliant mockeries, melting tendernesses, by the thousand flashes, and
make a fire of feeling in the coldest air. And so in Angela's beautiful
studio, among the whiteness of classic marbles, and the soft hues of
richly falling draperies, fair faces shone out like flowers, lit up by
eyes, whose light seemed to be vividly kindled by the heat of an
amorous southern sun,--Venetian eyes blue as a cornflower, Florentine
eyes brown and brilliant as a russet leaf in autumn, Roman eyes black
as night, Sicilian eyes of all hues, full of laughter and flame--and
yet among all, no sweeter or more penetratingly tender eyes than those
of Sylvie Hermenstein ever shot glances abroad to bewilder and dazzle
the heart of man. Not in largeness, colour or brilliancy lay their
charm, but in deep, langourous, concentrated sweetness,--a sweetness so
far-reaching from the orb to the soul that it was easy to sink away
into their depths and dream,--and never wish to wake. Sylvie was
looking her fairest that afternoon,--the weather was chilly, and the
close-fitting black velvet dress with its cape-like collar of rich
sables, well became her figure and delicately fair complexion, and many
a spiteful little whisper concerning her went round among more showy
but less attractive women,--many an involuntary but low murmur of
admiration escaped from the more cautious lips of the men. She was
talking to the Princesse D'Agramont, who with her brilliant dark beauty
could afford to confess ungrudgingly the charm of a woman so
spirituelle as Sylvie, and who, between various careless nods and
smiles to her acquaintance, was detailing to her with much animation
the account of her visit to the Marquis Fontenelle before leaving Paris.
"He must be very epris!" said the Princesse laughing, "For he froze
into a rigid statue of virtue when I suggested that he should escort me
to Rome! I did not wait to see the effect of my announcement that YOU
were already there!"
Sylvie lowered her eyes, and a faint colour crimsoned her cheeks.
"Then he knows where I am?" she asked.
"If he believes ME, he knows," replied Loyse D'Agramont, "But perhaps
he does not believe me! All Paris was talking about the Abbe Vergniaud
and his son 'Gys Grandit', when I left, and the Marquis appeared as
interested in that esclandre as he can ever be interested in anything
or anybody. So perhaps he forgot my visit as soon as it was ended. Abbe
Vergniaud is very ill by the way. His self-imposed punishment, and his
unexpected reward in the personality of his son, have proved a little
too much for him,--both he and 'Grandit' are at my Chateau," here she
raised her lorgnon, and peered through it with an inquisitive air,
"Tiens! There is the dear Varillo making himself agreeable as usual to
all the ladies! When does the marriage come off between him and our
gifted Sovrani?"
"I do not know," answered Sylvie, with a little dubious look, "Nothing
is contemplated in that way until Angela's great picture is exhibited."
The Princesse D'Agramont looked curiously at the opposite wall where an
enormous white covering was closely roped and fastened across an
invisible canvas, which seemed to be fully as large as Raffaelle's
"Transfiguration".
"Still a mystery?" she queried, "Has she never shown it even to you?"
Sylvie shook her head.
"Never!" and then breaking off with a sudden exclamation she turned in
the direction of the door where there was just now a little movement
and murmur of interest, as the slim tall figure of a man moved slowly
and with graceful courtesy through the assemblage towards that corner
of the studio where the Cardinal sat, his niece standing near him, and
there made a slight yet perfectly reverential obeisance.
"Mr. Leigh!" cried Angela, "How glad I am to see you!"
"And I too," said the Cardinal, extending his hand, and kindly raising
Aubrey before he could complete his formal genuflection, "You have not
wasted much of your time in Florence!"
"My business was soon ended there," replied Aubrey. "It merely
concerned the saving of a famous religious picture--but I find the
modern Florentines so dead to beauty that it is almost impossible to
rouse them to any sort of exertion . . ." Here he paused, as Angela
with a smile moved quickly past him saying,
"One moment, Mr. Leigh! I must introduce you to one of my dearest
friends!"
