why he has not been to see her–and a thousand other questions.”
“That does not matter! While she is silent, no one dare accuse him. What a marvellous spirit of patience and forgiveness she has!”
“Angela is like her name–an angel!” declared Sylvie impulsively, the tears springing to her eyes–“I could almost worship her, when I see her there in her sickroom, looking so white and frail and sad,– quiet and patient–thanking us all for every little service done– and never once mentioning the name of Florian–the man she loved so passionately. Sometimes the dear old Cardinal sits beside her and talks–sometimes her father,–Manuel is nearly always with her, and she is quite easy and content, one would almost say happy when he is there, he is so very gentle with her. But you can see through it all the awful sorrow that weighs upon her heart,–you can see she has lost something she can never find again,–her eyes look so wistful– her smile is so sad–poor Angela!”
Aubrey was silent a moment. “What of the Princesse D’Agramont?”
“Oh, she is simply a treasure!” said Sylvie enthusiastically–“She and my dear old Bozier are never weary in well-doing! As soon as Angela can be moved, the Princesse wants to take her back to Paris,- -because then Rome can be allowed to pour into her studio to see her great picture.”
“What does Angela say to that?”
“Angela seems resigned to anything!” answered Sylvie. “The only wish she ever expresses is that Manuel should not leave her.”
“There is something wonderful about that boy,” said Aubrey slowly– “From the first time I saw him he impressed me with a sense of something altogether beyond his mere appearance. He is a child–yet not a child–and I have often felt that he commands me without my realising that I am so commanded.”
“Aubrey! How strange!”
“Yes, it is strange!–” and Aubrey’s eyes grew graver with the intensity of his thought–“There is some secret–but–” he broke off with a puzzled air–“I cannot explain it, so it is no use thinking about it! I went to Varillo’s studio yesterday and asked if there had been any news of him–but there was none. I wonder where the brute has gone!”
“It would be well if he had made exit out of the world altogether,” said Sylvie–“But he is too vain of himself for that! However, his absence creates suspicion–and even if Angela does not speak, people will guess for themselves what she does not say. He will never dare to show himself in Rome!”
Their conversation was abruptly terminated here by the entrance of Madame Bozier with a quantity of fresh flowers which she had been out to purchase, for Sylvie to take as usual on her morning visit to her suffering friend; and Aubrey took his leave, promising to return later in the afternoon, after Monsignor Gherardi had been and gone.
But he had his own ideas on the subject of Gherardi’s visit to his fair betrothed,–ideas which he kept to himself, for if his surmises were correct, now was the time to put Sylvie’s character to the test. He did not doubt her stability in the very least, but he could never quite get away from her mignonne child-like appearance of woman, to the contemplation of the spirit behind the pretty exterior. Her beauty was so riante, so dazzling, so dainty, that it seemed to fire the very air as a sunbeam fires it,–and there was no room for any more serious consideration than that of purely feminine charm. Walking dreamily, almost unseeingly through the streets, he thought again and yet again of the sweet face, the rippling hair, the laughing yet tender eyes, the sunny smile. Behind that beautiful picture or earth-phantom of womanhood, is there that sword of flame, the soul?–the soul that will sweep through shams, and come out as bright and glittering at the end of the fight as at the beginning?– he mused;–or is it not almost too much to expect of a mere woman that she can contend against the anger of a Church?
He was still thinking on this subject, when someone walking quickly came face to face with him, and said–
“Aubrey!” He started and stared,–then uttered a cry of pleasure.
“Gys Grandit!”
The two men clasped each other’s hands in a warm, strong grasp–and for a moment neither could speak.
“My dear fellow!” said Aubrey at last–“This is indeed an unexpected meeting! How glad I am to see you! When did you arrive in Rome?”
“This morning only,” said Cyrillon, recovering his speech and his equanimity together–“And as soon as I arrived, I found that my hopes had not betrayed me–she is not dead!”
“She?” Aubrey started–“My dear Grandit! Or rather I must call you Vergniaud now–who is the triumphant ‘she’ that has brought you thus post haste to Rome?”
Cyrillon flushed–then grew pale.
“I should not have spoken!” he said–“And yet, why not! You were my first friend!–you found me working in the fields, a peasant lad, untrained and sullen, burning up my soul with passionate thoughts which, but for you, might never have blossomed into action,–you rescued me–you made me all I am! So why should I not confess to you at once that there is a woman I love!–yes, love with all my soul, though I have seen her but once!–and she is too far off, too fair and great for me: she does not know I love her–but I heard she had been murdered–that she was dead–“
“Angela Sovrani!” cried Aubrey.
Cyrillon bent his head as a devotee might at the shrine of a saint.
“Yes–Angela Sovrani!”
Aubrey looked at his handsome face glowing with enthusiasm, and saw the passion, the tenderness, the devotion of a life flashing in his fine eyes.
“Love at first sight!” he said with a smile–“I believe it is the only true fire! A glance ought to be enough to express the recognition of one soul to its mate. Well! Angela Sovrani is a woman among ten thousand–the love of her alone is sufficient to make a man better and nobler in every way–and if you can win her–“
“Ah, that is impossible! She is already affianced–“
Aubrey took his arm.
“Come with me, and I will tell you all I know,” he said–“For there is much to say,–and when you have heard everything, you may not be altogether without hope.”
They turned, and went towards the Corso, which they presently entered, and where numbers of passers-by paused involuntarily to look at the two men who offered such a marked contrast to each other,–the one brown-haired and lithe, with dark, eager eyes,–the other with the slim well set up figure of an athlete, and the fair head of a Saxon king. And of the many who so looked after them, none guessed that the one was destined in a few years’ time to create a silent and bloodless French Revolution, which should give back to France her white lilies of faith and chivalry,–or that the other was the upholder of such a perfect form of Christianity as should soon command the following of thousands in all parts of the world.
And while they thus walked through the Roman crowd, the two women they severally loved were talking of them. In Angela’s sick-room, softly shaded from the light, with a cheery wood fire burning, Sylvie sat by her friend, telling her all she could think of that would interest her, and rouse her from the deep gravity of mood in which she nearly always found her. The weary days of pain and illness had given Angela a strange, new beauty,–her face, delicate and pale, seemed transfigured by the working of the soul within,– and her eyes, tired as they were and often heavy with tears, had a serenity in their depths which was not of earth, but all of Heaven. She was able now to move from her bed, and lie on a couch near the fire,–and her little white hands moved caressingly and with loving care among the bunches of beautiful flowers which Sylvie had laid on her coverlet,–daffodils, anemones, narcissi, violets, jonquils, and all the sweet-scented flowers of early spring which come to Rome in December from the blossoming fields of Sicily.
“How sweet they are!” she said with a half sigh,–“They almost make me in love with life again!”
Sylvie said nothing, but only kissed her.
“How good you are to me, dearest Sylvie!” she then said–“You deserve to be very happy!”
“Not half so much as you do!” responded Sylvie tenderly–“I am of no use at all to the world; and you are! The world would not miss me a bit, but it would not find an Angela Sovrani again in a hurry!”
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!”
She glanced at him quickly but said nothing, whereat he was secretly annoyed. Why did she not express her wonder and delight at the Pope’s lenity, as almost any other woman in her position would have done? Her outward appearance was that of child-like ultra- femininity,–how was it then that he felt as if she were mentally fencing with him, and that her intellectual sword-play threatened to surpass his own?
“Nothing,” he repeated suavely, “has given the Holy Father greater satisfaction! For very naturally, he looks upon you as one of his most faithful children, and rejoices that by the power of perfect love–love which is an emanation of the Divine Spirit in itself–you have been chosen by our Lord to draw so gifted and brilliant a man as Aubrey Leigh out of the error of his ways and bring him into the true fold!”
XXXIV.
Still the Countess Sylvie was silent. Bending a quick scrutinising glance upon her, he saw that her eyes were lowered, and that the violets nestling near her bosom moved restlessly with her quickened breath, and he judged these little signs of agitation as the favourable hints of a weakening and hesitating will.
