“Ah, voila! The assassin!” cried Miraudin, hastening to give assistance.
“The assassin!” echoed a dozen other persons pressing in the same direction.
Vergniaud heard, and gave one swift glance at Cardinal Bonpre who, though startled by the rapidity and excitement of the scene that had occurred, was equal to the occasion, and understood his friend’s appeal at once, even before he said hurriedly,
“Monseigneur! Tell them to let him go! — or — bring him face to face with me!”
The Cardinal endeavoured to pass through the crowd, but though some made way for him on account of his ecclesiastical dignity, others closed in, and he found it impossible to move more than a few steps. Then Vergniaud, moved by a sudden resolve, raised himself a little, and resting one hand on the shoulder of Manuel, who still remained on the steps of the pulpit in front of him, he called,
“Let Monsieur the assassin come here to me! I have a word to say to him!”
Through the swaying, tumultuous, murmuring throng came a sudden stillness, and everyone drew back as the gendarmes responding to Abbe Vergniaud’s command, pushed their way along, dragging and hustling their prisoner between them, — a young black-browed, black-eyed peasant with a handsome face and proud bearing, whose defiant manner implied that having made one fierce struggle for liberty and finding it in vain, he was now disdainfully resigned to the inevitable. When brought face to face with the Abbe he lifted his head, and flashed his dark eyes upon him with a look of withering contempt. His lips parted, — he seemed about to speak when his glance accidentally fell upon Manuel, — then something caused him to hesitate, — he checked himself on the very verge of speech and remained silent. The Abbe surveyed him with something of a quizzical half-admiring smile, then addressing the gendarmes he said,
“Let him go!”
The men looked up astonished, doubting whether they had heard aright.
“Let him go!” repeated the Abbe firmly, “I have no accusation to make against him. Had he killed me he would have been perfectly justified! Let him go!”
“Cher Abbe!” remonstrated the Marquis Fontenelle, who had made himself one of the group immediately around the pulpit, “Is not this a mistake on your part? Let me advise you not to be so merciful . . .”
“‘Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy’”! quoted the Abbe with a strange smile, while his breath came and went quickly, and his face grew paler as he spoke. “Set him free, messieurs, if you please! I decline to prosecute my own flesh and blood! I will be answerable for his future conduct, — I am entirely answerable for his past! He is my son!”
XIV.
No one ever afterwards quite knew how the crowd in the church broke up and dispersed itself after this denouement. For a few minutes the crush of people round the pulpit was terrific; all eyes were fixed on the young black-browed peasant who had so nearly been a parricide, — and on the father who publicly exonerated him, — and then there came a pressing towards the doors which was excessively dangerous to life and limb. Cardinal Bonpre, greatly moved by the whole unprecedented scene, placed himself in front of Angela as a shield and defence from the crowd; but before he had time to consider how he should best pilot her through the pushing and scrambling throng, a way was made for him by Manuel, who, — with a quiet step and unruffled bearing, — walked through the thickest centre of the crowd, which parted easily on either side of him, as though commanded to do so by some unheard but absolute authority. Admiring and wondering glances were turned upon the boy, whose face shone with such a grave peace and sweetness; — he had saved the Abbe’s life, the people whispered, by springing up the steps of the pulpit, and throwing himself between the intended victim and the bullet of his assailant. Who was he? Where did he come from? No one knew; — he was merely the attendant of that tall ascetic-looking Cardinal, the uncle of the famous Sovrani. So the words ran from mouth to mouth, as Felix Bonpre and his niece moved slowly through the throng, following Manuel; — then, when they had passed, there came a general hubbub and confusion once more, and the people hustled and elbowed each other through the church regardless of consequences, eager to escape and discuss among themselves the sensation of the morning.
“C’est un drame! Un veritable drame!” said Miraudin, pausing, as he found himself face to face with the Marquis Fontenelle.
Fontenelle stared haughtily.
“Did you speak to me, Monsieur?” he enquired, glancing the actor up and down with an air of supreme disdain.
Miraudin laughed carelessly.
“Yes, I spoke to you, Marquis!” he replied, “I said that the public confession of our dear priest Vergniaud was a veritable drame!”
“An unfortunate scandal in the Church!” said Fontenelle curtly.