He waited, with a curious sense of impatience, and full beating of his
heart, answering quite mechanically one or two greetings from Florian
Varillo and other acquaintances who knew and recognised him--and then
felt, rather than saw, that he was looking into the deep sweet eyes of
the woman who had flung him a rose from the balcony of the angels, and
that her face, sweet as the rose itself, was smiling upon him. As in a
dream he heard her name, "The Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein" and his own,
"Mr. Aubrey Leigh"; he was dimly aware of bowing, and of saying
something vague and formal, but all the actuality of his being was for
the moment shaken and transfigured, and only one strong and
overwhelming conviction remained,--the conviction that, in the slight
creature who stood before him gracefully acknowledging his salutation,
he had met his fate. Now he understood as he had never done before what
the poet-philosopher meant by "the celestial rapture falling out of
heaven";--for that rapture fell upon him and caught him up in a cloud
of glory, with all the suddenness and fervour which must ever attend
the true birth of the divine passion in strong and tender natures. The
calculating sensualist can never comprehend this swiftly exalted
emotion, this immediate radiation of light through all life, which is
like the sun breaking through clouds on a dark day. The sensualist has
by self-indulgence, blunted the edge of feeling, and it is impossible
for him to experience this delicate sensation of exquisite
delight,--this marvellous assurance that here and now, face to face,
stands the One for whom all time shall be merged into a Song of Love,
and upon whom all the sweetest thoughts of imagination shall be brought
to bear for the furtherance of mutual joy! Aubrey's strong spirit, set
to stern labour for so long, and trained to toil with but scant peace
for reward, now sprang up as it were to its full height of capability
and resolution,--yet its power was tempered with that tender humility
which, in a noble-hearted man, bends before the presence of the woman
whose love for him shall make her sacred. All his instincts bade him
recognise Sylvie as the completion and fulfilment of his life, and this
consciousness was so strong and imperative that it made him more than
gentle to her as he spoke his first few words, and obtained her consent
to escort her to a seat not far off from the Cardinal, yet removed
sufficiently from the rest of the people to enable them to converse
uninterruptedly for a time. Angela watched them, well pleased;--she too
had quick instincts, and as she noted Sylvie's sudden flush under the
deepening admiration of Aubrey's eyes, she thought to herself, "If it
could only be! If she could forget Fontenelle--if--"
But here her thoughts were interrupted by her own "ideal",--Florian
Varillo who, catching her hand abruptly, drew her aside for a moment.
"Carissima mia, why did you not introduce the Princesse D'Agramont to
Mr. Leigh rather than the Comtesse Hermenstein? The Princesse is of his
way of thinking,--Sylvie is not!" and he finished his sentence by
slipping an arm round her waist quickly, and whispering a word which
brought the colour to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes, and made
her heart beat so quickly that she could not speak for a moment. Yet
she was supposed by the very man whose embrace thus moved her, to be
"passionless!"
"You must not call her 'Sylvie'," she answered at last, "She does not
like such familiarity--even from you!"
"No? Did she tell you so?" and Florian laughed, "What a confiding
little darling you are, Angela! I assure you, Sylvie Hermenstein is not
so very particular--but there! I will not say a word against any friend
of yours! But do you not see she is already trying to make a fool of
Aubrey Leigh?"
Angela looked across the room and saw Leigh's intellectual head bending
closely towards the soft gold of Sylvie's hair, and smiled.
"I do not think Sylvie would willingly make a fool of anyone," she
answered simply, "She is too loyal and sincere. I fancy you do not
understand her, Florian. She is full of fascination, but she is not
heartless."
But Florian entertained a very lively remembrance of the recent rebuff
given to himself by the fair Comtesse, and took his masculine vengeance
by the suggested innuendo of a shrug of his shoulders and a lifting of
his eyebrows. But he said no more just then, and merely contented
himself with coaxingly abstracting a rose out of Angela's bodice,
kissing it, and placing it in his own buttonhole. This was one of his
"pretty drawing-room tricks" according to Loyse D'Agramont who always
laughed unmercifully at these kind of courtesies. They had been the
stock-in-trade of her late husband, and she knew exactly what value to
set upon them. But Angela was easily moved by tenderness, and the
smallest word of love, the lightest caress made her happy and satisfied
for a long time. She had the simple primitive notions of an innocent
woman who could not possibly imagine infidelity in a sworn love.
Looking at her sweet face, earnest eyes, and slim graceful figure now,
as she moved away from Florian Varillo's side, and passed glidingly in
and out among her guests, the Princesse D'Agramont, always watchful,
wondered with a half sigh how she would take the blow of disillusion if
it ever came; would it crush her, or would she rise the nobler and
stronger for it?
"Many a one here in this room to-day," mused the Princesse, "would be
glad if she fell vanquished in the hard fight! Many a man--shameful as
it seems--would give a covert kick to her poor body. For there is
nothing that frets and irks some male creatures so much as to see a
woman attain by her own brain and hand a great position in the world,
and when she has won her crown and throne they would deprive her of
both, and trample her in the mud if they dared! SOME male
creatures--not all. Florian Varillo for instance. If he could only get
the world to believe that he paints half Angela's pictures he would be
quite happy. I daresay he does persuade a few outsiders to think it.
