Books: The Master Christian

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"Never!" exclaimed Bonpre fervently, "Never a burden on me, child!
Surely while I live you will not leave me?"

Manuel was silent for a little space. His eyes wandered from the
Cardinal's venerable worn features to the upstanding silver crucifix
that gleamed dully in the glow of the wood-embers.

"I will not leave you unless it is well for you that I should go,"
he answered at last, "And even then, you will always know where to
find me."

The Cardinal looked at him earnestly, and with a searching
interrogation,--but the boy's face though sweetly composed, had a
certain gravity of expression which seemed to forbid further
questioning. And a deep silence fell between them,--a silence which
was only broken by the door opening to admit Prince Sovrani who,
pausing on the threshold, said,

"Brother, if you will allow yourself to be disturbed, Angela would
like to see you in her studio. There are several people there,--her
fiance, Varillo among the number,--and I think the girl would be
glad of your presence."

The Cardinal started as from a dream, and rose from his chair.

"I will come at once--yes--I will come," he said, "I must not be
selfish and think only of my own troubles!" He stood erect,--he was
still in the scarlet robes in which he had made his appearance at
the Vatican, and they fell regally about his tall dignified form,
the vivid colour intensifying the pallor of his thin features. A
servant entering at the moment with two large silver candelabra
ablaze with lights, created an effect of luminance in the room that
made him appear to even greater advantage as an imposing figure of
ecclesiastical authority, and Prince Pietro looked at him with the
admiring affection and respect which he, though a cynic and sceptic,
had always felt for the brother of his wife,--affection and respect
which had if anything become intensified since that beloved one's
untimely death.

"You were well received at the Vatican?" he said tentatively.

"Not so well as I had hoped," replied the Cardinal patiently--"Not
so well! But the cloud will pass. I will go with you to the studio,-
-Manuel, will you stay here?"

Manuel bent his head in assent; he had just closed the before open
copy of the Gospels, and now stood with his hand upon the Book.

"I will wait till you call me, my lord Cardinal," he replied.

Prince Pietro then led the way, and Cardinal Bonpre followed, his
scarlet robes sweeping behind him with a rich rustling sound, and as
the two entered the large lofty studio, hung with old tapestries,
and panelled with deeply carved and gilded oak, the room which was
Angela Sovrani's special sanctum, all the persons there assembled
rose from their different sitting or lounging attitudes, and
respectfully bent their heads to the brief and unostentatious
benediction given to them by the venerable prelate of whom all
present had heard, but few had seen, and everyone made way for him
as Angela met and escorted him to a seat on one of the old, throne-
like chairs with which the Sovrani palace was so amply supplied.
When he was thus installed, he made the picturesque centre of a
brilliant little scene enough,--one of those vivacious and bright
gatherings which can be found nowhere so perfectly blended in colour
and in movement as in a great art-studio in Rome. Italians are not
afraid to speak, to move, to smile,--unlike the Anglo-Saxon race,
their ease of manner is inborn, and comes to them without training,
hence there is nothing of the stiff formality and awkward gloom
which too frequently hangs like a cloud over English attempts at
sociality,--and that particular charm which is contained in the
brightness and flashing of eyes, creates a dazzling effect
absolutely unknown to colder northern climes. Eyes,--so potent to
bewitch and to command, are a strangely neglected influence in
certain forms of social intercourse. English eyes are too often dull
and downcast, and wear an inane expression of hypocrisy and prudery;
unless they happen to be hard and glittering and meaningless; but in
southern climes, they throw out radiant invitations, laughing
assurances, brilliant mockeries, melting tendernesses, by the
thousand flashes, and make a fire of feeling in the coldest air. And
so in Angela's beautiful studio, among the whiteness of classic
marbles, and the soft hues of richly falling draperies, fair faces
shone out like flowers, lit up by eyes, whose light seemed to be
vividly kindled by the heat of an amorous southern sun,--Venetian
eyes blue as a cornflower, Florentine eyes brown and brilliant as a
russet leaf in autumn, Roman eyes black as night, Sicilian eyes of
all hues, full of laughter and flame--and yet among all, no sweeter
or more penetratingly tender eyes than those of Sylvie Hermenstein
ever shot glances abroad to bewilder and dazzle the heart of man.
Not in largeness, colour or brilliancy lay their charm, but in deep,
langourous, concentrated sweetness,--a sweetness so far-reaching
from the orb to the soul that it was easy to sink away into their
depths and dream,--and never wish to wake. Sylvie was looking her
fairest that afternoon,--the weather was chilly, and the close-
fitting black velvet dress with its cape-like collar of rich sables,
well became her figure and delicately fair complexion, and many a
spiteful little whisper concerning her went round among more showy
but less attractive women,--many an involuntary but low murmur of
admiration escaped from the more cautious lips of the men. She was
talking to the Princesse D'Agramont, who with her brilliant dark
beauty could afford to confess ungrudgingly the charm of a woman so
spirituelle as Sylvie, and who, between various careless nods and
smiles to her acquaintance, was detailing to her with much animation
the account of her visit to the Marquis Fontenelle before leaving
Paris.

