Angela started, and her cheeks crimsoned.
“Than Varillo? What do you mean?”
“Well, Varillo has Pon-Pon, — of course she is useful — what he would do without her I am sure I cannot imagine, — still she IS Pon-Pon.”
He paused, checked by Angela’s expression.
“Please explain yourself, Marquis,” she said in cold, calm accents, “I am at a loss to understand you.”
Fontenelle glanced at her and saw that her face had grown as pale as it was recently flushed, and that her lips were tightly set; and in a vague way he was sorry to have spoken. But he was secretly chafing at everything, — he was angry that Sylvie had escaped him, — and angrier still that Donna Sovrani should imply by her manner, if not by her words, that she considered him an exceptional villain, when he himself was aware that nearly all the men of his “Cercle” resembled him.
“Pon-Pon is Signor Varillo’s model,” he said curtly, “I thought you were aware of it. She appears in nearly all his pictures.”
Angela breathed again.
“Oh, is that all!” she murmured, and laughed.
Fontenelle opened his eyes a little, amazed at her indifference. What a confiding, unsuspecting creature was this “woman of genius”! This time, however, he was discreet, and kept his thoughts to himself.
“That is all,” he said, “But . . . artists have been known to admire their models in more ways than one.”
“Yes,” said Angela tranquilly, “But Florian is entirely different to most men.”
The Marquis was moved to smile, but did not. He merely bowed with a deep and reverential courtesy.
“You have reason to know him best,” he said, “and no doubt he deserves your entire confidence. For me — I willingly confess myself a vaurien — but I assure you I am not as bad as I seem. Your friend Sylvie is safe from me.”
Angela’s eyes lightened, — her mind was greatly relieved.
“You will leave her to herself—” she began.
“Certainly I will leave her to herself. She will not like it, but I will do it! She is going away to-morrow, — I found that out from her maid. Why will you beautiful ladies keep maids? They are always ready to tell a man everything for twenty or forty francs. So simple! — so cheap! — Sylvie’s maid is my devoted adherent, — and why? — not only on account of the francs, but because I have been careful to secure her sweetheart as my valet, and he depends upon me to set him up in business. So you see how easy it is for me to be kept aware of all my fair lady’s movements. This is how I learned that she is going away to-morrow — and this is why I came here to-day. She has given me the slip — she has avoided me and now I will avoid her. We shall see the result. I think it will end in a victory for me.”
“Never!” said Angela, “You will never win Sylvie to your way of thinking, but it is quite possible she may win you!”
“That would be strange indeed,” said the Marquis lightly, “The world is full of wonders, but that would be the most wonderful thing that ever happened in it! Commend me to the fair Comtesse, Mademoiselle, and tell her it is I who am about to leave Paris.”
“Where are you going?” asked Angela impulsively.
“Ah, feminine curiosity!” said the Marquis laughing, “How it leaps out like a lightning flash, even through the most rigid virtue! Chere Mademoiselle, where I am going is my own secret, and not even your appealing looks will drag it out of me! But I am in no hurry to go away; I shall not fly off by the midnight train, or the very early one in the morning, as your romantic friend the Comtesse Sylvie will probably do, — I have promised the Abbe Vergniaud to hear him preach on Sunday. I shall listen to a farewell sermon and try to benefit by it, — after that I take a long adieu of France; — be good enough to say to the Countesse with my humblest salutations!”
He bowed low over Angela’s hand, and with a few more light parting words took his graceful presence out of the room, and went down the stairs humming a tune as he departed.
After he had gone Angela sat for some minutes in silence thinking. Then she went to her desk and wrote a brief note to the Comtesse as follows: —
“Dear Sylvie: Dismiss your maid. She is in the employ of Fontenelle and details to him all your movements. He has been here for half an hour and tells me that he takes a long adieu of France after Sunday, and he has promised me to LEAVE YOU TO YOURSELF. I am sure you are glad of this. My uncle and I go to Rome next week.
“ANGELA.”
