"Oh, she is simply a treasure!" said Sylvie enthusiastically--"She and
my dear old Bozier are never weary in well-doing! As soon as Angela can
be moved, the Princesse wants to take her back to Paris,--because then
Rome can be allowed to pour into her studio to see her great picture."
"What does Angela say to that?"
"Angela seems resigned to anything!" answered Sylvie. "The only wish
she ever expresses is that Manuel should not leave her."
"There is something wonderful about that boy," said Aubrey
slowly--"From the first time I saw him he impressed me with a sense of
something altogether beyond his mere appearance. He is a child--yet not
a child--and I have often felt that he commands me without my realising
that I am so commanded."
"Aubrey! How strange!"
"Yes, it is strange!--" and Aubrey's eyes grew graver with the
intensity of his thought--"There is some secret--but--" he broke off
with a puzzled air--"I cannot explain it, so it is no use thinking
about it! I went to Varillo's studio yesterday and asked if there had
been any news of him--but there was none. I wonder where the brute has
gone!"
"It would be well if he had made exit out of the world altogether,"
said Sylvie--"But he is too vain of himself for that! However, his
absence creates suspicion--and even if Angela does not speak, people
will guess for themselves what she does not say. He will never dare to
show himself in Rome!"
Their conversation was abruptly terminated here by the entrance of
Madame Bozier with a quantity of fresh flowers which she had been out
to purchase, for Sylvie to take as usual on her morning visit to her
suffering friend; and Aubrey took his leave, promising to return later
in the afternoon, after Monsignor Gherardi had been and gone.
But he had his own ideas on the subject of Gherardi's visit to his fair
betrothed,--ideas which he kept to himself, for if his surmises were
correct, now was the time to put Sylvie's character to the test. He did
not doubt her stability in the very least, but he could never quite get
away from her mignonne child-like appearance of woman, to the
contemplation of the spirit behind the pretty exterior. Her beauty was
so riante, so dazzling, so dainty, that it seemed to fire the very air
as a sunbeam fires it,--and there was no room for any more serious
consideration than that of purely feminine charm. Walking dreamily,
almost unseeingly through the streets, he thought again and yet again
of the sweet face, the rippling hair, the laughing yet tender eyes, the
sunny smile. Behind that beautiful picture or earth-phantom of
womanhood, is there that sword of flame, the soul?--the soul that will
sweep through shams, and come out as bright and glittering at the end
of the fight as at the beginning?--he mused;--or is it not almost too
much to expect of a mere woman that she can contend against the anger
of a Church?
He was still thinking on this subject, when someone walking quickly
came face to face with him, and said--
"Aubrey!" He started and stared,--then uttered a cry of pleasure.
"Gys Grandit!"
The two men clasped each other's hands in a warm, strong grasp--and for
a moment neither could speak.
"My dear fellow!" said Aubrey at last--"This is indeed an unexpected
meeting! How glad I am to see you! When did you arrive in Rome?"
"This morning only," said Cyrillon, recovering his speech and his
equanimity together--"And as soon as I arrived, I found that my hopes
had not betrayed me--she is not dead!"
"She?" Aubrey started--"My dear Grandit! Or rather I must call you
Vergniaud now--who is the triumphant 'she' that has brought you thus
post haste to Rome?"
Cyrillon flushed--then grew pale.
"I should not have spoken!" he said--"And yet, why not! You were my
first friend!--you found me working in the fields, a peasant lad,
untrained and sullen, burning up my soul with passionate thoughts
which, but for you, might never have blossomed into action,--you
rescued me--you made me all I am! So why should I not confess to you at
once that there is a woman I love!--yes, love with all my soul, though
I have seen her but once!--and she is too far off, too fair and great
for me: she does not know I love her--but I heard she had been
murdered--that she was dead--"
"Angela Sovrani!" cried Aubrey.
Cyrillon bent his head as a devotee might at the shrine of a saint.