"He must be very epris!" said the Princesse laughing, "For he froze
into a rigid statue of virtue when I suggested that he should escort
me to Rome! I did not wait to see the effect of my announcement that
YOU were already there!"

Sylvie lowered her eyes, and a faint colour crimsoned her cheeks.

"Then he knows where I am?" she asked.

"If he believes ME, he knows," replied Loyse D'Agramont, "But
perhaps he does not believe me! All Paris was talking about the Abbe
Vergniaud and his son 'Gys Grandit', when I left, and the Marquis
appeared as interested in that esclandre as he can ever be
interested in anything or anybody. So perhaps he forgot my visit as
soon as it was ended. Abbe Vergniaud is very ill by the way. His
self-imposed punishment, and his unexpected reward in the
personality of his son, have proved a little too much for him,--both
he and 'Grandit' are at my Chateau," here she raised her lorgnon,
and peered through it with an inquisitive air, "Tiens! There is the
dear Varillo making himself agreeable as usual to all the ladies!
When does the marriage come off between him and our gifted Sovrani?"

"I do not know," answered Sylvie, with a little dubious look,
"Nothing is contemplated in that way until Angela's great picture is
exhibited."

The Princesse D'Agramont looked curiously at the opposite wall where
an enormous white covering was closely roped and fastened across an
invisible canvas, which seemed to be fully as large as Raffaelle's
"Transfiguration".

"Still a mystery?" she queried, "Has she never shown it even to
you?"

Sylvie shook her head.

"Never!" and then breaking off with a sudden exclamation she turned
in the direction of the door where there was just now a little
movement and murmur of interest, as the slim tall figure of a man
moved slowly and with graceful courtesy through the assemblage
towards that corner of the studio where the Cardinal sat, his niece
standing near him, and there made a slight yet perfectly reverential
obeisance.

"Mr. Leigh!" cried Angela, "How glad I am to see you!"

"And I too," said the Cardinal, extending his hand, and kindly
raising Aubrey before he could complete his formal genuflection,
"You have not wasted much of your time in Florence!"

"My business was soon ended there," replied Aubrey. "It merely
concerned the saving of a famous religious picture--but I find the
modern Florentines so dead to beauty that it is almost impossible to
rouse them to any sort of exertion . . ." Here he paused, as Angela
with a smile moved quickly past him saying,

"One moment, Mr. Leigh! I must introduce you to one of my dearest
friends!"

He waited, with a curious sense of impatience, and full beating of
his heart, answering quite mechanically one or two greetings from
Florian Varillo and other acquaintances who knew and recognised him-
-and then felt, rather than saw, that he was looking into the deep
sweet eyes of the woman who had flung him a rose from the balcony of
the angels, and that her face, sweet as the rose itself, was smiling
upon him. As in a dream he heard her name, "The Comtesse Sylvie
Hermenstein" and his own, "Mr. Aubrey Leigh"; he was dimly aware of
bowing, and of saying something vague and formal, but all the
actuality of his being was for the moment shaken and transfigured,
and only one strong and overwhelming conviction remained,--the
conviction that, in the slight creature who stood before him
gracefully acknowledging his salutation, he had met his fate. Now he
understood as he had never done before what the poet-philosopher
meant by "the celestial rapture falling out of heaven";--for that
rapture fell upon him and caught him up in a cloud of glory, with
all the suddenness and fervour which must ever attend the true birth
of the divine passion in strong and tender natures. The calculating
sensualist can never comprehend this swiftly exalted emotion, this
immediate radiation of light through all life, which is like the sun
breaking through clouds on a dark day. The sensualist has by self-
indulgence, blunted the edge of feeling, and it is impossible for
him to experience this delicate sensation of exquisite delight,--
this marvellous assurance that here and now, face to face, stands
the One for whom all time shall be merged into a Song of Love, and
upon whom all the sweetest thoughts of imagination shall be brought
to bear for the furtherance of mutual joy! Aubrey's strong spirit,
set to stern labour for so long, and trained to toil with but scant
peace for reward, now sprang up as it were to its full height of
capability and resolution,--yet its power was tempered with that
tender humility which, in a noble-hearted man, bends before the
presence of the woman whose love for him shall make her sacred. All
his instincts bade him recognise Sylvie as the completion and
fulfilment of his life, and this consciousness was so strong and
imperative that it made him more than gentle to her as he spoke his
first few words, and obtained her consent to escort her to a seat
not far off from the Cardinal, yet removed sufficiently from the
rest of the people to enable them to converse uninterruptedly for a
time. Angela watched them, well pleased;--she too had quick
instincts, and as she noted Sylvie's sudden flush under the
deepening admiration of Aubrey's eyes, she thought to herself, "If
it could only be! If she could forget Fontenelle--if--"