But in Rome we know better. Poor Angela!"
And with another sigh she dismissed the subject from her mind for the
moment, her attention being distracted by the appearance of Monsignor
Gherardi, who just then entered and took up a position by the
Cardinal's chair, looking the picture of imposing and stately
affability. One glance of his eyes in the direction of Aubrey Leigh,
where he sat absorbed in conversation with the Comtesse Hermenstein,
had put the wily priest in an excellent humour, and nothing could
exceed the deferential homage and attention he paid to Cardinal Bonpre,
talking with him in low, confidential tones of the affairs which
principally occupied their attention,--the miraculous cure of Fabien
Doucet, and the defection of Vergniaud from the Church. Earnestly did
the good Felix, thinking Gherardi was a friend, explain again his utter
unconsciousness of any miracle having been performed at his hands, and
with equal fervour did he plead the cause of Vergniaud, in the spirit
and doctrine of Christ, pointing out that the erring Abbe was, without
any subterfuge at all, truly within proximity of death, and that
therefore it seemed an almost unnecessary cruelty to set the ban of
excommunication against a repentant and dying man. Gherardi heard all,
with a carefully arranged facial expression of sympathetic interest and
benevolence, but gave neither word nor sign of active partisanship in
any cause. He had another commission in charge from Moretti, and he
worked the conversation dexterously on, till he touched the point of
his secret errand.
"By the way," he said gently, "among your many good and kindly works, I
hear you have rescued a poor stray boy from the streets of Rouen--and
that he is with you now. Is that true?"
"Quite true," replied the Cardinal, "But no particular goodness can be
accredited to any servant of the Gospel for trying to rescue an orphan
child from misery."
"No--no, certainly not!" assented Gherardi--"But it is seldom that one
as exalted in dignity as yourself condescends--ah, pardon me!--you do
not like that word I see!"
"I do not understand it in OUR work," said the Cardinal, "There can be
no 'condescension' in saving the lost."
Gherardi was silent a moment, smiling a little to himself. "What a
simpleton is this Saint Felix!" he thought. "What a fool to run amuck
at his own chances of distinction and eminence!"
"And the boy is clever?" he said presently in kindly accents--"Docile
in conduct?--and useful to you?"
"He is a wonderful child!" answered the Cardinal with unsuspecting
candour and feeling, "Thoughtful beyond his years,--wise beyond his
experience."
Gherardi shot a quick glance from under his eyelids at the fine
tranquil face of the venerable speaker, and again smiled.
"You have no further knowledge of him?--no clue to his parentage?"
"None."
Just then the conversation was interrupted by a little movement of
eagerness,--people were pressing towards the grand piano which Florian
Varillo had opened,--the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein was about to grant
a general request made to her for a song. She moved slowly and with a
touch of reluctance towards the instrument, Aubrey Leigh walking beside
her.
"You are a musician yourself?--" she said, glancing up at him, "You
play--or you sing?"
"I do a little of both," he answered, "But I shall be no rival to you!
I have heard YOU sing!"
"You have? When?"
"The other night, or else I dreamed it," he said softly, "I have a very
sweet echo of a song in my mind with words that sounded like 'Ti
volglio bene', and a refrain that I caught in the shape of a rose!"
Their eyes met--and what Emerson calls "the deification and
transfiguration of life" began to stir Sylvie's pulses, and set her
heart beating to a new and singular exaltation. The warm colour flushed
her cheeks--the lustre brightened in her eyes, and she looked sweeter
and more bewitching than ever as she loosened the rich sables from
about her slim throat, and drawing off her gloves sat down to the
piano. Florian Varillo lounged near her--she saw him not at
all,--Angela came up to ask if she could play an accompaniment for
her,--but she shook her bright head in a smiling negative, and her
small white fingers running over the keys, played a rippling passage of
a few bars while she raised her clear eyes to Aubrey and asked him,--
"Do you know an old Brittany song called 'Le Palais D'Iffry'? No? It is
just one of those many songs of the unattainable,--the search for the
'Fortunate Isles', or the 'Fata Morgana' of happiness."
"Is happiness nothing but a 'Fata Morgana'?'" asked Aubrey gently,
"Must it always vanish when just in sight?"
