Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  With a sort of savage cry, Gherardi snatched her round the waist, but scarcely had he done so when he was flung aside with a force that made him reel back heavily against the wall, and Aubrey Leigh confronted him.

  “Aubrey!” cried Sylvie. “Oh, Aubrey!”

  He caught her as she sprang to him, and held her fast, — and with perfect self-possession he eyed the priest disdainfully up and down.

  “So this,” he said coldly, “is the way the followers of Saint Peter fulfil the commands of Christ! Or shall we say this is the way in which they go on denying their Master? It is a strange way of retaining disciples, — a still stranger way of making converts! A brave way too, to intimidate a woman!”

  Gherardi, recovering from the shock of Aubrey’s blow, drew himself up haughtily.

  “I serve the Church, Mr. Leigh!” he said proudly. “And in that high service all means are permitted to us for a righteous end!”

  “Ah! — the old Jesuitical hypocrisy!” And Aubrey smiled bitterly. “Lies are permitted in the Cause of Truth! One word, Monsignor! I have no wish to play at any game of double-dealing with you. I have heard the whole of your interview with this lady. It is the first time I have ever played the eavesdropper — but my duty was to protect my promised wife, if she needed protection — and I thought it was possible she might need it — from YOU!”

  Gherardi turned a livid paleness, and drew a quick breath.

  “I know your moves,” went on Aubrey quietly, “and it will be my business as well as my pleasure to frustrate them. Moreover, I shall give your plot into the care of the public press—”

  “You will not dare!” cried Gherardi fiercely. “But — after all, what matter if you do! — no one will believe you!”

  “Not in Rome, perhaps,” returned Aubrey coolly. “But in England, — in America, — things are different. There are many honest men who dislike to contemplate even a distant vision of the talons of Rome hovering over us — we look upon such mischief as a sign of decay, — for only where the carcasses of nations lie, does the vulture hover! We are not dead yet! And now, Monsignor, — as your interview with the Countess is ended — an interview to which I have been a witness — may I suggest the removal of your presence? You have made a proposition — she has rejected it — the matter is ended!”

  Civilly calm and cold he stood, holding Sylvie close to him with one embracing arm, and Gherardi, looking at the two together thus, impotently wished that the heavy sculptured and painted ceiling above them might fall and crush them into a pulp before him. No shame, no sense of compunction moved him, — if anything, he raised his head more haughtily than before.

  “Aubrey Leigh,” he said, “Socialist, reformer, revolutionist — whatever you choose to call yourself! — you have all the insolence of your race and class, — and it is beneath my dignity to argue with you. But you will rue the day you ever crossed my path! Not one thing have I threatened, that shall not be performed! This unhappy lady whose mind has been perverted from Holy Church by your heretical teachings, shall be excommunicated. Henceforth we look upon her as a child of sin, and we shall publicly declare her marriage with you illegal. The rest can be left with confidence, to — Society!”

  And with a dark smile which made his face look like that of some malignant demon, he turned, and preserving his proud inflexibility of demeanour, without another look or gesture, left the apartment.

  Then Aubrey, alone with his love, drew her closer, and lifted her fair face to his own, looking at it with passionate tenderness and admiration.

  “You brave soul!” he said. “You true woman! You angel of the covenant of love! How shall I ever tell you how I worship you — how I revere you — for your truth and courage!”

  She trembled under the ardour of his utterance, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I was not afraid!” she said. “I should have called Katrine, — only I knew that if I once did so, she also would be involved, and he would be unscrupulous enough to ruin my name with a few words in order to defend himself from all suspicion. But you, Aubrey? — how did it happen that you were here?”

  “I was here from the first!” he replied triumphantly. “I followed on Gherardi’s very heels. Your Arab boy admitted me — he was in my secret. He showed me into the anteroom just outside, where by leaving a corner of the door ajar I could see and hear everything. And I listened to your every word! I saw every bright flash of the strong soul in your brave eyes! And now those eyes question me, sweetheart, — almost reproachfully they seem to ask me why I did not interfere between you and Gherardi before? Ah, but you must forgive me for the delay! I wanted to drink all my cup of nectar to the dregs — I could not lose one drop of such sweetness! To see you, slight fragile blossom of a woman, matching your truth and courage against the treachery and malice of the most unscrupulous priestly tool ever employed by the Vatican, was a sight to make me strong for all my days!” He kissed her passionately. “My love! My wife! How can I ever thank you!”

  She raised her sweet eyes wonderingly.

  “Did you doubt me, Aubrey?” “No! I never doubted you. But I wondered whether your force would hold out, whether you might not be intimidated, whether you might not temporize, which would have been natural enough — whether you might not have used some little social art or grace to cover up and disguise the absoluteness of your resolve — but no! You were a heroine in the fight, and you gave your blows straight from the hilt, without flinching. You have made me twice a man, Sylvie! With you beside me I shall win all I might otherwise have lost, and I thank God for you, dear! — I thank God for you!”