“Aubrey Leigh,” he went on slowly, “has long been an avowed enemy of our Church. In England especially, where many of the Protestant clergy, repenting of their recusancy–for Protestantism is nothing more than a backsliding from the true faith–are desirous of gradually, through the gentler forms of Ritualism, returning to the Original source of Divine Inspiration, he has taken a great deal too much upon himself in the freedom of his speeches to the people. But we are bound to remember that it is not against OUR Church only that he has armed himself at all points, but seemingly against all Churches; and when we examine, charitably and with patience, into the sum and substance of his work and aim, we find its chief object is to purify and maintain–not to destroy or deny–the Divine teaching of Christ. In this desire we are one with him–we are even willing to assist him in the Cause he has espoused–and we shall faithfully promise to do so, when we receive him as your husband. Nay, more–we will endeavour to further his work among the poor, and carry out any scheme for their better care, which he may propose to us, and we may judge as devout and serviceable. The Church has wide arms,–she stretches far, and holds fast! The very fact of a man like Aubrey Leigh voluntarily choosing as his wife the last scion of one of the most staunch Roman Catholic families in Europe, proves the salutary and welcome change which your good influence has brought about in his heart and mind and manner and judgment,– wherefore it follows, my dear child, that in his marriage with you he becomes one of us, and is no longer outside us!”
With a swift and graceful imperiousness, Sylvie suddenly rose and faced him.
“It is time we understood each other, Monsignor,” she said quietly. “It is no good playing at cross purposes! With every respect for you, I must speak plainly. I am fully aware of all you tell me respecting my descent and the traditions of my ancestors. I know that the former Counts Hermenstein were faithful servants of the Church. But they were all merely half-educated soldiers; brave, yet superstitious. I know also that my father, the late Count, was apparently equally loyal to the Church,–though really only so because it was too much trouble for him to think seriously about anything save hunting. But I–Sylvie–the last of the race, do not intend to be bound or commanded by the trammels of any Church, in the face of the great truths declared to the world to-day! My faith in God is as my betrothed husband’s faith in God,–my heart is his,- -my life is his! From henceforth we are together; and together we are content to go, after death, wherever God shall ordain, be it Hell or Heaven!”
“Wait!” said Gherardi in low fierce accents, his eyes glittering with mingled rage and the admiration of her beauty which he could ill conceal. “Wait! If you care nothing for yourself in this matter, is it possible that you care nothing for him? Have you thought of the results of such rashness as you meditate? Listen!” and he leaned forward in his chair, his dark brows bent and his whole attitude expressive of a relentless malice–“Your marriage, without the blessing of the Church of your fathers, shall be declared illegal!– your children pronounced bastards! Wherever the ramifications of the Church are spread (and they are everywhere) you, the brilliant, the courted, the admired Sylvie Hermenstein, shall find yourself not only outside the Church, but outside all Society! You will be considered as ‘living in sin’;–as no true wife, but merely the mistress of the man with whom you have elected to wander the world! And he, when he sees the finger of scorn pointed at you and at his children, he also will change–as all men change when change is convenient or advantageous to themselves;–he will in time weary of his miserable Christian-Democratic theories,–and of you!–yes, even of you!” And Gherardi suddenly sprang up and drew nearer to her. “Even of YOU, I say! He will weary of your beauty–that delicate fine loveliness which makes me long to possess it!–me, a priest of the Mother-Church, whose heart is supposed to beat only for two things–Power and Revenge! Listen–listen yet a moment!” and he drew a step nearer, while Sylvie held her ground where she stood, unflinchingly, and like a queen, though she was pale to the very lips–“What of the friend you love so well, Angela Sovrani, who has dared to paint such a picture as should be burnt in the public market-place for its vile heresy! Do you think SHE will escape the wrath of the Church? Not she! We in our day use neither poison nor cold steel–but we know how to poison a name and stab a reputation! What! You shrink at that? Listen yet–listen a moment longer! And remember that nothing escapes the vigilant eye of Rome! At this very moment I can place my hand on Florian Varillo, concerning whom there is a rumour that he attempted the assassination of his betrothed wife,–an inhuman deed that no sane man could ever have perpetrated”–here Sylvie uttered a slight exclamation, and he paused, looking at her with a cold smile–“Yes, I repeat it!–a deed WHICH NO SANE MAN COULD HAVE PERPETRATED! The unfortunate, the deeply wronged Florian Varillo, is prepared to swear, and I AM PREPARED TO SWEAR WITH HIM, that he is guiltless of any such vile act or treachery–and also that he painted more than half of the great picture this woman Sovrani claims as her own work! Whilst strongly protesting against its heresy and begging her to alter certain figures in the canvas, still he gave her for love’s sake, all his masculine ability. The blasphemous idea is hers–but the drawing, the colouring, the grouping, are HIS!”
“He is a liar!” cried Sylvie passionately. “Let him prove his lie!”
“He shall have every chance to prove it!” answered Gherardi calmly. “I will give him every chance! I will support what you call his lie! _I_ SAY IT IS A TRUTH! No woman could have painted that picture! And mark you well–the mere discussion will be sufficient to kill the Sovrani’s fame!”
Heedless of his ecclesiastical dignity–reckless of everything concerning herself-Sylvie rushed up to him and laid one hand on his arm.
“What! Are you a servant of Christ,” she said half-whisperingly, “or a slave of the devil?”
“Both,” he answered, looking down upon her fair beauty with a wicked light shining in his eyes. “Both!” and he grasped the little soft hand that lay on his arm and held it as in a vice. “You are not wanting in courage, Contessa, to come so close to me!–to let me hold your hand! How pale you look! If you were like other women you would scream–or summon your servants, and create a scandal! You know better! You know that no scandal would ever be believed of a priest attached to the Court of Rome! Stay there–where you are–I will not hurt you! No–by all the raging fire of love for you in my heart, I will not touch more than this hand of yours! Good!–Now you are quite still–I say again, you have courage! Your eyes do not flinch–they look straight into mine–what brave eyes! You would search the very core of my intentions? You shall! Do you not think it enough for me–who am human though priest–to give you up to the possession of a man I hate!–A man who has insulted me! Is it not enough, I say, to immolate my own passion thus, without having to confront the possibility of your deserting that Church for whose sake I thus resign you? For had this Aubrey Leigh never met you, I would have MADE you mine! Still silent?–and your little hand still quiet in mine?–I envy you your nerve! You stand torture well, but I will not keep you on the rack too long! You shall know the worst at once–then you shall yourself judge the position. You shall prove for yourself the power of Rome! To escape that power you would have, as the Scripture says, to ‘take the wings of the morning and fly into the uttermost parts of the sea.’ Think well!–the fame and reputation of Angela Sovrani can be ruined at my command,–and equally, the sanctity and position of her uncle, Cardinal Bonpre!”
With a sudden movement Sylvie wrenched her hand away from his, and stood at bay, her eyes flashing, her cheeks crimsoning.
“Cardinal Bonpre!” she cried. “What evil have you in your mind against him? Are you so lost to every sense of common justice as to attempt to injure one who is greater than many of the Church’s canonized saints in virtue and honesty? What has he done to you?”
Gherardi smiled.
“You excite yourself needlessly, Contessa,” he said. “He has done nothing to me personally,–he is simply in my way. That is his sole offence! And whatever is in my way, I remove! Nothing is easier than to remove Cardinal Bonpre, for he has, by his very simplicity, fallen into a trap from which extrication will be difficult. He should have stopped in his career with the performance of his miracle at Rouen,–then all would have been well; he should not have gone on to Paris, there to condone the crime of the Abbe Vergniaud, and THEN come on to Rome. To come to Rome under such circumstances, was like putting his head in the wolf’s mouth! But the most unfortunate thing he has done on his ill-fated journey, is to have played protector to that boy he has with him.”
“Why?” demanded Sylvie, growing pale as before she had been flushed.
“Do not ask why!” said Gherardi. “For a true answer would only anger you. Suffice it for you to know that whatever is in the way of Rome must be removed,–SHALL be removed at all costs! Cardinal Bonpre, as I said before, is in the way–and unless he can account fully and frankly for his strange companionship with a mere child-wanderer picked out of the streets, he will lose his diocese. If he persists in denying all knowledge of the boy’s origin he will lose his Cardinal’s hat. There is nothing more to be said! But–there is one remedy for all this mischief–and it rests with YOU!”
“With me?” Sylvie trembled,–her heart beat violently. She looked as though she were about to swoon, and Gherardi put out his arm to support her. She pushed him away indignantly.
