“She shall not know I am there!” he said to himself, with a kind of triumph in his own decision, “I shall amuse myself — I shall see her — but she shall not see me.”
Satisfied with this as yet vague plan of entertainment, he began at once making his arrangements for departure; — meanwhile, the Princesse D’Agramont riding gracefully through the Bois on her beautiful Arab, was amusing herself with her thoughts, and weighing the PROS and CONS of the different lives of her friends, without giving the slightest consideration to her own. Here was a strange nature, — as a girl she had been intensely loving, generous and warm-hearted, and she had adored her husband with exceptional faith and devotion. But the handsome Prince’s amours were legion, though he had been fairly successful in concealing them from his wife, till the unlucky day when she had found him making desperate love to a common servant, — and after that her confidence, naturally, was at an end. One discovery led to another, — and the husband around whom she had woven her life’s romance, sank degraded in her sight, never to rise again. She was of far too dignified and proud a nature to allow her sense of outrage and wrong to be made public, and though she never again lived with D’Agramont as his wife, she carried herself through all her duties as mistress of the household and hostess of his guests, with a brave bright gaiety, which deceived even the closest observer, — and the gossips of Paris used to declare that she did not know the extent of her husband’s follies. But she did know, — and while filled with utter disgust and loathing for his conduct she nevertheless gave him no cause of complaint against herself. And when he died of a fever brought on through over-indulgence in vice, she conformed to all the strictest usages of society, — wore her solemn widow’s black for more than the accustomed period, — and then cast it off, — not to dash into her fashionable “circle” again with a splurge of colour, but rather to glide into it gracefully, a vision of refinement, arrayed in such soft hues as may be seen in some rare picture; and she took complete possession of it by her own unaided charm. No one could really tell whether she grieved for D’Agramont’s death or not; no one but herself knew how she had loved him, — no one guessed what agonies of pain and shame she had endured for his sake, nor how she had wept herself half blind with despair when he died. All this she shut up in her own heart, but the working of the secret bitterness within her had made a great change in her disposition. Her nature, once as loving and confiding as that of a little child, had been so wronged in its tenderest fibres that now she could not love at all.
“Why is it,” she would ask herself, “that I am totally unable to care for any living creature? That it is indifferent to me whether I see any person once, or often, or never? Why are all men like phantoms, drifting past my soul’s immovability?”
The answer to her query would be, that having loved greatly once and been deceived, it was impossible to love again. Some women, — the best, and therefore the unhappiest — are born with this difficult temperament.
Now, as she rode quietly along, sometimes allowing her horse to prance upon the turf for the delight of its dewy freshness, she was weaving quite a brilliant essay on modern morals out of the scene she had witnessed at the Church of the Lorette that morning. She well knew how to use that dangerous weapon, the pen, — she could wield it like a wand to waken tears or laughter with equal ease, and since her husband’s death she had devoted a great deal of time to authorship. Two witty novels, published under a nom-de-plume had already startled the world of Paris, and she was busy with a third. Such work amused her, and distracted her from dwelling too much on the destroyed illusions of the past. The Figaro snatched eagerly at everything she wrote; and it was for the Figaro that she busied her brain now, considering what she should say of the Abbe Vergniaud’s confession.
“It is wisest to be a liar and remain in the Church? or tell the truth and go out of the Church?” she mused, “Unfortunately, if all priests told the truth as absolutely as the Abbe did this morning we should have hardly any of them left.”
She laughed a little, and stroked her horse’s neck caressingly.
“Good Rex! You and your kind never tell lies; and yet you are said to have no souls. Now I wonder why we, who are mean and cunning and treacherous and hypocritical should have immortal souls, while horses and dogs who are faithful and kind and honest should be supposed to have none.”
Rex gave a gay little prance forward as one who should say, “Yes, but it is only you silly human beings who suppose such nonsense. We know what WE know; — we have our own secrets!”
“Now the Church,” went on Loyse D’Agramont, pursuing the tenor of her thoughts, “is in a bad way all over the world. It is possible that God is offended with it. It is possible, that after nearly two thousand years of patience He is tired of having come down to us to teach us the path of Heaven in vain. Something out of the common has surely moved the Abbe Vergniaud to speak as he spoke to-day. He was quite unlike himself and beyond himself; if all our preachers were seized by the spirit of frankness in like manner—”
Here she broke off for she had arrived at Angela Sovrani’s door, and a servant coming out, assisted her to alight, and led her horse into the courtyard there to await her leisure. She was an old friend of Angela’s and was accustomed to enter the house without announcement, but on this occasion she hesitated, and after ascending the first few steps leading to the studio paused and rang the bell. Angela herself answered the summons.
“Loyse! Is it you! Oh, I am so glad!” and Angela caught her by both hands,— “You cannot imagine the confusion and trouble we have been in this morning!”
“Oh yes, I can!” answered the Princesse smiling, as she put an arm round her friend’s waist and entered the studio, “You have certainly had an excitement! What of the courageous Abbe? Where is he?”
