Sitting quietly in her tidy kitchen near the open window, after the Cardinal’s departure, Madame Patoux knitted busily, her thoughts flying faster than her glittering needles. A certain vague impression of solemnity had been left on her mind by the events of the morning, — she could not quite reason out the why or the wherefore of it — and yet — it was a fact that after Monseigneur had gone, she had, when entering the rooms he had vacated, felt a singular sense of awe.
“Almost as if one were in the Cathedral at the ringing of the ‘Sanctus’” she murmured under her breath, glancing about timidly at the plain furniture and bare walls. And after putting everything in order, she closed and locked the doors jealously, with a determination that she would not let those rooms to the first chance-comer for a long time, — no, though she might have to lose money by her refusal. And now, as she sat actively employed in knitting socks for Henri, whom she could see sitting with his sister outside on the bench under the house porch, reading or pretending to read, she began to wonder what opinion those two young miscreants had formed in their minds respecting the Cardinal, and also what they thought of the boy who had been taken so suddenly under his protection. She was almost tempted to call Henri and ask him a few questions on the subject, — but she had learnt to value peace and quietness when she could secure those rare blessings at the hands of her children, and when they were employed with a book and visibly out of mischief she thought it wisest to leave them alone. And so she left them in the present instance, pushing her window open as she sat and knitted, for the air was warm and balmy, and the long rays of sunshine streaming across the square were of the hue of a ripe nectarine just gathered, and the delicate mouldings and traceries and statues on the porch of the Cathedral appeared like so many twinings of grey gossamer web glistening in a haze of gold. Now and then neighbours passed, and nodded or called a greeting which Madame Patoux answered cheerily, still knitting vivaciously; and the long shafts of sunshine grew longer, casting deeper shadows as the quarters chimed. All at once there was a cry, — a woman’s figure came rushing precipitately across the square, — Madame Patoux sprang up, and her children ran out of the porch as they recognised Martine Doucet.
“Martine! Martine! What is it!” they all cried simultaneously.
Martine, breathless, dishevelled, laughing and sobbing alternately, tried to speak, but could only gesticulate and throw up her hands in a kind of ecstasy, but whether of despair or joy could not be guessed. Madame Patoux shook her by the arm.
“Martine! — speak — what is it!”
Martine made a violent effort.
“Fabien! — Fabien—” she gasped, flinging herself to and fro and still sobbing and laughing.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Madame in horror. “Is the child dead?”
“No, no!—” and Martine again tossed her arms aloft in a kind of frenzy. “No — but look you! — there IS a God! Yes! — we thought He was an invention of the priests — but no — He is a real God after all! — Oh mes enfants!” and she tried to grasp the amazed Henri and Babette in her arms, “You are two of His angels! — you took my boy to the Cardinal—”
The children glanced at each other.
“Yes — yes!” they murmured breathlessly.
“Well! and see what has happened! — See! — Here comes Fabien — !”
And as she spoke exultantly with an excitement that seemed to inspire every nerve of her body, a little figure came running lightly towards them, — the light strong figure of a boy with fair curls flying in the wind, and a face in which the large, grey, astonished eyes flashed with an almost divine joy.
“Mother! — Mother!” he cried.
Madame Patoux felt as though the heavens had suddenly opened to let the angels down. Was this Fabien? Fabien, who had hobbled painfully upon crutches all his life, and had left her house in his usual condition an hour or so ago? — This straight-limbed child, running with the graceful and easy movement of a creature who had never known a day’s pain?
“Fabien, is it thou?” almost screamed Henri, “Speak, is it thou?”
“It is I” said Fabien, and he stopped, panting for breath, — then threw his arms round his mother’s neck and faced them,— “It is I — strong and well! — thanks to God and the prayers of the Cardinal!”
