“Where have you been, my child?” he asked gently, “I have missed you for some hours.”
Manuel advanced a little, and stood between the pale afternoon light reflected through the window, and the warmer glow of the wood fire.
“I have been to the strangest place in all the world!” he answered, “The strangest, — and surely one of the most wicked!”
The Cardinal raised himself in his chair, and bent an anxious wondering look upon the young speaker.
“One of the most wicked!” he echoed, “What place are you talking of?”
“St. Peter’s!” answered Manuel, with a thrill of passion in his voice as he uttered the name, “St. Peter’s, — the huge Theatre misnamed a Church! Oh, dear friend! — do not look at me thus! Surely you must feel that what I say is true? Surely you know that there is nothing of the loving God in that vast Cruelty of a place, where wealth and ostentation vie with intolerant officialism, bigotry and superstition! — where even the marble columns have been stolen from the temples of a sincerer Paganism, and still bear the names of Isis and Jupiter wrought in the truthful stone; — where theft, rapine and murder have helped to build the miscalled Christian fane! You cannot in your heart of hearts feel it to be the abode of Christ; your soul, bared to the sight of God, repudiates it as a Lie! Yes!” — For, startled and carried away by the boy’s fervour, Cardinal Felix had risen, and now stood upright, making a feeble gesture with his hands, as though seeking to keep back the crushing weight of some too overwhelming conviction,— “Yes — you would silence me! — but you cannot! — I read your heart! You love God . . . and I — I love Him too! You would serve Him! — and I — I would obey Him! Ah, do not struggle with yourself, dear and noble friend! If you were thrice crowned a martyr and saint you could not see otherwise than clearly — you could not but accept Truth when Truth is manifested to you, — you could not swear falsely before God! Would the Christ not say now as He said so many centuries ago— ‘My House is called the house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves!’ Is it not truly a den of thieves? What has the Man of Sorrows to do with all the evil splendour of St. Peter’s? — its bronzes, its marbles, its colossal statues of dead gods, its glittering altars, its miserable dreary immensity, its flaring gilding and insolent vulgarity of cost! Oh, what a loneliness is that of Christ in this world! What a second Agony in Gethsemane!”
The sweet voice broke — the fair head was turned away, — and Cardinal Felix, overcome by such emotion as he found it impossible to explain, suddenly sank on his knees, and stretched out his arms to the young slight creature who spoke with such a passion and intensity of yearning.
“Child!” he said, with tremulous appeal in his accents, “For God’s sake’ — you who express your thoughts with such eloquence and fervent pain! — tell me, WHO ARE YOU? My mind is caught and controlled by your words, — you are too young to think as you do, or to speak as you do, — yet some authority you seem to possess, which I submit to, not knowing why; I am very old, and maybe growing foolish in my age — many troubles are gathering about me in these latter days, — do not make them more than I can bear!”
His words were to himself incoherent, and yet it seemed as if Manuel understood them. Suffering himself to be clasped for a moment by the old man’s trembling hands, he nevertheless gently persuaded and assisted him to rise, and when he was once more seated, stood quietly by his side, waiting till he should have recovered from his sudden agitation.
“Dear friend, you are weary and troubled in spirit,” he said tenderly then, “And my words seem to you only terrible because they are true! If they grieve you, it is because the grief in your heart echoes mine! And if I do think and speak more seriously than I should, it is for the reason that I have been so much alone in the world, — left to myself, with my own thoughts of God, which are not thoughts such as many care for. I would not add to your sorrows, — I would rather lighten them if I could — but I feel and fear that I shall be a burden upon you before long!”
“Never!” exclaimed Bonpre fervently, “Never a burden on me, child! Surely while I live you will not leave me?”
Manuel was silent for a little space. His eyes wandered from the Cardinal’s venerable worn features to the upstanding silver crucifix that gleamed dully in the glow of the wood-embers.
“I will not leave you unless it is well for you that I should go,” he answered at last, “And even then, you will always know where to find me.”
The Cardinal looked at him earnestly, and with a searching interrogation, — but the boy’s face though sweetly composed, had a certain gravity of expression which seemed to forbid further questioning. And a deep silence fell between them, — a silence which was only broken by the door opening to admit Prince Sovrani who, pausing on the threshold, said,
“Brother, if you will allow yourself to be disturbed, Angela would like to see you in her studio. There are several people there, — her fiance, Varillo among the number, — and I think the girl would be glad of your presence.”
The Cardinal started as from a dream, and rose from his chair.
“I will come at once — yes — I will come,” he said, “I must not be selfish and think only of my own troubles!” He stood erect, — he was still in the scarlet robes in which he had made his appearance at the Vatican, and they fell regally about his tall dignified form, the vivid colour intensifying the pallor of his thin features. A servant entering at the moment with two large silver candelabra ablaze with lights, created an effect of luminance in the room that made him appear to even greater advantage as an imposing figure of ecclesiastical authority, and Prince Pietro looked at him with the admiring affection and respect which he, though a cynic and sceptic, had always felt for the brother of his wife, — affection and respect which had if anything become intensified since that beloved one’s untimely death.