But here her thoughts were interrupted by her own "ideal",--Florian
Varillo who, catching her hand abruptly, drew her aside for a
moment.

"Carissima mia, why did you not introduce the Princesse D'Agramont
to Mr. Leigh rather than the Comtesse Hermenstein? The Princesse is
of his way of thinking,--Sylvie is not!" and he finished his
sentence by slipping an arm round her waist quickly, and whispering
a word which brought the colour to her cheeks and the sparkle to her
eyes, and made her heart beat so quickly that she could not speak
for a moment. Yet she was supposed by the very man whose embrace
thus moved her, to be "passionless!"

"You must not call her 'Sylvie'," she answered at last, "She does
not like such familiarity--even from you!"

"No? Did she tell you so?" and Florian laughed, "What a confiding
little darling you are, Angela! I assure you, Sylvie Hermenstein is
not so very particular--but there! I will not say a word against any
friend of yours! But do you not see she is already trying to make a
fool of Aubrey Leigh?"

Angela looked across the room and saw Leigh's intellectual head
bending closely towards the soft gold of Sylvie's hair, and smiled.

"I do not think Sylvie would willingly make a fool of anyone," she
answered simply, "She is too loyal and sincere. I fancy you do not
understand her, Florian. She is full of fascination, but she is not
heartless."

But Florian entertained a very lively remembrance of the recent
rebuff given to himself by the fair Comtesse, and took his masculine
vengeance by the suggested innuendo of a shrug of his shoulders and
a lifting of his eyebrows. But he said no more just then, and merely
contented himself with coaxingly abstracting a rose out of Angela's
bodice, kissing it, and placing it in his own buttonhole. This was
one of his "pretty drawing-room tricks" according to Loyse
D'Agramont who always laughed unmercifully at these kind of
courtesies. They had been the stock-in-trade of her late husband,
and she knew exactly what value to set upon them. But Angela was
easily moved by tenderness, and the smallest word of love, the
lightest caress made her happy and satisfied for a long time. She
had the simple primitive notions of an innocent woman who could not
possibly imagine infidelity in a sworn love. Looking at her sweet
face, earnest eyes, and slim graceful figure now, as she moved away
from Florian Varillo's side, and passed glidingly in and out among
her guests, the Princesse D'Agramont, always watchful, wondered with
a half sigh how she would take the blow of disillusion if it ever
came; would it crush her, or would she rise the nobler and stronger
for it?

"Many a one here in this room to-day," mused the Princesse, "would
be glad if she fell vanquished in the hard fight! Many a man--
shameful as it seems--would give a covert kick to her poor body. For
there is nothing that frets and irks some male creatures so much as
to see a woman attain by her own brain and hand a great position in
the world, and when she has won her crown and throne they would
deprive her of both, and trample her in the mud if they dared! SOME
male creatures--not all. Florian Varillo for instance. If he could
only get the world to believe that he paints half Angela's pictures
he would be quite happy. I daresay he does persuade a few outsiders
to think it. But in Rome we know better. Poor Angela!"