His eyes grew darkly passionate as he spoke, and again Sylvie's heart
beat high, but she did not answer in words,--softening the notes of her
prelude she sang in a rich mezzo-soprano, whose thrilling tone
penetrated to every part of the room, the quaint old Breton ballad,
"Il serait un roi! Mais quelqu'un a dit, 'Non!--Pas pour toi! 'Reste en
prison,--ecoute le chant d'amour, 'Et le doux son des baisers que la
Reine a promit 'A celui qui monte, sans peur et sans retour Au Palais
D'Iffry!' Helas, mon ami, C'est triste d'ecouter le chanson sans le
chanter aussi!"
Aubrey listened to the sweet far-reaching notes--"Sans peur, et sans
retour, au Palais D'Iffry"! Thither would he climb--to that enchanted
palace of love with its rainbow towers glittering in the "light that
never was on sea or land"--to the throne of that queen whose soft eyes
beckoned him--whose kiss waited for him--everything now must be for
her--all the world for her sake, willingly lost or willingly won! And
what of the work he had undertaken? The people to whom he had pledged
his life? The great Christ-message he had determined to re-preach for
the comfort of the million lost and sorrowful? His brows
contracted,--and a sudden shadow of pain clouded the frank clearness of
his eyes. Gherardi's words came back to his memory,--"You have embarked
in a most hopeless cause! You will help the helpless, and as soon as
they are rescued out of trouble they will turn and rend you,--you will
try to teach them the inner mysteries of God's working and they will
say you are possessed of a devil!" Then he thought of another and
grander saying--"Whoso, putting his hand to the plough, looketh back,
is not fit for the Kingdom of God!--" and over all rang the enchanting
call of the siren's voice--
"Et le doux son des baisers que la Reine a promit A celui qui monte,
sans peur et sans retour Au Palais D'Iffry!"
and he so lost himself in a tangle of thought that he did not observe
how closely Monsignor Gherardi was studying every expression of his
face, and he started as if he had been awakened from a dream when
Sylvie's song ceased, and Sylvie herself glanced up at him.
"Music seems to make you sad, Mr. Leigh!" she said timidly.
"Not music--but sometimes the fancies which music engenders, trouble
me," he answered, bending his earnest searching eyes upon her, and
wondering within himself whether such a small, slight gossamer thing of
beauty, brilliant as a tropical humming-bird, soft and caressable as a
dove, could possibly be expected to have the sweet yet austere
fortitude and firmness needed to be a true "helpmeet" to him in the
work he had undertaken, and the life he had determined to lead. He
noted all the dainty trifles of her toilette half doubtingly, half
admiringly,--the knot of rich old lace that fastened her sables,--the
solitary star-like diamond which held that lace in careless
position--the numerous little touches of taste and elegance which made
her so unique and graceful among women--and a pang shot through his
heart as he thought of her wealth, and his own poverty. She meanwhile,
on her part, was studying him with all the close interest that a
cultured and refined woman feels, who is strongly conscious of having
awakened a sudden and masterful passion in a man whom she secretly
admires. A triumphant sense of her own power moved her, allied to a
much more rare and beautiful emotion--the sense of soul-submission to a
greater and higher life than her own. And so it chanced that never had
she looked so charming--never had her fair cheeks flushed a prettier
rose--never had her easy fascination of manner been so bewitchingly
troubled by hesitation and timidity--never had her eyes sparkled with a
softer or more irresistible languor. Aubrey felt that he was fast
losing his head as he watched her move, speak, and smile,--and with a
sudden bracing up of his energies resolved to make his adieux at once.
"I must be going,--" he began to say, when his arm was touched from
behind, and he turned to confront Florian Varillo, who smiled with all
the brilliancy his white and even teeth could give him.
"Why must you be going?" asked Varillo cheerily, "Why not stay and dine
with my future father-in-law, and Angela, and the eminent Cardinal? We
shall all be charmed!"
"Thanks, no!--I have letters to write to England . . ."
"Good-bye!" said the Comtesse Hermenstein at this juncture,--"I am
going to drive the Princesse D'Agramont round the Pincio, will you join
us, Mr. Leigh? The Princesse is anxious to know you--may I introduce
you?"
And without waiting for a reply, as the Princesse was close at hand,
she performed the ceremony of introduction at once in her own light
graceful fashion.
"Truly a strange meeting!" laughed Varillo, "You three ought to be very
good friends! The Comtesse Hermenstein is a devout daughter of the
Roman Church--Madame la Princesse is against all Churches--and you, Mr.
