Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50

"Adieu!" and Angela returned her loving embrace with equal
affection, "I will announce your departure to the Marquis Fontenelle
to-morrow."

"You will? Sweet Angela! And when you hear from me, and know where I
am, you will write me a long, long letter and tell me how he looked,
and what he said, and whether he seemed sorry or indifferent, or
angry, or ashamed--or--"

Before she could finish the sentence the studio door was thrown
open, and the servant announced, "Monsieur le Marquis Fontenelle!"

XII.

A moment's flashing glance of half-amused dismay at Angela, and the
Comtesse Sylvie had vanished. Passing quickly behind one of the
several tall tapestry screens that adorned the studio, she slipped
away through a little private door at which Angela's "models"
presented themselves, a door which led into the garden and then into
the Bois, and making straight for her carriage which was in waiting
round the corner, she sprang into it and was rapidly driven away.
Meanwhile, Angela Sovrani, rather bewildered by her friend's swift
departure, was left alone to face the Marquis, who entered almost on
the heels of the servant who announced him, and in one swift survey
of the studio saw that the object of his search was not there.
Concealing his disappointment, however, under an admirable show of
elegant indifference, he advanced towards Angela and saluted her
with a courtly old-world grace that very well became his handsome
face and figure.

"I must apologise for this intrusion," he said, speaking in deep,
soft accents which gave a singular charm to his simplest words,
"But--to be quite frank with you--I thought I should find the
Comtesse Hermenstein here."

Angela smiled. In her heart she considered the man a social
reprobate, but it was impossible to hear him speak, and equally
impossible to look at him without a vague sense of pleasure in his
company.

"Sylvie was here a moment ago," she answered, still smiling.

The Marquis took one or two quick impulsive steps forward--then
checking himself, stopped short, and selecting a chair deliberately
sat down.

"I understand!" he said, "She wished to avoid me, and she has done
so. Well!--I would not run after her for the world. She must be
perfectly free."

Angela looked at him with a somewhat puzzled air. She felt herself
in a delicate and awkward position. To be of any use in this affair
now seemed quite impossible. Her commission was to have told the
Marquis that Sylvie had left Paris, but she could not say that now
as Sylvie was still in the city. Was she supposed to know anything
about the Marquis's dishonourable proposals to her friend? Surely
not! Then what was she to do? She stood hesitating, glancing at the
fine, clear-cut, clean-shaven face of Fontenelle, the broad
intellectual brows, and the brilliant hazel eyes with their languid,
half-satirical expression, and her perplexity increased. Certainly
he was a man with a grand manner,--the manner of one of those never-
to-be-forgotten haughty and careless aristocrats of the "Reign of
Terror" who half redeemed their vicious lives by the bravery with
which they faced the guillotine. Attracted, yet repelled by him,
Angela had always been,--even when she had known no more of him than
is known of a casual acquaintance met at different parties and
reunions, but now that she was aware of Sylvie's infatuation, the
mingled attraction and revulsion became stronger, and she caught
herself wishing fervently that the Marquis would rouse himself from
his lethargy of pleasure, and do justice to the capabilities which
Nature had evidently endowed him with, if a fine head and noble
features are to be taken as exponents of character. Fontenelle
himself, meanwhile, leaning carelessly back in the chair he had
taken, looked at her with a little quizzical lifting of his
eyebrows.

"You are very silent, mademoiselle," he broke out at last, "Have you
nothing to say to me?"

At this straight question Angela recovered her equanimity.

"I HAD something to say to you, Marquis," she answered quietly, "but
it was to have been said to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Ah, yes! You receive your world of art to-morrow," he
said, "and I was to come and meet la Comtesse,--and of course she
would not have been here! I felt that by a natural instinct!
Something psychological--something occult! I saw her carriage pass
my windows up the Champs Elysees,--and I followed in a common
fiacre. I seldom ride in a common fiacre, but this time I did so. It
was an excitement--la chasse! I saw the little beauty arrive at your
door,--I gave her time to pour out all her confidences,--and then I
arranged with myself and le bon Dieu to escort her home."

"You arranged well," said Angela, inclined to laugh at his easy
audacity, "but le bon Dieu was evidently not of your opinion,--and
you must remember that the most excellent arrangements are not
always carried out."

