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

At that moment a servant entered with a large and exquisitely
arranged basket of lilies-of-the-valley, and a letter.

"For Donna Sovrani," he said, as he handed both to his master.

The Prince took the basket of lilies, and moved by a sudden fancy,
set it gently in front of Angela's great work. Glancing at the
superscription of the letter, he said,--

"From Varillo. I had better open it and see what he says."

He broke the seal and read the following:

"SWEETEST ANGELA,--I am summoned to Naples on business, and
therefore, to my infinite regret, shall not be able to see the great
picture to-morrow. You know,--you can feel how sorry I am to
disappoint both you and myself in a pleasure which we have so long
lovingly anticipated, but as the Queen has promised to make her
visit of inspection, I dare not ask you to put off the exhibition of
your work till my return. But I know I shall come back to find my
Angela crowned with glory, and it will be reserved for me to add the
last laurel leaf to the immortal wreath! I am grieved that I have no
time to come and press my 'addio' on your sweet lips,--but in two or
three days at most, I shall be again at your feet. Un bacio di

FLORIAN."

"Then he has left for Naples?" said Bonpre, to whom Prince Pietro
had read this letter--"A sudden departure, is it not?"

"Very sudden!"

"He will not know what has happened to Angela--"

"Oh he will be sure to hear that!" said the Prince--"To-night it
will be in all the newspapers both of Rome and Naples. Angela's
light cannot be hidden under a bushel!"

"True. Then of course he will return at once."

"Naturally. If he hears the news on his way, he will probably be
back to-night--" said Sovrani, but his fuzzy brows were still
puckered. Some uncomfortable thought seemed to trouble him,--and
presently, as if moved by a sudden inexplicable instinct, he took
the basket of lilies away from where he had set it in front of his
daughter's picture, and transferred it to a side-table. Cardinal
Bonpre, always observant, noticed his action.

"You will not leave the flowers there?" he queried.

"No. The picture is a sacred thing!--it is an almost living Christ!-
-in whom Varillo does not believe!"

The Cardinal lifted his eyes protestingly.

"Yet you let the child marry him?"

Sovrani passed one hand wearily across his brows.

"Let us not talk of marriage," he said--"Death is nearer to us to-
day than life! I am opposed to the match--I always have been,--and
who knows--who knows what may not yet prevent it--" He paused,
thinking,--then turning a solicitous glance on his brother-in-law's
frail figure he said--"Felix, you look weary,--let me attend you to
your own rooms, that you may rest. We need you with us,--it may be
that we shall need you more than we have ever done! Pray for us,
brother!--Pray for my Angela, that she may be spared--"

His harsh voice broke,--and tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks.

"See you!" he said, pointing in a kind of despair to the magnificent
"Coming of Christ"--"If Raffaelle or Angelo had dared to paint this
in their day, the world would be taking a lesson from it now! If it
were a modern man's work, that man would be a centre for hero-
worship! But that a WOMAN should create such a masterpiece!--and
that woman my Angela! Do you know what it means, Felix?--what Fame
always means, what it always must mean--for a woman? Just what has
already happened,--the murderous dagger-thrust--the coward stab in
the back--and the little child's cry of the tender broken heart we
heard just now--'Stay with me!--I am so tired!'"

The Cardinal pressed his hand sympathetically, too profoundly moved
himself to speak.

"This picture will bring down the thunders of the Vatican!--" went
on Sovrani--"And those thunders will awaken a responsive echo from
the world! But not from the Old World--the New! The New World!--yes-
-my Angela's work is for the living present, the coming future--not
for the decayed Past!"

As he spoke, he dropped the silken curtain before the picture and
hid it from view.

"We will raise it again when the painter lives--or dies!" he said
brokenly.

They left the studio, Prince Pietro extinguishing the lights, and
giving orders to his servant to put a strong bar across the door
they had forced open,--and the Cardinal, feeling more lonely than he
had done for many days, owing to the temporary absence of Manuel who
was keeping watch over Angela, returned to his own apartments full
of grave thoughts and anxious trouble. He had meant to leave Rome at
once,--but now, such a course seemed more than impossible. Yet he
knew that the scene which had, through himself indirectly, occurred
at the Vatican, would have its speedy results in some decisive and
vengeful action, if not on the part of the Supreme Pontiff, then
through his ministers and advisers, and Bonpre was sufficiently
acquainted with the secret ways of the Church he served, to be well
aware of its relentlessness in all cases where its authority was
called into question. The first step taken, so he instinctively
felt, would be to deprive him of Manuel's companionship,--the next
perhaps, to threaten him with the loss of his own diocese. He sighed
heavily,--yet in his own tranquil and pious mind he could not say
that he resented the position his affairs had taken. Accustomed as
he was always, to submit the whole daily course of his life to the
ruling of a Higher Power, he was framed and braced as temperately
for adversity as for joy,--and nothing seemed to him either
fortunate or disastrous except as concerned the attitude in which
the soul received the announcement of God's will. To resent
affliction was, in his opinion, sinful; to accept it reverently and
humbly as a means of grace, and endeavour to make sweetness out of
the seeming bitterness of the divine dispensation, appeared to him
the only right and natural way of duty,--hence his clear simplicity
of thought, his patience, plain faith, and purity of aim. And even
now, perplexed and pained as he was, much more for the sorrow which
had befallen his brother-in-law, than for any trouble likely to
occur personally to himself, he was still able to disentangle his
thoughts from all earthly cares--to lift up his heart, unsullied by
complaint, to the Ruler of all destinies--and to resign himself with
that Christian philosophy, which when truly practised, is so much
more powerful than all the splendid stoicism of the heroic pagans,
to those

"Glorious God-influences,
Which we, unseeing, feel and grope for blindly,
Like children in the dark, knowing that Love is near!"