She sealed and marked the envelope “private”, and ringing the bell for her man-servant requested him to deliver it himself into the hands of the Comtesse Hermenstein. This matter dismissed from her mind she went to a portfolio full of sketches, and turned them over and over till she came to one dainty, small picture entitled, “Phillida et les Roses”. It was a study of a woman’s nude figure set among branching roses, and was signed “Florian Varillo”. Angela looked at it long and earnestly, — all the delicate flesh tints contrasting with the exquisite hues of red and white roses were delineated with wonderful delicacy and precision of touch, and there was a nymph-like grace and modesty about the woman’s form and the drooping poise of her head, which was effective yet subtle in suggestion. Was it a portrait of Pon-Pon? Angry with herself Angela tried to put the hateful but insinuating thought away from her, — it was the first slight shadow on the fairness of her love-dream, — and it was like one of those sudden clouds crossing a bright sky which throws a chill and depression over the erstwhile smiling landscape. To doubt Florian seemed like doubting her own existence. She put the “Phillida” picture back in the portfolio and paced slowly to and fro in her studio, considering deeply. Love and Fame — Fame and Love! She had both, — and yet Aubrey Leigh had said such fortune seldom fell to the lot of a woman as to possess the two things together. Might it not be her destiny to lose one of them? If so, which would she prefer to keep? Her whole heart, her whole impulses cried out, “Love”! Her intellect and her ambitious inward soul said, “Fame”! And something higher and greater than either heart, intellect, or soul whispered to her inmost self, “Work! — God bids you do what is in you as completely as you can without asking for a reward of either Love or Fame.” “But,” she argued with herself, “for a woman Love is so necessary to the completion of life.” And the inward monitor replied, “What kind of Love? Ephemeral or immortal? Art is sexless; — good work is eternal, no matter whether it is man or woman who has accomplished it.” And then a great sigh broke from Angela’s lips as she thought, “Ah, but the world will never own woman’s work to be great even if it be so, because men give the verdict, and man’s praise is for himself and his own achievements always.” “Man’s praise,” went on the interior voice, “And what of God’s final justice? Have you not patience to wait for that, and faith to work for it?” Again Angela sighed; then happening to look up; in the direction of the music-gallery which occupied one end of her studio where the organ was fitted, she saw a fair young face peering down at her over the carved oak railing, and recognised Manuel. She smiled; — her two or three days’ knowledge of him had been more than sufficient to win her affection and interest.
“So you are up there!” she said, “Is my uncle sleeping?”
“No,” replied Manuel, “he is writing many letters to Rome. Will you come and play to me?”
“Willingly!” and Angela went lightly up the winding steps of the gallery, “But you have been out all day, — are you not tired?”
“No, not now. I WAS weary, — very weary of seeing and hearing so many false things . . .”
“False things?” echoed Angela thoughtfully, as she seated herself at the organ, “What were they?”
“Churches principally,” said Manuel quietly; “How sad it is that people should come into those grand buildings looking for Christ and never finding Him!”
“But they are all built for the worship of Christ,” said Angela, pressing her small white fingers on the organ keys, and drawing out one or two deep and solemn s
ounds by way of prelude, “Why should you think He is not in them?”
“He cannot be,” answered Manuel, “They are all unlike Him! Remember how poor he was! — He told His followers to despise all riches and worldly praise! — and now see how the very preachers try to obtain notice and reward for declaring His simple word! The churches seem quite empty of Him, — and how empty too must be the hearts and souls of all the poor people who go to such places to be comforted!”
Angela did not reply, — her hands had unconsciously wandered into the mazes of a rich Beethoven voluntary, and the notes, firm, grand, and harmonious, rolled out in the silence with a warm deep tenderness that thrilled the air as with a rhythmic beat of angels’ wings. Lost in thought, she scarcely knew what she played, nor how she was playing, — but she was conscious of a sudden and singular exaltation of spirit, — a rush of inward energy that was almost protest, — a force which refused to be checked, and which seemed to fill her to the very finger tips with ardours not her own, — martyrs going to the destroying flames might have felt as she felt then. There was a grave sense of impending sorrow hanging over her, mingled with a strong and prayerful resolve to overcome whatever threatened her soul’s peace, — and she played on and on, listening to the rushing waves of sound which she herself evoked, and almost losing herself in a trance of thought and vision. And in this dreamy, supersensitive condition, she imagined that even Manuel’s face fair and innocent as it was, grew still more beautiful, — a light, not of the sun’s making, seemed to dwell like an aureole in his clustering hair and in his earnest eyes, — and a smile sweeter than any she had ever seen, seemed to tremble on his lips as she looked at him.
“You are thinking beautiful things,” he said gently, “And they are all in the music. Shall I tell you about them?”
She nodded assent, while her fingers, softly pressing out the last chord of Beethoven’s music, wandered of their own will into the melancholy pathos of a Schubert “Reverie.”
“You are thinking of the wonderful plan of the world,” he said,— “Of all the fair and glorious things God has made for those who love Him! Of the splendour of Faith and Hope and Courage, — of the soul’s divine origin and responsibility, — and all the joy of being able to say to the Creator of the whole universe, ‘Our Father!’ You are thinking — because you know — that not a note of the music you are playing now fails to reach the eternal spheres, — echoing away from your touch, it goes straight to its mark, — sent with the soul’s expression of love and gratitude, it flies to the centre of the soul’s worship. Not a pulsation of true harmony is lost! You are thinking how grand it is to live a sweet and unsullied life, full of prayer and endeavour, keeping a spirit white and clean as the light itself, a spirit dwelling on the verge of earth but always ready to fly heavenward! — You are thinking that no earthly reward, no earthly love, no earthly happiness, though good in itself, can ever give you such perfect peace and joy as is found in loving, serving, and obeying God, and suffering His will to be entirely worked in you!”
