"Then he has left for Naples?" said Bonpre, to whom Prince Pietro had
read this letter--"A sudden departure, is it not?"
"Very sudden!"
"He will not know what has happened to Angela--"
"Oh he will be sure to hear that!" said the Prince--"To-night it will
be in all the newspapers both of Rome and Naples. Angela's light cannot
be hidden under a bushel!"
"True. Then of course he will return at once."
"Naturally. If he hears the news on his way, he will probably be back
to-night--" said Sovrani, but his fuzzy brows were still puckered. Some
uncomfortable thought seemed to trouble him,--and presently, as if
moved by a sudden inexplicable instinct, he took the basket of lilies
away from where he had set it in front of his daughter's picture, and
transferred it to a side-table. Cardinal Bonpre, always observant,
noticed his action.
"You will not leave the flowers there?" he queried.
"No. The picture is a sacred thing!--it is an almost living Christ!--in
whom Varillo does not believe!"
The Cardinal lifted his eyes protestingly.
"Yet you let the child marry him?"
Sovrani passed one hand wearily across his brows.
"Let us not talk of marriage," he said--"Death is nearer to us to-day
than life! I am opposed to the match--I always have been,--and who
knows--who knows what may not yet prevent it--" He paused,
thinking,--then turning a solicitous glance on his brother-in-law's
frail figure he said--"Felix, you look weary,--let me attend you to
your own rooms, that you may rest. We need you with us,--it may be that
we shall need you more than we have ever done! Pray for us,
brother!--Pray for my Angela, that she may be spared--"
His harsh voice broke,--and tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks.
"See you!" he said, pointing in a kind of despair to the magnificent
"Coming of Christ"--"If Raffaelle or Angelo had dared to paint this in
their day, the world would be taking a lesson from it now! If it were a
modern man's work, that man would be a centre for hero-worship! But
that a WOMAN should create such a masterpiece!--and that woman my
Angela! Do you know what it means, Felix?--what Fame always means, what
it always must mean--for a woman? Just what has already happened,--the
murderous dagger-thrust--the coward stab in the back--and the little
child's cry of the tender broken heart we heard just now--'Stay with
me!--I am so tired!'"
The Cardinal pressed his hand sympathetically, too profoundly moved
himself to speak.
"This picture will bring down the thunders of the Vatican!--" went on
Sovrani--"And those thunders will awaken a responsive echo from the
world! But not from the Old World--the New! The New World!--yes--my
Angela's work is for the living present, the coming future--not for the
decayed Past!"
As he spoke, he dropped the silken curtain before the picture and hid
it from view.
"We will raise it again when the painter lives--or dies!" he said
brokenly.
They left the studio, Prince Pietro extinguishing the lights, and
giving orders to his servant to put a strong bar across the door they
had forced open,--and the Cardinal, feeling more lonely than he had
done for many days, owing to the temporary absence of Manuel who was
keeping watch over Angela, returned to his own apartments full of grave
thoughts and anxious trouble. He had meant to leave Rome at once,--but
now, such a course seemed more than impossible. Yet he knew that the
scene which had, through himself indirectly, occurred at the Vatican,
would have its speedy results in some decisive and vengeful action, if
not on the part of the Supreme Pontiff, then through his ministers and
advisers, and Bonpre was sufficiently acquainted with the secret ways
of the Church he served, to be well aware of its relentlessness in all
cases where its authority was called into question. The first step
taken, so he instinctively felt, would be to deprive him of Manuel's
companionship,--the next perhaps, to threaten him with the loss of his
own diocese. He sighed heavily,--yet in his own tranquil and pious mind
he could not say that he resented the position his affairs had taken.
Accustomed as he was always, to submit the whole daily course of his
life to the ruling of a Higher Power, he was framed and braced as
temperately for adversity as for joy,--and nothing seemed to him either
fortunate or disastrous except as concerned the attitude in which the
soul received the announcement of God's will. To resent affliction was,
in his opinion, sinful; to accept it reverently and humbly as a means
of grace, and endeavour to make sweetness out of the seeming bitterness
of the divine dispensation, appeared to him the only right and natural
way of duty,--hence his clear simplicity of thought, his patience,
plain faith, and purity of aim. And even now, perplexed and pained as
he was, much more for the sorrow which had befallen his brother-in-law,
than for any trouble likely to occur personally to himself, he was
still able to disentangle his thoughts from all earthly cares--to lift
up his heart, unsullied by complaint, to the Ruler of all
destinies--and to resign himself with that Christian philosophy, which
when truly practised, is so much more powerful than all the splendid
stoicism of the heroic pagans, to those
"Glorious God-influences,
Which we, unseeing, feel and grope for blindly,
Like children in the dark, knowing that Love is near!"
