Angela raised a cluster of narcissi and inhaled their fine and delicate perfume. There were tears in her eyes, but she hid them with a spray of the flowers.
“Ah, Sylvie, you think too well of me! To be famous is nothing. To be loved is everything!”
Sylvie looked at her earnestly.
“You are loved,” she said.
“No, no!” she said— “No, I am not loved. I am hated! Hush, Sylvie! — do not say one word of what is in your mind, for I will not hear it!”
She spoke agitatedly, and her cheeks flushed a sudden feverish red.
Sylvie made haste to try and soothe her.
“My darling girl, I would not say anything to vex you for the world! You must not excite yourself—”
“I am not excited,” said Angela, putting her arms round her friend and drawing her fair head down till it was half hidden against her own bosom— “No — but I must speak — bear with me for a minute, dear! We all have our dreams, we women, and I have had mine! I dreamt there was such a beautiful thing in the world as a great, unselfish love, — I fancied that a woman, if gifted with a little power and ability above the rest of her sex, could make the man she loved proud of her — not jealous! — I thought that a lover delighted in the attainments of his beloved — I thought there was nothing too high, too great, too glorious to attempt for the sake of proving oneself worthy to be loved! And now — I have found out the truth, Sylvie! — a bitter truth, but no doubt good for me to know, — that men will kill what they once caressed out of a mere grudge of the passing breath called Fame! Thus, Love is not what I dreamed it; and I, who was so foolishly glad to think that I was loved, have wakened up to know that I am hated! — hated to the very extremity of hate, for a poor gift of brair and hand which I wish — I wish I had never had!”
Sylvie raised her head and gently put aside the weak trembling little hands that embraced her.
“Angela, Angela! You must not scorn the gifts of the gods! No, No! — you will not let me say anything — you forbid me to express my thoughts fully, and I know you are not well enough to hear me yet — but one day you WILL know! — you will hear, — you will even be thankful for all the sorrow you have passed through, — and meanwhile, dear, dearest Angela, do not be ungrateful!”
She said the word boldly yet hesitatingly, bending over the couch tenderly, her eyes full of light, and a smile on her lips. And taking up a knot of daffodils she swept their cool blossoms softly across Angela’s burning forehead, murmuring —
“Do not be ungrateful!”
“Ungrateful — !” echoed Angela, — and she moved restlessly.
“Yes, darling! Do not say you wish you never had received the great gifts God has given you. Do not judge of things by Sorrow’s measurement only. I repeat — you ARE loved — though not perhaps where you most relied on love. Your father loves you — your uncle loves you — Manuel loves you . . .”
Angela interrupted her with a protesting gesture.
“Yes — I know,” she murmured, “but—”
“But you think all this love is worthless, as compared with a love that was no love at all?” said Sylvie. “There! We will not speak about it any more just now, — you are not strong, and you see things in their darkest light. Shall I talk to you about Aubrey?”
“Ah! That is a subject you are never tired of!” said Angela with a faint smile. “Nor am I.”
“Well, you ought to be,” answered Sylvie gaily, “for I am too blindly, hopelessly in love to know when to stop! I see nothing else and know nothing else — it is Aubrey, Aubrey all the time. The air, the sunlight, the whole world, seem only an admirable exposition of Aubrey!”
“Then how would you feel if he did not love you any more?” asked Angela.
“But that is not possible!” said Sylvie. “Aubrey could not change. It is not in him. He is not like our poor friend Fontenelle.”
“Ah! That love of yours was only fancy, Sylvie!”
“We all have our fancies!” answered the pretty Comtesse, looking very earnestly into Angela’s eyes. “We are not always sure that what we first call love is love. But I had much more than a fancy for the Marquis Fontenelle. If he had loved me — as I think he did at the last — I should certainly have married him. But during all the time I knew him he had a way of relegating all women to the same level — servants, actresses, ballet-dancers, and ladies alike, — he would never admit that there is as much difference between one woman and another as between one man and another. And this is a mistake many men make. Fontenelle wished to treat me as Miraudin would have treated his ‘leading lady’; — he judged that quite sufficient for happiness. Now Aubrey treats me as his comrade, — his friend as well as his love, and that makes our confidence perfect. By the way, he spoke to me a great deal yesterday about the Abbe Vergniaud, and told me all he knew about his son Cyrillon.”
