Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Angela’s eyes grew soft and pensive.

  “Few men are like Florian,” she said. Again Sylvie looked at her doubtfully, and there was a moment’s silence. Then Sylvie resumed.

  “Will you help me to give a little lesson to Monsieur le Marquis, Angela?”

  “Willingly, if I can. But how?”

  “In this way. It is a little drama! To-morrow is Saturday and you ‘receive.’ ‘Tout Paris’, artistic Paris, at any rate, flocks to your studio. Your uncle, the Cardinal Bonpre, is known to be with you, and your visitors will be still more numerous. I have promised Fontenelle to meet him here. I am to give him his answer—”

  “To what?” enquired Angela.

  “To his proposal.”

  “Of marriage?”

  “Dear me, no!” And Sylvie smiled, but there was a look of pain in her eyes, “He has an idyllic house buried in the Foret St. Germain, and he wants me to take possession . . . you know the rest! He is a villain? Yes — he is like Miraudin, who has a luxurious flat in Paris and sends each lady of his harem there in turn. How angry you look! But, my dear, I am not going to the house in the Foret, and I shall not meet him here. He will come — looking charming as usual, and he will wait for me; but I shall not arrive. All I want you to do for me is to receive him very kindly, talk to him very sweetly, and tell him quite suddenly that I have left Paris.”

  “What good will that do?” enquired Angela, “Could you not write it to him?”

  “Of course I could write it to him but—” Here Sylvie paused and turned away her head. Angela, moved by quick instinct, went to her and put her arm around her waist.

  “Now there are tears in your eyes, Sylvie,” she said, “You are suffering for this man’s heartlessness and cruelty. For it IS heartless, — it is insulting, and selfish, and cruel to offer you nothing but dishonour if he knows you love him.”

  Sylvie took out a tiny cobweb of a lace handkerchief and dried her tears.

  “No, I will not have him called heartless, or cruel,” she said, “He is merely one of his class. There are hundreds like him in Paris. Never mind my tears! — they are nothing. There are hundreds of women who would accept his proposals, — and he thinks I must be like them, — ready to fall into his arms like a ripe peach at a touch! He thinks all I say to him is an assumed affectation of virtue, and that he can easily break down that slight barricade. He tells me I am a charming preacher, but that he could never learn anything from sermons!” She laughed, “Oh, he is incorrigible! But I want you to let him know that for once he is mistaken. Will you? And you shall not have to say even the smallest figment of an untruth, — your news will be quite correct — for I leave Paris to-morrow morning.”

  She was very quiet now as she spoke — her brilliant eyes were dark with thought, and her delicate face wore a serious, almost melancholy expression.

  “Dear Sylvie!” said Angela, kissing her soft cheek, “You really care for this wretched man?”

  “I am not sure,” she answered with a touch of hesitation in her voice, “I think I do — and yet despise myself for it! — but — who knows what wonders change of air and scene may work! You see, if I go away he will forget at once, and will trouble himself about me no more.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Sylvie hesitated.

  “Well, no, I cannot be quite certain, — you see no woman has ever avoided him, — it will be quite a new experience for him, and a strange one!” Her laughter rippled out musically on the air. “Positively I do not think he will ever get over it!”

  “I begin to understand,” said Angela, “You wish to make this callous man of the world realise that a woman may be beautiful, and brilliant, and independent, and yet live a pure, good life amid numerous temptations?”

  “Yes, — I wish him to feel that all women are not to be led away by flattery, or even by the desire to be loved, which is the hardest temptation of all to resist! Nothing so hard as that, Angela! Nothing so hard! I have often thought what a contemptible creature Goethe’s Gretchen was to allow herself to be tempted to ruin with a box of jewels! Jewels! Worthless baubles! I would not cross the road to look at the biggest diamond in the world! But to be loved! To feel that you are all in all to one man out of the whole world! That would be glorious! That I have never felt — that I shall never know!”