  He drew her close again into his arms, pressing her to his heart which beat tumultously with its deep rejoicing, — no fear now that they two would ever cease to be one! No danger now of those miserable so-called “religious” disputes between husband and wife, which are so eminently anti-Christian, and which make many a home a hell upon earth, — disputes which young children sometimes have to witness from their earliest years, when the mother talks “at” the father for not going to Church, or the father sneers at the mother for being “a rank Papist”! Nothing now, but absolute union in spirit and thought, in soul and intention — the rarest union that can be consummated between man and woman, and yet the only one that can engender perfect peace and unchanging happiness.

  And presently the lovers’ trance of joy gave way to thought for others; to a realization of the dangers hovering over the good Cardinal, and the already ill-fated Angela Sovrani, and Aubrey, raising the golden head that nestled against his breast, kissed the sweet lips once more and said —

  “Now, my Sylvie, we must take the law into our own hands! We must do all we can to save our friends. The Cardinal must be thought of first. If we are not quick to the rescue he will be sent ‘into retreat,’ which can be translated as forced detention, otherwise imprisonment. He must leave Rome to-night. Now listen!”

  And sitting down beside her, still holding her hand, he gave her an account of his meeting with Cyrillon Vergniaud, otherwise “Gys Grandit,” and told her of the sudden passion for Angela that had fired the soul of that fiery writer of the fiercest polemics against priestcraft that had as yet startled France.

  “Knowing now all the intended machinations of Gherardi,” continued Aubrey, “what I suggest is this, — that you, my Sylvie, should confide in the Princesse D’Agramont, who is fortunately for us, an enemy of the Vatican. Arrange with her that she persuades Angela to return under her escort at once to Paris. Angela is well enough to travel if great care be taken of her, and the Princesse will not spare that. Cyrillon can go with them — I should think that might be managed?”

  He smiled as he put this question. Sylvie smiled in answer and replied demurely —

  “I should think so!”

  “But the Cardinal,” resumed Aubrey, “and — and Manuel — must go to-night. I will see Prince Sovrani and arrange it. And Sylvie — will you marry me to-morrow morning?”

  Her eyes open
ed wide and she laughed.

  “Why yes, if you wish it!” she said. “But — so soon?”

  “Darling, the sooner the better! I mean to take every possible method of making our marriage binding in the sight of the world, before the Vatican has time to launch its thunders. If you are willing, we can be married at the American Consulate to-morrow morning. You must remember that though born of British parents, I do not resign my American citizenship, and would not forego being of the New World for all the old worlds ever made! The American Consul knows me well, and he will begin to make things legal for us to-morrow if you are ready.”

  “BEGIN to make things legal?” echoed Sylvie smiling. “Will he do no more than begin?”

  “My sweetheart, he cannot. He will make you mine according to American law. In England, you will again be made mine according to English law. And then afterwards we will have our religious ceremony!”

  Sylvie looked at him perplexedly, then gave a pretty gesture of playful resignation.

  “Let everything be as you wish and decide, Aubrey,” she said.” I give my life and love to you, and have no other will but yours!”

  He kissed her.

  “I accept the submission, only to put myself more thoroughly at your command,” he said tenderly,— “You are my queen, — but with powerful enemies against us, I must see that you are rightfully enthroned!”

  A few minutes’ more conversation, — then a hurried consultation with Madame Bozier, and Sylvie, changing her lace gown for a simple travelling dress, walked out of the Casa D’Angeli with the faithful Katrine, and taking the first carriage she could find, was driven to the Palazzo where the Princesse D’Agramont had her apartments. Allowing from ten to fifteen minutes to elapse after her departure, Aubrey Leigh himself went out, and standing on the steps of the house, looked up and down carelessly, drawing on his gloves and humming a tune. His quick glance soon espied what he had been almost certain he should see, namely, the straight black-garmented figure of a priest, walking slowly along the street on the opposite side, his hands clasped behind his back, and his whole aspect indicative of devout meditation.

  “I thought so!” said Aubrey to himself. “A spy set on already! No time to lose — Cardinal Bonpre must leave Rome at nightfall.”

  Leisurely he crossed the road, and walking with as slow a step as the priest he had noticed, came opposite to him face to face. With impenetrable solemnity the holy man meekly moved aside, — with equally impenetrable coolness, Aubrey eyed him up and down, then the two passed each other, and Aubrey walked with the same unhasting pace, to the end of the street, — then turned — to see that the priest had paused in his holy musings to crane his neck after him and watch him with the most eager scrutiny. He did not therefore take a carriage at the moment he intended, but walked on into the Corso, — there he sprang into a fiacre and drove straight to the Sovrani Palace. The first figure he saw there, strolling about in the front of the building, was another priest, absorbed in apparently profound thoughts on the sublimity of the sunset, which was just then casting its red glow over the Eternal City. And with the appearance of this second emissary of the Vatican police, he realised the full significance of the existing position of affairs.

  Without a moment’s loss of time he was ushered into the presence of the Cardinal, and there for a moment stood silent on the threshold of the apartment, overcome by the noble aspect of the venerable prelate, who, seated in his great oaken chair, was listening to a part of the Gospel of Saint Luke, read aloud in clear sweet accents by Manuel.