“Ah, the poor Abbe!” said Angela. “They are angry with him still at the Vatican — angry now with his dead body! But ‘Gys Grandit’ is not of the Catholic faith, so they can do nothing with him.”
“No. He is what they call a ‘free-lance,’” said Sylvie. “And a wonderful personage he is! I You have seen him?”
A faint colour crept over Angela’s pale cheeks.
“Yes. Once. Just once, in Paris, on the day his father publicly acknowledged him. But I wrote to him long before I knew who he realty was.”
“Angela! You wrote to him?”
“Yes. I admired the writings of Gys Grandit — I used to buy all his books as they came out, and study them. I wrote to him — as many people will write to a favourite author — not in my own name of course — to express my admiration, and he answered. And so we corresponded for about two years, not knowing each other’s identity till that scene in Paris brought us together—”
“How VERY curious, — ve — ry!” said Sylvie, with a little mischievous smile. “And so you are quite friends?”
“I think so — I believe so—” answered Angela— “but since we met, he has ceased to write to me.”
Sylvie made a mental note of that fact in her own mind, very much to the credit of “Gys Grandit,” but said nothing further on the subject. Time was hastening on, and she had to return to the Casa D’Angeli to receive Monsignor Gherardi.
“I am going to be lectured I suppose,” she said laughingly. “I have not seen the worthy Domenico since my engagement to Aubrey was announced!”
Angela looked at her intently.
“Are you at all prepared for what he will say?”
“Not in the least. What CAN he say?”
“Much that may vex you,” said Angela. “Considering Aubrey Leigh’s theories, he may perhaps reproach you for your intended marriage — or he may bring you information of the Pope’s objection.”
“Well! What of that?” demanded Sylvie.
“But you are a devout Catholic—”
“And you? With a great Cardinal for your uncle you paint ‘The Coming of Christ’! Ah! — I have seen that picture, Angela!”
“But I am different, — I am a worker, and I fear nothing,” said Angela, her eyes beginning to shine with the latent force in her that was gradually resuming its dominion over her soul— “I thought long and deeply before I put my thought into shape—”
“And I thought long and deeply before I decided to be the companion of Aubrey’s life and work!” said Sylvie resolutely. “And neither the Pope or a whole college of Cardinals will change my love or prevent my marriage. A riverderci!”
“A riverderci!” echoed Angela, raising herself a little to receive the kiss her friend tenderly pressed on her cheeks. “I shall be anxious to know the result of your interview!”
“I will come round early to-morrow and tell you all,” promised Sylvie, “for I mean to find out, if I can, what happened at the Vatican when Cardinal Bonpre last went there with Manuel.”
“My uncle is most anxious to leave Rome,” said Angela musingly.
“I know. And if
there is any plot against him he MUST leave Rome — he SHALL leave it! And we will help him!”
With that she went her way, and an hour or so later stood, a perfect picture of grace and beauty, in the grand old rooms of the Casa D’Angeli, waiting to receive Gherardi. She had taken more than the usual pains with her toilette this afternoon, and had chosen to wear a “creation” of wonderful old lace, with knots of primrose and violet velvet caught here and there among its folds. It suited her small lissom figure to perfection, and her only ornaments were a cluster of fresh violets, and one ring sparkling on her left hand, — a star of rose brilliants and rubies, the sign of her betrothal.
Punctual to the hour appointed, Gherardi arrived, and was at once shown into her presence. There was a touch of aggressiveness and irony in his manner as he entered with his usual slow and dignified step, and though he endeavoured to preserve that suavity and cold calmness for which he was usually admired and feared by women, his glance was impatient, and an occasional biting of his lips showed suppressed irritation. The first formal greetings over, he said —
“I have wished for some time to call upon you, Contessa, but the pressure of affairs at the Vatican—”
He stopped abruptly, looking at her. How provokingly pretty she was! — and how easily indifferent she seemed to the authoritative air he had chosen to assume.
