Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “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!”

  XXXI.

  Meanwhile Florian Varillo had not gone to Naples. He had been turned back by a spectre evoked from his own conscience — coward fear. He was on his way to the station when he suddenly discovered that he had lost the sheath of his dagger. A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead as this fact flashed upon him. What had he done with it? Surely he had drawn the weapon out and left the sheath in his breast pocket as usual — but no! — search as he would, he could not find it. It must have dropped on the floor of Angela’s studio! If that were so, he would be traced! — most surely traced — as the sheath was of curious and uncommon workmanship, and many of his friends had seen it. He had told everybody he was going to Naples, and of course he would be followed there. Then, he would not go! But he went to the station as if bent on the journey, and took a ticket for Naples. Then, setting down his portmanteau on a bench, he surreptitiously tore off the label on which his name was written, and tearing it up in small bits scattered the fragments on the line. After this, he walked away leisurely, leaving the portmanteau behind him for there was nothing in it by which he could be traced, and sauntered slowly out of the stat
ion into the streets of Rome once more. Hailing the first fiacre he saw, he told the driver to take him to Frascati. The man was either lazy or sulky.

  “Why not take the train, Signor?”

  “Because I wish to drive!” replied Varillo. “What is your fare?”

  “Twenty-five francs for half the way!” said the man, showing his white teeth in a mischievous grin.

  “Good!”

  The driver was surprised, as he had not thought his terms would be accepted. But he made no further demur, and Varillo jumped into the vehicle, his teeth chattering with an inward terror he could not control. “Drive quickly!” he said.

  The man shouted an affirmative, and they clattered away through the streets, Varillo shrinking back in the carriage overcome by panic. What a fool he had been! — what a fool! He ought to have told Pon-Pon. If the dagger-sheath were found and taken to his residence, it would be recognised instantly! And all Rome would rise against Angela Sovrani’s murderer. Murderer! Yes, — that was what he had chosen to make of himself!

  “It was all an impulse,” he muttered,— “Just a hot impulse, nothing more! Just a sudden hatred of her which made me stab her! It was enough to make any man angry to see such a picture as that painted by a woman! Her fame would have ruined mine! But I never meant to kill her — no — no, I never meant to kill her!”

  Shuddering and whimpering, he huddled himself in a corner of the carriage, and did not dare to look out of the window to see which way he was being driven. He only rallied a little when the wheels moved more quietly and smoothly, and he knew that he was on the open road, and out of Rome. Suddenly, after jolting along a considerable time, the vehicle stopped, and the driver shouted to him. Varillo dashed down the window and put his head out, almost beside himself with rage.

  “What are you stopping for! What are you stopping for!” he yelled. “Go on — go on — we are not half way to Frascati yet! Go on, I tell you!”

  “Ma-che! Eccellenza, I only stopped to ask a question!”

  “What question — what? Is this a time for asking questions?” cried Varillo,— “The night is falling, — I want to get on!”

  “But we are going on as fast as we can!” expostulated the driver,— “It is only this — there is an albergo on the way — where we can get food and wine. Would the Eccellenza like to stop there? It is as far as I can go, for I am wanted to-night in Rome.”

  “Very well — stop where you like — only get on now!” said Varillo, pulling his head in with a jerk. And sinking back in his seat again he wiped his hot face and cursed his miserable destiny. It would have been all right if he had only remembered that sheath! No one would have got on such a track of suspicion as that he, the lover and affianced husband of Angela, was her brutal assassin!

  “I wrote a loving letter and sent her flowers,” he argued with himself, “when I knew she would be dead! But her father would have got them, and he would have wired to me in Naples, and I should have come back overcome with sorrow, — and then I should have told them all how the picture was a secret between my Angela and myself, — how I had painted the greater part of it, and how she in her sweetness had wished me to surprise the world, — the plan was perfect, but it is all spoiled! — spoiled utterly through that stupid blunder of the sheath!”

  Such a trifle! It seemed to him incredible — unjust — that so slight a thing could intervene between him and the complete success of his meditated treachery. For notwithstanding the fact that he had been a great reader and student of books, he now, in this particular hour of his own emergency, completely forgot what all the most astute and learned writers have always expounded to an inattentive world — namely, the fact that crime holds within itself the seed of punishment. Sometimes that seed ripens quickly, — sometimes it takes years to grow, — but it is always there. And it generally takes root in a mere, slight circumstance, so very commonplace and casual as to entirely escape the notice of the criminal, till the network of destiny is woven so closely about him that he can no longer avoid it, — and then he is shown from what a trifling cause the whole result has sprung. Varillo’s present state of mind was one of absolute torture, for he felt that whoever found the sheath of his dagger would at once recognise it and declare the owner. If Angela had only been wounded, — if SHE had found it — she would never have given up the name of its possessor, — the miserable man knew her straight, pure soul intimately enough for that!