“Yes!” went on the unabashed Miraudin, “If it were on the stage it would be taken as a matter of course. An actor’s follies help to populate the world. But a priest’s petite faute would seem to suggest the crushing down of a universe!”
“Custom and usage make the rule in these things,” said Fontenelle turning away, “I have the honour to wish you good-day, Monsieur!”
“One moment!” said the actor smiling, “There is a curious personal resemblance between you and me, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you ever noticed it? We might almost be brothers by our looks — and also I believe by our temperaments!”
Fontenelle’s hazel eyes flashed angrily.
“I think not!” he said coldly, “A certain resemblance between totally unrelated persons is quite common. For the rest, we are absolutely different — absolutely!”
Again Miraudin laughed.
“As you will, Marquis!” and he raised his hat with a light, half-mocking air, “Au revoir!”
Fontenelle scarcely acknowledged the salutation, — he was too much annoyed. He considered it a piece of insolence on Miraudin’s part to have addressed him at all without previous introduction. It was true that the famous actor was permitted a license not granted to the ordinary individual, — as indeed most actors are. Even princes, who hedge themselves round with impassable barriers to certain of their subjects who are in all ways great and worthy of notice, unbend to the Mime who today takes the place of the Court-jester, and allow him to enter the royal presence, often bringing his newest wanton with him. And there was not the slightest reason for the Marquis Fontenelle to be at all particular in his choice of acquaintances. Yet somehow or other, he was. The fine and sensitive instincts of a gentleman were in him, and though in the very depths of his own conscience he knew himself to be as much of a social actor as Miraudin was a professional one, — though he was aware that his passions were as sensual, and therefore as vulgar, (for sensuality is vulgarity), there was a latent pride in him which forbade him to set himself altogether on the same level. And now as he walked away haughtily, his fine aristocratic head lifted a little higher in air than usual, he was excessively irritated — with everything and everybody, but with himself in particular. Abbe Vergniaud’s sermon had stung him in several ways, and the startling FINALE had vexed him still more.
“What folly!” he thought, as he entered his luxuriously appointed flat, and threw himself into a chair with a kind of angry weariness, “How utterly stupid of Vergniaud to blazon the fact that he is no better than other men, in the full face of his congregation! He must be mad! A priest of the Roman Church publicly acknowledging a natural son! [Footnote: ROME, August 19, 1899 — A grave scandal has just burst upon the world here. The Gazetta di Venezia having attacked the bishops attending the recent conclave of “Latin America,” that is, Spanish-speaking America, as men of loose morality, the Osservatore Cattolico, the Vatican organ, replied declaring that the life of the bishops present at the conclave was above suspicion. The Gazetta di Venezia responds, affirming that the majority of the bishops brought with them to Rome their mistresses, and in some instances their children. The Gazetta offers to disclose the names of these bishops, and demands that the Pope shall satisfy the Catholic
world by taking measures against them. — Central News.] Has ever such a thing been heard of! And the result is merely to create scandal and invite his own disgrace! A quoi bon!”
He lit a cigarette and puffed at it impatiently. His particular “code” of morality had been completely upset; — things seemed to have taken a turn for general offence, and the simplest thoughts became like bristles in his brain, pricking him uncomfortably in various sore and sensitive places. Then, added to his general sense of spleen was the unpleasant idea that he was really in love, where he had never meant to be in love. “In love”, is a wide term nowadays, and covers a multitude of poor and petty passing emotions, — and it is often necessary to add the word “really” to it, in order to emphasise the fact that the passion has perhaps, — and even then it is only a perhaps, — taken a somewhat lasting form. Why could not Sylvie Hermenstein have allowed things to run their natural course? — this natural course being according to Fontenelle, to drop into his arms when asked, and leave those arms again with equal alacrity also when asked! It would have been quite pleasant and satisfactory to him, the Marquis; — and for Sylvie — well! — for Sylvie, she would soon have got over it! Now there was all this fuss and pother about virtue! Virtue, quotha! In a woman, and in Paris! At this time of day! Could anything be more preposterous and ridiculous!