"True!" and Fontenelle smiled, "In the case of the fascinating
Sylvie, I do not know when I have had so much trouble about a woman.
It is interesting, but vexatious. Sometimes I think I shall have to
give up and gallop off the hunting-field altogether--"

"Excuse me, Marquis," said Angela coldly, "Sylvie Hermenstein is my
friend--pray understand that I cannot allow her to be spoken of in
the tone of badinage you are pleased to assume."

He looked up with a curious air of surprise and mock penitence.

"Pardon! But there is no badinage at all about the very serious
position in which I find myself," he said, "You, mademoiselle, as a
woman, have not the slightest idea of the anxiety and trouble your
charming sex gives to ours. That is, of course, when you are
charming--which is not always. Now Sylvie, your friend Sylvie--is so
distinctly charming that she becomes provoking and irritating. I am
sure she has told you I am a terrible villain . . ."

"She has never said so,--never spoken one word against you!"
interposed Angela.

"No? That is curious--very curious! But then Sylvie is curious. You
see the position is this;--I wish to give her all I am worth in the
world, but she will not have it,--I wish to love her, but she will
not be loved--"

"Perhaps," said Angela, gaining courage to speak plainly, "Perhaps
your love is not linked with honour?"

"Honour?" echoed the Marquis, lifting his finely arched eyebrows,
"You mean marriage? No--I confess I am not guilty of so much
impudence. For why should the brilliant Sylvie become the Marquise
Fontenelle? It would be a most unhappy fate for her, because if
there WERE a Marquise Fontenelle, my principles would oblige me to
detest her!"

"You would detest your own wife!" said Angela surprised.

"Naturally! It is the fashion. To love one's wife would be petite
bourgoisie--nothing more absurd! It is the height of good form to
neglect one's wife and adore one's mistress,--the arrangement works
perfectly and keeps a man well balanced,--perpetual complaint on one
side, perpetual delight on the other."

He laughed, and his eyes twinkled satirically.

"Are you serious?" asked Angela.

"I never was more serious in my life," declared the Marquis
emphatically, "With all my heart I wish to make the delicious pink
and white Sylvie happy,--I am sure I could succeed in my way. If I
should ever allow myself to do such a dull thing as to marry,--
imagine it!--such a dull and altogether prosy thing!--my gardener
did it yesterday;--I should of course choose a person with a
knowledge of housekeeping and small details,--her happiness it would
be quite unnecessary to consider. The maintenance of the
establishment, the servants, and the ever increasing train of
milliners and dressmakers would be enough to satisfy Madame la
Marquise's ambitions. But for Sylvie,--half-fairy, half-angel as she
is,--there must be poetry and moonlight, flowers, and romance, and
music, and tender nothings,--marriage does not consort with these
delights. If you were a little school-girl, dear Donna Sovrani, I
should not talk to you in this way,--it would not be proper,--it
would savour of Lord Byron, and Maeterlinck, and Heinrich Heine, and
various other wicked persons. It would give you what the dear
governesses would call 'les idees folles', but being an artist, a
great artist, you will understand me. Now, you yourself--you will
not marry?"

"I am to be married next year if all is well, to Florian Varillo,"
said Angela, "Surely you know that?"

"I have heard it, but I will not believe it," said the Marquis
airily, "No, no, you will never marry this Florian! Do not tell me
of it! You yourself will regret it. It is impossible! You could not
submit to matrimonial bondage. If you were plain and awkward I
should say to you, marry, and marry quickly, it is the only thing
for you!--but being what you are, charming and gifted, why should
you be married? For protection? Every man who has once had the
honour of meeting you will constitute himself your defender by
natural instinct. For respectability? Ah, but marriage is no longer
respectable,--the whole estate of matrimony is as full of bribery
and corruption as the French War Office."

He threw himself back in his chair and laughed, running one hand
through his hair with a provoking manner of indifferent ease and
incorrigible lightheartedness.

"I cannot argue with you on the matter," said Angela, rather
vexedly, "Your ideas of life never will be mine,--women look at
these things differently . . ."

