Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Can you now — at once—” said Cyrillon suddenly— “give me enough money to go to Rome to-night?”

  Monsieur Petitot stared.

  “To go to Rome to-night?” he echoed— “Dear me, how very extraordinary! I beg your pardon! . . . of course — most certainly! I can advance you any sum you want — would ten thousand francs suffice?”

  “Ten thousand francs!” Cyrillon laughed. “I never had so much money in all my life!”

  “No? Well, I have not the notes about me at the moment, but I will send you up that sum in an hour if you wish it. Your father’s will entitles you to five million francs, so you see I am not in any way endangering myself by advancing you ten thousand.”

  Cyrillon was quite silent. The lawyer studied him curiously, but could not determine whether he was pleased or sorry at the announcement of his fortune. His handsome face was pale and grave, — and after a pause he said simply —

  “Thank you! Then I can go to Rome. If you will send me the money you speak of I shall be glad, as it will enable me to start to-night. For the rest, — kindly publish my father’s will as he instructed you to do, — and I — when I return to Paris, will consult you on the best way in which I can dispose of my father’s millions.”

  “Dispose of them!” began Petitot amazedly. Young Vergniaud interrupted him by a slight gesture.

  “Pardon me, Monsieur, if I ask you to conclude this interview! For the present, I want nothing else in the world but to get to Rome as quickly as possible! — apres ca, le deluge!”

  He smiled — but his manner was that of some great French noble who gently yet firmly dismisses the attentions of a too-officious servant, — and Petitot, much to his own surprise, found himself bowing low, and scrambling out of the poorly furnished room in as much embarrassment as though he had accidentally stumbled into a palace where his presence was not required.

  And Cyrillon, left to himself, gathered up all the coins he had been counting out previous to the lawyer’s arrival, and tied them again together in the old leathern bag; then having closed and strapped his little travelling valise, sat down and waited. Punctually to the time indicated, that is to say, in one hour from the moment Petitot had concluded his interview with the celebrated personage whom he now mentally called “an impossible young man,” a clerk arrived bringing the ten thousand francs promised. He counted the notes out carefully, — Cyrillon watching him quietly the while, and taking sympathetic observation of his shabby appearance, his thread-bare coat, and his general expression of pinched and anxious poverty.

  “You will perceive it is all right, Monsieur,” he said humbly, as he finished counting.

  “What are you, mon ami?” asked Cyrillon; scarcely glancing at the notes but fixing a searching glance on the messenger who had brought them.

  “I?” and the clerk coughed nervously and blushed,— “Oh, I am nothing, Monsieur! I am Monsieur Petitot’s clerk, that is all!”

  “And does he pay you well?”

  “Thirty francs a week, Monsieur. It is not bad, — only this — I was young a few years ago, and I married — and two dear little ones came — so it is a pull at times to make everything go as it should — not that I am sorry for myself at all, oh no! For I am well off as the people go—”

  Cyrillon interrupted him.

  “Yes — as the people go! That is what you all say, you patient, brave souls! See you, my friend, I do not want all this money— “and he took up a note for five hundred francs— “Take this and make the wife and little ones happy!”

  “Monsieur!” stammered the astonished clerk— “How can I dare — !”

  “Dare! Nay, there is no daring in freely taking what your brother freely gives you! You must let me practise what I preach, my friend, otherwise I am only a fraud and unfit to live. God keep you!”

  The clerk still stood trembling, afraid to take up the note, and unable through emotion to speak a word, even of thanks. Upon which, Cyrillon folded up the note and put it himself in the man’s pocket.

  “There! — go and make happiness with that bit of paper!” he said— “Who can tell through what dirty usurer’s hand it has been, carrying curses with it perchance on its way! Use it now for the comfort of a woman and her little children, and perhaps it will bring blessing to a living man as well as to a departed soul!”

  And he literally put the poor stupefied fellow outside his door, shutting it gently upon him.

  That night he left for Rome. And as the express tore its grinding way along over the iron rails towards the south, he repeated to himself over and over again as in a dream —

  “No — Angela Sovrani is not dead! She cannot be dead! God is too good for that. He will not let her die before she knows — before she knows I love her!”

  XXXIII.

