Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

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Gherardi smiled. The enthusiasm of a woman's unspoilt nature was
always a source of amusement to him.

"Your sentiments are very pretty and poetic!" he said, "But they are
exaggerated. That book is on the 'Index'!"

"Yes, of course it would be!" answered Sylvie quietly, "I have often
wondered why so much fine literature is condemned by the Church,--
and do you know, it occurred to me the other day that if our Lord
had WRITTEN what He said in the form of a book, it might be placed
on the 'Index' also?"

Gherardi lifted his eyes from their scrutiny of the ground, and
fixed them upon her with a look of amazement that was almost a
menace. But she was not in the least intimidated,--and her face,
though pale as the narcissi she had just seen in blossom, was very
tranquil.

"Are you the Comtesse Hermenstein?" said Gherardi then, after an
impressive pause, "The faithful, gentle daughter of Holy Church? or
are you some perverted spirit wearing her semblance?"

Sylvie laughed.

"If I am a perverted spirit you ought to be able to exorcise me,
Monsignor!" she said,--"With the incense of early Mass clinging to
you, and the holy water still fresh on your hands, you have only to
say, 'Retro me Sathanas!' and if I am NOT Sylvie Hermenstein I shall
melt into thin air, leaving nothing but the odour of sulphur behind
me! But if I AM Sylvie Hermenstein, I shall remain invincible and
immovable,--both in myself and in my opinions!"

Gherardi controlled his rising irritation, and was silent for some
minutes, reflecting within himself that if the fair Countess had
suddenly turned restive and wayward, it was probably because she was
falling in love with the author whose works she defended, and taking
this into consideration, he judged it would be wisest to temporise.

"Invincible you always are!" he said in softer tones, "As many
unhappy men in Europe can testify!"

"Are you among them?" queried Sylvie mischievously, the light of
laughter beginning to twinkle and flash in her pretty eyes.

"Of course!" answered Gherardi suavely, though his heart beat
thickly, and the secret admiration he had always felt for the
delicate beauty of this woman who was so utterly out of his reach,
made his blood burn with mingled rage and passion. "Even a poor
priest is not exempt from temptation!"

Sylvie hummed a little tune under her breath, and looked up at the
sky.

"It will be a lovely day!" she said--"There will be no rain!"

"Is that the most interesting thing you can say to me?" queried
Gherardi.

"The weather is always interesting," she replied, "And it is such a
safe subject of conversation!"

"Then you are afraid of dangerous subjects?"

"Oh no, not at all! But I dislike quarrelling,--and I am afraid I
should get very angry if you were to say anything more against the
book I am reading"--here she paused a moment, and then added
steadily, "or its author!"

"I am aware that he is a great friend of yours," said Gherardi
gently, "And I assure you, Contessa--seriously I assure you, I
should be the last person in the world to say anything against him.
Indeed, there is nothing to say, beyond the fact that he is,
according to our religion, a heretic--but he is a brilliant and
intellectual heretic,--WELL WORTH REDEEMING!" He emphasised the
words, and shot a meaning glance at her; but she did not appear to
take his hint or fathom his intention. She walked on steadily, her
eyes downcast,--her tiny feet, shod in charming little French
walking shoes, peeping in and out with a flash of steel on their
embroidered points, from under the mysterious gleam of silk flounces
that gave a soft "swish," as she moved,--her golden hair escaping in
one or two silky waves from under a picturesque black hat, fastened
on by velvet ribbons, which were tied in a captivating knot under
the sweetest of little white chins, a chin whose firm contour almost
contradicted the sensitive lines of the kissable mouth above it. A
curious, dull sense of anger teased the astute brain of Domenico
Gherardi, as with all the dignified deportment of the stately
churchman, he walked on by her side. What was all his scheming
worth, he began to think, if this slight feminine creature proved
herself more than a match for him? The utmost he could do with his
life and ambitions was to sway the ignorant, cram his coffers with
gold, and purchase a change of mistresses for his villa at Frascati.
But love,--real love, from any human creature alive he never had
won, and knew he never should win. Sylvie Hermenstein was richer far
than he,--she had not only wealth and a great position, but the joys
of a natural existence, and of a perfect home-life were not denied
to her. Presently, seeing that they were approaching the gates of
exit from the Pamphili, he said,--

"Contessa, will you give me the favour of an hour's conversation
with you one afternoon this week? I have something of the very
greatest importance to say to you."

"Can you not say it now?" asked Sylvie.