  Angela looked at her sympathetically, — what a strange thing it was, she thought, that this pretty creature, with her winsome, bright, bewitching ways, should be craving for love, while she, Angela Sovrani, was elected to the happiness of having the absolute devotion of such an ideal lover as Florian Varillo!

  “But I am becoming quite tragic in my remarks,” went on Sylvie, resuming her usual gaiety, “Melodramatic, as they say! If I go on in this manner I shall qualify to be the next ‘leading lady’ to Miraudin! Quelle honneur! Good-bye Angela; — I will not tell you where I am going lest Fontenelle should ask you, — and then you would have to commit yourself to a falsehood, — it is enough to say I have left Paris.”

  “Shall I see you again soon?” said Angela, holding her by both hands and looking at her anxiously.

  “Yes, very soon, before the winter is over at any rate. You sweet, calm, happy Angela! I wonder if anything could ever whip you in a storm!”

  “Would you like to see me in a stormy humour?” asked Angela, smiling.

  “No, not exactly; — but, — you are TOO quiet, — too secure — too satisfied in your art and your surroundings; and you do not enter at all into the passions and griefs of other people. You are absorbed in your love and your work, — a beautiful existence! Only I hope the gods will not wake you up some day!”

  “I am not asleep,” said Angela, “nor dreaming.”

  “Yes you are! You dream of beautiful things, — and the world is full of ugly ones; you dream of love and constancy, and purity, — and the world is full of spite, and hate, and bribery, and wickedness; you have a world of your own, — but Angela, it is a glass world! — in which only the exquisite colours of your own soul are reflected, take care that the pretty globe does not break! — for if it does you will never be able to put it together again! Adieu!”

  “Adieu!” and Angela returned her loving embrace with equal affection, “I will announce your departure to the Marquis Fontenelle to-morrow.”

  “You will? Sweet Angela! And when you hear from me, and know where I am, you will write me a long, long letter and tell me how he looked, and what he said, and whether he seemed sorry or indifferent, or angry, or ashamed — or—”

  Before she could finish the sentence the studio door was thrown open, and the servant announced, “Monsieur le Marquis Fontenelle!”

  XII.

  A moment’s flashing glance of half-amused dismay at Angela, and the Comtesse Sylvie had vanished. Passing quickly behind one of the several tall tapestry screens that adorned the studio, she slipped away through a little private door at which Angela’s “models” presented themselves, a door which led into the garden and then into the Bois, and making straight for her carriage which was in waiting round the corner, she sprang into it and was rapidly driven away. Meanwhile, Angela Sovrani, rather bewildered by her friend’s swift departure, was left alone to face the Marquis, who entered almost on the heels of the servant who announced him, and in one swift survey of the studio saw that the object of his search was not there. Concealing his disappointment, however, under an admirable show of elegant indifference, he advanced towards Angela and saluted her with a courtly old-world grace that very well became his handsome face and figure.

  “I must apologise for this intrusion,” he said, speaking in deep, soft accents which gave a singular charm to his simplest words, “But — to be quite frank with you — I thought I should find the Comtesse Hermenstein here.”

  Angela smiled. In her heart she considered the man a social reprobate, but it was impossible to hear him speak, and equally impossible to look at him without a vague sense of pleasure in his company.

&nbs
p; “Sylvie was here a moment ago,” she answered, still smiling.

  The Marquis took one or two quick impulsive steps forward — then checking himself, stopped short, and selecting a chair deliberately sat down.

  “I understand!” he said, “She wished to avoid me, and she has done so. Well! — I would not run after her for the world. She must be perfectly free.”