“One would imagine I had stumbled into a convent for young ladies,” he grumbled to himself, “What with Sylvie actually gone, and that pretty pattern of chastity, Angela Sovrani, preaching at me with her big violet eyes, — and now Vergniaud who used to be ‘bon camarade et bon vivant’, branding himself a social sinner — really one would imagine that some invisible Schoolmaster was trying to whip me into order . . .”
“Peut-on entrer?” called a clear voice outside at this juncture, and without waiting for permission the speaker entered, a very pretty woman in an admirably fitting riding habit, which she held daintily up with one gloved hand, extending the other as she came to the Marquis who gracefully bent over it and kissed it.
“Charme de vous voir Princesse!” he murmured.
“Not at all! Spare me your falsehoods!” was the gay reply, accompanied by a dazzling smile, “You are not in the least charmed, nothing, — nobody charms you, — I least of all! Did you not see me in church? No! Where were your eyes? On the courageous Vergniaud, who so nearly gave us the melancholy task of arranging a ‘Chapelle ardente’ for him this afternoon?” She laughed, and her eyes twinkled maliciously, — then she went on, “Do you know he is quite a delightful boy, — the peasant son and assassin? I think of taking him to my Chateau and making something of him. I waited to see the whole play out, and bring you the news. Papa Vergniaud has gone home with his good-looking offspring — then Cardinal Bonpre — do you know the Cardinal Bonpre?”
“By reputation merely,” replied the Marquis, setting a chair for his fair visitor, “And as the uncle of Donna Sovrani.”
“Oh, reputation is nothing,” laughed the lady, known as the Princesse D’Agramont, an independent beauty of great wealth and brilliant attainments, “Your butler can give you a reputation, or take it away from you! But the Cardinal’s reputation is truly singular. It is goodness, merely! He is so good that he has become actually famous for it! Now I once thought that to become famous for goodness must surely imply that the person so celebrated had a very hypocritical nature, — the worst of natures indeed; — that of pretending to be what he was not, — but I was mistaken. Cardinal Bonpre IS good. Absolutely sincere and noble — therefore a living marvel in this age!”
“You are pleased to be severe, Princesse,” said the Marquis, “Is sincerity so difficult to find?”
“The most difficult of virtues!” answered the Princesse, lightly tapping out a little tune with the jewelled handle of her riding whip on the arm of her chair, “That is why I like horses and dogs so much — they are always honest. And for that reason I am now inclined to like Abbe Vergniaud whom I never liked before. He has turned honest! To-day indeed he has been as straightforward as if he were not a man at all! — and I admire him for it. He and his son will be my guests at the Chateau D’Agramont.”
“What a very strange woman you are!” said Fontenelle, with a certain languid admiration beginning to glimmer in his eyes, “You always do things that nobody else would dare do — and yet . . . no lovers!”
She turned herself swiftly round and surveyed him with a bright scorn that swept him as with a lightning flash from head to heel.
“Lovers! Who would be bored by them! Such delightful company! So unselfish in their demands — so tender and careful of a woman’s feelings! Pouf! Cher ami! — you forget! I was the wife of the late Prince D’Agramont!”
“That explains a great many of your moods certainly,” said the Marquis smiling.
“Does it not? Le beau Louis! — romantic Louis! — poet Louis! — musician Louis! — Louis, who talked pretty philosophies by the hour, — Louis who looked so beautiful by moonlight, — who seemed fastidious and refined to a degree that was almost ethereal! — Louis who swore, with passion flashing in his eyes, that I was the centre of the universe to him, and that no other woman had ever occupied, would ever occupy, or SHOULD ever occupy his thoughts! — yes, he was an ideal lover and husband indeed!” said the Princesse smiling coldly, “I gave him all my life and love, till one day, when I found I was sharing his caresses with my plumpest dairymaid, who called him “HER Louis”! Then I thought it was time to put an end to romance. TIENS!” and she gave a little shrug and sigh, “It is sad to think he died of over-eating.”
The Marquis laughed.
“You are incorrigible, belle Loyse!” he said, “You should write these things, not speak them.”
“Really! And do I not write them? Yes, you know I do, and that you envy me my skill. The Figaro is indebted to me for many admirable essays. At the same time I do not give you permission to call me Loyse.”
“Forgive me!” and the Marquis folded his hands with an air of mock penitence.