Angela listened, deeply moved — her heart throbbed quickly, — how wonderfully the boy expressed himself! — with what sweetness, gentleness, and persuasion! She would have ceased playing, but that something imperative urged her to go on, — and Manuel’s soft voice thrilled her strangely when he spoke again, saying —
“You know now — because your wise men are beginning to prove it — that you can in very truth send a message to heaven.”
“To heaven!” murmured Angela, “That is a long way! We know we can send messages in a flash of lightfrom one part of the world to another — but then there must be people to receive them—”
“And heaven is composed of millions of worlds,” said Manuel, “‘In my Father’s house are many mansions!” And from all worlds to all worlds — from mansion to mansion, the messages flash! And there are those who receive them, with such directness as can admit of no error! And your wise men might have known this long ago if they had believed their Master’s word, ‘Whatsoever is whispered in secret shall be proclaimed on the housetops.’ But you will all find out soon that it is true, and that everything you say, and that every prayer you utter God hears.”
“My mother is in heaven,” said Angela wistfully, “I wish I could send her a message!”
“Your very wish has reached her now!” said Manuel, “How is it possible that you in the spirit could ardently wish to communicate with one so beloved and she not know it! Love would be no use then, and there would be a grave flaw in God’s perfect creation.”
Angela ceased playing, and turned round to face the young speaker.
“Then you think we never lose those we love? And that they see us and hear us always?”
“They must do so,” said Manuel, “otherwise there would be cruelty in creating the grace of love at all. But God Himself is Love. Those who love truly can never be parted, — death has no power over their souls. If one is on earth and one in heaven, what does it matter? If they were in separate countries of the world they could hear news of each other from time to time, — and so they can when apparent death has divided them.”
“How?” asked Angela with quick interest.
“Your wise men must tell you,” said Manuel, with a grave little smile, “I know no more than what Christ has said, — and He told us plainly that not even a sparrow shall fall to the ground without our Father. ‘Fear not,’ He said, ‘Ye are more than many sparrows.’ So, as there is nothing which is useless, and nothing which is wasted, it is very certain that love, which is the greatest of all things, cannot lose what it loves.”
Angela’s eyes filled with tears, she knew not why, “Love which is the greatest of all things cannot lose what it loves!” — How wonderfully tender was Manuel’s voice as he spoke these words!
“You have very sweet thoughts, Manuel,” she said, “You would be a great comfort to anyone in sorrow.”
“That is what I have always wished to be,” he answered, “But you are not in sorrow yet, — that is to come!”
She looked up quickly.
“You think I shall have some great trouble?” she asked, with a little tremour in her accents.
“Yes, most surely you will!” replied Manuel, “No one in the world ever tried to be good and great at the same time without suffering miscomprehension and bitter pain. Did not Christ say, ‘In the world ye shall have tribulation’?”
“Yes, — and I have often wondered why,” said Angela musingly.
“Only that you might learn to love God best,” answered Manuel with a delicate inflexion of compassion in his voice, “And that you might know for certain and beyond all doubt that this life is not all. There is something better — greater — higher! — a glory that is worth winning because immortal. ‘In the world ye shall have tribulation’ — yes, that is true! — but the rest of the saying is true also— ‘Be of good cheer, — I have overcome the world’!”
Moved by an impulse she could not understand, Angela suddenly turned and extended her hands with an instinctive grace that implied reverence as well as humility. The boy clasped them lightly then let them go, — and without more words went softly away and left her.
XIII.