“I should, I know, long ere this have offered you my felicitations on your approaching marriage—”
Sylvie smiled bewitchingly, and gave him a graceful curtsey.
“Will you not sit down, Monsignor?” she then said. “We can talk more at our ease, do you not think?”
She seated herself, with very much the air of a queen taking possession of a rightful throne, and Gherardi was vexedly aware that he had not by any means the full possession of his ordinary dignity or self-control. He took a chair opposite to her and sat for a moment perplexed as to his next move. Sylvie did not help him at all. Ruffling the violets among the lace at her neck, she looked at him attentively from under her long golden-brown lashes, but maintained a perfect silence.
“The news has been received by the Holy Father with great pleasure,” he said at last. “His special benediction will grace your wedding-day.”
Sylvie bent her head.
“The Holy Father is most gracious!” she replied quietly. “And he is also more liberal than I imagined, if he is willing to bestow his special benediction on my marriage with one who is considered a heretic by the Church.”
He flashed a keen glance at her, — then forced a smile. “Mr. Leigh’s heresy is of the past,” he said— “We welcome him — with you — as one of us!”
Sylvie was silent. He waited, inwardly cursing her tranquillity. Then, as she still did not speak, he went on in smooth accents— “The Church pardons all who truly repent. She welcomes all who come to her in confidence, no matter how tardy or hesitating their approach. We shall receive the husband of our daughter Sylvie Hermenstein, with such joy as the prodigal son was in old time received — and of his past mistakes and follies there shall be neither word nor memory!”
Then Sylvie looked up and fixed her deep blue eyes steadily upon him.
“Caro Monsignor!” she said very sweetly. “Why talk all this nonsense to me? Do you not realise that as the betrothed wife of Aubrey Leigh I am past the Church counsel or command?”
Gherardi still smiled.
“Past Church counsel or command?” he murmured with an indulgent air, as though he were talking to a very small child. “Pardon me if I am at a loss to understand—”
“Oh, you understand very well!” said Sylvie. “You know perfectly — or you should — that a wife’s duty is to obey her husband, — and that in future HIS Church, — not yours, — must be hers also.”
“Surely you speak in riddles?” said Gherardi, preserving his suave equanimity. “Mr. Leigh is (or was) a would-be ardent reformer, but he has no real Church.”
“Then I have none!” replied Sylvie.
There was a moment’s silence. A black rage began to kindle in Gherardi’s soul, — rage all the more intense because so closely suppressed.
“I am still at a loss to follow you, Contessa,” he said coldly. “Surely you do not mean to imply that your marriage will sever you from the Church of your fathers?”
“Monsignor, marriage for me means an oath before God to take my husband for better or for worse, and to be true to him under all trial and circumstances,” said Sylvie. “And I assuredly mean to keep that oath! Whatever his form of faith, I intend to follow it, — as I intend to obey his commands, whatever they may be, or wherever they may lead. For this, to me, is the only true love, — this to me, is the only possible ‘holy’ estate of matrimony. And for the Church — a Church which does not hesitate to excommunicate a dying man, and persecute a good one, — I will leave the possibility of its wrath, together with all other consequences of my act — to God!”
For one moment Gherardi felt that he could have sprung upon her and throttled her. The next, he had mastered himself sufficiently to speak, — this woman, so slight, so beautiful, so insolent should not baffle him, he resolved! — and bending his dark brows menacingly, he addressed her in his harshest and most peremptory manner.