“Do not touch me!” she said, her sweet voice shaken with something like the weakness of tears. “You tempt me to kill you,–to kill you and rid the world of a human fiend!”
His eyes flashed, and narrowed at the corners in the strange snake- like way habitual to them.
“How beautiful you are!” he said indulgently, “There are some people in the world who do not admire slight little creatures like you, all fire and spirit enclosed in sweetness–and in their ignorance they escape much danger! For when a man stoops to pick up a small flower half hidden in the long grass, he does not expect it to half-madden him with its sweetness–or half-murder him by its sting! That is why you are irresistible to me, and to many. Yes–no doubt you would like to kill me, bella Contessa!–and many a man would like to be killed by you! If I were not Domenico Gherardi, servant of Mother- Church, I would willingly submit to death at your hands. But being what I am, I must live! And living, I must work–to fulfil the commands of the Church. And so faithful am I in the work of our Lord’s vineyard, that I care not how many grapes I press in the making of His wine! I tell you plainly that it rests with you to save your friend Angela Sovrani, and the saintly Cardinal likewise. Keep to the vows you have sworn to Holy Church,–vows sworn for you in infancy at baptism, and renewed by yourself at your confirmation and first Communion,–bring your husband to Us! And Florian Varillo’s mouth shall be closed–the Sovrani’s reputation shall shine like the sun at noonday; even the rank heresy of her picture shall be forgiven, and the Cardinal and his waif shall go free!”
Sylvie clasped her hands passionately together and raised them in an attitude of entreaty.
“Oh, why are you so cruel!” she cried. “Why do you demand from me what you know to be impossible?”
“It is not impossible,” answered Gherardi, watching her closely as he spoke. “The Church is lenient,–she demands nothing in haste– nothing unreasonable! I do not even ask you to bring about Aubrey Leigh’s conversion before your marriage. You are free to wed him in your own way and in his,–provided that one ceremonial of the marriage takes place according to our Catholic rites. But after you are thus wedded, you must promise to bring him to Us!–you must further promise that any children born of your union be baptized in the Catholic faith. With such a pledge from you, in writing, I will be satisfied;–and out of all the entanglements and confusion at present existing, your friends shall escape unharmed. I swear it!”
He raised his hand with a lofty gesture, as though he were asserting the truth and grandeur of some specially noble cause. Sylvie, letting her clasped hands drop asunder with a movement of despair, stood gazing at him in fascinated horror.
“The Church!” he went on, warming with his own inward fervour. “The Rock, on which our Lord builds the real fabric of the Universe!” And his tall form dilated with the utterance of his blasphemy. “The learning, the science, the theoretical discussions of men, shall pass as dust blown by the breath of a storm-wind–but the Church shall remain, the same, yesterday, to-day and forever! It shall crush down kings, governments and nations in its unmoving Majesty! The fluctuating wisdom of authors and reformers–the struggle of conflicting creeds–all these shall sink and die under the silent inflexibility of its authority! The whole world hurled against it shall not prevail, and were all its enemies to perish by the sword, by poison, by disease, by imprisonment, by stripes and torture, this would be but even justice! ‘For many are called–but few are chosen.'”
He turned his eyes, flashing with a sort of fierce ecstasy, upon the slight half-shrinking figure of Sylvie opposite to him. “Yes, bella Contessa! What the Church ordains, must be; what the Church desires, that same the Church will have! There is no room in the hearts or minds of its servants for love, for pity, for pardon, for anything human merely,–its authority is Divine!–and ‘God will not be mocked’! Humanity is the mere food and wine of sacrifice to the Church’s doctrine,–nations may starve, but the Church must be fed. What are nations to the Church? Naught but children,–docile or rebellious;–children to be whipped, and coerced, and FORCED to obey! Thus for you, one unit out of the whole mass, to oppose yourself to the mighty force of Rome, is as though one daisy out of the millions in the grass should protest against the sweep of the mower’s scythe! You do not know me yet! There is nothing I would hesitate to do in the service of the Church. I would consent to ruin even YOU, to prove the fire of my zeal, as well as the fire of my love!”
He made a step towards her,–she drew herself to the utmost reach of her elfin height, and looked at him straightly. Pale, but with her dark blue eyes flashing like jewels, she in one sweeping glance, measured him with a scorn so intense that it seemed to radiate from her entire person, and pierce him with a thousand arrowy shafts of flame.
“You have stated your intentions,” she said. “Will you hear my answer?”
He bent his head gravely, with a kind of ironical tolerance in his manner.
“There is nothing I desire more!” he replied, “for I am sure that in the unselfish sweetness of your nature you will do all you can to serve–and save–your friends!”
“You are right!” she said, controlling the quickness of her breathing, and forcing herself to speak calmly. “I will! But not in your way! Not at your command! You have enlightened me on many points of which I was hitherto ignorant–and for this I thank you! You have taught me that the Church, instead of being a brotherhood united in the Divine service of Christ, who was God-in-Man, is a mere secular system of avarice and tyranny! You pretend to save souls for God! What do you care for MY soul! You would have me wed a man with fraud in my heart,–with the secret intent to push upon him the claims of a Church he abhors,–and this after he has made me his wife! You would have me tell lies to him before the Eternal! And you call that the way to salvation? No, Monsignor! It is the wealth of the Hermensteins you desire!–not the immortal rescue or heavenly benefit of the last of their children! You will support the murderer Varillo in his lie to ruin an innocent woman’s reputation! You would destroy the honour and peace of an old man’s life for the sake of furthering your own private interests and grudges! And you call yourself a servant of Christ! Monsignor, if you are a servant of Christ, then the Church you serve must be the shadow of a future hell!–not the promise of a future heaven! I denounce it,–I deny it!–I swear by the Holy Name of our Redeemer that I am a Christian!–not a slave of the Church of Rome!”
Such passion thrilled her, such high exaltation, that she looked like an inspired angel in her beauty and courage, and Gherardi, smothering a fierce oath, made one stride towards her and seized her hands.
“You defy me!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You dare me to my worst?”
She looked up at his dark cruel face, his glittering eyes, and shuddered as with icy cold,–but the spirit in that delicate little body of hers was strong as steel, and tempered to the grandest issues.
“I dare you to do your worst!” she said, half-sobbingly,–half- closing her eyes in the nervous terror she could not altogether control. “You can but kill me–I shall die true!”
With a sort of savage cry, Gherardi snatched her round the waist, but scarcely had he done so when he was flung aside with a force that made him reel back heavily against the wall, and Aubrey Leigh confronted him.
“Aubrey!” cried Sylvie. “Oh, Aubrey!”
He caught her as she sprang to him, and held her fast,–and with perfect self-possession he eyed the priest disdainfully up and down.
“So this,” he said coldly, “is the way the followers of Saint Peter fulfil the commands of Christ! Or shall we say this is the way in which they go on denying their Master? It is a strange way of retaining disciples,–a still stranger way of making converts! A brave way too, to intimidate a woman!”
Gherardi, recovering from the shock of Aubrey’s blow, drew himself up haughtily.
“I serve the Church, Mr. Leigh!” he said proudly. “And in that high service all means are permitted to us for a righteous end!”
“Ah!–the old Jesuitical hypocrisy!” And Aubrey smiled bitterly. “Lies are permitted in the Cause of Truth! One word, Monsignor! I have no wish to play at any game of double-dealing with you. I have heard the whole of your interview with this lady. It is the first time I have ever played the eavesdropper–but my duty was to protect my promised wife, if she needed protection–and I thought it was possible she might need it–from YOU!”
Gherardi turned a livid paleness, and drew a quick breath.
“I know your moves,” went on Aubrey quietly, “and it will be my business as well as my pleasure to frustrate them. Moreover, I shall give your plot into the care of the public press–“
“You will not dare!” cried Gherardi fiercely. “But–after all, what matter if you do!–no one will believe you!”
“Not in Rome, perhaps,” returned Aubrey coolly. “But in England,–in America,–things are different. There are many honest men who dislike to contemplate even a distant vision of the talons of Rome hovering over us–we look upon such mischief as a sign of decay,– for only where the carcasses of nations lie, does the vulture hover! We are not dead yet! And now, Monsignor,–as your interview with the Countess is ended–an interview to which I have been a witness–may I suggest the removal of your presence? You have made a proposition- -she has rejected it–the matter is ended!”