  Angela looked at him with a somewhat puzzled air. She felt herself in a delicate and awkward position. To be of any use in this affair now seemed quite impossible. Her commission was to have told the Marquis that Sylvie had left Paris, but she could not say that now as Sylvie was still in the city. Was she supposed to know anything about the Marquis’s dishonourable proposals to her friend? Surely not! Then what was she to do? She stood hesitating, glancing at the fine, clear-cut, clean-shaven face of Fontenelle, the broad intellectual brows, and the brilliant hazel eyes with their languid, half-satirical expression, and her perplexity increased. Certainly he was a man with a grand manner, — the manner of one of those never-to-be-forgotten haughty and careless aristocrats of the “Reign of Terror” who half redeemed their vicious lives by the bravery with which they faced the guillotine. Attracted, yet repelled by him, Angela had always been, — even when she had known no more of him than is known of a casual acquaintance met at different parties and reunions, but now that she was aware of Sylvie’s infatuation, the mingled attraction and revulsion became stronger, and she caught herself wishing fervently that the Marquis would rouse himself from his lethargy of pleasure, and do justice to the capabilities which Nature had evidently endowed him with, if a fine head and noble features are to be taken as exponents of character. Fontenelle himself, meanwhile, leaning carelessly back in the chair he had taken, looked at her with a little quizzical lifting of his eyebrows.

  “You are very silent, mademoiselle,” he broke out at last, “Have you nothing to say to me?”

  At this straight question Angela recovered her equanimity.

  “I HAD something to say to you, Marquis,” she answered quietly, “but it was to have been said to-morrow.”

  “To-morrow? Ah, yes! You receive your world of art to-morrow,” he said, “and I was to come and meet la Comtesse, — and of course she would not have been here! I felt that by a natural instinct! Something psychological — something occult! I saw her carriage pass my windows up the Champs Elysees, — and I followed in a common fiacre. I seldom ride in a common fiacre, but this time I did so. It was an excitement — la chasse! I saw the little beauty arrive at your door, — I gave her time to pour out all her confidences, — and then I arranged with myself and le bon Dieu to escort her home.”

  “You arranged well,” said Angela, inclined to laugh at his easy audacity, “but le bon Dieu was evidently not of your opinion, — and you must remember that the most excellent arrangements are not always carried out.”

  “True!” and Fontenelle smiled, “In the case of the fascinating Sylvie, I do not know when I have had so much trouble about a woman. It is interesting, but vexatious. Sometimes I think I shall have to give up and gallop off the hunting-field altogether—”

  “Excuse me, Marquis,” said Angela coldly, “Sylvie Hermenstein is my friend — pray understand that I cannot allow her to be spoken of in the tone of badinage you are pleased to assume.”

  He looked up with a curious air of surprise and mock penitence.

  “Pardon! But there is no badinage at all about the very serious position in which I find myself,” he said, “You, mademoiselle, as a woman, have not the slightest idea of the anxiety and trouble your charming sex gives to ours. That is, of course, when you are charming — which is not always. Now Sylvie, your friend Sylvie — is so distinctly charming that she becomes provoking and irritating. I am sure she has told you I am a terrible villain . . .”

  “She has never said so, — never spoken one word against you!” interposed Angela.

  “No? That is curious — very curious! But then Sylvie is curious. You see the position is this; — I wish to give her all I am worth in the world, but she will not have it, — I wish to love her, but she will not be loved—”

  “Perhaps,” said Angela, gaining courage to speak plainly, “Perhaps your love is not linked with honour?”

  “Honour?” echoed the Marquis, lifting his finely arched eyebrows, “You mean marriage? No — I confess I am not guilty of so much impudence. For why should the brilliant Sylvie become the Marquise Fontenelle? It would be a most unhappy fate for her, because if there WERE a Marquise Fontenelle, my principles would oblige me to detest her!”

  “You would detest your own wife!” said Angela surprised.

  “Naturally! It is the fashion. To love one’s wife would be petite bourgoisie — nothing more absurd! It is the height of good form to neglect one’s wife and adore one’s mistress, — the arrangement works perfectly and keeps a man well balanced, — perpetual complaint on one side, perpetual delight on the other.”

  He laughed, and his eyes twinkled satirically.

  “Are you serious?” asked Angela.