"No, it would take too long,--besides, if walls have ears, it is
possible that gardens have tongues! I should not presume to trouble
you, were it not for the fact that my business concerns the welfare
of your friend, Mr. Aubrey Leigh, in whose career I think you are
interested,--and not only Mr. Leigh, but also Cardinal Bonpre. You
will be wise to give me the interview I seek,--unwise if you refuse
it!"

"Monsignor, you have already been well received at my house, and
will be well received again,"--said Sylvie with a pretty dignity,
"Provided you do not abuse my hospitality by calumniating my
FRIENDS, whatever you may think of myself,--you will be welcome!
What day, and at what hour shall I expect you?"

Gherardi considered a moment.

"I will write," he said at last, "I cannot at this moment fix the
time, but I will not fail to give you notice. A riverderci!
Benedicite!"

And he left her abruptly at the gates, walking rapidly in the
direction of the Vatican. Full of vague perplexities to which she
could give no name, Sylvie went homewards slowly, and as she entered
her rooms, and responded to the affectionate morning greetings of
Madame Bozier, she was conscious of a sudden depression that stole
over her bright soul like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and made her
feel chilled and sad. Turning over the numerous letters that waited
her perusal, she recognised the handwriting of the Marquis
Fontenelle on one, and took it up with a strange uneasy dread and
beating of the heart. She read it twice through, before entirely
grasping its meaning, and then--as she realised that the man who had
caused her so much pain and shame by his lawless and reckless
pursuit of her in the character of a libertine, was now, with a
frank confession of his total unworthiness, asking her to be his
wife,--the tears rushed to her eyes, and a faint cry broke from her
lips.

"Oh, I cannot . . . I cannot!" she murmured, "Not now--not now!"

Madame Bozier looked at her in distress and amazement.

"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, "Some bad news?"

Silently Sylvie handed her Fontenelle's letter.

"Dear me! He is actually in Rome!" said the old lady, "And he asks
you to be his wife! Well, dear child, is not that what you had a
right to expect from him?"

"Yes--perhaps--but I cannot--not now!--Oh no, not now!" murmured
Sylvie, and her eyes, wet with tears, were full of an infinite pain.

"But--pardon me dear--do you not love him?"

Sylvie stood silent--gazing blankly before her, with such perplexity
and sorrow in her face that her faithful gouvernante grew anxious
and troubled.

"Child, do not look like that!" she exclaimed, "It cuts me to the
heart! You were not made for sorrow!"

"Dear Katrine,--we were all made for sorrow," said Sylvie slowly,
"Sorrow is good for us. And perhaps I have not had sufficient of it
to make me strong. And this is real sorrow to me,--to refuse
Fontenelle!"

"But why refuse him if you love him?" asked Madame Bozier
bewildered.

Sylvie sat down beside her, and put one soft arm caressingly round
her neck.

"Ah, Katrine,--that is just my trouble," she said, "I do not love
him now! When I first met him he attracted me greatly, I confess,--
he seemed so gentle, so courteous, and above all, so true! But it
was 'seeming' only, Katrine!--and he was not anything of what he
seemed. His courtesy and gentleness were but a mask for
licentiousness,--his apparent truth was but a disguise for mere
reckless and inconstant passion. I had to find this bit by bit,--and
oh, how cruel was the disillusion! How I prayed for him, wept for
him, tried to think that if he loved me he might yet endeavour to be
nobler and truer for my sake. But his love was not great enough for
that. What he wanted was the body of me, not the soul. What _I_
wanted of him was the soul, not the body! So we played at cross
purposes,--each with a different motive,--and gradually, as I came
to recognise how much baseness and brutality there is in mere
libertinism,--how poor and paltry an animal man becomes when he
serves himself and his passions only, my attraction for him
diminished,--I grew to realise that I could never raise him out of
the mud, because he had lived by choice too long in it,--I could
never persuade him to be true, even to himself, because he found the
ways of falsehood and deceit more amusing. He did unworthy things,
which I could not, with all my admiration for him, gloze over or
excuse;--in fact, I found that in his private life and code of
honour he was very little better than Miraudin,--and Miraudin, as
you know, one CANNOT receive!"

"He is in Rome also," said Madame Bozier, "I saw his name placarded
in the streets only yesterday, and also outside one of the leading
theatres. He has brought all his Parisian company here to act their
repertoire for a few nights before proceeding to Naples."