Civilly calm and cold he stood, holding Sylvie close to him with one embracing arm, and Gherardi, looking at the two together thus, impotently wished that the heavy sculptured and painted ceiling above them might fall and crush them into a pulp before him. No shame, no sense of compunction moved him,–if anything, he raised his head more haughtily than before.
“Aubrey Leigh,” he said, “Socialist, reformer, revolutionist– whatever you choose to call yourself!–you have all the insolence of your race and class,–and it is beneath my dignity to argue with you. But you will rue the day you ever crossed my path! Not one thing have I threatened, that shall not be performed! This unhappy lady whose mind has been perverted from Holy Church by your heretical teachings, shall be excommunicated. Henceforth we look upon her as a child of sin, and we shall publicly declare her marriage with you illegal. The rest can be left with confidence, to- -Society!”
And with a dark smile which made his face look like that of some malignant demon, he turned, and preserving his proud inflexibility of demeanour, without another look or gesture, left the apartment.
Then Aubrey, alone with his love, drew her closer, and lifted her fair face to his own, looking at it with passionate tenderness and admiration.
“You brave soul!” he said. “You true woman! You angel of the covenant of love! How shall I ever tell you how I worship you–how I revere you–for your truth and courage!”
She trembled under the ardour of his utterance, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I was not afraid!” she said. “I should have called Katrine,–only I knew that if I once did so, she also would be involved, and he would be unscrupulous enough to ruin my name with a few words in order to defend himself from all suspicion. But you, Aubrey?–how did it happen that you were here?”
“I was here from the first!” he replied triumphantly. “I followed on Gherardi’s very heels. Your Arab boy admitted me–he was in my secret. He showed me into the anteroom just outside, where by leaving a corner of the door ajar I could see and hear everything. And I listened to your every word! I saw every bright flash of the strong soul in your brave eyes! And now those eyes question me, sweetheart,–almost reproachfully they seem to ask me why I did not interfere between you and Gherardi before? Ah, but you must forgive me for the delay! I wanted to drink all my cup of nectar to the dregs–I could not lose one drop of such sweetness! To see you, slight fragile blossom of a woman, matching your truth and courage against the treachery and malice of the most unscrupulous priestly tool ever employed by the Vatican, was a sight to make me strong for all my days!” He kissed her passionately. “My love! My wife! How can I ever thank you!”
She raised her sweet eyes wonderingly.
“Did you doubt me, Aubrey?” “No! I never doubted you. But I wondered whether your force would hold out, whether you might not be intimidated, whether you might not temporize, which would have been natural enough–whether you might not have used some little social art or grace to cover up and disguise the absoluteness of your resolve–but no! You were a heroine in the fight, and you gave your blows straight from the hilt, without flinching. You have made me twice a man, Sylvie! With you beside me I shall win all I might otherwise have lost, and I thank God for you, dear!–I thank God for you!”
He drew her close again into his arms, pressing her to his heart which beat tumultously with its deep rejoicing,–no fear now that they two would ever cease to be one! No danger now of those miserable so-called “religious” disputes between husband and wife, which are so eminently anti-Christian, and which make many a home a hell upon earth,–disputes which young children sometimes have to witness from their earliest years, when the mother talks “at” the father for not going to Church, or the father sneers at the mother for being “a rank Papist”! Nothing now, but absolute union in spirit and thought, in soul and intention–the rarest union that can be consummated between man and woman, and yet the only one that can engender perfect peace and unchanging happiness.
And presently the lovers’ trance of joy gave way to thought for others; to a realization of the dangers hovering over the good Cardinal, and the already ill-fated Angela Sovrani, and Aubrey, raising the golden head that nestled against his breast, kissed the sweet lips once more and said–
“Now, my Sylvie, we must take the law into our own hands! We must do all we can to save our friends. The Cardinal must be thought of first. If we are not quick to the rescue he will be sent ‘into retreat,’ which can be translated as forced detention, otherwise imprisonment. He must leave Rome to-night. Now listen!”
And sitting down beside her, still holding her hand, he gave her an account of his meeting with Cyrillon Vergniaud, otherwise “Gys Grandit,” and told her of the sudden passion for Angela that had fired the soul of that fiery writer of the fiercest polemics against priestcraft that had as yet startled France.
“Knowing now all the intended machinations of Gherardi,” continued Aubrey, “what I suggest is this,–that you, my Sylvie, should confide in the Princesse D’Agramont, who is fortunately for us, an enemy of the Vatican. Arrange with her that she persuades Angela to return under her escort at once to Paris. Angela is well enough to travel if great care be taken of her, and the Princesse will not spare that. Cyrillon can go with them–I should think that might be managed?”
He smiled as he put this question. Sylvie smiled in answer and replied demurely–
“I should think so!”
“But the Cardinal,” resumed Aubrey, “and–and Manuel–must go to- night. I will see Prince Sovrani and arrange it. And Sylvie–will you marry me to-morrow morning?”
Her eyes opened wide and she laughed.
“Why yes, if you wish it!” she said. “But–so soon?”
“Darling, the sooner the better! I mean to take every possible method of making our marriage binding in the sight of the world, before the Vatican has time to launch its thunders. If you are willing, we can be married at the American Consulate to-morrow morning. You must remember that though born of British parents, I do not resign my American citizenship, and would not forego being of the New World for all the old worlds ever made! The American Consul knows me well, and he will begin to make things legal for us to- morrow if you are ready.”
“BEGIN to make things legal?” echoed Sylvie smiling. “Will he do no more than begin?”
“My sweetheart, he cannot. He will make you mine according to American law. In England, you will again be made mine according to English law. And then afterwards we will have our religious ceremony!”
Sylvie looked at him perplexedly, then gave a pretty gesture of playful resignation.
“Let everything be as you wish and decide, Aubrey,” she said.” I give my life and love to you, and have no other will but yours!”
He kissed her.
“I accept the submission, only to put myself more thoroughly at your command,” he said tenderly,–“You are my queen,–but with powerful enemies against us, I must see that you are rightfully enthroned!”
A few minutes’ more conversation,–then a hurried consultation with Madame Bozier, and Sylvie, changing her lace gown for a simple travelling dress, walked out of the Casa D’Angeli with the faithful Katrine, and taking the first carriage she could find, was driven to the Palazzo where the Princesse D’Agramont had her apartments. Allowing from ten to fifteen minutes to elapse after her departure, Aubrey Leigh himself went out, and standing on the steps of the house, looked up and down carelessly, drawing on his gloves and humming a tune. His quick glance soon espied what he had been almost certain he should see, namely, the straight black-garmented figure of a priest, walking slowly along the street on the opposite side, his hands clasped behind his back, and his whole aspect indicative of devout meditation.
“I thought so!” said Aubrey to himself. “A spy set on already! No time to lose–Cardinal Bonpre must leave Rome at nightfall.”
Leisurely he crossed the road, and walking with as slow a step as the priest he had noticed, came opposite to him face to face. With impenetrable solemnity the holy man meekly moved aside,–with equally impenetrable coolness, Aubrey eyed him up and down, then the two passed each other, and Aubrey walked with the same unhasting pace, to the end of the street,–then turned–to see that the priest had paused in his holy musings to crane his neck after him and watch him with the most eager scrutiny. He did not therefore take a carriage at the moment he intended, but walked on into the Corso,– there he sprang into a fiacre and drove straight to the Sovrani Palace. The first figure he saw there, strolling about in the front of the building, was another priest, absorbed in apparently profound thoughts on the sublimity of the sunset, which was just then casting its red glow over the Eternal City. And with the appearance of this second emissary of the Vatican police, he realised the full significance of the existing position of affairs.
Without a moment’s loss of time he was ushered into the presence of the Cardinal, and there for a moment stood silent on the threshold of the apartment, overcome by the noble aspect of the venerable prelate, who, seated in his great oaken chair, was listening to a part of the Gospel of Saint Luke, read aloud in clear sweet accents by Manuel.
“A good man out of the good treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is evil; for of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaketh.
“And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?
“Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like:
“He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock.
“But he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; AND THE RUIN OF THAT HOUSE WAS GREAT.”
And emphasizing the last line, Manuel closed the book; then at a kindly beckoning gesture from the Cardinal, Aubrey advanced into the room, bowing with deep reverence and honour over the worn old hand the prelate extended.