  “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is evil; for of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaketh.

  “And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?

  “Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like:

  “He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock.

  “But he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; AND THE RUIN OF THAT HOUSE WAS GREAT.”

  And emphasizing the last line, Manuel closed the book; then at a kindly beckoning gesture from the Cardinal, Aubrey advanced into the room, bowing with deep reverence and honour over the worn old hand the prelate extended.

  “My lord Cardinal,” he said without further preface, “you must leave Rome to-night!”

  The Cardinal raised his gentle blue eyes in wondering protest.

  “By whose order?”

  “Surely by your own Master’s will,” said Aubrey with deep earnestness. “For he would not have you be a victim to treachery!”

  “Treachery!” And the Cardinal smiled. “My son, traitors harm themselves more than those they would betray. Treachery cannot touch me!”

  Aubrey came a step nearer.

  “Monsignor, if you do not care for yourself you will care for the boy,” he said in a lower tone, with a glance at Manuel, who had withdrawn, and was now standing at one of the windows, the light of the sunset appearing to brighten itself in his fair hair. “He will be separated from you!”

  At this the Cardinal rose up, his whole form instinct with resolution and dignity.

  “They cannot separate us against the boy’s will or mine,” he said. “Manuel!”

  Manuel came to his call, and the Cardinal placed one hand on his shoulder.

  “Child,” he said softly, “they threaten to part me from you, if we stay longer here. Therefore we must leave Rome!”

  Manuel looked up with a bright flashing glance of tenderness.

  “Yes, dear friend, we must leave Rome!” he said. “Rome is no place for you — or for me!”

  There was a moment’s silence. Something in the attitude of the old man and the young boy standing side by side, moved Aubrey deeply; a sense of awe as well as love overwhelmed him at the sight of these two beings, so pure in mind, so gentle of heart, and so widely removed in years and in life, — the one a priest of the Church, the other a waif of the streets, yet drawn together as it seemed, by the simple spirit of Christ’s teaching, in an almost supernatural bond of union. Recovering himself presently he said,

  “To-night then, Monsignor?”

  The Cardinal looked at Manuel, who answered for him.

  “Yes, to-night! We will be ready! For the days are close upon the time when the birth of Christ was announced to a world that does not yet believe in Him! It will be well to leave Rome before then! For the riches of the Pope’s palace have nothing to do with the poor babe born in a manger, — and the curse of the Vatican would be a discord in the angels’ singing— ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARDS MEN’!”

  His young voice rang out, silver clear and sweet, and Aubrey gazed at him in wondering silence.

  “To-night!” repeated Manuel, smiling and stretching out his hand with a gentle authoritative gesture. “To-night the Cardinal will leave Rome, and I will leave it too — perchance for ever!”

  XXXV.

  During these various changes in the lives of those with whom he had been more or less connected, Florian Varillo lay between life and death in the shelter of a Trappist monastery on the Campagna. When he had been seized by the delirium and fever which had flung him, first convulsed and quivering, and then totally insensible, at the foot of the grim, world-forgotten men who passed the midnight hours in digging their own graves, he had been judged by them as dying or dead, and had been carried into a sort of mortuary chapel, cold and bare, and lit only by the silver moonbeams and the flicker of a torch one of the monks carried. Waking in this ghastly place, too weak to struggle, he fell a-moaning like a tortured child, and was, on showing this sign o
f life, straight-way removed to one of the cells. Here, after hours of horrible suffering, of visions more hideous than Dante’s Hell, of stupors and struggles, of fits of strong shrieking, followed by weak tears, he woke one afternoon calm and coherent, — to find himself lying on a straight pallet bed in a narrow stone chamber, dimly lighted by a small slit of window, through which a beam of the sun fell aslant, illumining the blood-stained features of a ghastly Christ stretched on a black crucifix directly opposite him. He shuddered as he saw this, and half-closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

  “Tired — tired!” said a thin clear voice beside him. “Always tired! It is only God who is never weary!”

  Varillo opened his eyes again languidly, and turned them on a monk sitting beside him, — a monk whose face was neither old nor young, but which presented a singular combination of both qualities. His high forehead, white as marble, had no furrows to mar its smoothness, and from under deep brows a pair of wondering wistful brown eyes peered like the eyes of a lost and starving child. The cheeks were gaunt and livid, the flesh hanging in loose hollows from the high and prominent bones, yet the mouth was that of a youth, firm, well-outlined and sweet in expression, and when he smiled as he did now, he showed an even row of small pearly teeth which might have been envied by many a fair woman.

  “Only God who is never weary!” he said, nodding his head slowly, “but we — you and I — we are soon tired!”

  Varillo looked at him dubiously; and a moment’s thought decided him to assume a certain amount of meekness and docility with this evident brother of some religious order, so that he might obtain both sympathy and confidence from him, and from all whom he might be bound to serve. Ill and weak as he was, the natural tendency of his brain to scheme for his own advantage, was not as yet impaired.

  “Ah, yes!” he sighed, “I am very tired! — very ill! I do not know what has happened to me — nor even where I am. What place is this?”