“Here!” And Angela’s eyes expressed volumes,— “Here, with my uncle. They are talking together — and that young man — Cyrillon — the son, you know—”
“Is that his name? — Cyrillon?” queried the Princesse.
“Yes, — he has been brought up as a peasant. But he is not ignorant. He has written books and music, so it appears — yet he still keeps to his labour in the fields. He seems to be a kind of genius; another sort of Maeterlinck—”
“Oh, capricious Destiny!” exclaimed the Princesse, “The dear Abbe scandalises the Church by acknowledging his son to all men, — and lo! — the son he was ashamed of all these years, turns out a prodigy! The fault once confessed, brings a blessing! Angela, there is something more than chance in this, if we could only fathom it!”
“This Cyrillon is all softness and penitence now,’ Angela went on, “He is overcome with grief at his murderous attempt, — and has asked his father’s pardon. And they are going away together out of Paris till—”
“Till excommunication is pronounced,” said the Princesse, “Yes, I thought so! I came here to place my Chateau at the Abbe’s disposal. I am myself going to Rome; so he and his son can be perfectly at home there. I admire the man’s courage, and above all I admire his truthfulness. But I cannot understand why he was at such pains to keep silence all these years, and THEN to declare his fault? He must have decided on his confession very suddenly?”
Angela’s eyes grew dark and wistful.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, — then with a sudden eagerness in her manner she added, “Do you know, Loyse, I feel as if some very strange influence had crept in among us! Pray do not think me foolish, but I assure you I have had the most curious sensations since my uncle, Cardinal Bonpre arrived from Rouen — bringing Manuel—”
“Manuel? Is that the boy I saw in the church this morning? The boy who threw himself as a shield between Verginaud and the flying shot? Yes? And do you not know who he is?”
“No,” and Angela repeated the story of the way in which Manuel had been found and rescued by the Cardinal; “You see,” she continued, “it is not possible to ask him any questions since he has declined to tell us more than we
already know.”
“Strange!” And the Princesse D’Agramont knitted her delicate brows perplexedly. “And you have had curious feelings since he came, you say? What sort of feelings?”
“Well, you will only laugh at me,” replied Angela, her cheeks paling a little as she spoke, “but it really is as if some supernatural being were present who could see all my inward thoughts, — and not only mine, but the thoughts of everyone else. Someone too who impels us to do what we have never thought of doing before—”
The Princesse opened her eyes in amazement.
“My dear girl! You must have been over-working to get such strange fancies into your head! There is nothing supernatural left to us nowadays except the vague idea of a God, — and even that we are rather tired of!”
Angela trembled and grew paler than usual.
“Do not speak in that way,” she urged, “The Abbe talked in just such a light fashion until the other day here, — yet this morning I think — nay, I am sure he believes in something better than himself at last.”
The Princesse was silent for a minute.
“Well, what is to happen next?” she queried, “Excommunication of course! All brave thinkers of every time have been excommunicated, and many of our greatest and most valuable scientific works are on the Index Expurgatorius. It is my ambition to get into that Index, — I shall never rest till I win the honour of being beside Darwin’s ‘Origin of Species’!”
Angela smiled, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
“I hope the Abbe will go away at once,” she said meditatively, “But you have no idea how happy and at ease he is! He seems to be ready for anything.”
“What does Cardinal Bonpre think?” asked the Princesse.
“My uncle never thinks in any way except the way of Christ,” replied Angela. “He says, ‘Thy sins be forgiven thee; arise and walk’, to every soul stricken with the palsy of pain and repentance. He helps the fallen; he does not strike them down more heavily.”
“Ah, so! And is he fit to be a Cardinal?” queried the Princesse D’Agramont dubiously.
Angela gave her a quick look, but had no time to reply as at that moment a servant entered and announced, “Monsignor Moretti!”
Angela started nervously.
“Moretti!” she said in a low tone, “I thought he had left Paris!”
Before she had time to say any more the visitor himself entered, a tall spare priest with a dark narrow countenance of the true Tuscan type, — a face in which the small furtive eyes twinkled with a peculiarly hard brilliancy as though they were luminous pebbles. He walked into the room with a kind of aggressive dignity common to many Italians, and made a slight sign of the cross in air as the two ladies saluted him.
“Pardon me, Mesdames, for this intrusion,” he said in a harsh metallic voice, “But I hear that the Abbe Vergniaud is in this house, — and that Cardinal Felix Bonpre has received him here SINCE” (and he emphasised the word “since”) “the shameful scene of this morning. My business in Paris is ended for the moment; and I am returning to Italy to-night, — but I wish to know if the Abbe has anything to say through me to His Holiness the Pope in extenuation of his conduct before I perform the painful duty of narrating this distressing affair at the Vatican.”
“Will you see him for yourself, Monsignor?” said Angela quietly, offering to lead the way out of the studio, “You will no doubt obtain a more direct and explicit answer from the Abbe personally.”