“My lord Cardinal,” he said without further preface, “you must leave Rome to-night!”
The Cardinal raised his gentle blue eyes in wondering protest.
“By whose order?”
“Surely by your own Master’s will,” said Aubrey with deep earnestness. “For he would not have you be a victim to treachery!”
“Treachery!” And the Cardinal smiled. “My son, traitors harm themselves more than those they would betray. Treachery cannot touch me!”
Aubrey came a step nearer.
“Monsignor, if you do not care for yourself you will care for the boy,” he said in a lower tone, with a glance at Manuel, who had withdrawn, and was now standing at one of the windows, the light of the sunset appearing to brighten itself in his fair hair. “He will be separated from you!”
At this the Cardinal rose up, his whole form instinct with resolution and dignity.
“They cannot separate us against the boy’s will or mine,” he said. “Manuel!”
Manuel came to his call, and the Cardinal placed one hand on his shoulder.
“Child,” he said softly, “they threaten to part me from you, if we stay longer here. Therefore we must leave Rome!”
Manuel looked up with a bright flashing glance of tenderness.
“Yes, dear friend, we must leave Rome!” he said. “Rome is no place for you–or for me!”
There was a moment’s silence. Something in the attitude of the old man and the young boy standing side by side, moved Aubrey deeply; a sense of awe as well as love overwhelmed him at the sight of these two beings, so pure in mind, so gentle of heart, and so widely removed in years and in life,–the one a priest of the Church, the other a waif of the streets, yet drawn together as it seemed, by the simple spirit of Christ’s teaching, in an almost supernatural bond of union. Recovering himself presently he said,
“To-night then, Monsignor?”
The Cardinal looked at Manuel, who answered for him.
“Yes, to-night! We will be ready! For the days are close upon the time when the birth of Christ was announced to a world that does not yet believe in Him! It will be well to leave Rome before then! For the riches of the Pope’s palace have nothing to do with the poor babe born in a manger,–and the curse of the Vatican would be a discord in the angels’ singing–‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARDS MEN’!”
His young voice rang out, silver clear and sweet, and Aubrey gazed at him in wondering silence.
“To-night!” repeated Manuel, smiling and stretching out his hand with a gentle authoritative gesture. “To-night the Cardinal will leave Rome, and _I_ will leave it too–perchance for ever!”
XXXV.
During these various changes in the lives of those with whom he had been more or less connected, Florian Varillo lay between life and death in the shelter of a Trappist monastery on the Campagna. When he had been seized by the delirium and fever which had flung him, first convulsed and quivering, and then totally insensible, at the foot of the grim, world-forgotten men who passed the midnight hours in digging their own graves, he had been judged by them as dying or dead, and had been carried into a sort of mortuary chapel, cold and bare, and lit only by the silver moonbeams and the flicker of a torch one of the monks carried. Waking in this ghastly place, too weak to struggle, he fell a-moaning like a tortured child, and was, on showing this sign of life, straight-way removed to one of the cells. Here, after hours of horrible suffering, of visions more hideous than Dante’s Hell, of stupors and struggles, of fits of strong shrieking, followed by weak tears, he woke one afternoon calm and coherent,–to find himself lying on a straight pallet bed in a narrow stone chamber, dimly lighted by a small slit of window, through which a beam of the sun fell aslant, illumining the blood- stained features of a ghastly Christ stretched on a black crucifix directly opposite him. He shuddered as he saw this, and half-closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
“Tired–tired!” said a thin clear voice beside him. “Always tired! It is only God who is never weary!”
Varillo opened his eyes again languidly, and turned them on a monk sitting beside him,–a monk whose face was neither old nor young, but which presented a singular combination of both qualities. His high forehead, white as marble, had no furrows to mar its smoothness, and from under deep brows a pair of wondering wistful brown eyes peered like the eyes of a lost and starving child. The cheeks were gaunt and livid, the flesh hanging in loose hollows from the high and prominent bones, yet the mouth was that of a youth, firm, well-outlined and sweet in expression, and when he smiled as he did now, he showed an even row of small pearly teeth which might have been envied by many a fair woman.
“Only God who is never weary!” he said, nodding his head slowly, “but we–you and I–we are soon tired!”
Varillo looked at him dubiously; and a moment’s thought decided him to assume a certain amount of meekness and docility with this evident brother of some religious order, so that he might obtain both sympathy and confidence from him, and from all whom he might be bound to serve. Ill and weak as he was, the natural tendency of his brain to scheme for his own advantage, was not as yet impaired.
“Ah, yes!” he sighed, “I am very tired!–very ill! I do not know what has happened to me–nor even where I am. What place is this?”
“It is a place where the dead come!” responded the monk. “The dead in heart! the dead in soul–the dead in sin! They come to bury themselves, lest God should find them and crush them into dust before they have time to say a prayer! Like Adam and his wife, they hide themselves ‘from the presence of the Lord among the trees of the garden.'”
Varillo raised himself on one elbow, and stared at the pale face and smiling mouth of the speaker in fear and wonder.
“‘A place where the dead come!'” he echoed. “But you are alive–and so am I!”
“You may be–I am not,” said the monk quietly. “I died long ago! People who are alive say we are men, though we know ourselves to be ghosts merely. This place is called by the world a Trappist monastery,–you will go out of it if indeed you are alive–you must prove that first! But we shall never come out, because we are dead. One never comes out of the grave!”
With an effort Varillo tried to control the tremor of his nerves, and to understand and reason out these enigmatical sentences of his companion. He began to think–and then to remember,–and by and by was able to conjure up the picture of himself as he had last been conscious of existence,–himself standing outside the gates of a great building on the Campagna, and shaking the iron bars to and fro. It was a Trappist monastery then?–and he was being taken charge of by the Trappist Order? This fact might possibly be turned to his account if he were careful. He lay down once more on his pillow and closed his eyes, and under this pretence of sleep, pondered his position. What were they saying of him in Rome? Was Angela buried? And her great picture? What had become of it?
“How long have I been here?” he asked suddenly.
The monk gave a curious deprecatory gesture with his hands.
“Since you died! So long have you been dead!”
Varillo surveyed him with a touch of scorn.
“You talk in parables–like your Master!” he said with a feeble attempt at a laugh. “I am not strong enough to understand you! And if you are a Trappist monk, why do you talk at all? I thought one of your rules was perpetual silence?”
“Silence? Yes–everyone is silent but me!” said the monk–“I may talk–because I am only Ambrosio,–mad Ambrosio!–something wrong here!” And he touched his forehead. “A little teasing demon lives always behind my eyes, piercing my brain with darts of fire. And he obliges me to talk; he makes me say things I should not–and for all the mischief he works upon me I wear this–see!”–And springing up suddenly he threw aside the folds of his garment, and displayed his bare chest, over which a coarse rope was crossed and knotted so tightly, that the blood was oozing from the broken flesh on either side of it. “For every word I say, I bleed!”
Varillo gave a nervous cry and covered his eyes.
“Do not be afraid!” said Ambrosio, drawing his robe together again, “It is only flesh–not spirit–that is wounded! Flesh is our great snare,–it persuades us to eat, to sleep, to laugh, to love–the spirit commands none of these things. The spirit is of God–it wants neither food nor rest,–it is pure and calm,–it would escape to Heaven if the flesh did not cramp its wings!”
Varillo took his hand from his eyes and tossed himself back on his pillow with a petulant moan.
“Can they do nothing better for me than this?” he ejaculated. “To place me here in this wretched cell alone with a madman!”
Ambrosio stood by the pallet bed looking down upon him with a sort of child-like curiosity.
“No better than this?” he echoed. “Would you have anything better? Safe–safe from the world,–no one can find you or follow you–no one can discover your sin–“
“Sin! What sin!” demanded Varillo fiercely. “You talk like a fool– as you own yourself to be! I have committed no sin!”
“Good–good!” said Ambrosio. “Then you must be canonized with all the rest of the saints! And St. Peter’s shall be illuminated, and the Pope shall be carried in to see you and to lay his hands upon you, and they shall shout to him, ‘Tu es Petrus!’ and no one will remember what kind of a bruised, bleeding, tortured, broken-down Head of the Church stood before the multitude when Pilate cried ‘Ecce homo!'”