"Yes--Angela Sovrani!"
Aubrey looked at his handsome face glowing with enthusiasm, and saw the
passion, the tenderness, the devotion of a life flashing in his fine
eyes.
"Love at first sight!" he said with a smile--"I believe it is the only
true fire! A glance ought to be enough to express the recognition of
one soul to its mate. Well! Angela Sovrani is a woman among ten
thousand--the love of her alone is sufficient to make a man better and
nobler in every way--and if you can win her--"
"Ah, that is impossible! She is already affianced--"
Aubrey took his arm.
"Come with me, and I will tell you all I know," he said--"For there is
much to say,--and when you have heard everything, you may not be
altogether without hope."
They turned, and went towards the Corso, which they presently entered,
and where numbers of passers-by paused involuntarily to look at the two
men who offered such a marked contrast to each other,--the one
brown-haired and lithe, with dark, eager eyes,--the other with the slim
well set up figure of an athlete, and the fair head of a Saxon king.
And of the many who so looked after them, none guessed that the one was
destined in a few years' time to create a silent and bloodless French
Revolution, which should give back to France her white lilies of faith
and chivalry,--or that the other was the upholder of such a perfect
form of Christianity as should soon command the following of thousands
in all parts of the world.
And while they thus walked through the Roman crowd, the two women they
severally loved were talking of them. In Angela's sick-room, softly
shaded from the light, with a cheery wood fire burning, Sylvie sat by
her friend, telling her all she could think of that would interest her,
and rouse her from the deep gravity of mood in which she nearly always
found her. The weary days of pain and illness had given Angela a
strange, new beauty,--her face, delicate and pale, seemed transfigured
by the working of the soul within,--and her eyes, tired as they were
and often heavy with tears, had a serenity in their depths which was
not of earth, but all of Heaven. She was able now to move from her bed,
and lie on a couch near the fire,--and her little white hands moved
caressingly and with loving care among the bunches of beautiful flowers
which Sylvie had laid on her coverlet,--daffodils, anemones, narcissi,
violets, jonquils, and all the sweet-scented flowers of early spring
which come to Rome in December from the blossoming fields of Sicily.
"How sweet they are!" she said with a half sigh,--"They almost make me
in love with life again!"
Sylvie said nothing, but only kissed her.
"How good you are to me, dearest Sylvie!" she then said--"You deserve
to be very happy!"
"Not half so much as you do!" responded Sylvie tenderly--"I am of no
use at all to the world; and you are! The world would not miss me a
bit, but it would not find an Angela Sovrani again in a hurry!"
Angela raised a cluster of narcissi and inhaled their fine and delicate
perfume. There were tears in her eyes, but she hid them with a spray of
the flowers.
"Ah, Sylvie, you think too well of me! To be famous is nothing. To be
loved is everything!"
Sylvie looked at her earnestly.
"You are loved," she said.
"No, no!" she said--"No, I am not loved. I am hated! Hush, Sylvie!--do
not say one word of what is in your mind, for I will not hear it!"
She spoke agitatedly, and her cheeks flushed a sudden feverish red.
Sylvie made haste to try and soothe her.
"My darling girl, I would not say anything to vex you for the world!
You must not excite yourself--"
"I am not excited," said Angela, putting her arms round her friend and
drawing her fair head down till it was half hidden against her own
bosom--"No--but I must speak--bear with me for a minute, dear! We all
have our dreams, we women, and I have had mine! I dreamt there was such
a beautiful thing in the world as a great, unselfish love,--I fancied
that a woman, if gifted with a little power and ability above the rest
of her sex, could make the man she loved proud of her--not jealous!--I
thought that a lover delighted in the attainments of his beloved--I
thought there was nothing too high, too great, too glorious to attempt
for the sake of proving oneself worthy to be loved! And now--I have
found out the truth, Sylvie!--a bitter truth, but no doubt good for me
to know,--that men will kill what they once caressed out of a mere
grudge of the passing breath called Fame! Thus, Love is not what I
dreamed it; and I, who was so foolishly glad to think that I was loved,
have wakened up to know that I am hated!--hated to the very extremity
of hate, for a poor gift of brair and hand which I wish--I wish I had
never had!"