For a moment there was a dead silence, — a silence of stupefied amazement unbroken save by the joyful weeping of Martine. Then suddenly a deep-toned bell rang from the topmost tower of Notre Dame — and in the flame-red of the falling sun the doves that make their homes among the pinnacles of the great Cathedral, rose floating in cloudy circles towards the sky. One bell — and then another — yet another! —
“The Angelus!” cried Babette dropping on her knees and folding her hands, “The Angelus! — Mother — Martine — Henri! — Fabien! — the Angelus!” —
Down they all knelt, a devotional group, in the porch through which the good Cardinal had so lately passed, and the bells chimed sweetly and melodiously as Fabien reverently repeated the Angelic Salutation amid responses made with tears and thanksgiving, and neighbours and townfolk hearing of the miracle came hastening to the Hotel Poitiers to enquire into its truth, and pausing as they saw the cluster of kneeling figures in the porch instinctively and without question knelt also, — then as the news spread, group after group came running and gathering together, and dropping on their knees amazed and awe-struck, till the broad Square showed but one black mass of a worshipping congregation under the roseate sky, their voices joining in unison with the clear accents of one little happy child; while behind them rose the towers of Notre Dame, and over their heads the white doves flew and the bells of the Angelus rang. And the sun dropped slowly into the west, crimson and glorious like the shining rim of a Sacramental Cup held out and then drawn slowly back again by angel hands within the Veil of Heaven.
VII.
Meanwhile, unconscious of the miracle his prayer had wrought, Cardinal Bonpre and his young charge Manuel, arrived in Paris, and drove from the station direct to a house situated near the Bois du Boulogne, where the Cardinal’s niece, Angela Sovrani, only daughter of Prince Sovrani, and herself famous throughout Europe as a painter of the highest promise, had a suite of rooms and studio, reserved for her occasional visits to the French capital. Angela Sovrani was a rare type of her sex, — unlike any other woman in the world, so those who knew her best were wont to declare. Without being actually beautiful, according to the accepted lines and canons of physical perfection, she created around her an effect of beauty, which was dazzling and exciting to a singular degree, — people who came once within the charmed circle of her influence could never forget her, and always spoke of her afterwards as a creature apart; — a “woman of genius, — yes!” — they said, “But something more even than that.” And this “something more,” was just the inexplicable part of her which governed her whole being, and rendered her so indescribably attractive. And she was not without beauty — or perhaps it should be termed loveliness rather, — of an exquisitely suggestive kind, which provoked the beholder into questioning where and how the glamour of it fell. In her eyes, perhaps, the secret lay, — they were violet-grey in hue, and drowsy-lidded, with long lashes that swept the delicate pale cheeks in a dark golden fringe of shadow, through which the sparkle of vision gleamed, — now warningly, now tenderly, — and anon, these same half-shut and deep fringed lids would open wide, letting the full brilliance of the soul behind the eyes pour forth its luminance, in flashes of such lightning-like clearness and compelling force, that it was impossible not to recognise something higher than mere woman in the dazzle of that spiritual glory. In figure she was wonderfully slight, — so slight indeed that she suggested a delicate willow-withe such as can be bent and curved with one hand — yet this slightness stood her in good stead, for being united with extreme suppleness, it gave her a grace of movement resembling that of some skimming mountain bird or sea-swallow, which flies with amazing swiftness yet seeming slowness. Angela never mov
ed quickly, — no one had ever seen her in what is termed a “rush,” or a vulgar hurry. She did everything she had to do without haste, without noise, without announcement or assertion of any kind; — and all that she did was done as perfectly as her ability could warrant. And that ability was very great indeed, and displayed itself in small details as well as large attempts. Whether she merely twisted her golden-brown hair into a knot, or tied a few flowers together and fastened them on her dress with a pearl pin, either thing was perfectly done — without a false line or a discordant hue. Her face, form, voice and colouring were like a chord of music, harmonious, — and hence the impression of satisfaction and composure her presence always gave. In herself she was a creature of remarkable temperament and character; — true womanly in every delicate sentiment, fancy and feeling, but with something of the man-hero in her scorn of petty aims, her delight in noble deeds, her courage, her ambition, her devotion to duty and her unflinching sense of honour. Full of rare perceptions and instinctive knowledge of persons and motives, she could only be deceived and blinded where her deepest affections were concerned, and there she could certainly be fooled and duped as completely as the wisest of us all. Looking at her now as she stood awaiting her uncle’s arrival in the drawing-room of her “suite,” the windows of which faced the Bois, she expressed to the air and surroundings the personality of a thoughtful, charming young woman, — no more. Her black silk gown, cut simply in the prevailing mode of definitely