Varillo stared at him in unwilling fascination. He seemed carried beyond himself,–it was as though some other force spoke through him, and though he scarcely raised his voice, its tone was so clear, musical, and penetrative that it seemed to give light and warmth to the cold dullness of the cell.
“You must not mind me!” he went on softly, “My thoughts have all gone wrong, they tell me,–so have my words. I was young once–and in that time I used to study hard and try to understand what it was that God wished me to do with my life. But there were so many things–so much confusion–so much difficulty–and the end is– here!” He smiled. “Well! It is a quiet end,–they say the devil knocks at the gate of the monastery often at midnight, but he never enters in,–never–unless perchance you are he!”
Varillo turned himself about pettishly.
“If I were he, I should not trouble you long,” he said. “Even the devil might be glad to make exit from such a hole as this! Who is your Superior?”
“We have only one Superior,–God!” replied Ambrosio. “He who never slumbers or sleeps–He who troubles Himself to look into everything, from the cup of a flower to the heart of a man! Who shall escape the lightning of His glance, or think to cover up a hidden vileness from the discovery of the Most High?”
“I did not ask you for pious jargon,” said Varillo, beginning to lose temper, yet too physically weak to contend with the wordy vagaries of this singular personage who had evidently been told off to attend upon him. “I asked you who is the Head or Ruler of this community? Who gives you the daily rule of conduct which you all obey?”
Ambrosio’s brown eyes grew puzzled, and he shook his head.
“I obey no one,” he said. “I am mad Ambrosio!–I walk about in my grave, and speak, and sing, while others remain silent. I would tell you if I knew of anyone greater than God,–but I do not!”
Varillo uttered an impatient groan. It was no good asking this creature anything,–his answers were all wide of the mark.
“God,” went on Ambrosio, turning his head towards the light that came streaming in through the narrow window of the cell, “is in that sunbeam! He can enter where He will, and we never know when we shall meet Him face to face! He may possess with His spirit the chaste body of a woman, as in our Blessed Lady,–or He may come to us in the form of a child, speaking to the doctors in the temple and arguing with them on the questions of life and death. He is in all things; and the very beggar at our gates who makes trial of our charity, may for all we know, be our Lord disguised! Shall I tell you a strange story?”
Varillo gave a weary sign of assent, half closing his eyes. It was better this crazed fool should talk, he thought, than that he should lie there and listen, as it were, to the deadly silence which in the pauses of the conversation could be felt, like the brooding heaviness of a thick cloud hanging over the monastery walls.
“It happened long ago,” said Ambrosio. “There was a powerful prince who thought that to be rich and strong was sufficient to make all the world his own. But the world belongs to God,–and He does not always give it over to the robber and spoiler. This prince I tell you of, had been the lover of a noble lady, but he was false- hearted; and the false soon grow weary of love! And so, tiring of her beauty and her goodness, he stabbed her mortally to death, and thought no one had seen him do the deed. For the only witness to it was a ray of moonlight falling through the window–just as the sunlight falls now!–see!” And he pointed to the narrow aperture which lit the cell, while Florian Varillo, shuddering in spite of himself, lay motionless. “But when the victim was dead, this very ray of moonlight turned to the shape of a great angel, and the angel wore the semblance of our Lord,–and the glory and the wonder of that vision was as the lightning to slay and utterly destroy! And from that hour for many years, the murderer was followed by a ray of light, which never left him; all day he saw it flickering in his path,–all night it flashed across his bed, driving sleep from his eyes and rest from his brain!–till at last maddened by remorse he confessed his crime to a priest, and was taken into a grave like this, a monastery,–where he died, so they say, penitent. But whether he was forgiven, the story does not say!”
“It is a stupid story!” said Varillo, opening his eyes, and smiling in the clear, candid way he always assumed when he had anything to hide. “It has neither point nor meaning.”
“You think not?” said Ambrosio. “But perhaps you are not conscious of God. If you were, that sunbeam we see now should make you careful, lest an angel should be in it!”
“Careful? Why should I be careful?” Varillo half raised himself on the bed. “I have nothing to hide!”
At this Ambrosio began to laugh.
“Oh, you are happy–happy!” he exclaimed. “You are the first I ever heard say that! Nothing to hide! Oh, fortunate, fortunate man! Then indeed you should not be here–for we all have something to hide, and we are afraid even of the light,–that is why we make such narrow holes for it; we are always praying God not to look at our sins,–not to uncover them and show us what vile souls we are–we men who could be as gods in life, if we did not choose to be devils- -“
Here he suddenly broke off, and a curious grey rigidity stole over his features, as if some invisible hand were turning him into stone. His eyes sparkled feverishly, but otherwise his face was the lace of the dead. The horrible fixity of his aspect at that moment, so terrified Varillo that he gave a loud cry, and almost before he knew he had uttered it, another monk entered the cell. Varillo gazed at him affrightedly, and pointed to Ambrosio. The monk said nothing, but merely took the rigid figure by its arm and shook it violently. Then, as suddenly as he had lost speech and motion, Ambrosio recovered both, and went on talking evenly, taking up the sentence he had broken off–“If we did not choose to be as devils, we might be as gods!” Then looking around him with a smile, he added, “Now you are here, Filippo, you will explain!”
The monk addressed as Filippo remained silent, still holding him by the arm, and presently quietly guiding him, led him out of the cell. When the two brethren had disappeared, Varillo fell back on his pillows exhausted.
“What am I to do now?” he thought. “I must have been here many days!–all Rome must know of Angela’s death–all Rome must wonder at my absence–all Rome perhaps suspects me of being her murderer! And yet–this illness may be turned to some account. I can say that it was caused by grief at hearing the sudden news of her death–that I was stricken down by my despair–but then–I must not forget–I was to have been in Naples. Yes–the thing looks suspicious–I shall be tracked!–I must leave Italy. But how?”
Bathed in cold perspiration he lay, wondering, scheming, devising all sorts of means of escape from his present surroundings, when he became suddenly aware of a tall dark figure in the cell,–a figure muffled nearly to its eyes, which had entered with such stealthy softness and silence as to give almost the impression of some supernatural visitant. He uttered a faint exclamation–the figure raised one hand menacingly.
“Be silent!” These words were uttered in a harsh whisper. “If you value your life, hold your peace till I have said what I come to say!”
Moving to the door of the cell, the mysterious visitor bolted it across and locked it–then dropped the disguising folds of his heavy mantle and monk’s cowl, and disclosed the face and form of Domenico Gherardi. Paralysed with fear Varillo stared at him,–every drop of blood seemed to rush from his heart to his brain, turning him sick and giddy, for in the dark yet fiery eyes of the priest, there was a look that would have made the boldest tremble.
“I knew that you were here,” he said, his thin lips widening at the corners in a slight disdainful smile. “I saw you at the inn on the road to Frascati, and watched you shrink and tremble as I spoke of the murder of Angela Sovrani! You screened your face behind a paper you were reading,–that was not necessary, for your hand shook,–and so betrayed itself as the hand of the assassin!”
With a faint moan, Varillo shudderingly turned away and buried his head in his pillow.
“Why do you now wish to hide yourself?” pursued Gherardi. “Now when you are an honest man at last, and have shown yourself in your true colors? You were a liar hitherto, but now you have discovered yourself to be exactly as the devil made you, why you can look at me without fear–we understand each other!”
Still Varillo hid his eyes and moaned, and Gherardi thereupon laid a rough hand on his shoulder.
“Come, man! You are not a sick child to lie cowering there as though seized by the plague! What ails you? You have done no harm! You tried to kill something that stood in your way,–I admire you for that! I would do the same myself at any moment!”
Slowly Varillo lifted himself and looked up at the dark strong face above him.
“A pity you did not succeed!” went on Gherardi, “for the world would have been well rid of at least one feminine would-be ‘genius,’ whose skill puts that of man to shame! But perhaps it may comfort you to know that your blow was not strong enough or deep enough, and that your betrothed wife yet lives to wed you–if she will!”
“Lives!” cried Florian. “Angela lives!”
“Ay, Angela lives!” replied Gherardi coldly. “Does that give you joy? Does your lover’s heart beat with ecstasy to know that she– twenty times more gifted than you, a hundred times more famous than you, a thousand times more beloved by the world than you–lives, to be crowned with an immortal fame, while you are relegated to scorn and oblivion! Does that content you?”
A dull red flush crept over Varillo’s cheeks,–his hand flenched the coverlet of his bed convulsively.