Leigh, are making your own Church!"
Aubrey did not reply. It was not the time or place to discuss either
his principles or his work, moreover he was strangely troubled by
hearing Sylvie described as "a devout daughter of the Roman Church."
"I am charmed!" said the Princesse D'Agramont, "Good fortune really
seems to favour me for once, for in the space of a fortnight I have met
two of the most distinguished men of the time, 'Gys Grandit', and
Aubrey Leigh!"
Aubrey bowed.
"You are too kind, Madame! Grandit and I have been friends for some
years, though we have never seen each other since I parted from him in
Touraine. But we have always corresponded."
"You have of course heard who he really is? The son of Abbe Vergniaud?"
continued the Princesse.
"I have heard--but only this morning, and I do not know any of the
details of the story."
"Then you must certainly come and drive with us," said Loyse
D'Agramont, "for I can tell you all about it. I wrote quite a brilliant
essay on it for the Figaro, and called it 'Church Morality'!" She
laughed. "Come,--we will take no denial!"
Aubrey tried to refuse, but could not,--the attraction,--the 'will o'
the wisp' magnetism of Sylvie's dainty personality drew him on, and in
a few minutes, after taking respectful leave of the Cardinal, Prince
Sovrani, and Angela, he left the studio in the company of the two
ladies. Passing Monsignor Gherardi on the way out he received a wide
smile and affable salute from that personage.
"A pleasant drive to you, Mr. Leigh," he said, "The view from the
Pincio is considered extremely fine!"
Aubrey made some formal answer and went his way. Gherardi returned to
the studio and resumed his confidential talk with Bonpre, while one by
one the visitors departed, till at last the only persons left in the
vast room were Angela and Florian Varillo, Prince Pietro, and the two
dignitaries of the Church. Florian was irritated, and made no secret of
his irritation to his fair betrothed, with whom he sat a little apart
from the others in the room.
"Do you want a love affair between Sylvie Hermenstein and that fellow
Leigh?" he enquired, "If so, it is probable that your desire will be
gratified!"
Angela raised her delicate eyebrows in a little surprise.
"I have no wish at all in the matter," she answered, "except to see
Sylvie quite happy."
"How very romantic is the friendship between you two women!" said
Varillo somewhat sarcastically, "You wish to see Sylvie happy,--and the
other day she told me she would form her judgment of me by YOUR
happiness! Really, it is most admirable and touching!"
Angela began to feel somewhat puzzled. Petulance and temper were not in
her character, and she was annoyed to see any touch of them in her
lover.
"Are you cross, Florian?" she asked gently, "Has something worried you
to-day?"
"Oh, I am often worried!" he replied;--and had he spoken the exact
truth he would have confessed that he was always seriously put out when
he was not the centre of attraction and the cynosure of women's
eyes--"But what does it matter! Do not think at all about me, cara mia!
Tell me of yourself. How goes the picture?"
"It is nearly finished now," she replied, her beautiful violet eyes
dilating and brightening with the fervour that inspired her whenever
she thought of her work, "I rise very early, and begin to paint with
the first gleam of daylight. I think I shall have it ready sooner than
I expected. The Queen has promised to come and see it here before it is
exhibited to the public."
"Margherita di Savoja is very amiable!" said Florian, with a tinge of
envy he could not wholly conceal, "She is always useful as a patron."
A quick flush of pride rose to Angela's cheeks.
"I do not need any patronage, Florian," she said simply yet with a
little coldness, "You know that I should resent it were it offered to
me. If my work is not good in itself, no 'royal' approval can make it
so. Queen Margherita visits me as a friend--not as a patron."
"There now! I have vexed you!" And Florian took her hand and kissed it.
"Forgive me, sweetest!--Look at me--give me a smile!--Ah! That is
kind!" and he conveyed an expression of warm tenderness into his eyes
as Angela turned her charming face upon him, softened and radiant with
the quick affection which always moved her at his voice and caress. "I
spoke foolishly! Of course my Angela could not be patronised--she is
too independent and gifted. I am very glad the Queen is coming!"
"The Queen is coming?" echoed Gherardi, who just then advanced. "Here?
To see Donna Sovrani's picture? Ah, that will be an excellent
advertisement! But it would have been far better, my dear young lady,
had you arranged with me, or with some other one of my confreres, to
have the picture sent to the Vatican for the inspection of His
Holiness. The Popes, as you know, have from time immemorial been the
best patrons of art!"