"How strange he should be here!" said Sylvie, "How very strange! He
is so like the Marquis Fontenelle, Katrine! So very like! I used to
go to the theatre and frighten myself with studying the different
points of resemblance! be the rough copy of Fontenelle's,--and I
always saw in the actor what the gentleman would be if he continued
to live as he was doing. Miraudin, whose amours are a disgrace, EVEN
to the stage!--Miraudin, who in his position of actor-manager, takes
despicable advantage of all the poor ignorant, struggling creatures
who try to get into his company, and whose vain little heads are
turned by a stray compliment,--and to think that the Marquis
Fontenelle should be merely the better-born copy of so mean a
villain! Ah, what useless tears I have shed about it,--how I have
grieved and worried myself all in vain!--and now . . ."

"Now he asks you to marry him," said Madame Bozier gently, "And you
think it would be no use? You could not perhaps make him a better
man?"

"Neither I nor any woman could!" said Sylvie, "I do not believe very
much in 'reforming' men, Katrine. If they need to reform, they must
reform themselves. We make our own lives what they are."

"Dear little philosopher!" said Madame Bozier tenderly, taking
Sylvie's small white hand as it hung down from her shoulder and
kissing it, "You are very depressed to-day! You must not take things
so seriously! If you do not love the Marquis as you once did--"

"As I once did--ah, yes!" said Sylvie, "I did love him. I thought he
could not be otherwise than great and true and noble-hearted--but--"

She broke off with a sigh.

"Well, and now that you know he is not the hero you imagined him,
all you have to do is to tell him so," said the practical Bozier
cheerfully, "Or if you do not want to pain him by such absolute
candour, give him his refusal as gently and kindly as you can."

Sylvie sighed again.

"I am very sorry," she said, "If I could have foreseen this--
perhaps--"

"But did you not foresee it?" asked Madame Bozier persistently, "Did
you not realize that men always want what they cannot have--and that
the very fact of your leaving Paris increased his ardour and sent
him on here in pursuit?"

Sylvie Hermenstein was of a very truthful nature, and she had not
attempted to deny this suggestion.

"Yes--I confess I did think that if I separated myself altogether
from him it might induce him to put himself in a more honourable
position with me--but I did not know then--" she paused, and a deep
flush crimsoned her cheeks.

"Did not know what?" queried Madame Bozier softly.

Sylvie hesitated a moment, then spoke out bravely.

"I did not know then that I should meet another man whose existence
would become ten times more interesting and valuable to me than his!
Yes, Katrine, I confess it! There is no shame in honesty! And so, to
be true to myself, however much the Marquis might love me now, I
could never be his wife."

Madame Bozier was silent. She guessed her beloved pupil's heart's
secret,--but she was too tactful to dwell upon the subject, and
before the brief, half-embarrassed pause between them had ended, a
servant entered, asking,

"Will the Signora Contessa receive the Capitano Ruspardi?"

Sylvie rose from her seat with a look of surprise.

"Ruspardi?--I do not know the name."

"The business is urgent;--the Capitano is the bearer of a letter to
the Signora Contessa."

"Remain with me, Katrine," said Sylvie after a pause,--then to the
servant--"Show Captain Ruspardi in here."

Another moment, and a young officer in the Italian uniform entered
hurriedly,--his face was very pale,--and as the Comtesse Hermenstein
received him in her own serene sweet manner which, for all its high-
bred air had something wonderfully winning and childlike about it,
his self-control gave way, and when after a profound salute he
raised his eyes, she saw they were full of tears. Her heart began to
beat violently.

"You bring some bad news?" she asked faintly.

"Madama, I beg you not to distress yourself--this letter--" and he
held out a sealed envelope,--"was given to me specially marked,
among others, by my friend, the Marquis Fontenelle--last right
before--before he went to his death!"

"His death!" echoed Sylvie, her eyes dilating with horror--"His
death! What do you mean?"

Madame Bozier came quickly to her side, and put a hand gently on her
arm. But she did not seem to feel the sympathetic touch.

"His death!" she murmured. And with trembling fingers she opened and
read the last lines ever penned by her too passionate admirer.

"SWEETEST SYLVIE! Dearest and purest of women! If you ever receive
this letter I shall be gone beyond the reach of your praise or your
blame. For it will not be given to you at all unless I am dead.
Dead, dear Sylvie! That will be strange, will it not? To be lying
quite still, cold and stiff, out of the reach of your pretty warm
white arms,--deprived for ever and ever of any kiss from your rose-
red lips,--ah, Sylvie, it will be very cold and lonely! But perhaps
better so! To-night I saw you, up in your balcony, with someone who
is a brave and famous man, and who no doubt loves you. For he cannot
fail to love you, if he knows you. God grant you may be happy when I
am gone! But I want you to feel that to-night--to-night _I_ love
you!--love you as I have never loved you or any woman before--
without an evil thought,--without a selfish wish!--to the very
height and breadth of love, I love you, my queen, my rose, my saving
grace of sweetness!--whose name I shall say to God as my best prayer
for pardon, if I die to-night!

