Books: The Master Christian

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"Then you must certainly come and drive with us," said Loyse
D'Agramont, "for I can tell you all about it. I wrote quite a
brilliant essay on it for the Figaro, and called it 'Church
Morality'!" She laughed. "Come,--we will take no denial!"

Aubrey tried to refuse, but could not,--the attraction,--the 'will
o' the wisp' magnetism of Sylvie's dainty personality drew him on,
and in a few minutes, after taking respectful leave of the Cardinal,
Prince Sovrani, and Angela, he left the studio in the company of the
two ladies. Passing Monsignor Gherardi on the way out he received a
wide smile and affable salute from that personage.

"A pleasant drive to you, Mr. Leigh," he said, "The view from the
Pincio is considered extremely fine!"

Aubrey made some formal answer and went his way. Gherardi returned
to the studio and resumed his confidential talk with Bonpre, while
one by one the visitors departed, till at last the only persons left
in the vast room were Angela and Florian Varillo, Prince Pietro, and
the two dignitaries of the Church. Florian was irritated, and made
no secret of his irritation to his fair betrothed, with whom he sat
a little apart from the others in the room.

"Do you want a love affair between Sylvie Hermenstein and that
fellow Leigh?" he enquired, "If so, it is probable that your desire
will be gratified!"

Angela raised her delicate eyebrows in a little surprise.

"I have no wish at all in the matter," she answered, "except to see
Sylvie quite happy."

"How very romantic is the friendship between you two women!" said
Varillo somewhat sarcastically, "You wish to see Sylvie happy,--and
the other day she told me she would form her judgment of me by YOUR
happiness! Really, it is most admirable and touching!"

Angela began to feel somewhat puzzled. Petulance and temper were not
in her character, and she was annoyed to see any touch of them in
her lover.

"Are you cross, Florian?" she asked gently, "Has something worried
you to-day?"

"Oh, I am often worried!" he replied;--and had he spoken the exact
truth he would have confessed that he was always seriously put out
when he was not the centre of attraction and the cynosure of women's
eyes--"But what does it matter! Do not think at all about me, cara
mia! Tell me of yourself. How goes the picture?"

"It is nearly finished now," she replied, her beautiful violet eyes
dilating and brightening with the fervour that inspired her whenever
she thought of her work, "I rise very early, and begin to paint with
the first gleam of daylight. I think I shall have it ready sooner
than I expected. The Queen has promised to come and see it here
before it is exhibited to the public."

"Margherita di Savoja is very amiable!" said Florian, with a tinge
of envy he could not wholly conceal, "She is always useful as a
patron."

A quick flush of pride rose to Angela's cheeks.

"I do not need any patronage, Florian," she said simply yet with a
little coldness, "You know that I should resent it were it offered
to me. If my work is not good in itself, no 'royal' approval can
make it so. Queen Margherita visits me as a friend--not as a
patron."

"There now! I have vexed you!" And Florian took her hand and kissed
it. "Forgive me, sweetest!--Look at me--give me a smile!--Ah! That
is kind!" and he conveyed an expression of warm tenderness into his
eyes as Angela turned her charming face upon him, softened and
radiant with the quick affection which always moved her at his voice
and caress. "I spoke foolishly! Of course my Angela could not be
patronised--she is too independent and gifted. I am very glad the
Queen is coming!"

"The Queen is coming?" echoed Gherardi, who just then advanced.
"Here? To see Donna Sovrani's picture? Ah, that will be an excellent
advertisement! But it would have been far better, my dear young
lady, had you arranged with me, or with some other one of my
confreres, to have the picture sent to the Vatican for the
inspection of His Holiness. The Popes, as you know, have from time
immemorial been the best patrons of art!"

"My picture would not please the Pope," said Angela quietly, "It
would more probably win his denunciation than his patronage."

Gherardi smiled. The idea of a woman--a mere woman imagining that
anything which she could do was powerful enough to bring down Papal
denunciation! The strange conceit of these feminine geniuses! He
could almost have laughed aloud. But he merely looked her over
blandly and forbearingly.

"I am sorry," he said, "very sorry you should consider such a thing
as possible of your work. But no doubt you speak on impulse. Your
distinguished uncle, the Cardinal Bonpre, would be sadly distressed
if your picture should contain anything of a nature to bring you any
condemnation from the Vatican,--and your father . . ."

"Leave me out of it, if you please!" interrupted Prince Pietro, "I
have nothing whatever to do with it! Angela works with a free hand;
none of us have seen what she is doing."