The Church of Notre Dame de Lorette in Paris with its yellow stucco columns, and its hideous excess of paint and gilding, might be a ball-room designed after the newest ideas of a vulgar nouveau riche rather than a place of sanctity. The florid-minded Blondel, pupil of the equally florid-minded Regnault, hastily sketched in some of the theatrical frescoes in the “Chapel of the Eucharist,” and a misguided personage named Orsel, splashed out the gaudy decorations of the “Chapel of the Virgin.” The whole edifice glares at the spectator like a badly-managed limelight, and the tricky, glittering, tawdry effect blisters one’s very soul. But here may be seen many little select groups out of the hell of Paris, — fresh from the burning as it were, and smelling of the brimstone, — demons who enjoy their demonism, — satyrs, concerning whom, one feels that t
heir polished boots are cleverly designed to cover their animal hoofs, and that skilful clothiers have arranged their garments so that their tails are not perceived. But that hoofs and tails are existent would seem to be a certainty. Here sometimes will sing a celebrated tenor, bulky and brazen, — pouring out from his bull-throat such liquid devotional notes as might lift the mind of the listener to Heaven ifone were not so positive that a moral fiend sang them; — here sometimes may be seen the stout chanteuse who is the glory of open-air cafes in the Champs Elysees, kneeling with difficulty on a velvet hassock and actually saying prayers. And one must own that it is an exhilarating and moving sight to behold such a woman pretending to confess her sins, with the full delight of them written on her face, and the avowed intention of committing them all over again manifesting itself in every turn of her head, every grin of her rouged lips, and every flash of her painted eyes! For these sections out of the French “Inferno,” Notre Dame de Lorette is a good place to play penitence and feign prayer; — the Madeleine is too classic and serene and sombre in its interior to suggest anything but a museum, from which the proper custodian is absent, — Notre Dame de Paris reeks too much with the blood of slain Archbishops to be altogether comfortable, — St. Roch in its “fashionable” congregation, numbers too many little girls who innocently go to hear the music, and who have not yet begun to paint their faces, to suit those whose lives are all paint and masquerade, — and the “Lorette” is just the happy medium of a church where, Sham being written on its walls, one is scarcely surprised to see Sham in the general aspect of its worshippers. Among the ugly columns, and against the heavy ceiling divided into huge raised lumps of paint and gilding, Abbe Vergniaud’s voice had often resounded, — and his sermons were looked forward to as a kind of witty entertainment. In the middle or the afterwards of a noisy Mass, — Mass which had been “performed” with perhaps the bulky tenor giving the “Agnus Dei,” with as sensually dramatic an utterance as though it were a love-song in an opera, and the “basso,” shouting through the “Credo,” with the deep musical fury of the tenor’s jealous rival, — with a violin “interlude,” and a ‘cello “solo,” — and a blare of trumpets at the “Elevation,” as if it were a cheap spectacle at a circus fair, — after all this melodramatic and hysterical excitement it was a relief to see the Abbe mount the pulpit stairs, portly but lightfooted, his black clerical surtout buttoned closely up to his chin, his round cleanshaven face wearing a pious but suggestive smile, his eyes twinkling with latent satire, and his whole aspect expressing, “Welcome excellent humbugs! I, a humbug myself, will proceed to expound Humbug!” His sermons were generally satires on religion, — satires delicately veiled, and full of the double-entendres so dear to the hearts of Parisians, — and their delight in him arose chiefly from never quite knowing what he meant to imply, or to enforce. Not that his hearers would have followed any counsel even if he had been so misguided as to offer it; they did not come to hear him “preach” in the full sense of the word, — they came to hear him “say things,” — witty observations on the particular fad of the hour — sharp polemics on the political situation — or what was still more charming, neat remarks in the style of Rochefoucauld or Montaigne, which covered and found excuses for vice while seemingly condemning viciousness. There is nothing perhaps so satisfactory to persons who pride themselves on their intellectuality, as a certain kind of spurious philosophy which balances virtue and vice as it were on the point of a finger, and argues prettily on the way the two can be easily merged into each other, almost without perception. “If without perception, then without sin,” says the sophist; “it is merely a question of balance.” Certainly if generosity drifts into extravagance you have a virtue turned into a vice; — but there is one thing these spurious debaters cannot do, and that is to turn a vice into a virtue. That cannot be done, and has never been done. A vice is a vice, and its inherent quality is to “wax fat and gross,” and to generally enlarge itself; — whereas, a virtue being a part of the Spiritual quality and acquired with difficulty, it must be continually practised, and guarded in the practice, lest it lapse into vice. We are always forgetting that we have been, and still are in a state of Evolution, — out of the Beast God has made Man, — but now He expects us, with all the wisdom, learning and experience He has given us, to evolve for ourselves from Man the Angel, — the supreme height of His divine intention. Weak as yet on our spiritual wings, we hark back to the Beast period only too willingly, and sometimes not all the persuasion in the world can lift us out of the mire wherein we elect to wallow. Nevertheless, there must be and will be a serious day of reckoning for any professing priest of the Church, or so-called “servant of the Gospel”, who by the least word or covert innuendo, gives us a push back into prehistoric slime and loathliness, — and that there are numbers who do so, no one can deny. Abbe Vergniaud had flung many a pebble of sarcasm at the half-sinking faith of some of his hearers with the result that he had sunk it altogether. In his way he had done as much harm as the intolerant bigot, who when he finds persons believing devoutly in Christ, but refusing to accept Church-authority, considers such persons atheists and does not hesitate to call them so. The “Pharisees” in Christian doctrine are as haughty, hypocritical and narrow as the Pharisees whom Jesus calls “ravening wolves,” and towhom He said, “Ye shut up the Kingdom of Heaven against men; for ye neither go in yourselves, NEITHER SUFFER YE THEM THAT ARE ENTERING TO GO IN,” and “Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.” The last words, it may be said, will apply fittingly to more than one-half of the preachers of the Gospel at the present day!
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 473