FONTENELLE."

Sylvie shuddered as with icy cold . . . a darkness seemed to overwhelm
her . . . she staggered a little, and Ruspardi caught her, wondering--at
the lightness and delicacy and beauty of her, as he assisted Madame
Bozier to lead her to a deep fauteuil where she sank down, trembling
in every nerve.

"And--he is dead?" she asked mechanically.

Ruspardi bowed a grave assent. She paused a moment--then forced
herself to speak again.

"How did it happen?"

In brief, concise words Ruspardi gave the account of the quarrel
with Miraudin,--and Sylvie shrank back as though she had received a
blow when she heard that her name had been the cause of the dispute.

"And this morning, hearing no news," continued Ruspardi, "I made
enquiries at the theatre. There I found everything in confusion;
Miraudin and a soubrette named Jeanne Richaud, had left Rome the
previous evening so the box-keeper said, and there was no news of
either of them beyond a note from the girl saying she had returned
alone to Paris by the first morning train. Nothing had been heard of
Miraudin himself;--I therefore, knowing all the circumstances, drove
out to the Campagna by the Porte Pia, the way that Miraudin had
gone, and the way I bade the Marquis follow;--but on the Ponte
Nomentano I met some of the Miserecordia carrying two corpses on the
same bier,--two corpses so strangely alike that they might almost
have been brothers!--they were the bodies of the Marquis Fontenelle
and,--Miraudin!"

Sylvie uttered a low cry and covered her face with her hands.

"Miraudin!" exclaimed Madame Bozier in horrified tones. "Miraudin!
Is he killed also?"

"Yes, Madame! Both shots must have been fired with deadly aim. They
had no seconds. Miraudin had hired a common fiacre to escape in from
the city, and the police will offer a reward for the discovery of
the driver. My horse, which my unfortunate friend Fontenelle rode,
is gone, and if it could be discovered, its possessor might furnish
a clue;--but I imagine it will be difficult, if not impossible to
trace the witnesses of the combat. The woman Richaud is on her way
to Paris. But by this time all Rome knows of the death of Miraudin;
and in a few hours all the world will know!"

"And what of the Marquis Fontenelle?" asked Madame Bozier.

"Madama, I posted all the letters he entrusted to my charge. The one
I have brought to the Contessa was enclosed in an envelope to me and
marked 'To be personally delivered in case of my death.' But among
the letters for the post was one to the Marquis's only sister, the
Abbess of a convent in Paris--she will probably claim her brother's
remains."

He was silent. After a pause Sylvie rose unsteadily, and detached a
cluster of violets she wore at her neck.

"Will you--" her voice faltered.

But Ruspardi understood, and taking the flowers, respectfully kissed
the little hand that gave them.

"They shall be buried with him," he said. "His hand was clenched in
death on a small knot of lace--you perhaps might recognise it,--
yes?--so!--it shall be left as it was found."

And,--his melancholy errand being done,--he bowed profoundly once
more, and retired.

Sylvie gazed around her vaguely,--the letter of her dead admirer
grasped in her hand,--and his former letter, proposing marriage,
lying still open on the table. Her old gouvernante watched her
anxiously, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"You are crying, Katrine!" she said, "And yet you knew him very
little,--he never loved you! I wish--I wish MY tears would come! But
they are all here--aching and hurting me--"and she pressed her hand
to her heart--"You see--when one is a woman and has been loved by a
man, one cannot but feel sorry--for such an end! You see he was not
altogether cruel!--he defended my name--and he has died for my sake!
For my sake!--Oh, Katrine! For MY sake! So he DID love me--at the
last! . . . and I--I--Oh, Katrine!--I wish--I wish the tears would
come!"

And as she spoke she reeled--and uttering a little cry like that of
a wounded bird, dropped senseless.

XXV.