“You were well received at the Vatican?” he said tentatively.
“Not so well as I had hoped,” replied the Cardinal patiently— “Not so well! But the cloud will pass. I will go with you to the studio, — Manuel, will you stay here?”
Manuel bent his head in assent; he had just closed the before open copy of the Gospels, and now stood with his hand upon the Book.
“I will wait till you call me, my lord Cardinal,” he replied.
Prince Pietro then led the way, and Cardinal Bonpre followed, his scarlet robes sweeping behind him with a rich rustling sound, and as the two entered the large lofty studio, hung with old tapestries, and panelled with deeply carved and gilded oak, the room which was Angela Sovrani’s special sanctum, all the persons there assembled rose from their different sitting or lounging attitudes, and respectfully bent their heads to the brief and unostentatious benediction given to them by the venerable prelate of whom all present had heard, but few had seen, and everyone made way for him as Angela met and escorted him to a seat on one of the old, throne-like chairs with which the Sovrani palace was so amply supplied. When he was thus installed, he made the picturesque centre of a brilliant little scene enough, — one of those vivacious and bright gatherings which can be found nowhere so perfectly blended in colour and in movement as in a great art-studio in Rome. Italians are not afraid to speak, to move, to smile, — unlike the Anglo-Saxon race, their ease of manner is inborn, and comes to them without training, hence there is nothing of the stiff formality and awkward gloom which too frequently hangs like a cloud over English attempts at sociality, — and that particular charm which is contained in the brightness and flashing of eyes, creates a dazzling effect absolutely unknown to colder northern climes. Eyes, — so potent to bewitch and to command, are a strangely neglected influence in certain forms of social intercourse. English eyes are too often dull and downcast, and wear an inane expression of hypocrisy and prudery; unless they happen to be hard and glittering and meaningless; but in southern climes, they throw out radiant invitations, laughing assurances, brilliant mockeries, melting tendernesses, by the thousand flashes, and make a
fire of feeling in the coldest air. And so in Angela’s beautiful studio, among the whiteness of classic marbles, and the soft hues of richly falling draperies, fair faces shone out like flowers, lit up by eyes, whose light seemed to be vividly kindled by the heat of an amorous southern sun, — Venetian eyes blue as a cornflower, Florentine eyes brown and brilliant as a russet leaf in autumn, Roman eyes black as night, Sicilian eyes of all hues, full of laughter and flame — and yet among all, no sweeter or more penetratingly tender eyes than those of Sylvie Hermenstein ever shot glances abroad to bewilder and dazzle the heart of man. Not in largeness, colour or brilliancy lay their charm, but in deep, langourous, concentrated sweetness, — a sweetness so far-reaching from the orb to the soul that it was easy to sink away into their depths and dream, — and never wish to wake. Sylvie was looking her fairest that afternoon, — the weather was chilly, and the close-fitting black velvet dress with its cape-like collar of rich sables, well became her figure and delicately fair complexion, and many a spiteful little whisper concerning her went round among more showy but less attractive women, — many an involuntary but low murmur of admiration escaped from the more cautious lips of the men. She was talking to the Princesse D’Agramont, who with her brilliant dark beauty could afford to confess ungrudgingly the charm of a woman so spirituelle as Sylvie, and who, between various careless nods and smiles to her acquaintance, was detailing to her with much animation the account of her visit to the Marquis Fontenelle before leaving Paris.
“He must be very epris!” said the Princesse laughing, “For he froze into a rigid statue of virtue when I suggested that he should escort me to Rome! I did not wait to see the effect of my announcement that YOU were already there!”
Sylvie lowered her eyes, and a faint colour crimsoned her cheeks.
“Then he knows where I am?” she asked.
“If he believes ME, he knows,” replied Loyse D’Agramont, “But perhaps he does not believe me! All Paris was talking about the Abbe Vergniaud and his son ‘Gys Grandit’, when I left, and the Marquis appeared as interested in that esclandre as he can ever be interested in anything or anybody. So perhaps he forgot my visit as soon as it was ended. Abbe Vergniaud is very ill by the way. His self-imposed punishment, and his unexpected reward in the personality of his son, have proved a little too much for him, — both he and ‘Grandit’ are at my Chateau,” here she raised her lorgnon, and peered through it with an inquisitive air, “Tiens! There is the dear Varillo making himself agreeable as usual to all the ladies! When does the marriage come off between him and our gifted Sovrani?”
“I do not know,” answered Sylvie, with a little dubious look, “Nothing is contemplated in that way until Angela’s great picture is exhibited.”
The Princesse D’Agramont looked curiously at the opposite wall where an enormous white covering was closely roped and fastened across an invisible canvas, which seemed to be fully as large as Raffaelle’s “Transfiguration”.
“Still a mystery?” she queried, “Has she never shown it even to you?”
Sylvie shook her head.
“Never!” and then breaking off with a sudden exclamation she turned in the direction of the door where there was just now a little movement and murmur of interest, as the slim tall figure of a man moved slowly and with graceful courtesy through the assemblage towards that corner of the studio where the Cardinal sat, his niece standing near him, and there made a slight yet perfectly reverential obeisance.