Sylvie raised her head and gently put aside the weak trembling little
hands that embraced her.
"Angela, Angela! You must not scorn the gifts of the gods! No, No!--you
will not let me say anything--you forbid me to express my thoughts
fully, and I know you are not well enough to hear me yet--but one day
you WILL know!--you will hear,--you will even be thankful for all the
sorrow you have passed through,--and meanwhile, dear, dearest Angela,
do not be ungrateful!"
She said the word boldly yet hesitatingly, bending over the couch
tenderly, her eyes full of light, and a smile on her lips. And taking
up a knot of daffodils she swept their cool blossoms softly across
Angela's burning forehead, murmuring--
"Do not be ungrateful!"
"Ungrateful--!" echoed Angela,--and she moved restlessly.
"Yes, darling! Do not say you wish you never had received the great
gifts God has given you. Do not judge of things by Sorrow's measurement
only. I repeat--you ARE loved--though not perhaps where you most relied
on love. Your father loves you--your uncle loves you--Manuel loves you
. . ."
Angela interrupted her with a protesting gesture.
"Yes--I know," she murmured, "but--"
"But you think all this love is worthless, as compared with a love that
was no love at all?" said Sylvie. "There! We will not speak about it
any more just now,--you are not strong, and you see things in their
darkest light. Shall I talk to you about Aubrey?"
"Ah! That is a subject you are never tired of!" said Angela with a
faint smile. "Nor am I."
"Well, you ought to be," answered Sylvie gaily, "for I am too blindly,
hopelessly in love to know when to stop! I see nothing else and know
nothing else--it is Aubrey, Aubrey all the time. The air, the sunlight,
the whole world, seem only an admirable exposition of Aubrey!"
"Then how would you feel if he did not love you any more?" asked Angela.
"But that is not possible!" said Sylvie. "Aubrey could not change. It
is not in him. He is not like our poor friend Fontenelle."
"Ah! That love of yours was only fancy, Sylvie!"
"We all have our fancies!" answered the pretty Comtesse, looking very
earnestly into Angela's eyes. "We are not always sure that what we
first call love is love. But I had much more than a fancy for the
Marquis Fontenelle. If he had loved me--as I think he did at the
last--I should certainly have married him. But during all the time I
knew him he had a way of relegating all women to the same
level--servants, actresses, ballet-dancers, and ladies alike,--he would
never admit that there is as much difference between one woman and
another as between one man and another. And this is a mistake many men
make. Fontenelle wished to treat me as Miraudin would have treated his
'leading lady';--he judged that quite sufficient for happiness. Now
Aubrey treats me as his comrade,--his friend as well as his love, and
that makes our confidence perfect. By the way, he spoke to me a great
deal yesterday about the Abbe Vergniaud, and told me all he knew about
his son Cyrillon."
"Ah, the poor Abbe!" said Angela. "They are angry with him still at the
Vatican--angry now with his dead body! But 'Gys Grandit' is not of the
Catholic faith, so they can do nothing with him."
"No. He is what they call a 'free-lance,'" said Sylvie. "And a
wonderful personage he is! I You have seen him?"
A faint colour crept over Angela's pale cheeks.
"Yes. Once. Just once, in Paris, on the day his father publicly
acknowledged him. But I wrote to him long before I knew who he realty
was."
"Angela! You wrote to him?"
"Yes. I admired the writings of Gys Grandit--I used to buy all his
books as they came out, and study them. I wrote to him--as many people
will write to a favourite author--not in my own name of course--to
express my admiration, and he answered. And so we corresponded for
about two years, not knowing each other's identity till that scene in
Paris brought us together--"
"How VERY curious,--ve--ry!" said Sylvie, with a little mischievous
smile. "And so you are quite friends?"