The death of the famous actor Miraudin was a nine days' wonder, and
about a three weeks' regret. He had made no reputation beyond that
of the clever Mime,--he was not renowned for scholarship,--he had
made no mark in dramatic literature,--and his memory soon sank out
of sight in the whirling ocean of events as completely as though he
had never existed. There was no reality about him, and as a natural
consequence he went the way of all Shams. Had even his study of his
art been sincere and high--had he sought for the best, the greatest,
and most perfect work, and represented that only to the public, the
final judgment of the world might perhaps have given him a corner
beside Talma or Edmund Kean,--but the conceit of him, united to an
illiterate mind, was too great for the tolerance of the universal
Spirit of things which silently in the course of years pronounces
the last verdict on a man's work. Only a few of his own profession
remembered him as one who might have been great had he not been so
little;--and a few women laughed lightly, recalling the legion of
his "amours", and said, "Ce pauvre coquin, Miraudin!" That was all.
And for the mortal remains of Guy Beausire de Fontenelle, there came
a lady, grave and pale, clothed in deep black, with the nun's white
band crossing her severe and tranquil brows,--and she, placing a
great wreath of violets fresh gathered from the Pamphili woods, and
marked, "In sorrow, from Sylvie Hermenstein", on the closed coffin,
escorted her melancholy burden back to Paris, where in a stately
marble vault, to the solemn sound of singing, and amid the flare of
funeral tapers, with torn battle banners drooping around his bier,
and other decaying fragments of chivalry, the last scion of the once
great house of Fontenelle was laid to rest with his fathers. Little
did the austere Abbess, who was the chief mourner at these
obsequies, guess that the actor Miraudin, whose grave had been
hastily dug in Rome, had also a right to be laid in the same marble
vault;--proud and cold and stern as her heart had grown through long
years of pain and disappointment, it is possible that had she known
this, her sufferings might have been still more poignant. But the
secret had died with the dead so far as the world went;--there
remained but the Eternal Record on which the bond of brotherhood was
inscribed,--and in that Eternal Record some of us do our best not to
believe, notwithstanding the universal secret dread that we shall
all be confronted with it at last.

Meanwhile, events were moving rapidly, and the net of difficult
circumstance was weaving itself round the good Cardinal Bonpre in a
manner that was strangely perplexing to his clear and just mind. He
had received a letter from Monsignor Moretti, worded in curtly civil
terms, to the effect that as the Cardinal's miracle of healing had
been performed in France, he, as on Vatican service in Paris, found
it his duty to enquire thoroughly into all the details. For this
cause, he, Monsignor Moretti, trusted it would suit the Cardinal's
convenience to remain in Rome till the return of Monsieur Claude
Cazeau, secretary to the Archbishop of Rouen, who had been
despatched back to that city on the business connected with this
affair. Thus Monsignor Moretti;--and Cardinal Bonpre, reading
between the lines of his letter, knew that the displeasure of Rome
had fallen upon him as heavily as it did upon the eloquent and
liberal-minded Padre Agostino when he made the mistake of asking a
blessing from Heaven on the King and Queen of Italy for their works
of charity among the poor. And he easily perceived where the real
trouble lay,--namely, in the fact of his having condoned the Abbe
Vergniaud's public confession. Out of the one thing there was an
effort being made to contrive mischief with the other,--and Bonpre,
being too frail and old to worry his brain with complex arguments as
to the how and why and wherefore of the machinations carried on at
the Vatican, resigned himself to God, and contenting his mind with
meditation and prayer, waited events patiently, caring little how
they ended for himself, provided they did not involve others in any
catastrophe. Moreover, there was a certain consolation contained in
his enforced waiting,--for his niece Angela had confided to him that
the work of her great picture had advanced more swiftly than she had
imagined possible, and that it was likely she would be able to show
it to her relatives and private friends in the course of a week or
so.

"But Florian must see it first," she said, "Of course you know that!
Florian must always be first!"

"Yes," and the Cardinal stroked her hair tenderly, while his eyes
rested on her with rather a troubled look--"Yes--of course--Florian
first. I suppose he will always be first with you, Angela?--after
God?"

"Always!" she answered softly, "Always--after God!"

And Felix Bonpre sighed--he knew not why--except that he was always
sorry for women who loved men with any very great exaltation or
devotion. That curiously tender adoration of a true woman's heart
which is so often wasted on an unworthy object, seemed to him like
lifting a cup of gold to a swine's snout. He found no actual fault
with Florian Varillo,--he was just a man as men go, with nothing
very pronounced about him, except a genius for fine mosaic-like
painting. He was not a great creator, but he was a delicate and
careful artist,--a man against whom nothing particular could be
said, except perhaps that his manner was often artificial, and that
his conduct was not always sincere. But he had a power of
fascinating the opposite sex,--and Angela had fallen a willing
victim to his candid smile, clear eyes, charming voice, and
courteous ways,--and with that strange inconsistency so common to
gifted women, she was so full of "soul" and "over-soul" herself,
that she could not imagine "soul" lacking in others;--and never
dreamed of making herself sure that it elevated the character or
temperament of the man she loved.