Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Oh, yes, doctor!” she murmured faintly.

  “Do you suffer much pain?”

  “No.”

  “Then can you tell me how this happened? Who stabbed you?”

  She shuddered and sighed.

  “No one! — that I can remember!”

  Her eyes closed — she moved her hands about restlessly as though seeking for something she had lost.

  “Manuel!”

  “I am here!” answered the boy gently.

  “Stay with me! I am so tired!”

  Again a convulsive trembling shook her fragile body from head to foot, and again she sighed as though her heart were breaking, — then she lay passively still, though one or two tears crept down her cheeks as they carried her tenderly up to her own room and laid her down on her simple little white bed, softly curtained, and guarded by a statue of the Virgin bending over it. There, when her cruel wound was dressed and bandaged, and the physician had given her a composing draught, she fell into a deep, refreshing slumber, and only Manuel stayed beside her as she slept.

  Meanwhile, down in the studio, Prince Sovrani and the Cardinal stayed together, talking softly, and gazing in fascinated wonder, bewilderment, admiration and awe at Angela’s work unveiled. All the lamps in the room were now lit, and the great picture — a sublime Dream resolved into sublime Reality — shone out as much as the artificial light would permit, — a jewel of art that seemed to contain within itself all the colour and radiance of a heaven unknown, unseen yet surely near at hand. The figure and face of the approaching Saviour, instinct with life, expressed almost in positive speech the words, “Then shall ye see the Son of Man coming in the clouds with great power and glory”! — and if Cardinal Bonpre had given way to the innermost emotions of his soul, he could have knelt before the exalted purity of such a conception of the Christ, — a god-like ideal, brought into realization by the exalted imagination, the holy thoughts, and the faithful patient work of a mere woman!

  “This—” he said, in hushed accents— “This must be the cause of the dastardly attempt made to murder the child! Some one who knew her secret, — some one who was aware of the wonderful power and magnificence of her work, — perhaps the very man who made the frame for it, — who can tell?”

  Prince Pietro meditated deeply, a frown puckering his brows, — his countenance was still pale and drawn with the stress of the mingled agony and relief he had just passed through, and the anxiety he felt concerning Angela’s immediate critical condition.

  “I cannot hold the position yet!—” he said, at last— “That is to say, I am too numb and stricken with fear to realize what has happened! See you! That picture is marvellous! — a wonder of the world! — it will crown my girl with all the laurels of a lasting fame, — but what matter is it to me, — this shouting of the public, — if she dies? Will it console me for her loss, to call her a Raffaelle?”

  “Nay, but we must not give up hope!” — said the Cardinal soothingly— “Please God, you will not lose her! Be glad that she is not dead, — and remember that it is almost by a miracle that she lives!”

  “That is true — that is true!” murmured old Sovrani, ruffling his white hair with one hand, while he still stared abstractedly at his daughter’s picture— “You are very patient with me, brother! — you have all the kindness as well as all the faithfulness of your sister, — the sweetest woman the sun was ever privileged to shine on! Well, well! What did you say to me? That this picture must have been the cause of the attempted murder? Maybe, — but the poor hard-working fellow who made the frame for it, could not have done such a deed, — he has been a pensioner of Angela’s for many a long day, and she has given him employment when he could not obtain it from others. Besides, he never saw the picture. Angela gave him her measurements, and when the frame was finished he brought it to her here. But he had nothing whatever to do with setting the canvas in it, — that I know, for Angela herself told me. No, no! — let us not blame the innocent; rather let us try to find the guilty.”

  At that moment a servant entered with a large and exquisitely arranged basket of lilies-of-the-valley, and a letter.

  “For Donna Sovrani,” he said, as he handed both to his master.

  The Prince took the basket of lilies, and moved by a sudden fancy, set it gently in front of Angela’s great work. Glancing at the superscription of the letter, he said, —

  “From Varillo. I had better open it and see what he says.”

  He broke the seal and read the following:

  “SWEETEST ANGELA, — I am summoned to Naples on business, and therefore, to my infinite regret, shall not be able to see the great picture to-morrow. You know, — you can feel how sorry I am to disappoint both you and myself in a pleasure which we have so long lovingly anticipated, but as the Queen has promised to make her visit of inspection, I dare not ask you to put off the exhibition of your work till my return. But I know I shall come back to find my Angela crowned with glory, and it will be reserved for me to add the last laurel leaf to the immortal wreath! I am grieved that I have no time to come and press my ‘addio’ on your sweet lips, — but in two or three days at most, I shall be again at your feet. Un bacio di

  FLORIAN.”

  “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 An
gela’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 ha
lf 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.