"Poor dear women! Yes!--they do," said the Marquis, "And that is
such a pity,--they spoil all the pleasure of their lives. Now, just
think for a moment what your friend Sylvie is losing! A devoted,
ardent and passionate lover who would spare no pains to make her
happy,--who would cherish her tenderly, and make her days a dream of
romance! I had planned in my mind such a charming boudoir for
Sylvie, all ivory and white satin,--flowers, and a soft warm light
falling through the windows,--imagine Sylvie, with that delicate
face of hers and white rose skin, a sylph clad in floating lace and
drapery, seen in a faint pink hue as of a late sunset! You are an
artist, mademoiselle, and you can picture the fairy-like effect! I
certainly am not ashamed to say that this exquisite vision occupies
my thoughts,--it is a suggestion of beauty and deliciousness in a
particularly ugly and irksome world,--but to ask such a dainty
creature as Sylvie to be my housekeeeper, and make up the
tradesmen's books, I could not,--it would be sheer insolence on my
part,--it would be like asking an angel just out of heaven to cut
off her wings and go downstairs and cook my dinner!"

"You please yourself and your own fanciful temperament by those
arguments," said Angela,--"but they are totally without principle.
Oh, why," and raising her eyes, she fixed them on him with an
earnest look, "Why will you not understand? Sylvie is good and
pure,--why would you persuade her to be otherwise?"

Fontenelle rose and took one or two turns up and down the room
before replying.

"I expect you will never comprehend me," he said at last, stopping
before Angela, "In fact, I confess sometimes I do not comprehend
myself. Of course Sylvie is good and pure--I know that;--I should
not be so violently in love with her if she were not--but I do not
see that her acceptance of me as a lover would make her anything
else than good and pure. Because I know that she would be faithful
to me."

"Faithful to you--yes!--while you were faithless to her!" said
Angela, with a generous indignation in her voice, "You would expect
her to be true while you amused yourself with other women. A one-
sided arrangement truly!"

The Marquis seemed unmoved.

"Every relation between the sexes is one-sided," he declared, "It is
not my fault! The woman gives all to one,--the man gives a little to
many. I really am not to blame for falling in with this general
course of things. You look very angry with me, Donna Sovrani, and
your eyes positively abash me;--you are very loyal to your friend
and I admire you for it; but after all, why should you be so hard
upon me? I am no worse than Varillo."

Angela started, and her cheeks crimsoned.

"Than Varillo? What do you mean?"

"Well, Varillo has Pon-Pon,--of course she is useful--what he would
do without her I am sure I cannot imagine,--still she IS Pon-Pon."

He paused, checked by Angela's expression.

"Please explain yourself, Marquis," she said in cold, calm accents,
"I am at a loss to understand you."

Fontenelle glanced at her and saw that her face had grown as pale as
it was recently flushed, and that her lips were tightly set; and in
a vague way he was sorry to have spoken. But he was secretly chafing
at everything,--he was angry that Sylvie had escaped him,--and
angrier still that Donna Sovrani should imply by her manner, if not
by her words, that she considered him an exceptional villain, when
he himself was aware that nearly all the men of his "Cercle"
resembled him.

"Pon-Pon is Signor Varillo's model," he said curtly, "I thought you
were aware of it. She appears in nearly all his pictures."

Angela breathed again.

"Oh, is that all!" she murmured, and laughed.

Fontenelle opened his eyes a little, amazed at her indifference.
What a confiding, unsuspecting creature was this "woman of genius"!
This time, however, he was discreet, and kept his thoughts to
himself.

"That is all," he said, "But . . . artists have been known to admire
their models in more ways than one."

"Yes," said Angela tranquilly, "But Florian is entirely different to
most men."

The Marquis was moved to smile, but did not. He merely bowed with a
deep and reverential courtesy.

"You have reason to know him best," he said, "and no doubt he
deserves your entire confidence. For me--I willingly confess myself
a vaurien--but I assure you I am not as bad as I seem. Your friend
Sylvie is safe from me."

Angela's eyes lightened,--her mind was greatly relieved.

"You will leave her to herself--" she began.

"Certainly I will leave her to herself. She will not like it, but I
will do it! She is going away to-morrow,--I found that out from her
maid. Why will you beautiful ladies keep maids? They are always
ready to tell a man everything for twenty or forty francs. So
simple!--so cheap!--Sylvie's maid is my devoted adherent,--and why?-
-not only on account of the francs, but because I have been careful
to secure her sweetheart as my valet, and he depends upon me to set
him up in business. So you see how easy it is for me to be kept
aware of all my fair lady's movements. This is how I learned that
she is going away to-morrow--and this is why I came here to-day. She
has given me the slip--she has avoided me and now I will avoid her.
We shall see the result. I think it will end in a victory for me."

"Never!" said Angela, "You will never win Sylvie to your way of
thinking, but it is quite possible she may win you!"