And with another sigh she dismissed the subject from her mind for
the moment, her attention being distracted by the appearance of
Monsignor Gherardi, who just then entered and took up a position by
the Cardinal's chair, looking the picture of imposing and stately
affability. One glance of his eyes in the direction of Aubrey Leigh,
where he sat absorbed in conversation with the Comtesse Hermenstein,
had put the wily priest in an excellent humour, and nothing could
exceed the deferential homage and attention he paid to Cardinal
Bonpre, talking with him in low, confidential tones of the affairs
which principally occupied their attention,--the miraculous cure of
Fabien Doucet, and the defection of Vergniaud from the Church.
Earnestly did the good Felix, thinking Gherardi was a friend,
explain again his utter unconsciousness of any miracle having been
performed at his hands, and with equal fervour did he plead the
cause of Vergniaud, in the spirit and doctrine of Christ, pointing
out that the erring Abbe was, without any subterfuge at all, truly
within proximity of death, and that therefore it seemed an almost
unnecessary cruelty to set the ban of excommunication against a
repentant and dying man. Gherardi heard all, with a carefully
arranged facial expression of sympathetic interest and benevolence,
but gave neither word nor sign of active partisanship in any cause.
He had another commission in charge from Moretti, and he worked the
conversation dexterously on, till he touched the point of his secret
errand.

"By the way," he said gently, "among your many good and kindly
works, I hear you have rescued a poor stray boy from the streets of
Rouen--and that he is with you now. Is that true?"

"Quite true," replied the Cardinal, "But no particular goodness can
be accredited to any servant of the Gospel for trying to rescue an
orphan child from misery."

"No--no, certainly not!" assented Gherardi--"But it is seldom that
one as exalted in dignity as yourself condescends--ah, pardon me!--
you do not like that word I see!"

"I do not understand it in OUR work," said the Cardinal, "There can
be no 'condescension' in saving the lost."

Gherardi was silent a moment, smiling a little to himself. "What a
simpleton is this Saint Felix!" he thought. "What a fool to run
amuck at his own chances of distinction and eminence!"

"And the boy is clever?" he said presently in kindly accents--
"Docile in conduct?--and useful to you?"

"He is a wonderful child!" answered the Cardinal with unsuspecting
candour and feeling, "Thoughtful beyond his years,--wise beyond his
experience."

Gherardi shot a quick glance from under his eyelids at the fine
tranquil face of the venerable speaker, and again smiled.

"You have no further knowledge of him?--no clue to his parentage?"

"None."

Just then the conversation was interrupted by a little movement of
eagerness,--people were pressing towards the grand piano which
Florian Varillo had opened,--the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein was
about to grant a general request made to her for a song. She moved
slowly and with a touch of reluctance towards the instrument, Aubrey
Leigh walking beside her.

"You are a musician yourself?--" she said, glancing up at him, "You
play--or you sing?"

"I do a little of both," he answered, "But I shall be no rival to
you! I have heard YOU sing!"

"You have? When?"

"The other night, or else I dreamed it," he said softly, "I have a
very sweet echo of a song in my mind with words that sounded like
'Ti volglio bene', and a refrain that I caught in the shape of a
rose!"

Their eyes met--and what Emerson calls "the deification and
transfiguration of life" began to stir Sylvie's pulses, and set her
heart beating to a new and singular exaltation. The warm colour
flushed her cheeks--the lustre brightened in her eyes, and she
looked sweeter and more bewitching than ever as she loosened the
rich sables from about her slim throat, and drawing off her gloves
sat down to the piano. Florian Varillo lounged near her--she saw him
not at all,--Angela came up to ask if she could play an
accompaniment for her,--but she shook her bright head in a smiling
negative, and her small white fingers running over the keys, played
a rippling passage of a few bars while she raised her clear eyes to
Aubrey and asked him,--

"Do you know an old Brittany song called 'Le Palais D'Iffry'? No? It
is just one of those many songs of the unattainable,--the search for
the 'Fortunate Isles', or the 'Fata Morgana' of happiness."

"Is happiness nothing but a 'Fata Morgana'?'" asked Aubrey gently,
"Must it always vanish when just in sight?"

His eyes grew darkly passionate as he spoke, and again Sylvie's
heart beat high, but she did not answer in words,--softening the
notes of her prelude she sang in a rich mezzo-soprano, whose
thrilling tone penetrated to every part of the room, the quaint old
Breton ballad,

"Il serait un roi! Mais quelqu'un a dit, 'Non!--Pas pour toi! 'Reste
en prison,--ecoute le chant d'amour, 'Et le doux son des baisers que
la Reine a promit 'A celui qui monte, sans peur et sans retour Au
Palais D'Iffry!' Helas, mon ami, C'est triste d'ecouter le chanson
sans le chanter aussi!"