For a moment Moretti hesitated. Princesse D’Agramont saw his indecision, and her smile had a touch of malice in it as she said,
“It is a little difficult to know how to address the Abbe to-day, is it not, Monsignor? For of course he is no longer an Abbe — no longer a priest of Holy Church! Helas! When anybody takes to telling the truth in public the results are almost sure to be calamitous!”
Moretti turned upon her with swift asperity.
“Madame, you are no true daughter of the Church,” he said, “and my calling forbids me to enter into any discussion with you!”
The Princesse gave him a charming upward glance of her bright eyes, and curtsied demurely, but he paid no heed to her obeisance, and moving away, went at once with Angela towards the Cardinal’s apartments. In the antechamber he paused, hearing voices.
“Is there anyone with His Eminence, besides Vergniaud?” he asked.
“The Abbe’s son Cyrillon,” replied Angela timidly.
Moretti frowned.
“I will go in alone,” he said, “You need not announce me. The Abbe knows me well, and—” he added with a slight sneer, “he is likely to know me better!”
Without further words he signed to Angela to retire, and passing through the antechamber, he opened the door of the Cardinal’s room and entered abruptly.
XV.
The Cardinal was seated, — he rose as Moretti appeared.
“I beg your Eminence to spare yourself!” said Moretti suavely, with a deep salutation, “And to pardon me for thus coming unannounced into the presence of one so highly esteemed by the Holy Father as Cardinal Bonpre!”
The Cardinal gave a gesture of courteous deprecation; and Monsignor Moretti, lifting his, till then, partially lowered eyelids, flashed an angry regard upon the Abbe Vergniaud, who resting his back against the book-case behind him, met his glance with the most perfect composure. Close to him stood his son and would-be murderer Cyrillon, — his dark handsome face rendered even handsomer by the wistful and softened expression of his eyes, which ever and anon rested upon his father with a look of mingled wonder and respect. There was a brief silence — of a few seconds at most, — and then Moretti spoke again in a voice which thrilled with pent-up indignation, but which he endeavoured to render calm and clear as he addressed the Cardinal.
“Your Eminence is without doubt aware of the cause of my visit to you. If, as I understand, your Eminence was present at Notre Dame de Lorette this morning, and witnessed the regrettable conduct of the faithless son of the Church here present—”
“Pardon! This is my affair.” interposed Vergniaud, stepping forward, “His Eminence, Cardinal Bonpre, is not at all concerned in the matter of the difficult dispute which has arisen between me and my own conscience. You call me faithless, Monsignor, — will you explain what you mean by ‘faithless’ under these present conditions of argument?”
“It shows the extent and hopelessness of your retrogression from all good that you should presume to ask such a question,” answered Moretti, growing white under the natural darkness of his skin with an impotency of rage he could scarcely suppress, “Your sermon this morning was an open attack on the Church, and the amazing scene at its conclusion is a scandal to Christianity!”
“The attack on the Church I admit,” said the Abbe quietly, “I am not the only preacher in the world who has so attacked it. Christ Himself would attack it if He were to visit this earth again!”
Moretti turned angrily towards the Cardinal.
“Your Eminence permits this blasphemy to be uttered in your presence?” he demanded.
“Nay, wherever and whenever I perceive blasphemy, my son, I shall reprove it,” said the Cardinal, fixing his mild eyes steadily on Moretti’s livid countenance, “I cannot at present admit that our unhappy and repentant brother here has blasphemed. In his address to his congregation to-day he denounced social hypocrisy, and also pointed out certain failings in the Church which may possibly need consideration and reform; but against the Gospel of Christ, or against the Founder of our Faith I heard no word that could be judged ill-fitting. As for the conclusion which so very nearly ended in disaster and crime, there is nothing to be said beyond the fact that both the persons concerned are profoundly sorry for their sins.”
“No sorrow can wipe out such infamy—” began Moretti hotly.
“Patience! Patience, my son!” and the Cardinal raised his hand with a slight gesture of authority, “Surely we must believe the words of our Blessed Lord, ‘There is more joy in Heaven over one s
inner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons which have no need of repentance’!”
“And on this old and well-worn phrase you excuse a confessed heretic?” said Moretti, with a sneer.
“This old and well-worn phrase is the saying of our Master,” answered the Cardinal firmly, “And it is as true as the truth of the sunshine which, in its old and well-worn way, lights up this world gloriously every morning! I would stake my very life on the depth and the truth of Vergniaud’s penitence! Who, seeing and knowing the brand of disgrace he has voluntarily burnt into his own social name and honour, could doubt his sincerity, or refuse to raise him up, even as our Lord would have done, saying, ‘Thy sins be forgiven thee! Go, and sin no more!’?”
Moretti’s furtive eyes disappeared for a moment under his discoloured eyelids, which quivered rapidly like the throbbings in the throat of an angry snake. Before he could speak again however, Vergniaud interposed.
“Why trouble His Eminence with my crimes or heresies?” he said quietly, “I am grateful to him from my soul for his gentleness and charity of judgment — but I need no defence — not even from him. I am answerable to God alone! — neither to Church nor Creed! It was needful that I should speak as I spoke to-day—”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 477