"That would be strange indeed," said the Marquis lightly, "The world
is full of wonders, but that would be the most wonderful thing that
ever happened in it! Commend me to the fair Comtesse, Mademoiselle,
and tell her it is _I_ who am about to leave Paris."

"Where are you going?" asked Angela impulsively.

"Ah, feminine curiosity!" said the Marquis laughing, "How it leaps
out like a lightning flash, even through the most rigid virtue!
Chere Mademoiselle, where I am going is my own secret, and not even
your appealing looks will drag it out of me! But I am in no hurry to
go away; I shall not fly off by the midnight train, or the very
early one in the morning, as your romantic friend the Comtesse
Sylvie will probably do,--I have promised the Abbe Vergniaud to hear
him preach on Sunday. I shall listen to a farewell sermon and try to
benefit by it,--after that I take a long adieu of France;--be good
enough to say to the Countesse with my humblest salutations!"

He bowed low over Angela's hand, and with a few more light parting
words took his graceful presence out of the room, and went down the
stairs humming a tune as he departed.

After he had gone Angela sat for some minutes in silence thinking.
Then she went to her desk and wrote a brief note to the Comtesse as
follows:--

"Dear Sylvie: Dismiss your maid. She is in the employ of Fontenelle
and details to him all your movements. He has been here for half an
hour and tells me that he takes a long adieu of France after Sunday,
and he has promised me to LEAVE YOU TO YOURSELF. I am sure you are
glad of this. My uncle and I go to Rome next week.

"ANGELA."

She sealed and marked the envelope "private", and ringing the bell
for her man-servant requested him to deliver it himself into the
hands of the Comtesse Hermenstein. This matter dismissed from her
mind she went to a portfolio full of sketches, and turned them over
and over till she came to one dainty, small picture entitled,
"Phillida et les Roses". It was a study of a woman's nude figure set
among branching roses, and was signed "Florian Varillo". Angela
looked at it long and earnestly,--all the delicate flesh tints
contrasting with the exquisite hues of red and white roses were
delineated with wonderful delicacy and precision of touch, and there
was a nymph-like grace and modesty about the woman's form and the
drooping poise of her head, which was effective yet subtle in
suggestion. Was it a portrait of Pon-Pon? Angry with herself Angela
tried to put the hateful but insinuating thought away from her,--it
was the first slight shadow on the fairness of her love-dream,--and
it was like one of those sudden clouds crossing a bright sky which
throws a chill and depression over the erstwhile smiling landscape.
To doubt Florian seemed like doubting her own existence. She put the
"Phillida" picture back in the portfolio and paced slowly to and fro
in her studio, considering deeply. Love and Fame--Fame and Love! She
had both,--and yet Aubrey Leigh had said such fortune seldom fell to
the lot of a woman as to possess the two things together. Might it
not be her destiny to lose one of them? If so, which would she
prefer to keep? Her whole heart, her whole impulses cried out,
"Love"! Her intellect and her ambitious inward soul said, "Fame"!
And something higher and greater than either heart, intellect, or
soul whispered to her inmost self, "Work!--God bids you do what is
in you as completely as you can without asking for a reward of
either Love or Fame." "But," she argued with herself, "for a woman
Love is so necessary to the completion of life." And the inward
monitor replied, "What kind of Love? Ephemeral or immortal? Art is
sexless;--good work is eternal, no matter whether it is man or woman
who has accomplished it." And then a great sigh broke from Angela's
lips as she thought, "Ah, but the world will never own woman's work
to be great even if it be so, because men give the verdict, and
man's praise is for himself and his own achievements always." "Man's
praise," went on the interior voice, "And what of God's final
justice? Have you not patience to wait for that, and faith to work
for it?" Again Angela sighed; then happening to look up; in the
direction of the music-gallery which occupied one end of her studio
where the organ was fitted, she saw a fair young face peering down
at her over the carved oak railing, and recognised Manuel. She
smiled;--her two or three days' knowledge of him had been more than
sufficient to win her affection and interest.

"So you are up there!" she said, "Is my uncle sleeping?"

"No," replied Manuel, "he is writing many letters to Rome. Will you
come and play to me?"

"Willingly!" and Angela went lightly up the winding steps of the
gallery, "But you have been out all day,--are you not tired?"

"No, not now. I WAS weary,--very weary of seeing and hearing so many
false things . . ."

"False things?" echoed Angela thoughtfully, as she seated herself at
the organ, "What were they?"