"Not even you, Signor Varillo?" enquired Gherardi affably.

"Oh, I?" laughed Florian carelessly, "No indeed! I have not the
least idea of the subject or the treatment!"

"A mystery then?" said Gherardi, still preserving his bland suavity
of demeanour, "But permit me, Donna Sovrani, to express the hope
that when the veil is lifted a crown of laurels may be disclosed for
you!"

Angela thanked him by a silent inclination of her head, and in a few
minutes the stately Vatican spy had taken his leave. As he
disappeared the Cardinal rose from his chair and moving somewhat
feebly, prepared to return to his own apartments.

"Dearest uncle, will you not stay with us to-night? Or are you too
tired?" asked Angela as she came to his side.

He raised her sweet face between his two wrinkled hands and looked
at her long and earnestly. "Dear child!" he said, "Dear brave little
child! For you must always be nothing more than a child to me,--tell
me, are you sure you are moved by the right spirit in the painting
of your picture?"

"I think so!" answered Angela gently, "Indeed, indeed, I think so! I
know that according to the teaching of our Master Christ, it is a
TRUE spirit!"

Slowly the Cardinal released her, and slowly and with impressive
earnestness traced the Cross on her fair brows.

"God bless you!" he said, "And God help you too! For if you work by
'the Spirit of Truth, the Comforter', remember it is the same Spirit
which our Lord tells us 'the world cannot receive because it seeth
Him not, neither knoweth Him.' And to testify of a Spirit which the
world cannot receive makes the world very hard to you!"

And with these words he gently leaned on the arm she proffered and
left the studio with her, the rich glow and voluminous folds of his
scarlet robes contrasting vividly with the simple black gown which
Angela wore without other adornment than a Niphetos rose to relieve
its sombreness. As she went with her uncle she looked over her
shoulder and smiled an adieu to Florian,--he, in his turn lightly
kissed his hand to her, and then addressed Prince Pietro, who, with
the care of a man to whom expense is a consideration, was putting
out some of the tall lamps that had illumined the dusk of the late
afternoon.

"The good Cardinal is surely breaking up," he said carelessly, "He
looks extremely frail!"

"Young men sometimes break up before old ones!" returned the Prince
drily, "Felix is strong enough yet. You dine with us to-night?"

"If you permit--" said Varillo, with a graceful salutation.

"Oh, my permission does not matter'" said Sovrani eyeing him
narrowly, "Whatever gives pleasure to Angela must needs please me.
She is all that is left to me now in an exceedingly dull world. A
riverderci! At eight we dine."

Flonan nodded,--and took his departure, and the Prince for a moment
stood hesitating, looking at the great white covering on the wall
which concealed his daughter's mysterious work. His tall upright
figure stiff and sombre, looked as if cast in bronze in the half
light shed by the wood fire,--one lamp was still burning, and after
a pause he moved from his rigid attitude of gloomy consideration,
and extinguished it, then glancing round to see that all was in
order, he left the studio, closing its great oaken door behind him.
Five minutes after he had gone a soft step trod the polished floor,
and the young Manuel, holding a lighted taper, entered all alone.
The flame of the little torch he carried cast a soft golden glow
about him as he walked noiselessly through the great empty room, his
blue eyes lifted to the marble heads of gods and heroes which
occupied their different positions on the gilded and oaken brackets
set against the tapestried walls,--and presently he paused in front
of Angela's hidden work. It was but a moment's pause, and then,
still with the same light step, and the same bright glow reflected
from the flame that glittered in his hand, he passed through the
room, lifted the velvet portiere at the other end where there was
another door leading to the corridor connected with the Cardinal's
apartments, and so unnoticed, disappeared.

XXIII.

