Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “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 solitar
y 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!”