"My picture would not please the Pope," said Angela quietly, "It would
more probably win his denunciation than his patronage."
Gherardi smiled. The idea of a woman--a mere woman imagining that
anything which she could do was powerful enough to bring down Papal
denunciation! The strange conceit of these feminine geniuses! He could
almost have laughed aloud. But he merely looked her over blandly and
forbearingly.
"I am sorry," he said, "very sorry you should consider such a thing as
possible of your work. But no doubt you speak on impulse. Your
distinguished uncle, the Cardinal Bonpre, would be sadly distressed if
your picture should contain anything of a nature to bring you any
condemnation from the Vatican,--and your father . . ."
"Leave me out of it, if you please!" interrupted Prince Pietro, "I have
nothing whatever to do with it! Angela works with a free hand; none of
us have seen what she is doing."
"Not even you, Signor Varillo?" enquired Gherardi affably.
"Oh, I?" laughed Florian carelessly, "No indeed! I have not the least
idea of the subject or the treatment!"
"A mystery then?" said Gherardi, still preserving his bland suavity of
demeanour, "But permit me, Donna Sovrani, to express the hope that when
the veil is lifted a crown of laurels may be disclosed for you!"
Angela thanked him by a silent inclination of her head, and in a few
minutes the stately Vatican spy had taken his leave. As he disappeared
the Cardinal rose from his chair and moving somewhat feebly, prepared
to return to his own apartments.
"Dearest uncle, will you not stay with us to-night? Or are you too
tired?" asked Angela as she came to his side.
He raised her sweet face between his two wrinkled hands and looked at
her long and earnestly. "Dear child!" he said, "Dear brave little
child! For you must always be nothing more than a child to me,--tell
me, are you sure you are moved by the right spirit in the painting of
your picture?"
"I think so!" answered Angela gently, "Indeed, indeed, I think so! I
know that according to the teaching of our Master Christ, it is a TRUE
spirit!"
Slowly the Cardinal released her, and slowly and with impressive
earnestness traced the Cross on her fair brows.
"God bless you!" he said, "And God help you too! For if you work by
'the Spirit of Truth, the Comforter', remember it is the same Spirit
which our Lord tells us 'the world cannot receive because it seeth Him
not, neither knoweth Him.' And to testify of a Spirit which the world
cannot receive makes the world very hard to you!"
And with these words he gently leaned on the arm she proffered and left
the studio with her, the rich glow and voluminous folds of his scarlet
robes contrasting vividly with the simple black gown which Angela wore
without other adornment than a Niphetos rose to relieve its sombreness.
As she went with her uncle she looked over her shoulder and smiled an
adieu to Florian,--he, in his turn lightly kissed his hand to her, and
then addressed Prince Pietro, who, with the care of a man to whom
expense is a consideration, was putting out some of the tall lamps that
had illumined the dusk of the late afternoon.
"The good Cardinal is surely breaking up," he said carelessly, "He
looks extremely frail!"
"Young men sometimes break up before old ones!" returned the Prince
drily, "Felix is strong enough yet. You dine with us to-night?"
"If you permit--" said Varillo, with a graceful salutation.
"Oh, my permission does not matter'" said Sovrani eyeing him narrowly,
"Whatever gives pleasure to Angela must needs please me. She is all
that is left to me now in an exceedingly dull world. A riverderci! At
eight we dine."
Flonan nodded,--and took his departure, and the Prince for a moment
stood hesitating, looking at the great white covering on the wall which
concealed his daughter's mysterious work. His tall upright figure stiff
and sombre, looked as if cast in bronze in the half light shed by the
wood fire,--one lamp was still burning, and after a pause he moved from
his rigid attitude of gloomy consideration, and extinguished it, then
glancing round to see that all was in order, he left the studio,
closing its great oaken door behind him. Five minutes after he had gone
a soft step trod the polished floor, and the young Manuel, holding a
lighted taper, entered all alone. The flame of the little torch he
carried cast a soft golden glow about him as he walked noiselessly
through the great empty room, his blue eyes lifted to the marble heads
of gods and heroes which occupied their different positions on the
gilded and oaken brackets set against the tapestried walls,--and
presently he paused in front of Angela's hidden work. It was but a
moment's pause, and then, still with the same light step, and the same
bright glow reflected from the flame that glittered in his hand, he
passed through the room, lifted the velvet portiere at the other end
where there was another door leading to the corridor connected with the
Cardinal's apartments, and so unnoticed, disappeared.