"I think so--I believe so--" answered Angela--"but since we met, he has
ceased to write to me."
Sylvie made a mental note of that fact in her own mind, very much to
the credit of "Gys Grandit," but said nothing further on the subject.
Time was hastening on, and she had to return to the Casa D'Angeli to
receive Monsignor Gherardi.
"I am going to be lectured I suppose," she said laughingly. "I have not
seen the worthy Domenico since my engagement to Aubrey was announced!"
Angela looked at her intently.
"Are you at all prepared for what he will say?"
"Not in the least. What CAN he say?"
"Much that may vex you," said Angela. "Considering Aubrey Leigh's
theories, he may perhaps reproach you for your intended marriage--or he
may bring you information of the Pope's objection."
"Well! What of that?" demanded Sylvie.
"But you are a devout Catholic--"
"And you? With a great Cardinal for your uncle you paint 'The Coming of
Christ'! Ah!--I have seen that picture, Angela!"
"But I am different,--I am a worker, and I fear nothing," said Angela,
her eyes beginning to shine with the latent force in her that was
gradually resuming its dominion over her soul--"I thought long and
deeply before I put my thought into shape--"
"And _I_ thought long and deeply before I decided to be the companion
of Aubrey's life and work!" said Sylvie resolutely. "And neither the
Pope or a whole college of Cardinals will change my love or prevent my
marriage. A riverderci!"
"A riverderci!" echoed Angela, raising herself a little to receive the
kiss her friend tenderly pressed on her cheeks. "I shall be anxious to
know the result of your interview!"
"I will come round early to-morrow and tell you all," promised Sylvie,
"for I mean to find out, if I can, what happened at the Vatican when
Cardinal Bonpre last went there with Manuel."
"My uncle is most anxious to leave Rome," said Angela musingly.
"I know. And if there is any plot against him he MUST leave Rome--he
SHALL leave it! And we will help him!"
With that she went her way, and an hour or so later stood, a perfect
picture of grace and beauty, in the grand old rooms of the Casa
D'Angeli, waiting to receive Gherardi. She had taken more than the
usual pains with her toilette this afternoon, and had chosen to wear a
"creation" of wonderful old lace, with knots of primrose and violet
velvet caught here and there among its folds. It suited her small
lissom figure to perfection, and her only ornaments were a cluster of
fresh violets, and one ring sparkling on her left hand,--a star of rose
brilliants and rubies, the sign of her betrothal.
Punctual to the hour appointed, Gherardi arrived, and was at once shown
into her presence. There was a touch of aggressiveness and irony in his
manner as he entered with his usual slow and dignified step, and though
he endeavoured to preserve that suavity and cold calmness for which he
was usually admired and feared by women, his glance was impatient, and
an occasional biting of his lips showed suppressed irritation. The
first formal greetings over, he said--
"I have wished for some time to call upon you, Contessa, but the
pressure of affairs at the Vatican--"
He stopped abruptly, looking at her. How provokingly pretty she
was!--and how easily indifferent she seemed to the authoritative air he
had chosen to assume.
"I should, I know, long ere this have offered you my felicitations on
your approaching marriage--"
Sylvie smiled bewitchingly, and gave him a graceful curtsey.
"Will you not sit down, Monsignor?" she then said. "We can talk more at
our ease, do you not think?"
She seated herself, with very much the air of a queen taking possession
of a rightful throne, and Gherardi was vexedly aware that he had not by
any means the full possession of his ordinary dignity or self-control.
He took a chair opposite to her and sat for a moment perplexed as to
his next move. Sylvie did not help him at all. Ruffling the violets
among the lace at her neck, she looked at him attentively from under
her long golden-brown lashes, but maintained a perfect silence.
"The news has been received by the Holy Father with great pleasure," he
said at last. "His special benediction will grace your wedding-day."