  “I never was more serious in my life,” declared the Marquis emphatically, “With all my heart I wish to make the delicious pink and white Sylvie happy, — I am sure I could succeed in my way. If I should ever allow myself to do such a dull thing as to marry, — imagine it! — such a dull and altogether prosy thing! — my gardener did it yesterday; — I should of course choose a person with a knowledge of housekeeping and small details, — her happiness it would be quite unnecessary to consider. The maintenance of the establishment, the servants, and the ever increasing train of milliners and dressmakers would be enough to satisfy Madame la Marquise’s ambitions. But for Sylvie, — half-fairy, half-angel as she is, — there must be poetry and moonlight, flowers, and romance, and music, and tender nothings, — marriage does not consort with these delights. If you were a little school-girl, dear Donna Sovrani, I should not talk to you in this way, — it would not be proper, — it would savour of Lord Byron, and Maeterlinck, and Heinrich Heine, and various other wicked persons. It would give you what the dear governesses would call ‘les idees folles’, but being an artist, a great artist, you will understand me. Now, you yourself — you will not marry?”

  “I am to be married next year if all is well, to Florian Varillo,” said Angela, “Surely you know that?”

  “I have heard it, but I will not believe it,” said the Marquis airily, “No, no, you will never marry this Florian! Do not tell me of it! You yourself will regret it. It is impossible! You could not submit to matrimonial bondage. If you were plain and awkward I should say to you, marry, and marry quickly, it is the only thing for you! — but being what you are, charming and gifted, why should you be married? For protection? Every man who has once had the honour of meeting you will constitute himself your defender by natural instinct. For respectability? Ah, but marriage is no longer respectable, — the whole estate of matrimony is as full of bribery and corruption as the French War Office.”

  He threw himself back in his chair and laughed, running one hand through his hair with a provoking manner of indifferent ease and incorrigible lightheartedness.

  “I cannot argue with you on the matter,” said Angela, rather vexedly, “Your ideas of life never will be mine, — women look at these things differently . . .”

  “Poor dear women! Yes! — they do,” said the Marquis, “And that is such a pity, — they spoil all the pleasure of their lives. Now, just think for a moment what your friend Sylvie is losing! A devoted, ardent and passionate lover who would spare no pains to make her happy, — who would cherish her tenderly, and make her days a dream of romance! I had planned in my mind such a charming boudoir for Sylvie, all ivory and white satin, — flowers, and a soft warm light falling through the windows, — imagine Sylvie, with that delicate face of hers and white rose skin, a sylph clad in floating lace and drapery, seen in a faint pink hue as of a late sunset! You are an artist, mademoiselle, and you can picture the fairy-like
effect! I certainly am not ashamed to say that this exquisite vision occupies my thoughts, — it is a suggestion of beauty and deliciousness in a particularly ugly and irksome world, — but to ask such a dainty creature as Sylvie to be my housekeeeper, and make up the tradesmen’s books, I could not, — it would be sheer insolence on my part, — it would be like asking an angel just out of heaven to cut off her wings and go downstairs and cook my dinner!”

  “You please yourself and your own fanciful temperament by those arguments,” said Angela,— “but they are totally without principle. Oh, why,” and raising her eyes, she fixed them on him with an earnest look, “Why will you not understand? Sylvie is good and pure, — why would you persuade her to be otherwise?”

  Fontenelle rose and took one or two turns up and down the room before replying.

  “I expect you will never comprehend me,” he said at last, stopping before Angela, “In fact, I confess sometimes I do not comprehend myself. Of course Sylvie is good and pure — I know that; — I should not be so violently in love with her if she were not — but I do not see that her acceptance of me as a lover would make her anything else than good and pure. Because I know that she would be faithful to me.”

  “Faithful to you — yes! — while you were faithless to her!” said Angela, with a generous indignation in her voice, “You would expect her to be true while you amused yourself with other women. A one-sided arrangement truly!”

  The Marquis seemed unmoved.

  “Every relation between the sexes is one-sided,” he declared, “It is not my fault! The woman gives all to one, — the man gives a little to many. I really am not to blame for falling in with this general course of things. You look very angry with me, Donna Sovrani, and your eyes positively abash me; — you are very loyal to your friend and I admire you for it; but after all, why should you be so hard upon me? I am no worse than Varillo.”