“Mr. Leigh!” cried Angela, “How glad I am to see you!”
“And I too,” said the Cardinal, extending his hand, and kindly raising Aubrey before he could complete his formal genuflection, “You have not wasted much of your time in Florence!”
“My business was soon ended there,” replied Aubrey. “It merely concerned the saving of a famous religious picture — but I find the modern Florentines so dead to beauty that it is almost impossible to rouse them to any sort of exertion . . .” Here he paused, as Angela with a smile moved quickly past him saying,
“One moment, Mr. Leigh! I must introduce you to one of my dearest friends!”
He waited, with a curious sense of impatience, and full beating of his heart, answering quite mechanically one or two greetings from Florian Varillo and other acquaintances who knew and recognised him — and then felt, rather than saw, that he was looking into the deep sweet eyes of the woman who had flung him a rose from the balcony of the angels, and that her face, sweet as the rose itself, was smiling upon him. As in a dream he heard her name, “The Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein” and his own, “Mr. Aubrey Leigh”; he was dimly aware of bowing, and of saying something vague and formal, but all the actuality of his being was for the moment shaken and transfigured, and only one strong and overwhelming conviction remained, — the conviction that, in the slight creature who stood before him gracefully acknowledging his salutation, he had met his fate. Now he understood as he had never done before what the poet-philosopher meant by “the celestial rapture falling out of heaven”; — for that rapture fell upon him and caught him up in a cloud of glory, with all the suddenness and fervour which must ever attend the true birth of the divine passion in strong and tender natures. The calculating sensualist can never comprehend this swiftly exalted emotion, this immediate radiation of light through all life, which is like the sun breaking through clouds on a dark day. The sensualist has by self-indulgence, blunted the edge of feeling, and it is impossible for him to experience this delicate sensation of exquisite delight, — this marvellous assurance that here and now, face to face, stands the One for whom all time shall be merged into a Song of Love, and upon whom all the sweetest thoughts of imagination shall be brought to bear for the furtherance of mutual joy! Aubrey’s strong spirit, set to stern labour for so long, and trained to toil with but scant peace for reward, now sprang up as it were to its full height of capability and resolution, — yet its power was tempered with that tender humility which, in a noble-hearted man, bends before the presence of the woman whose love for him shall make her sacred. All his instincts bade him recognise Sylvie as the completion and fulfilment of his life, and this consciousness was so strong and imperative that it made him more than gentle to her as he spoke his first few words, and obtained her consent to escort her to a seat not far off from the Cardinal, yet removed sufficiently from the rest of the people to enable them to converse uninterruptedly for a time. Angela watched them, well pleased; — she too had quick instincts, and as she noted Sylvie’s sudden flush under the deepening admiration of Aubrey’s eyes, she thought to herself, “If it could only be! If she could forget Fontenelle — if—”
But here her thoughts were interrupted by her own “ideal”, — Florian Varillo who, catching her hand abruptly, drew her aside for a moment.
“Carissima mia, why did you not introduce the Princesse D’Agramont to Mr. Leigh rather than the Comtesse Hermenstein? The Princesse is of his way of thinking, — Sylvie is not!” and he finished his sentence by slipping an arm round her waist quickly, and whispering a word which brought the colour to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes, and made her heart beat so quickly that she could not speak for a moment. Yet she was supposed by the very man whose embrace thus moved her, to be “passionless!”
“You must not call her ‘Sylvie’,” she answered at last, “She does not like such familiarity — even from you!”
“No? Did she tell you so?” and Florian laughed, “What a confiding little darling you are, Angela! I assure you, Sylvie Hermenstein is not so very particular — but there! I will not say a word against any friend of yours! But do you not see she is already trying to make a fool of Aubrey Leigh?”
Angela looked across the room and saw Leigh’s intellectual head bending closely towards the soft gold of Sylvie’s hair, and smiled.
“I do not think Sylvie would willingly make a fool of anyone,” she answered simply, “She is too loyal and sincere. I fancy you do not understand her, Florian. She is full of fascination, but she is not heartle
ss.”
But Florian entertained a very lively remembrance of the recent rebuff given to himself by the fair Comtesse, and took his masculine vengeance by the suggested innuendo of a shrug of his shoulders and a lifting of his eyebrows. But he said no more just then, and merely contented himself with coaxingly abstracting a rose out of Angela’s bodice, kissing it, and placing it in his own buttonhole. This was one of his “pretty drawing-room tricks” according to Loyse D’Agramont who always laughed unmercifully at these kind of courtesies. They had been the stock-in-trade of her late husband, and she knew exactly what value to set upon them. But Angela was easily moved by tenderness, and the smallest word of love, the lightest caress made her happy and satisfied for a long time. She had the simple primitive notions of an innocent woman who could not possibly imagine infidelity in a sworn love. Looking at her sweet face, earnest eyes, and slim graceful figure now, as she moved away from Florian Varillo’s side, and passed glidingly in and out among her guests, the Princesse D’Agramont, always watchful, wondered with a half sigh how she would take the blow of disillusion if it ever came; would it crush her, or would she rise the nobler and stronger for it?
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 490