  The chain of circumstance had lengthened by several links round the radiant life of Sylvie Hermenstem since that bright winter morning when she had been startled out of her reverie, in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, by the unexpected appearance of Monsignor Gherardi. The untimely deaths of the Marquis Fontenelle and the actor Miraudin in the duel over her name, had caused so much malicious and cruel gossip, that she had withdrawn herself almost entirely from Roman society, which had, with one venomous consent, declared that she was only marrying Aubrey Leigh to shield herself from her esclandre with the late Marquis. And then the murderous attack on her friend Angela Sovrani, which occurred almost immediately after her engagement to Aubrey was announced, had occupied all her thoughts — so that she had almost forgotten the promise she had made to grant a private interview to Gherardi whenever he should seek it. And she was not a little vexed one morning when she was talking to her betrothed concerning the plans which were now in progress for their going to England as soon as possible, to receive a note reminding her of that promise, and requesting permission to call upon her that very afternoon.

  “How very unfortunate and tiresome!” said Sylvie, with a charming pout and upward look at her lover, who promptly kissed the lips that made such a pretty curve of disdain— “I suppose he wants to give me a serious lecture on the responsibilities of marriage! Shall I receive him, Aubrey? I remember when I met him last that he had something important to say about Cardinal Bonpre.”

  “Then you must certainly give him an audience,” answered Aubrey— “You may perhaps find out what has happened to bring the good Cardinal into disfavour at the Vatican, for there is no doubt that he is extremely worried and anxious. He is strongly desirous of leaving Rome at once with that gentle lad Manuel, who, from all I can gather, has said something to displease the Pope. Angela is out of danger now — and I am trying to persuade the Cardinal to accompany us to England, and be present at our marriage.”

  “That would be delightful!” said Sylvie with a smile,— “But my Aubrey, where are we going to be married?”

  “In England, as I said — not here!” said Aubrey firmly— “Not here, where evil tongues have spoken lies against my darling!” He drew her into his arms and looked at her fondly. “I want you to start for England soon, Sylvie — and if possible, I should like you to go, not only with the faithful Bozier, but also in the care of the Cardinal. I will precede you by some days, and arrange everything for your reception. And then we will be married — in MY way!”

  Sylvie said nothing — she merely nestled like a dove in the arms of her betrothed, and seemed quite content to accept whatever ordinance he laid down for the ruling of her fate.

  “I think you must see Gherardi,” he resumed— “Write a line and say you will be happy to receive him at the hour he appoints.”

  Sylvie obeyed — and despatched the note at once to the Vatican by her man-servant.

  Aubrey looked at her intently.

  “I wonder — Sylvie, I wonder—” he began, and then stopped.

  She met his earnest eyes with a smile in her own.

  “You wonder what, caro mio?” she enquired.

  “I wonder whether you could endure a ve
ry great trial — or make a very great sacrifice for my sake!” he said, — then as he saw her expression, he took her little hand and kissed it.

  “There! Forgive me! Of course you would! — only you look such a slight thing — such a soft flower of a woman — like a rose-bud to be worn next the heart always — that it seems difficult to picture you as an inflexible heroine under trying circumstances. Yet of course you would be.”

  “I make no boast, my Aubrey!” she said gently.

  He kissed her tenderly, — reverently, — studying her sweet eyes and delicate colouring with all the fond scrutiny of a love which cannot tire of the thing it loves.

  “Are you going round to see Angela this morning?” he asked.

  “Yes, I always go. She is much better — she sits up a little every day now.”

  “She says nothing of her assassin?”

  “Nothing. But I know him!”

  “We all know him!” said Aubrey sternly— “But she will never speak — she will never let the world know!”

  “Ah, but the world will soon guess!” said Sylvie— “For everyone is beginning to ask where her fiance is — why he has shown no anxiety — why he has not been to see her — and a thousand other questions.”

  “That does not matter! While she is silent, no one dare accuse him. What a marvellous spirit of patience and forgiveness she has!”

  “Angela is like her name — an angel!” declared Sylvie impulsively, the tears springing to her eyes— “I could almost worship her, when I see her there in her sickroom, looking so white and frail and sad, — quiet and patient — thanking us all for every little service done — and never once mentioning the name of Florian — the man she loved so passionately. Sometimes the dear old Cardinal sits beside her and talks — sometimes her father, — Manuel is nearly always with her, and she is quite easy and content, one would almost say happy when he is there, he is so very gentle with her. But you can see through it all the awful sorrow that weighs upon her heart, — you can see she has lost something she can never find again, — her eyes look so wistful — her smile is so sad — poor Angela!”

  Aubrey was silent a moment. “What of the Princesse D’Agramont?”

  “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 i
n 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!”