Meanwhile, the Marquis Fontenelle had been nearly a fortnight in
Rome, living a sufficiently curious sort of life, and passing his
time in a constant endeavour to avoid being discovered and
recognised by any of his numerous acquaintances who were arriving
there for the winter. His chief occupation was of course to watch
the Comtesse Sylvie,--and he was rewarded for his untiring pains by
constant and bewitching glimpses of her. Sometimes he would see her
driving, wrapped in furs, her tiny Japanese dog curled up in a fold
of her sables, and on her lap a knot of violets, the fresh scent of
which came to him like a sweet breath on the air as she passed. Once
he almost met her, face to face in the gardens of the Villa
Borghese, walking all alone, and reading a book in which she seemed
to be deeply interested. He made a few cautious enquiries about her,
and learnt that she lived very quietly,--that she received certain
"great" people,--especially Cardinals and Monsignori, notably
Monsignor Gherardi, who was a constant visitor. But of any closer
admirer he never gathered the slightest rumour, till one afternoon,
just when the sun was sinking in full crimson glory behind the dome
of St. Peter's, he saw her carriage come to a sudden halt on the
Pincio and she herself leaned out of it to shake hands with, and
talk to a tall fair man, who seemed to be on exceptionally friendly
terms with her. It is true she was accompanied in the carriage by
the famous Sovrani,--but that fact did not quell the sudden flame of
jealousy which sprang up in Fontenelle's mind--for both ladies
appeared equally charmed with the fair man, and their countenances
were radiant with pleasure and animation all the time they were in
conversation with him. When the carriage resumed its round again,
the Marquis sauntered by a side path where he could take quiet
observation of his apparent rival, who walked past him with a firm
light step, looking handsome, happy, and amazingly confident. There
was an old man raking the path, and of him Fontenelle asked
carelessly,

"Do you know who that gentleman is?"

The gardener looked up and smiled.

"Ah, si, si! Il Signor Inglese! Molto generoso! Il Signor Aubri
Lee!"

Aubrey Leigh! A "celebrity" then,--an English author;--not that all
English authors are considered "celebrities" in Rome. Italian
society makes very short work of spurious art, and closes its doors
ruthlessly against mere English "Grub Street". But Aubrey Leigh was
more than an author,--he was an influential power in the world, as
the Marquis well knew.

"A great religious reformer! And yet a victim to the little Sylvie!"
he mused, "Well! The two things will not work together. Though truly
Sylvie would captivate a John Knox or a Cromwell. I really think,--I
really do begin to think, that rather than lose her altogether, I
must marry her!"

And he went back to the obscure hotel where he had chosen
temporarily to reside in a meditative mood, and as he entered, was
singularly annoyed to see a flaring poster outside, announcing the
arrival of Miraudin and his whole French Company in Rome for a few
nights only. The name "MIRAUDIN" glared at him in big, fat, red
letters on a bright yellow ground; and involuntarily he muttered,

"D--n the fellow! Can I go nowhere in the world without coming
across him!"

Irritated, and yet knowing his irritation to be foolish,--for after
all, what was the famous actor to him?--what was there in his
personality to annoy him beyond the trivial fact of a curious
personal resemblance?--he retired to his room in no pleasant humour,
and sitting down began to write a letter to Sylvie asking her to be
his wife. Yet somehow the power of expression seemed lacking, and
once or twice he laid down his pen in a fit of abstraction,
wondering why, when he had sought Sylvie as a lover only, he had
been able to write the most passionate love phrases, full of ardour
and poetry, and now, when he was about to make her the offer of his
whole life, his sentences were commonplace and almost cold. And
presently he tore up what he had been writing, and paced the room
impatiently.

"The fact is I shall make a bad husband, and I know it!" he said
candidly to himself, "And Sylvie will make a great mistake if she
accepts me!"

He walked to the window and looked out. His hotel was not in a
fashionable or frequented quarter of Rome, and the opposite view of
the street was anything but enlivening. Dirty, frowsy women,--idle
men, lounging along with the slouching gait which is common to the
'unemployed' Italian,--half-naked children, running hither and
thither in the mud, and screaming like tortured wild animals,--this
kind of shiftless, thriftless humanity, pictured against the
background of ugly modern houses, such as one might find in a London
back slum, made up a cheerless prospect, particularly as the blue
sky was clouded and it was beginning to rain. One touch of colour
brightened the scene for a moment, when a girl with a yellow
handkerchief tied round her head passed along, carrying a huge flat
basket overflowing with bunches of purple violets, and as Fontenelle
caught the hue, and imagined the fragrance of the flowers, he was
surprised to feel his eyes smart with a sudden sting of tears. The
picture of Sylvie Hermenstein, with her child-like head, fair hair,
and deep blue eyes, floated before him,--she was fond of violets,
and whenever she wore them, their odour seemed to be the natural
exhalation of her sweet and spirituelle personality.

"She is much too good for me!" he said half aloud, "To be perfectly
honest with myself, I know I have no stability of character, and I
cannot imagine myself remaining constant to any woman for more than
six months. And the best way is to be perfectly straight-forward
about it."

He sat down again, and without taking any more thought wrote
straight from the heart of his present humour, addressing her by the
name he had once playfully bestowed upon her.