“You talk of God,” he said, “as a child talks of the sun and moon, with as little meaning, and less comprehension! What impertinence it is for a woman like yourself, — vain, weak and worldly, — to assert your own will — your own thought and opinion — in the face of the Most High! What! YOU will desert the Church? YOU whose ancestors have for ages been devout servants of the faith? YOU, the last descendant of the Counts Hermenstein, a noble and loyal family, will degrade your birth by taking up with the rags and tags of humanity — the scarecrows of life? And by your sheer stupidity and obstinacy, you will allow your husband’s soul to be dragged to perdition with your own! You call it love — to keep him an infidel? You call it marriage — to be united to him without the blessings of Holy Church? Where is your reason? — Where is your judgment? — Where your faith?”
“Not in my bank, Monsignor!” replied Sylvie coldly. “Though that is the place where you would naturally expect to find these virtues manifested, and the potency of their working substantially proved! Pardon! — I have no wish to offend — but your manner to ME is offensive, and unless you are disposed to discuss this matter temperately, I must close our interview!”
Gherardi flushed a dark red, then grew pale. After all, the Countess Hermenstein was in her own house, — she had the right to command his exit if she chose. Small and slight as she was, she had a dignity and power as great as his own, and if anything was to be gained from her it was necessary to temporize. Among many other qualifications for the part he had to play in life, he was an admirable actor, and would have made his fortune on the legitimate stage, — and this “quick change” ability served him in good stead now. He rose from his chair as though moved by uncontrollable agitation, and walked to the window, then turned again and came slowly and with bent head towards her.
“Forgive me!” he said simply. “I was wrong!”
Sylvie, easily moved to kindness, was touched by this apparent humility on the part of a man so renowned for unflinching hauteur, and she at once gave him her hand.
“I shall forget your words!” she said gently. “So there is nothing to pardon.”
“Thank you for your generosity,” he said, still standing before her and preserving his grave and quiet demeanour. “In my zeal for Holy Church, my tongue frequently outruns my prudence. I confess you have hurt me, — cruelly! You are a mere child to me — young, beautiful, beloved, — and I am growing old; I have sacrificed all the joys of life for the better serving of the faith — but I have kept a few fair dreams — and one of the fairest was my belief in YOU!”
Sylvie looked at him searchingly, but his eyes did not flinch in meeting hers.
“I am sorry you are disappointed, Monsignor,” she began, when he raised his hand
deprecatingly.
“No — I am not disappointed as yet!” he said, with an affectation of great kindness. “Because I do not permit myself to believe that you will allow me to be disappointed! Just now you made a passing allusion — and I venture to say a hasty and unworthy one — to your ‘bank,’ as if my whole soul were set on retaining you as a daughter of the Church for your great wealth’s sake only! Contessa, you are mistaken! Give me credit for higher and nobler motives! Grant me the right to be a little better — a little more disinterested, than perhaps popular rumour describes me, — believe me to be at least your friend—”
He paused — his voice apparently broken by emotion, and turning away his head he paced the room once more and finally sat down, covering his eyes with one hand, in an admirably posed attitude of fatigue and sorrow.
Sylvie was perplexed, and somewhat embarrassed. She had never seen him in this kind of humour before. She was accustomed to a certain domineering authority in his language, rendered all the more difficult to endure by the sarcasm with which he sometimes embittered his words, as though he had dipped them in gall before pronouncing them, — but this apparent abandonment of reserve, this almost touching assumption of candour, were phases of his histrionical ability which he had never till now displayed in her presence.
“Monsignor,” she said after a little silence, “I sincerely ask your pardon if I have wronged you, even in a thought! I had no real intention of doing so, and if anything I have said has seemed to you unduly aggressive or unjust, I am sorry! But you yourself began to scold” — and she smiled— “and I am not in the humour to be scolded! Though, to speak quite frankly, I have always been more or less prepared for a little trouble on the subject of my intended marriage with Mr. Aubrey Leigh, — I have felt and known all along that it would incur the Pope’s displeasure . . .”
Here Gherardi uncovered his eyes and looked at her fully.
“But there you are mistaken!” he said gently, with a smile that was almost paternal. “I know of nothing in recent years that has given the Holy Father greater satisfaction!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 511