“Lives!” He muttered. “She lives! Then it must be by a miracle! For I drove the steel deep . . . deep home!”
Gherardi looked at him curiously, with the air of a scientist watching some animal writhing under vivisection.
“Perhaps Cardinal Felix prayed for her!” he said mockingly, “and even as he healed the crippled child in Rouen he may have raised his niece from the dead! But miracle or no miracle, she lives. That is why I am here!”
“Why–you–are–here?” repeated Varillo mechanically.
“How dull you are!” said Gherardi tauntingly. “A man like you with a dozen secret intrigues in Rome, should surely be able to grasp a situation better! Angela Sovrani lives, I tell you,–I am here to help you to kill her more surely! Your first attempt was clumsy,– and dangerous to yourself, but–murder her reputation, amico, murder her reputation!–and so build up your own!”
Slowly Varillo turned his eyes upon him. Gherardi met them unflinchingly, and in that one glance the two were united in the spirit of their evil intention.
“You are a man,” went on Gherardi, watching him closely. “Will you permit yourself to be baffled and beaten in the race for fame by a woman? Shame on you if you do! Listen! I am prepared to swear that you are innocent of having attempted the murder of your affianced wife, and I will also assert that the greater part of her picture was painted by you, though you were, out of generosity and love for her, willing to let her take the credit of the whole conception!”
Varillo started upright.
“God!” he cried. “Is it possible! Will you do this for me?”
“Not for you–No,” said Gherardi contemptuously. “I will do nothing for you! If I saw you lying in the road at my feet dying for want of a drop of water, I would not give it to you! What I do, I do for myself–and the Church!”
By this time Varillo had recovered his equanimity. A smile came readily to his lips as he said–
“Ah, the Church! Excellent institution! Like charity, it covers a multitude of sins!”
“It exists for that object,” answered Gherardi with a touch of ironical humor. “Its own sins it covers,–and shows up the villainies of those who sin outside its jurisdiction. Angela Sovrani is one of these,–her uncle the Cardinal is another,–Sylvie Hermenstein–“
“What of her?” cried Varillo, his eyes sparkling. “Is her marriage broken off?”
“Broken off!” Gherardi gave a fierce gesture. “Would that it were! No! She renounces the Church for the sake of Aubrey Leigh–she leaves the faith of her fathers–“
“And takes the wealth of her fathers with her!” finished Varillo, maliciously. “I see! I understand! The Church has reason for anger!”
“It has reason!” echoed Gherardi. “And we of the Church choose you as the tool wherewith to work our vengeance. And why? Because you are a born liar!–because you can look straight in the eyes of man or woman, and swear to a falsehood without flinching!–because you are an egotist, and will do anything to serve yourself–because you have neither heart nor conscience–nor soul nor feeling,–because you are an animal in desires and appetite,-because of this, I say, we yoke you to our chariot wheels, knowing you may be trusted to drive over and trample down the creatures that might be valuable to you if they did not stand in your way!”
Such bitterness, such scorn, such loathing were in his accents, that even the callous being he addressed was stung, and made a feeble gesture of protest.
“You judge me harshly,” he began–
Gherardi laughed.
“Judge you! Not I! No judgment is wanted. I read you like a book through and through,–a book that should be set on Nature’s Index Expurgatorius, as unfit to meet the eyes of the faithful! You are a low creature, Florian Varillo,–and unscrupulous as I am myself, I despise you for meanness greater than even I am capable of! But you are a convenient tool, ready to hand, and I use you for the Church’s service! If you were to refuse to do as I bid you, I would brand you through the world as the murderer you are! So realize to the full how thoroughly I have you in my power. Now understand me,–you must leave this place to-morrow. I will send my carriage for you, and you shall come at once to me, to me in Rome as my guest,–my HONOURED guest!” And he emphasized the word sarcastically. “You are weak and ill yet, they tell me here,–so much the better for you. It will make you all the more interesting! You will find it easier to play the part of injured innocence! Do you understand?”
“I understand,” answered Varillo with a faint shudder, for the strong and relentless personality of Gherardi overpowered him with a sense of terror which he could not wholly control.
“Good! Then we will say no more. Brief words are best on such burning matters. To-morrow at six in the afternoon I will send for you. Be ready! Till then–try to rest–try to sleep without dreaming of a scaffold!”
He folded his mantle around him again and prepared to depart.
“Sleep,” he repeated. “Sleep with a cold heart and quiet mind! Think that it is only a woman’s name–a woman’s work–a woman’s honour, that stand in your way,–and congratulate yourself with the knowledge that the Church and her Divine authority will help you to remove all three! Farewell!”
He turned, and unlocked the door of the cell. As he threw it open, he was confronted by the monk Ambrosio, who was outside on the very threshold.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded suspiciously. “I had a permit from the Superior to speak to your charge alone.”
“And were you not alone?” returned Ambrosio smiling. “I was not with you! I was here as sentinel, to prevent anyone disturbing you. Poor Ambrosio–mad Ambrosio! He is no good at all except to guard the dead!”
Gherardi looked at him scrutinizingly, and noted the lack-lustre eyes, the helpless childish expression, of the half-young, half-old face confronting his own.
“Guard the dead as much as you please,” he said harshly. “But take heed how you spy on the living! Be careful of the sick man lying yonder–we want him back with us in Rome to-morrow.”
Ambrosio nodded.
“Back in Rome–good–good!” he said. “Then he is living after all! I thought he was dead in his sins as I am,–but you tell me he lives, and will go back to Rome!–Oh yes–I will take care of him–good care!–do not fear! I know how to guard him so that he shall not escape you!”
Gherardi looked at him again sharply, but he was playing with his long rosary and smiling foolishly, and there seemed no use in wasting further speech upon him. So, muffling himself in his cloak, he strode away, and Ambrosio entered the cell.
“You shall have meat and wine presently,” he said, approaching the bed where Florian lay. “The devil has given orders that you shall be well fed!”
Varillo looked up and smiled kindly. He could assume any expression at command, and it suited his purpose just now to be all gentleness.
“My poor friend!” he said compassionately. “Your wits are far astray! Devil? Nay–he who has just left us is more of a saint!”
Ambrosio’s brown eyes flashed, but he maintained a grave and immovable aspect.
“The devil has often mocked us in saint’s disguise,” he said slowly. “I tell the porter here every night to keep the gates well locked against him,–but this time it was no use; he has entered in. And now we shall have great work to get him out!”
Varillo resting his head on one arm, studied him curiously.
“You must have lived a strange life in the world!” he said. “That is if you were ever in the world at all. Were you?”
“Oh yes, I was in the world,” replied Ambrosio calmly. “I was in the midst of men and women who passed their whole lives in acts of cruelty and treachery to one another. I never met a man who was honest; I never saw a woman who was true! I wondered where God was that He permitted such vile beings to live and take His name in vain. He seemed lost and gone,–I could not find Him!”
“Ah!” ejaculated Florian languidly. “And did yon discover Him here? In this monastery?”
“No–He is not here, for we are all dead men,” said Ambrosio. “And God is the God of the living, not the God of the dead! Shall I tell you where I found him?” And he advanced a step or two, raising one hand warningly as though he were entrusted with some message of doom–“I found Him in sin! I tried to live a life of truth in a world of lies, but the lies were too strong for me,–they pulled me down! I fell–into a black pit of crime–reckless, determined, conscious wickedness,–and so found God–in my punishment!”
He clasped his hands together with an expression of strange ecstasy.
“Down into the darkness!” he said. “Down through long vistas of shadow and blackness you go, glad and exultant, delighting in evil, and thinking ‘God sees me not!’ And then suddenly at the end, a sword of fire cuts the darkness asunder,–and the majesty of the Divine Law breaks your soul on the wheel!”
He looked steadfastly at Varillo.
“So you will find,–so you must find, if you ever go down into the darkness.”
“Ay, if I ever go,” said Florian gently. “But I shall not.”
“No?–then perhaps you are there already?” said Ambrosio smiling, and playing with his rosary. “For those who say they will never sin have generally sinned!”
Varillo held the same kind look of compassion in his eyes. He was fond of telling his fellow-artists that he had a “plastic” face,– and this quality served him well just now. He might have been a hero and martyr, from the peaceful and patient expression of his features, and he so impressed by his manner a lay-brother who presently entered to give him his evening meal, that he succeeded in getting rid of Ambrosio altogether.