"Enchanteresse! I am here in Rome, and this brief letter is to ask,
without preamble or apology, whether you will do me the infinite
honour to become my wife. I confess to you honestly that I am not
worth this consideration on your part, for I am not to be relied
upon. I repose no confidence in myself, therefore I will leave it to
you to measure my audacity in making the suggestion that you should
place a lifetime's confidence in me. But with all my heart, (as much
as I know of it at the present), I desire to show you what respect
so poor a life as mine can give to one who deserves all tenderness,
as well as trust. If I may hope that you will pardon my past follies
and libertinage with regard to you,--if you can love me well enough
to wear my not too exalted name, and preserve my remaining stock of
honour, summon me to your presence, and I will endeavour, by such
devotion and fidelity as in me lies, to atone for whatsoever offence
I may have given you previously by my too passionate pursuit of your
beauty. Yours, unless you decide my fate otherwise,

"GUY BEAUSIRE DE FONTENELLE."

Thrusting this note into an envelope he hastily sealed it, but
decided not to post it till late at night, in order that Sylvie
might only receive it with the early morning, when her mind was
fresh, and unswayed by any opinions or events of a long day. And to
pass the time he strolled out to one of the many "osterie," or wine-
houses which abound in Rome,--a somewhat famous example of its kind
in the Via Quattro Fontane. Choosing a table where he could sit with
his back turned towards the door, so as to avoid being seen by
either strangers or possible friends, he took up the Giornale
Romano, and ordered a "mezzo-litro" of the "Genzano" wine, for which
that particular house has long been celebrated. He sat there about
half an hour thus quietly reading,--scarcely hearing the loud voices
and louder laughter of the men who came and went around him, when
suddenly the name "Sylvie Hermenstein" caught his ear. It was spoken
carelessly and accompanied with a laugh. Quietly laying down his
newspaper, he sat very still in his chair, keeping his back turned
to the groups of wine drinkers who were gathering in large numbers
as the evening advanced, and listened.

"The most delicious little bonbon in the whole box! Jolie a
craquer!" said a man's voice.

"Chocolat fondant! Garantie tres pure!" cried another, his words
being followed by a shout of laughter.

Fontenelle gripped the arm of his chair, and held himself rigid, but
ready to spring.

"The Church always knows where to find the prettiest women," said
the first man who had spoken, "from the Santissima Madonna
downwards! What would become of the Pope if it were not for the
women!"

"Bah! The Pope is only one man, but what would become of all the
Monsignori?" asked a voice different to the rest in mellowness and
deep quality, but with a touch of insolent mockery in its tone.

Another burst of laughter answered him.

Fontenelle turned in his chair and looked at the last speaker, and
to his amazement saw the actor, Miraudin. He was leaning carelessly
against the wine counter, a half-emptied "fiaschetto" in front of
him, and a full glass of wine in his hand.

"The Monsignori would be all desolate bachelors!" he went on,
lazily, "And the greatest rascal in the Vatican, Domenico Gherardi,
would no longer be the fortunate possessor of the wealth, the
influence, and the dear embraces of the fascinating Hermenstein!"

Scarcely had he spoken when the glass he held was dashed out of his
hand, and Fontenelle, white with fury, struck him smartly and full
across the face. A scene of the wildest confusion and uproar ensued.
All the men in the wine-shop crowded around them, and for a moment
Miraudin, blinded by the blow, and the wine that had splashed up
against his eyes, did not see who had struck him, but as he
recovered from the sudden shock and stared at his opponent, he broke
into a wild laugh.

"Diantre! Ban soir, Monsieur le Marquis! Upon my life, there is
something very strange in this! Fate or the devil, or both! Well!
What now!"

"You are a liar and a blackguard!" said Fontenelle fiercely, "And
unless you apologise for your insult to the lady whose name you have
presumed to utter with your mountebank tongue--"

"Apologise! I! Moi!--genie de France! Never!" retorted Miraudin with
an air of swaggering audacity, "All women are alike! I speak from
experience!"

White to the lips, the Marquis Fontenelle looked around.

"Are there any MEN here?" he asked, eying the crowd about him with
ineffable hauteur.

A young fellow stepped forward. "At your command, Marquis! You
served me once--I shall be happy to serve you now!"

Quickly Fontenelle shook hands with this timely friend. He
recognised in him a young Italian officer, named Ruspardi, an
acquaintance of some years back, to whom he had chanced to be useful
in a pressing moment of need.

"Thanks! Arrange everything for me, will you, Ruspardi? And as
quickly as possible!"

"It is nearly midnight now," said Ruspardi in a low tone, "Shall we
say five or six in the morning?"