"Churches principally," said Manuel quietly; "How sad it is that
people should come into those grand buildings looking for Christ and
never finding Him!"

"But they are all built for the worship of Christ," said Angela,
pressing her small white fingers on the organ keys, and drawing out
one or two deep and solemn sounds by way of prelude, "Why should you
think He is not in them?"

"He cannot be," answered Manuel, "They are all unlike Him! Remember
how poor he was!--He told His followers to despise all riches and
worldly praise!--and now see how the very preachers try to obtain
notice and reward for declaring His simple word! The churches seem
quite empty of Him,--and how empty too must be the hearts and souls
of all the poor people who go to such places to be comforted!"

Angela did not reply,--her hands had unconsciously wandered into the
mazes of a rich Beethoven voluntary, and the notes, firm, grand, and
harmonious, rolled out in the silence with a warm deep tenderness
that thrilled the air as with a rhythmic beat of angels' wings. Lost
in thought, she scarcely knew what she played, nor how she was
playing,--but she was conscious of a sudden and singular exaltation
of spirit,--a rush of inward energy that was almost protest,--a
force which refused to be checked, and which seemed to fill her to
the very finger tips with ardours not her own,--martyrs going to the
destroying flames might have felt as she felt then. There was a
grave sense of impending sorrow hanging over her, mingled with a
strong and prayerful resolve to overcome whatever threatened her
soul's peace,--and she played on and on, listening to the rushing
waves of sound which she herself evoked, and almost losing herself
in a trance of thought and vision. And in this dreamy,
supersensitive condition, she imagined that even Manuel's face fair
and innocent as it was, grew still more beautiful,--a light, not of
the sun's making, seemed to dwell like an aureole in his clustering
hair and in his earnest eyes,--and a smile sweeter than any she had
ever seen, seemed to tremble on his lips as she looked at him.

"You are thinking beautiful things," he said gently, "And they are
all in the music. Shall I tell you about them?"

She nodded assent, while her fingers, softly pressing out the last
chord of Beethoven's music, wandered of their own will into the
melancholy pathos of a Schubert "Reverie."

"You are thinking of the wonderful plan of the world," he said,--"Of
all the fair and glorious things God has made for those who love
Him! Of the splendour of Faith and Hope and Courage,--of the soul's
divine origin and responsibility,--and all the joy of being able to
say to the Creator of the whole universe, 'Our Father!' You are
thinking--because you know--that not a note of the music you are
playing now fails to reach the eternal spheres,--echoing away from
your touch, it goes straight to its mark,--sent with the soul's
expression of love and gratitude, it flies to the centre of the
soul's worship. Not a pulsation of true harmony is lost! You are
thinking how grand it is to live a sweet and unsullied life, full of
prayer and endeavour, keeping a spirit white and clean as the light
itself, a spirit dwelling on the verge of earth but always ready to
fly heavenward!--You are thinking that no earthly reward, no earthly
love, no earthly happiness, though good in itself, can ever give you
such perfect peace and joy as is found in loving, serving, and
obeying God, and suffering His will to be entirely worked in you!"

Angela listened, deeply moved--her heart throbbed quickly,--how
wonderfully the boy expressed himself!--with what sweetness,
gentleness, and persuasion! She would have ceased playing, but that
something imperative urged her to go on,--and Manuel's soft voice
thrilled her strangely when he spoke again, saying--

"You know now--because your wise men are beginning to prove it--that
you can in very truth send a message to heaven."

"To heaven!" murmured Angela, "That is a long way! We know we can
send messages in a flash of lightfrom one part of the world to
another--but then there must be people to receive them--"

"And heaven is composed of millions of worlds," said Manuel, "'In my
Father's house are many mansions!" And from all worlds to all
worlds--from mansion to mansion, the messages flash! And there are
those who receive them, with such directness as can admit of no
error! And your wise men might have known this long ago if they had
believed their Master's word, 'Whatsoever is whispered in secret
shall be proclaimed on the housetops.' But you will all find out
soon that it is true, and that everything you say, and that every
prayer you utter God hears."

"My mother is in heaven," said Angela wistfully, "I wish I could
send her a message!"

"Your very wish has reached her now!" said Manuel, "How is it
possible that you in the spirit could ardently wish to communicate
with one so beloved and she not know it! Love would be no use then,
and there would be a grave flaw in God's perfect creation."

Angela ceased playing, and turned round to face the young speaker.

"Then you think we never lose those we love? And that they see us
and hear us always?"