  “If she heard, she would shield me and defend me at the cost of her own life!” he said— “She was always like that! SHE would never listen to anything that was said against me, — and if she lived, she would love me still, and never say that I had tried to kill her!” and he actually smiled at the thought. “How strangely some women are constituted! — especially women like Angela, who set up an exalted standard of life, and accommodate their daily conduct to it! They are sublime fools! — and so useful to men! We can do anything we like with them. We can ruin them — and they bear their shame in silence. We can laugh away their reputations over a game at billiards, and they are too pure and proud to even attempt to defend themselves. We can vilify whatever work they do, and they endure the slander, — we can murder them—” he paused,” Yes, we can murder them, and they die, without so much as leaving a curse behind them! Extraordinary! — angelic — superb! — and a wise Fate has ordained that we men shall never sacrifice ourselves for SUCH women, or go mad for the love of them! We love the virago better than the saint; we are afraid of the woman who nags at us and gives us trouble — who screams vengeance upon us if we neglect her in a trifle — who clamours for our money, and insists on our gifts — and who keeps our lives in a perpetual fever of excitement and terror. But the innocent woman we hate — very naturally! Her looks are a reproach to us, and we like to kill her when we can — and we often succeed morally, — but THAT is not called murder. The other way of killing is judged as a crime — and — then — the punishment is death!”

  As this word passed his lips in a whisper, he trembled violently. Death! It had a chill sound — yet he had not thought so when he associated it with Angela. For of course Angela was dead. Was she not? Surely she must be — he had driven the dagger straight home!

  “She could not possibly live,” he muttered— “Not after such a well directed blow. And that amazing picture! If I could but claim it as my work, I should be the greatest artist in the world! It would be quite easy to make out a proof — only that cursed dagger-sheath is in the way!”

  He was startled out of his reverie by another stoppage of the carriage, and this time the driver jumped down from his box and came to the door.

  “This is as far as I can take you, Signor,” he said, looking curiously at his passenger,— “It is quite half way to Frascati. There is the inn I told you of — where those lights are,” and he pointed towards the left,— “The carriage road does not go up to it. It is a great place for artists!”

  “I am not an artist!” said Varillo brusquely.

  “No? But artists are merry company, Eccellenza!—” suggested the driver, wishing to make up for his previous sulkiness by an excess of amiability— “And for a night, the albergo is a pleasant resting place on the way to Frascati, for even the brigands who sup there are good-natured!”

  “Ah! There are brigands, are there?” said Varillo, getting out of the fiacre and beginning to recover something of his usual composure,— “And I daresay you are one of them if the truth were known! Here is your money.” And he gave the man two gold pieces, one of twenty francs, the other of ten.

  “Eccellenza, I have no change—”

  “I want none!” said Varillo airily,— “You asked twenty-five francs — there are thirty. And now — as you say you have business in Rome, be off with you!”

  The man needed no second bidding; delighted with his thirty francs, he called a gay “Buona notte, Signor!” and turning his horse’s head jogged down the road at a tolerably smart pace. The horse knew as well as the driver, that the way
now lay homeward, and lost no time. Varillo, left to himself, paused a moment and looked about him. The Campagna! How he hated it! Should he pass the night at that albergo, or walk on? He hesitated a little — then made for the inn direct. It was a bright, cosy little place enough, and the padrona, a cheery, dark-eyed woman seated behind the counter, bade him smiling welcome.

  Lodging — oh yes! she said, there was a charming room at the Signor’s disposal, with a view from the windows which in the early morning was superb! The Signor was an artist?

  “No!” said Varillo, almost fiercely— “I am a tourist — travelling for pleasure!”

  Ah! Then the view would enchant the Signor, because it would be quite new to him! The room should be prepared at once! Would the Signor take supper?

  Yes, — the Signor would take supper. And the Signor went and sat in a remote corner of the common-room, with a newspaper of a week old, pretending to read its contents. And supper was soon served to him, — a tasty meal enough, flavoured with excellent wine, — and while he was drinking his third glass of it, a man entered, tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a heavy cloak, which he only partially loosened as he leaned against the counter and asked for a cup of coffee. But as he caught sight of the dark face, Varillo shrank back into his corner, and put up his newspaper to shield himself from view, — for he saw that the new-comer was no other than Monsignor Gherardi. His appearance seemed to create a certain amount of excitement and vague alarm in the little inn; the padrona evidently knew him well, and hastened to serve him herself with the coffee he asked for.

  “Will you not sit down, Eccellentissima?” she murmured deferentially.

  “No, I am in haste!” replied Gherardi, glancing carelessly about him— “My carriage waits outside. There is strange news in Rome to-night! The famous artist, Angela Sovrani, has been found in her studio, murdered!”