outlining the figure from throat to hips, and then springing out in pliant folds of trailing drapery, had nothing remarkable about it save its Parisian perfection of fit, — the pale “Gloire de France” rose that rested lightly amongst the old lace at her neck, pinned, yet looking as though it had dropped there merely out of a languid desire to escape from further growing, was her only ornament. Her hair, full of curious lights and shades running from brown to gold and gold to brown again, in a rippling uncertain fashion, clustered thickly over her brow and was caught back at the sides in a loose twist after the style of the Greek vestals, — and her fine, small white hands and taper fingers, so skilled in the use of the artist’s brush, looked too tiny and delicate to be of any service save to receive the kisses of a lover’s lips, — or to be raised, folded pure and calm, in a child-like appeal to Heaven. Certainly in her fragile appearance she expressed nothing save indefinable charm — no one, studying her physiognomy, would have accredited her with genius, power, and the large conceptions of a Murillo or a Raphael; — yet within the small head lay a marvellous brain — and the delicate body was possessed by a spirit of amazing potency to conjure with. While she watched for the first glimpse of the carriage which was to bring her uncle the Cardinal, whom she loved with a rare and tender devotion, her thoughts were occupied with a letter she had received that morning from Rome, — a letter “writ in choice Italian,” which though brief, contained for her some drops of the essence of all the world’s sweetness, and was worded thus —
“MY OWN LOVE! — A century seems to have passed away since you left Rome. The hours move slowly without you — they are days, — even years! — but I feel your spirit is always with me! Absence for those who love, is not absence after all! To the soul, time is nothing, — space is nothing, — and my true and passionate love for you makes an invisible bridge, over which my thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence, carrying their delicious burden of a thousand kisses! — a thousand embraces and blessings to the Angela and angel of my life! From her devoted lover,
“Florian.”
Her devoted lover, Florian! Yes; Florian Varillo — her comrade in art, was her lover, — a genius himself, who had recognised HER genius and who bowed before it, conquered and subdued! Florian, the creator of exquisitely delicate landscapes and seascapes, with nymphs and cupids and nereids and sirens all daintily portrayed therein, — pictures so ethereal and warm and bright in colour that they were called by some of the best Italian critics, the “amoretti” of painting, — he, this wonderful man, had caught her soul and heart by storm, in a few sudden, quickly-whispered words one night when the moon was at the full, hanging high over the gardens of the Pincio, — and, proud of her security in the love she had won, Angela had risen by leaps and bounds to a magnificence of creative effort and attainment so far beyond him, that old and wise persons, skilled in the wicked ways of the world, would sometimes discourse among themselves in dubious fashion thus: “Is it possible that he is not jealous? He must surely see that her work is superior to his own!” And others would answer, “Oh no! No man was ever known to admit, even in thought, that a woman can do better things in art than himself! If a masculine creature draws a picture on a paving-stone he will assure himself in his own Ego, that it is really much more meritorious simply as ‘man’s work’ than the last triumph of a Rosa Bonheur. Besides, you have to remember that in this case the man is the woman’s lover — he could soon kill her genius if he chose. He has simply to desert her, — such an easy thing! — so often done! — and she will paint no more. Women are all alike, — they rest on love, — when that fails, then everything fails, and they drop into old age without a groan.” And then perhaps a stray cynic would say, “But Angela Sovrani need not depend on one lover surely?—” and he would get for answer, “No, she need not — but it so happens that she does,” — which to everybody seemed extraordinary, more particularly in Italy, where morals are so lax, that a woman has only to be seen walking alone in the public gardens or streets with one of the opposite sex, and her reputation is gone for ever. It is no use to explain that the man in question is her father, her brother or her uncle, — he simply could not be. He is THE man, the one inevitable. Few Italians (in Italy) believe in the chastity of English women, — their reasons for doubt being simply because they see the fair and free ones going to parties, theatres and other places of amusement with their friends of the other sex in perfect ease and confidence. And in the case of Angela Sovrani, though she was affianced to Florian Varillo with her father’s consent, (reluctantly obtained,) and the knowledge of all the Roman world of society, she saw very little of him, — and that little, never alone. Thus it was very sweet to receive such consoling words as those she had had from him that day— “Time is nothing, — space is nothing, — and my true and passionate love for you makes an invisible bridge over which my thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence!” The letter lay warm in her bosom just under the “Gloire de France” rose; she pressed it tenderly with her little hand now simply for the childish pleasure of hearing the paper rustle, and she smiled dreamily.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 464