Meanwhile Prince Pietro, moved by conflicting sentiments and
forebodings which he was unable to explain to himself, and only
strongly conscious of the desire to be avenged on his daughter's
cowardly assailant, whoever it might be, muffled himself in a well-worn
"Almaviva" cloak, his favourite out-door garment, pulled his hat down
over his eyes, and so, looking like a fierce old brigand of the
mountains, went out, not quite knowing why he went, but partly impelled
by a sense of curiosity. He wanted to hear something,--to find
something,--and yet he could not agree with himself as to the nature of
the circumstance he sought to discover. There was a lurking suspicion
in his mind to which he would not give a name,--a dark thought that
made him tremble with mingled rage and horror,--but he put it away from
him as a hint offered by the Evil One--an insidious suggestion as
hideous as it was unnatural. The afternoon had now closed into night,
and many stars were glistening bravely in the purple depths of the
clear sky,--the air was mild and balmy,--and as he crossed the road to
turn down the little side street leading to the Tiber, where Florian
Varillo had stood but a few hours previously, a flower-girl met him
with a large basket of white hyacinths and held them up to his eyes.
"Ecco la primavera, Signor!" she said, with a smile.
He shook his head, and turned abruptly away,--as he did so, his foot
struck against some slight obstacle. Stooping to examine it, he saw it
was the empty leathern sheath of a dagger. He picked it up, and studied
it intently. It was elaborately adorned with old rococco work, and was
evidently the ornamental covering of one of those small but deadly
weapons which Italians, both men and women, so often wear concealed
about their persons, for the purpose of taking vengeance, when deemed
necessary, on an unsuspecting enemy. Slipping the thing into his
pocket, the Prince looked about him, and soon recognised his
bearings,--he was standing about six yards away from the private
back-entrance to his daughter's studio. He walked up to the door and
tried it,--it was fast locked.
"Yes--I remember!--the servants told me--both doors were locked,--and
from this they said the key was gone,--" he muttered, then paused.
Presently, actuated by a sudden impulse, he turned and walked swiftly
with long impatient strides through the more populated quarters of Rome
towards the Corso, and he had not proceeded very far in this direction
before he heard a frenzied and discordant shouting which, though he
knew it did not yet bear the truth in its harsh refrain, yet staggered
him and made his heart almost stand still with an agony of premonitory
fear.
"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"
"Assassinamento di Angela Sovrani!"
"Morte subito di Angela Sovrani!"
"Assassinamento crudele della bella Sovrani!"
Prince Pietro held his breath in sharp pain, listening. How horrible
was the persistent cry of the newsvendors!--hoarse and shrill--now
near--now far!--
"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"
How horrible!--how horrible! He put his hands to his ears to try and
shut out the din. He had not expected any public outcry--not so
soon--but ill news travels fast, and no doubt the very servants of his
own household were responsible for having, in the extremity of their
terror, given away the report of Angela's death. The terrible shouts
were like so many cruel blows on his brain,--yet--half-reeling with the
shock of them, he still went on his way,--straight on to the house and
studio of Florian Varillo. There, he rang the bell loudly and
impatiently. A servant opened the door in haste, and stared aghast at
the tall old man with the white hair and blazing eyes, who was wrapped
in a dark cloak, the very folds of which seemed to tremble with the
suppressed rage of the form it enveloped.
"Il Principe Souvrani!" he stammered feebly, falling back a little from
the threshold.
"Where is your master?" demanded Sovrani.
"Eccellenza, he has gone to Naples!"
"When did he leave?"
"But two hours ago, Eccellenza!"
Prince Pietro held up the dagger-sheath he had just found.
"This--belongs--to--him--does it not?" he asked slowly, detaching his
words with careful directness.
The man answered readily and at once.
"Yes, Eccellenza!"
Sovrani uttered a terrible oath.
"Let me pass!"
The servant made a gesture of protest.
"But--Eccellenza--my master is not here! . . ."
Prince Pietro paying no heed to him, strode into the house, and
brusquely threw open the door of a room which he knew to be Varillo's
own specially private retreat. A woman with a mass of bright
orange-gold hair, half-dressed in a tawdry blue peignoir trimmed with
cheap lace, was sprawling lazily on a sofa smoking a cigarette. She
sprang up surprised and indignant,--but shrank back visibly as she
recognised the intruder, and met the steady tigerish glare of the old
man's eyes.