Sylvie bent her head.
"The Holy Father is most gracious!" she replied quietly. "And he is
also more liberal than I imagined, if he is willing to bestow his
special benediction on my marriage with one who is considered a heretic
by the Church."
He flashed a keen glance at her,--then forced a smile. "Mr. Leigh's
heresy is of the past," he said--"We welcome him--with you--as one of
us!"
Sylvie was silent. He waited, inwardly cursing her tranquillity. Then,
as she still did not speak, he went on in smooth accents-- "The Church
pardons all who truly repent. She welcomes all who come to her in
confidence, no matter how tardy or hesitating their approach. We shall
receive the husband of our daughter Sylvie Hermenstein, with such joy
as the prodigal son was in old time received--and of his past mistakes
and follies there shall be neither word nor memory!"
Then Sylvie looked up and fixed her deep blue eyes steadily upon him.
"Caro Monsignor!" she said very sweetly. "Why talk all this nonsense to
me? Do you not realise that as the betrothed wife of Aubrey Leigh I am
past the Church counsel or command?"
Gherardi still smiled.
"Past Church counsel or command?" he murmured with an indulgent air, as
though he were talking to a very small child. "Pardon me if I am at a
loss to understand--"
"Oh, you understand very well!" said Sylvie. "You know perfectly--or
you should--that a wife's duty is to obey her husband,--and that in
future HIS Church,--not yours,--must be hers also."
"Surely you speak in riddles?" said Gherardi, preserving his suave
equanimity. "Mr. Leigh is (or was) a would-be ardent reformer, but he
has no real Church."
"Then I have none!" replied Sylvie.
There was a moment's silence. A black rage began to kindle in
Gherardi's soul,--rage all the more intense because so closely
suppressed.
"I am still at a loss to follow you, Contessa," he said coldly. "Surely
you do not mean to imply that your marriage will sever you from the
Church of your fathers?"
"Monsignor, marriage for me means an oath before God to take my husband
for better or for worse, and to be true to him under all trial and
circumstances," said Sylvie. "And I assuredly mean to keep that oath!
Whatever his form of faith, I intend to follow it,--as I intend to obey
his commands, whatever they may be, or wherever they may lead. For
this, to me, is the only true love,--this to me, is the only possible
'holy' estate of matrimony. And for the Church--a Church which does not
hesitate to excommunicate a dying man, and persecute a good one,--I
will leave the possibility of its wrath, together with all other
consequences of my act--to God!"
For one moment Gherardi felt that he could have sprung upon her and
throttled her. The next, he had mastered himself sufficiently to
speak,--this woman, so slight, so beautiful, so insolent should not
baffle him, he resolved!--and bending his dark brows menacingly, he
addressed her in his harshest and most peremptory manner.
"You talk of God," he said, "as a child talks of the sun and moon, with
as little meaning, and less comprehension! What impertinence it is for
a woman like yourself,--vain, weak and worldly,--to assert your own
will--your own thought and opinion--in the face of the Most High! What!
YOU will desert the Church? YOU whose ancestors have for ages been
devout servants of the faith? YOU, the last descendant of the Counts
Hermenstein, a noble and loyal family, will degrade your birth by
taking up with the rags and tags of humanity--the scarecrows of life?
And by your sheer stupidity and obstinacy, you will allow your
husband's soul to be dragged to perdition with your own! You call it
love--to keep him an infidel? You call it marriage--to be united to him
without the blessings of Holy Church? Where is your reason?--Where is
your judgment?--Where your faith?"
"Not in my bank, Monsignor!" replied Sylvie coldly. "Though that is the
place where you would naturally expect to find these virtues
manifested, and the potency of their working substantially proved!
Pardon!--I have no wish to offend--but your manner to ME is offensive,
and unless you are disposed to discuss this matter temperately, I must
close our interview!"