“You are sure you are strong enough to be left without an attendant?” asked the lay-brother solicitously, quite captivated by the gentleness of his patient. “There is a special evening service to-night in the chapel, and Ambrosio should be there to play the organ–for he plays well–but this duty had been given to Fra Filippo–“
“Nay, but let Ambrosio fulfil his usual task,” said Varillo considerately. “I am much better–much stronger,–and as my good friend Monsignor Gherardi desires me to be in Rome to-morrow, and to stay with him till I am quite restored to health, I must try to rest as quietly as I can till my hour of departure.”
“You must be a great man to have Domenico Gherardi for a friend!” said the lay-brother wistfully.
Here Ambrosio suddenly burst into a loud laugh.
“You are right! He is a great man!–one of the greatest in Rome, or for that matter in the world! And he means to be yet greater!” And with that he turned on his heel and left the cell abruptly.
Varillo, languidly sipping the wine that had been brought to him with his food, looked after him with a pitying smile.
“Poor soul!” he said gently.
“He was famous once,” said the lay-brother, lowering his voice as he spoke. “One of the most famous sculptors in Europe. But something went wrong with his life, and he came here. It is difficult to make him understand orders, or obey them, but the Superior allows him to remain on account of his great skill in music. On that point at least he is sane.”
“Indeed!” said Varillo indifferently. He was beginning to weary of the conversation, and wished to be alone. “It is well for him that he is useful to you in some regard. And now, my friend, will you leave me to rest awhile? If it be possible I shall try to sleep now till morning.”
“One of us will come to you at daybreak,” said the lay-brother. “You are still very weak–you will need assistance to dress. Your clothes are here at the foot of the bed. I hope you will sleep well.”
“Thank you!” said Varillo, conveying an almost tearful look of gratitude into his eyes–“You are very good to me! God bless you!”
The lay-brother made a gentle deprecatory gesture of his hands and retired, and Varillo was left to his own reflections. He lay still, thinking deeply, and marvelling at the unexpected rescue out of his difficulties so suddenly afforded him.
“With Gherardi to support me, I can say anything!” he mused, his heart beating quickly and exultingly. “I can say anything and swear anything! And even if the sheath of my dagger has been found, it will be no proof, for I can say it is not mine. Any lie I choose to tell will have Gherardi’s word to warrant it!–so I am safe–unless Angela speaks!”
He considered this possibility for a moment, then smiled.
“But she never will! She is one of those strange women who endure without complaint,–she is too lofty and pure for the ways of the world, and the world naturally takes vengeance upon her. There is not a man born that does not hate too pure a woman; it is his joy to degrade her if he can! This is the way of Nature; what is a woman made for except to subject herself to her master! And when she rises superior to him–superior in soul, intellect, heart and mind, he sees in her nothing but an abnormal prodigy, to be stared at, laughed at, despised–but never loved! The present position of affairs is Angela’s fault, not mine. She should not have concealed the work she was doing from her lover, who had the right to know all her secrets!”
He laughed,–a low malicious laugh, and then lay tranquilly on his pillows gazing at the gradually diminishing light. Day was departing–night was coming on,–and as the shadows lengthened, the solemn sound of the organ began to vibrate through the walls of the monastery like far-off thunder growing musical. With a certain sensuous delight in the beautiful, Varillo listened to it with pleasure; he had no mind to probe the true meaning of music, but the mere sound was soothing and sublime, and seemed in its gravity, to match the “tone” of the light that was gradually waning. So satisfied was he with that distant pulse of harmony that he began weaving some verses in his head to “His Absent Lady,”–and succeeded in devising quite a charming lyric to her whose honour and renown he was ready to kill. So complex, so curious, so callous, yet sensuous, and utterly egotistical was his nature, that had Angela truly died under his murderous blow, he would have been ready now to write such exquisite verses in the way of a lament for her loss, as should have made a world of sentimental women weep, not knowing the nature of the man.
The last glimpse of day vanished, and the cell was only illuminated by a flickering gleam which crept through the narrow crevice of the door from the oil lamp outside in the corridor. The organ music ceased–to be followed by the monotonous chanting of the monks at their evening orisons,–and in turn, these too came to an end, and all was silent. Easily and restfully Florian Varillo, calling himself in his own mind poet, artist, and lover of all women rather than one, turned on his pillow and slept peacefully,–a calm deep sleep such as is only supposed to visit the innocent and pure of conscience, but which in truth just as often refreshes the senses of the depraved and dissolute, provided they are satisfied with evil as their good. How many hours he slept he did not know, but he was wakened at last by a terrible sense of suffocation, and he sat up gasping for breath, to find the cell full of thick smoke and burning stench. The flickering reflection of the lamp was gone, and as he instinctively leaped from his bed and grasped his clothes, he heard the monastery bell above him swinging to and fro, with a jarring heavy clang. Weak from the effects of his illness, and scarcely able to stand, he dragged on some of his garments, and rushing to the door threw it open, to be met with dense darkness and thick clouds of smoke wreathing towards him in all directions. He uttered a loud shriek.
“Fire!”
The bell clanged on slowly over his head, but otherwise there was no response. Stumbling along, blinded, suffocated, not knowing at any moment whether he might not be precipitated down some steep flight of stairs or over some high gallery in the building, he struggled to follow what seemed to be a cooling breath of air which streamed through the smoke as though blowing in from some open door, and as he felt his way with his hands on the wall he suddenly heard the organ.
“Thank God!” he thought, “I am near the chapel! The fire has broken out in this part of the building–the monks do not know and are still at prayer. I shall be in time to save them all! . . .”
A small tongue of red flame flashed upon his eyes–he recoiled–then pressed forward again, seeing a door in front of him. The organ music sounded nearer and nearer; he rushed to the door, half choked and dizzy, and pushing it open, reeled into the organ loft, where at the organ, sat the monk Ambrosio, shaking out such a storm of music as might have battered the gates of Heaven or Hell. Varillo leaped forward–then, as he saw the interior of the chapel, uttered one agonized shriek, and stood as though turned to stone. For the whole place was in flames!–everything from the altar to the last small statue set in a niche, was ablaze, and only the organ, raised like a carven pinnacle, appeared to be intact, set high above the blazing ruin. Enrapt in his own dreams, Ambrosio sat, pouring thunderous harmony out of the golden-tubed instrument which as yet, with its self-acting machinery, was untouched by the flames, and Varillo half-mad with terror, sprang at him like a wild beast
“Stop!” he cried “Stop, fool! Do you not see–can you not understand–the monastery is on fire!”
Ambrosio shook him off, his brown eyes were clear and bright,–his whole expression stern and resolved.
“I know it,” he replied. “And we shall burn–you and I–together!”
‘Oh, mad brute!” cried Varillo. “Tell me which way to go!–where are the brethren?”
“Outside!” he answered “Safe!–away at the farther end of the garden, digging their own graves, as usual! Do you not hear the bell? We are alone in the building!–I have locked the doors,–the fire is kindled inside! We shall be dead before the flames burst through!”
“Madman!” shrieked Varillo, recoiling as the thick volumes of smoke rolled up from the blazing altar. “Die if you must!–but I will not! Where are the windows?–the doors?–“
“Locked and bolted fast,” said Ambrosio, with a smile of triumph. “There is no loophole of escape for you! The world might let you go free to murder and betray,–but I–Ambrosio,–a scourge in the Lord’s hand–I will never let you go! Pray–pray before it is too late! I heard the devil tempt you–I heard you yield to his tempting! You were both going to ruin a woman–that is devil’s work. And God told me what to do–to burn the evil out by flame, and purify your soul! Pray, brother, pray!–for in the searching and tormenting fire it will be too late! Pray! Pray!”
And pressing his hands again upon the organ he struck out a passage of chords like the surging of waves upon the shore or storm-winds in the forest, and began to sing,
“Confutatis maledictis
Flammis acribus addictis
Voci me cum benedictis!”
Infuriated to madness but too physically weak to struggle with one who, though wandering in brain, was sound in body, Varillo tried to drag him from his seat,–but the attempt was useless. Ambrosio seemed possessed by a thousand electric currents of force and resolution combined. He threw off Varillo as though he were a mere child, and went on singing–