"Where is your lover?" he asked.
"Eccellensa! You amaze--you insult me--!"
"Basta!" and Sovrani came a step nearer to her, his wrath seeming to
literally encompass him like a thunder-cloud--"Play me no tricks! This
is not the time for lying! I repeat my question--where is he? You, the
companion of his closest thoughts,--you, his 'model'--you, Mademoiselle
Pon-Pon, his mistress--you must know all his movements. Tell me then,
where he is--or by heaven, if you do not, I will have you arrested for
complicity in murder!"
She fell back from him trembling, her full red mouth half open,--and
her face paling with terror.
"Murder!" she whispered--"Dio mio! Dio mio!"
"Yes--murder!" and the Prince thrust before her wide-opened eyes the
dagger-sheath he held--"What! Have you not heard? Not yet? Not though
the whole city rings with the news? What news? That Angela Sovrani is
dead! That she--my daughter--the sweetest, purest, most innocent and
loving of women as well as the greatest and most gifted--has been
mortally stabbed in her own studio this very day by some cowardly fiend
unknown! Unknown did I say? Not so--known! This sheath belongs to
Florian Varillo. Where is he? Tell me at once--if only to save YOURSELF
trouble!"
Overcome by fear, and to do her justice, horror as well, the miserable
Pon-Pon threw herself on her knees.
"I swear he has gone to Naples!" she cried--"On my word!--as I live!--I
swear it!--he has gone! He seemed as usual,--he was not in any
haste--he left no message--he said he would be back in two or three
days--he sent flowers to la Donna Sovrani--he wrote to her
. . . O Santissima Virgine! . . . I swear to you I know nothing!"
The Prince eyed her with grim attention.
"They are shouting it in the streets--" he said--"Listen!" He held up
one hand,--she cowered on the floor--she could hear nothing, and she
stared at him in fascinated terror--"They are telling all Rome of the
death of my child! First Rome--and then--the world! The world shall
hear of it! For there is only one Angela Sovrani,--and earth and heaven
cry out for justice in her name! Tell this to the devil who has bought
you for his pleasure! I leave the message with you,--tell him that when
the world clamours for vengeance upon her murderer, I KNOW WHERE TO
FIND HIM!"
With that, he put the dagger-sheath back in his breastpocket with
jealous care, and left her where she crouched, shivering and moaning.
Walking as in a dream he brushed past the astonished and frightened
servant unseeingly, and went out of the house into the street once
more. There he paused dizzily,--the stars appeared to rock in the sky,
and the houses seemed moving slowly round him in a sort of circular
procession. The shouting of the newsvendors which had ceased for a
while, began again with even louder persistency.
"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"
"La bella Sovrani!--Assassinamento crudele!"
The old man's heart beat in strong hammer-strokes,--he listened
vaguely,--his tall figure shaking a little with the storm pent-up
within him, till all at once as if the full realization of the position
had only just burst upon him, he uttered a sharp cry--
"Her lover! Her promised husband! One whom she trusted and loved more
than her own father! The hope of her life!--the man whose praise was
sweeter to her than the plaudits of the whole world!--he--even he--her
MURDERER! For even if she lives in body, he has murdered her soul!"
He looked up at the deep starlit heavens, his dark face growing livid
in the intensity of his wrath and pain.
"May God curse him!" he whispered thickly--"May all evil track his
footsteps, and the terrors of a cursed conscience hound him to his
death! May he never know peace by day or night!--may the devils in his
own soul destroy him! God curse him!"
He clenched his fist and raised it threateningly,--and gathering his
cloak about him tried to walk on,--but there was a black mist before
his eyes . . . he could not see--he stumbled forward blindly, and would
have fallen, had not a strong arm caught him and held him upright. He
turned a dazed and wondering look on the man whose friendly grasp
supported him,--then, with an exclamation, made a trembling attempt to
raise his hat.
"Il Re!" he murmured feebly--"Il Re!"
King Humbert--for it was he--held him still more closely.
"Courage, amico!" he said kindly--"Courage!--yes--yes!--I know--I have
heard the news! All Italy will give you vengeance for your child! We
will spare no pains to discover her murderer. But now--you are ill--you
are weary--do not try to speak--come with me! Let me take you
home--come!"