Gherardi flushed a dark red, then grew pale. After all, the Countess
Hermenstein was in her own house,--she had the right to command his
exit if she chose. Small and slight as she was, she had a dignity and
power as great as his own, and if anything was to be gained from her it
was necessary to temporize. Among many other qualifications for the
part he had to play in life, he was an admirable actor, and would have
made his fortune on the legitimate stage,--and this "quick change"
ability served him in good stead now. He rose from his chair as though
moved by uncontrollable agitation, and walked to the window, then
turned again and came slowly and with bent head towards her.
"Forgive me!" he said simply. "I was wrong!"
Sylvie, easily moved to kindness, was touched by this apparent humility
on the part of a man so renowned for unflinching hauteur, and she at
once gave him her hand.
"I shall forget your words!" she said gently. "So there is nothing to
pardon."
"Thank you for your generosity," he said, still standing before her and
preserving his grave and quiet demeanour. "In my zeal for Holy Church,
my tongue frequently outruns my prudence. I confess you have hurt
me,--cruelly! You are a mere child to me--young, beautiful,
beloved,--and I am growing old; I have sacrificed all the joys of life
for the better serving of the faith--but I have kept a few fair
dreams--and one of the fairest was my belief in YOU!"
Sylvie looked at him searchingly, but his eyes did not flinch in
meeting hers.
"I am sorry you are disappointed, Monsignor," she began, when he raised
his hand deprecatingly.
"No--I am not disappointed as yet!" he said, with an affectation of
great kindness. "Because I do not permit myself to believe that you
will allow me to be disappointed! Just now you made a passing
allusion--and I venture to say a hasty and unworthy one--to your
'bank,' as if my whole soul were set on retaining you as a daughter of
the Church for your great wealth's sake only! Contessa, you are
mistaken! Give me credit for higher and nobler motives! Grant me the
right to be a little better--a little more disinterested, than perhaps
popular rumour describes me,--believe me to be at least your friend--"
He paused--his voice apparently broken by emotion, and turning away his
head he paced the room once more and finally sat down, covering his
eyes with one hand, in an admirably posed attitude of fatigue and
sorrow.
Sylvie was perplexed, and somewhat embarrassed. She had never seen him
in this kind of humour before. She was accustomed to a certain
domineering authority in his language, rendered all the more difficult
to endure by the sarcasm with which he sometimes embittered his words,
as though he had dipped them in gall before pronouncing them,--but this
apparent abandonment of reserve, this almost touching assumption of
candour, were phases of his histrionical ability which he had never
till now displayed in her presence.
"Monsignor," she said after a little silence, "I sincerely ask your
pardon if I have wronged you, even in a thought! I had no real
intention of doing so, and if anything I have said has seemed to you
unduly aggressive or unjust, I am sorry! But you yourself began to
scold"--and she smiled--"and I am not in the humour to be scolded!
Though, to speak quite frankly, I have always been more or less
prepared for a little trouble on the subject of my intended marriage
with Mr. Aubrey Leigh,--I have felt and known all along that it would
incur the Pope's displeasure . . ."
Here Gherardi uncovered his eyes and looked at her fully.
"But there you are mistaken!" he said gently, with a smile that was
almost paternal. "I know of nothing in recent years that has given the
Holy Father greater satisfaction!"
She glanced at him quickly but said nothing, whereat he was secretly
annoyed. Why did she not express her wonder and delight at the Pope's
lenity, as almost any other woman in her position would have done? Her
outward appearance was that of child-like ultra-femininity,--how was it
then that he felt as if she were mentally fencing with him, and that
her intellectual sword-play threatened to surpass his own?
"Nothing," he repeated suavely, "has given the Holy Father greater
satisfaction! For very naturally, he looks upon you as one of his most
faithful children, and rejoices that by the power of perfect love--love
which is an emanation of the Divine Spirit in itself--you have been
chosen by our Lord to draw so gifted and brilliant a man as Aubrey
Leigh out of the error of his ways and bring him into the true fold!"