Aubrey listened to the sweet far-reaching notes--"Sans peur, et sans
retour, au Palais D'Iffry"! Thither would he climb--to that
enchanted palace of love with its rainbow towers glittering in the
"light that never was on sea or land"--to the throne of that queen
whose soft eyes beckoned him--whose kiss waited for him--everything
now must be for her--all the world for her sake, willingly lost or
willingly won! And what of the work he had undertaken? The people to
whom he had pledged his life? The great Christ-message he had
determined to re-preach for the comfort of the million lost and
sorrowful? His brows contracted,--and a sudden shadow of pain
clouded the frank clearness of his eyes. Gherardi's words came back
to his memory,--"You have embarked in a most hopeless cause! You
will help the helpless, and as soon as they are rescued out of
trouble they will turn and rend you,--you will try to teach them the
inner mysteries of God's working and they will say you are possessed
of a devil!" Then he thought of another and grander saying--"Whoso,
putting his hand to the plough, looketh back, is not fit for the
Kingdom of God!--" and over all rang the enchanting call of the
siren's voice--

"Et le doux son des baisers que la Reine a promit A celui qui monte,
sans peur et sans retour Au Palais D'Iffry!"

and he so lost himself in a tangle of thought that he did not
observe how closely Monsignor Gherardi was studying every expression
of his face, and he started as if he had been awakened from a dream
when Sylvie's song ceased, and Sylvie herself glanced up at him.

"Music seems to make you sad, Mr. Leigh!" she said timidly.

"Not music--but sometimes the fancies which music engenders, trouble
me," he answered, bending his earnest searching eyes upon her, and
wondering within himself whether such a small, slight gossamer thing
of beauty, brilliant as a tropical humming-bird, soft and caressable
as a dove, could possibly be expected to have the sweet yet austere
fortitude and firmness needed to be a true "helpmeet" to him in the
work he had undertaken, and the life he had determined to lead. He
noted all the dainty trifles of her toilette half doubtingly, half
admiringly,--the knot of rich old lace that fastened her sables,--
the solitary star-like diamond which held that lace in careless
position--the numerous little touches of taste and elegance which
made her so unique and graceful among women--and a pang shot through
his heart as he thought of her wealth, and his own poverty. She
meanwhile, on her part, was studying him with all the close interest
that a cultured and refined woman feels, who is strongly conscious
of having awakened a sudden and masterful passion in a man whom she
secretly admires. A triumphant sense of her own power moved her,
allied to a much more rare and beautiful emotion--the sense of soul-
submission to a greater and higher life than her own. And so it
chanced that never had she looked so charming--never had her fair
cheeks flushed a prettier rose--never had her easy fascination of
manner been so bewitchingly troubled by hesitation and timidity--
never had her eyes sparkled with a softer or more irresistible
languor. Aubrey felt that he was fast losing his head as he watched
her move, speak, and smile,--and with a sudden bracing up of his
energies resolved to make his adieux at once.

"I must be going,--" he began to say, when his arm was touched from
behind, and he turned to confront Florian Varillo, who smiled with
all the brilliancy his white and even teeth could give him.

"Why must you be going?" asked Varillo cheerily, "Why not stay and
dine with my future father-in-law, and Angela, and the eminent
Cardinal? We shall all be charmed!"

"Thanks, no!--I have letters to write to England . . ."

"Good-bye!" said the Comtesse Hermenstein at this juncture,--"I am
going to drive the Princesse D'Agramont round the Pincio, will you
join us, Mr. Leigh? The Princesse is anxious to know you--may I
introduce you?"

And without waiting for a reply, as the Princesse was close at hand,
she performed the ceremony of introduction at once in her own light
graceful fashion.

"Truly a strange meeting!" laughed Varillo, "You three ought to be
very good friends! The Comtesse Hermenstein is a devout daughter of
the Roman Church--Madame la Princesse is against all Churches--and
you, Mr. Leigh, are making your own Church!"

Aubrey did not reply. It was not the time or place to discuss either
his principles or his work, moreover he was strangely troubled by
hearing Sylvie described as "a devout daughter of the Roman Church."

"I am charmed!" said the Princesse D'Agramont, "Good fortune really
seems to favour me for once, for in the space of a fortnight I have
met two of the most distinguished men of the time, 'Gys Grandit',
and Aubrey Leigh!"

Aubrey bowed.

"You are too kind, Madame! Grandit and I have been friends for some
years, though we have never seen each other since I parted from him
in Touraine. But we have always corresponded."

"You have of course heard who he really is? The son of Abbe
Vergniaud?" continued the Princesse.

"I have heard--but only this morning, and I do not know any of the
details of the story."