"Yes--anything you like--but quickly!"

Then raising his head haughtily, he addressed Miraudin in distinct
tones.

"Monsieur Miraudin, you have greatly insulted and falsely slandered
a lady whom I have the honour to know. I have struck you for your
lie; and consider you worthy of no further treatment save a
horsewhipping in public. Gentlemen do not as a rule condescend to
meet their paid servants--actors and the like,--in single combat--
but I will do you that honour!"

And with these words he bowed haughtily to all present, and left the
scene of noisy disorder.

Out in the streets the moonlight lay in broad silver bands, like
white glistening ribbon spread in shining strips across the
blackness, and there was a moisture in the air which,--dropped as it
were fresh, from the surrounding hills,--cooled Fontenelle's flushed
face and burning brows. He walked rapidly,--he had a vague, unformed
desire in his mind to see Sylvie again if possible. He knew where
she lived, and he soon turned down the street where the quaint old
central balcony of the Casa D'Angeli thrust itself forward into the
moon-rays among the sculptured angels' wings,--and he saw that the
windows were open. Pausing underneath he waited, hesitating--full of
strange thoughts and stranger regrets. How poor and valueless seemed
his life as he regarded it now!--now when he had voluntarily placed
it in jeopardy! What had he done with his days of youth and prime?
Frittered away every valuable moment,--thrown to the winds every
costly opportunity,--spent his substance on light women who had
kissed and clung to him one day, and repulsed him the next. Well--
and after? His heart beat thickly,--if he could only see Sylvie for
a moment! Hush! There was a murmur--a voice--a ripple of sweet
laughter; and moving cautiously back into the shadows, he looked up-
-yes!--there she was--clad in some soft silvery stuff that gathered
a thousand sparkles from the light of the moon,--her fair hair
caught up in a narrow circlet of diamonds, and her sweet face purely
outlined against the dark worn stone of one of the great carved
angel-wings. But someone was with her,--someone whom Fontenelle
recognised at once by the classic shape of his head and bright curly
hair,--the man whom he had seen that very day on the Pincio,--Aubrey
Leigh. With a jealous tightening at his heart, Fontenelle saw that
Leigh held the soft plume of downy feathers which served Sylvie for
a fan, and that he was lightly waving it to and fro as he talked to
her in the musical, all-potent voice which had charmed thousands,
and would surely not be without its fascination for the sensitive
ears of a woman. Moving a little closer he tried to hear what was
being said,--but Leigh spoke very softly, and Sylvie answered with
equal softness, so that he could catch no distinct word. Yet the
mere tone of these two voices melted into a harmony more dulcet and
perfect than could be endured by Fontenelle with composure, and
uttering an impatient exclamation at his own folly he hastily left
his retreat, and with one parting glance up at the picture of fair
loveliness above him walked swiftly away. Returning to his hotel he
saw the letter that he had written to Sylvie lying on the table, and
he at once posted it. Then he began to prepare for his encounter
with Miraudin. He dressed quickly,--wrote a few business letters,--
and was about to lie down for a rest of an hour or so when the swift
and furious galloping of a horse's hoofs awoke the echoes of the
quiet street, and almost before he had time to realise what had
happened, his friend Ruspardi stood before him, breathless and wild
with excitement.

"Marquis, you are tricked!" he cried, "Everything is prepared--
seconds,--pistols,--all! But your man--your man has gone!"

"Gone!" exclaimed Fontenelle furiously, "Where?"

"Out of Rome! In a common fiacre--taking his latest mistress, one of
the stage-women with him. They were seen driving by the Porta Pia
towards the Campagna half an hour ago! He dare not face fire--bully
and coward that he is!"

"I will go after him!" said Fontenelle promptly, "Half an hour
ahead, you say! Good!--I will catch him up. Can I get a horse
anywhere?"

"Take mine," said Ruspardi eagerly, "he is perfectly fresh--just out
of the stable. Have you weapons?"

"Yes," and the Marquis unlocked a case, and loading two, placed them
in a travelling holder. Then, turning to Ruspardi he shook hands.

"Thanks, a thousand times! There are a few letters here--see to them
if I should not come back."

"What are you going to do?" asked Ruspardi, his excitement beginning
to cool a little, now that he saw the possible danger into which
Fontenelle was voluntarily rushing.

"Persuade the worthy mountebank either to come back or fight at once
on whatever ground I find him, and assume to be a gentleman--for
once!" said Fontenelle, carelessly. "Addio!"