“Perhaps I will, presently,” and she laughed, “But meanwhile I want you to do something for me.”
“Toujours a votre service, madame!” and Fontenelle bowed profoundly.
“How theatrical you look! You are alarmingly like Miraudin; — and one MUST draw the line at Miraudin! This is a day of truth according to the Abbe Vergniaud; how dare you say you are at my service when you do not mean it?”
“Princesse, I protest . . .”
“Oh, protest as much as you like, — on the way to Rome!”
The Marquis started.
“To Rome?”
“Yes, to Rome. I am going, and I want someone to look after me. Will you come? All Paris will say we have eloped together.” She laughed merrily.
The Marquis stood perplexed and silent.
“Well, what is it?” went on the Princesse gaily, “Is there some faint sense of impropriety stealing over you? Not possible! Dear me, your very muscles are growing rigid! You will not go?”
“Madame, if you will permit me to be frank with you, — I would rather not!”
“A la bonheur! — then I have you!” And the Princesse rose, a dazzling smile irradiating her features, “You have thrown open your heart! You have begun to reform! You love Sylvie Hermenstein — yes! — you positively LOVE her!”
“Princesse—” began the Marquis, “I assure you—”
“Assure me nothing!” and she looked him straight in the eyes, “I know all about it! You will not journey with me because you think the Comtesse Sylvie will hear of it, and put a wrong construction on your courtesy. You wish to try for once, to give her no cause for doubting you to be sans peur et sans reproche. You wish to make her think you something better than a sort of Miraudin whose amorous inclinations are not awakened by one woman, but by women! And so you will not do anything which, though harmless in itself, may seem equivocal. For this you refuse the friendly invitation of one of the best known ‘society leaders’ in Europe! CHER Marquis
! — it is a step in the right direction! Adieu!”
“You are not going so soon,” he said hurriedly, “Wait till I explain . . .”
“There is nothing to explain!” and the pretty Princesse gave him her hand with a beneficent air, “I am very pleased with you. You are what the English call ‘good boy’! Now I am going to see the Abbe and place the Chateau D’Agramont at his disposal while he is waiting to be excommunicated, — for of course he will be excommunicated—”
“What does it matter! — Who cares?” said the Marquis recklessly.
“It does not matter, and nobody cares — not in actual Paris. But very very nice people in the suburbs, who are morally much worse than the Abbe, will perhaps refuse to receive him. That is why my doors are open to him, and also to his son.”
“Original, as usual!”
“Perfectly! I am going to write a column for the Figaro on the amazing little scene of this morning. Au revoir! My poor horse has been waiting too long already, — I must finish my ride in the Bois, and then go to Angela Sovrani; for all the dramatis personae of to-day’s melodrama are at her studio, I believe.”
“Who is that boy with the Cardinal?” asked the Marquis suddenly.
“You have noticed him? I also. A wonderful face! A little acolyte, no doubt. And so you will not go to Rome with me?”
“I think not,” and Fontenelle smiled.
“Comme il vous plaira! I will tell Sylvie.”
“The Comtesse Hermenstein is not in Paris.”
“No!” and the Princesse laughed mischievously, “She is in Rome! She must have arrived there this morning. Au revoir, Marquis!” Another dazzling smile, and she was gone.
Fontenelle stood staring after her in amazement. Sylvie was in Rome then? And he had just refused to accompany the Princesse D’Agramont thither! A sudden access of irritation came over him, and he paced the room angrily. Should he also go to Rome? Never! It would seem too close a pursuit of a woman who had by her actions distinctly shown that she wished to avoid him. Now he would prove to her that he also had a will of his own. HE would leave Paris; — he would go — yes, he would go to Africa! Everybody went to Africa. It was becoming a fashionable pasture-land for disappointed lives. He would lose himself in the desert, — and then — then Sylvie would be sorry when she did not know where he was or what he was doing! But also, — he in his turn would not know where Sylvie was, or what she was doing! This was annoying. It was certain that she would not remain in Rome a day longer than she chose to, — well! — then where would she go? In Africa he would find some difficulty in tracing her movements. On second thoughts he resolved that he would lose himself in another fashion — and would go to Rome to do it!
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 476