A great sob broke from the old man's breast as he yielded to his
Sovereign's imperative yet gentle guidance, and before he could realize
the situation, he was in the King's own carriage, with the King beside
him, being rapidly driven back to his own house. Arrived at the Palazzo
Sovrani, a strange sight greeted them. The great porte-cochere was wide
open, and, pressing through it, and surrounding the stately building at
every point was a vast crowd,--densely packed and almost absolutely
silent. Quite up to the inner portico these waiting thousands
pressed,--though, as they recognised the Royal liveries, they did their
best to make immediate way, and a low murmur arose "Evviva il Re!" But
there was no loud shouting, and the continued hush was more distinctly
recognisable than the murmur. Prince Sovrani gazed bewilderedly at the
great throng as the carriage moved slowly through, and putting his hand
to his head murmured--
"What--what is this! I do not understand--why are these people here?"
The King pressed his hand.
"All the world honours and loves your daughter, my friend!" he said,
"And Rome, the Mother of Nations, mourns the loss of her youngest child
of genius."
"No--no, not loss!--she is not dead--" began Sovrani stammeringly,--"I
should have told your Majesty--she is grievously wounded--but not dead
. . ."
At that moment the carriage stopped. The door of the Sovrani palace was
open, and in the centre of a group of people that had gathered within,
among whom were Aubrey Leigh, Sylvie Hermenstein, and the Princesse
D'Agramont, stood Cardinal Bonpre and Manuel. Manuel was a little in
advance of the rest, and as the King and Prince Sovrani alighted, he
came fully forward, his eyes shining, and a smile upon his lips.
"She will recover!" he said, "She is sleeping peacefully,--and all is
well!" His voice rang clear and sweet, and was heard by everyone on the
outskirts of the crowd. The good news ran from mouth to mouth, till all
the people caught it up and responded with one brief, subdued, but
hearty cheer. Then, without bidding, they began to disperse, and the
King, baring his head in the presence of Cardinal Bonpre, gave up his
self-imposed charge of old Sovrani, who, faint and feeble, grasped
Aubrey Leigh's quickly proffered arm, and leaned heavily upon it.
"He needs care," said Humbert gently,--"The shock has moved him
greatly!"
"Your Majesty is ever considerate of the sorrows of others," said the
venerable Felix with emotion, "And God will bless you as He blesses all
good men!"
The King bowed reverently to the benediction. Then he looked up with a
slight smile.
"It is not wise of your Eminence to say so,--in Rome!" he
observed,--"But I thank you, and am grateful!"
His keen eyes rested for a moment on Manuel,--and the fair aspect of
the boy seemed to move him to a sense of wonder--but he did not speak.
With a light salute to all present he re-entered his carriage and was
driven away--and Aubrey Leigh led Prince Sovrani into his own library
where, when he was seated, they all waited upon him eagerly, the fair
Sylvie chafing his cold hands, and the Princesse D'Agramont practically
making him drink a glass of good wine. Gradually, warmth and colour and
animation came back to his pale features,--his fears were soothed,--his
heart relieved, and a smile crossed his lips as he met Sylvie's
earnest, anxious eyes.
"What a pretty rosebud it is!" he said softly,--"Full of sunshine--and
love!"
With returning strength he gathered up the forces of his native pride
and independence and rose from his chair.
"I am well--quite well again now!" he said, "Where is the boy, Manuel?"
"Gone back to Angela," replied the Cardinal, "He said he would watch
her until she wakes."
"An angel watching an angel!" then said the Prince musingly, "That is
as it should be!" He paused a moment, "The King was very kind. And you,
Princesse--and you, bella Contessina!" and he courteously bent over
Sylvie's little hand and kissed it,--"You are all much too good to an
old man like me! I am strong again--I shall be ready to speak--when
Angela bids. But I must wait. I must wait!" He ruffled his white hair
with one hand and looked at them all very strangely. "That was a great
crowd outside--all waiting to hear news of my girl! If--if they knew
who it was that stabbed her--"
"Do you know?" cried Aubrey quickly.
"Per Dio!" And Sovrani smiled, "I thought Englishmen were phlegmatic,
and here is one ablaze, and ready to burst like a bomb! No!--I did not
say I knew!--but I say, if the crowd had known, they would have lynched
him! Yes, they would have torn him to pieces!
. . . and he would have deserved it! He will deserve it!--If he is ever
found! Come--we will all sup here together this evening--sorrow
strengthens the bonds of friendship . . . and I will tell you . . ."
He paused, and again the strange far-off look came into his eyes.
"I will tell you--" he went on slowly--"how I found my Angela lying
dead, as I thought--dead at the feet of Christ!"