Meanwhile Prince Pietro, moved by conflicting sentiments and
forebodings which he was unable to explain to himself, and only
strongly conscious of the desire to be avenged on his daughter's
cowardly assailant, whoever it might be, muffled himself in a well-
worn "Almaviva" cloak, his favourite out-door garment, pulled his
hat down over his eyes, and so, looking like a fierce old brigand of
the mountains, went out, not quite knowing why he went, but partly
impelled by a sense of curiosity. He wanted to hear something,--to
find something,--and yet he could not agree with himself as to the
nature of the circumstance he sought to discover. There was a
lurking suspicion in his mind to which he would not give a name,--a
dark thought that made him tremble with mingled rage and horror,--
but he put it away from him as a hint offered by the Evil One--an
insidious suggestion as hideous as it was unnatural. The afternoon
had now closed into night, and many stars were glistening bravely in
the purple depths of the clear sky,--the air was mild and balmy,--
and as he crossed the road to turn down the little side street
leading to the Tiber, where Florian Varillo had stood but a few
hours previously, a flower-girl met him with a large basket of white
hyacinths and held them up to his eyes.

"Ecco la primavera, Signor!" she said, with a smile.

He shook his head, and turned abruptly away,--as he did so, his foot
struck against some slight obstacle. Stooping to examine it, he saw
it was the empty leathern sheath of a dagger. He picked it up, and
studied it intently. It was elaborately adorned with old rococco
work, and was evidently the ornamental covering of one of those
small but deadly weapons which Italians, both men and women, so
often wear concealed about their persons, for the purpose of taking
vengeance, when deemed necessary, on an unsuspecting enemy. Slipping
the thing into his pocket, the Prince looked about him, and soon
recognised his bearings,--he was standing about six yards away from
the private back-entrance to his daughter's studio. He walked up to
the door and tried it,--it was fast locked.

"Yes--I remember!--the servants told me--both doors were locked,--
and from this they said the key was gone,--" he muttered, then
paused.

Presently, actuated by a sudden impulse, he turned and walked
swiftly with long impatient strides through the more populated
quarters of Rome towards the Corso, and he had not proceeded very
far in this direction before he heard a frenzied and discordant
shouting which, though he knew it did not yet bear the truth in its
harsh refrain, yet staggered him and made his heart almost stand
still with an agony of premonitory fear.

"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"
"Assassinamento di Angela Sovrani!"
"Morte subito di Angela Sovrani!"
"Assassinamento crudele della bella Sovrani!"

Prince Pietro held his breath in sharp pain, listening. How horrible
was the persistent cry of the newsvendors!--hoarse and shrill--now
near--now far!--

"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"

How horrible!--how horrible! He put his hands to his ears to try and
shut out the din. He had not expected any public outcry--not so
soon--but ill news travels fast, and no doubt the very servants of
his own household were responsible for having, in the extremity of
their terror, given away the report of Angela's death. The terrible
shouts were like so many cruel blows on his brain,--yet--half-
reeling with the shock of them, he still went on his way,--straight
on to the house and studio of Florian Varillo. There, he rang the
bell loudly and impatiently. A servant opened the door in haste, and
stared aghast at the tall old man with the white hair and blazing
eyes, who was wrapped in a dark cloak, the very folds of which
seemed to tremble with the suppressed rage of the form it enveloped.

"Il Principe Souvrani!" he stammered feebly, falling back a little
from the threshold.

"Where is your master?" demanded Sovrani.

"Eccellenza, he has gone to Naples!"

"When did he leave?"

"But two hours ago, Eccellenza!"

Prince Pietro held up the dagger-sheath he had just found.

"This--belongs--to--him--does it not?" he asked slowly, detaching
his words with careful directness.

The man answered readily and at once.

"Yes, Eccellenza!"

Sovrani uttered a terrible oath.

"Let me pass!"

The servant made a gesture of protest.

"But--Eccellenza--my master is not here! . . ."

Prince Pietro paying no heed to him, strode into the house, and
brusquely threw open the door of a room which he knew to be
Varillo's own specially private retreat. A woman with a mass of
bright orange-gold hair, half-dressed in a tawdry blue peignoir
trimmed with cheap lace, was sprawling lazily on a sofa smoking a
cigarette. She sprang up surprised and indignant,--but shrank back
visibly as she recognised the intruder, and met the steady tigerish
glare of the old man's eyes.

"Where is your lover?" he asked.

"Eccellensa! You amaze--you insult me--!"

"Basta!" and Sovrani came a step nearer to her, his wrath seeming to
literally encompass him like a thunder-cloud--"Play me no tricks!
This is not the time for lying! I repeat my question--where is he?
You, the companion of his closest thoughts,--you, his 'model'--you,
Mademoiselle Pon-Pon, his mistress--you must know all his movements.
Tell me then, where he is--or by heaven, if you do not, I will have
you arrested for complicity in murder!"

She fell back from him trembling, her full red mouth half open,--and
her face paling with terror.

"Murder!" she whispered--"Dio mio! Dio mio!"

"Yes--murder!" and the Prince thrust before her wide-opened eyes the
dagger-sheath he held--"What! Have you not heard? Not yet? Not
though the whole city rings with the news? What news? That Angela
Sovrani is dead! That she--my daughter--the sweetest, purest, most
innocent and loving of women as well as the greatest and most
gifted--has been mortally stabbed in her own studio this very day by
some cowardly fiend unknown! Unknown did I say? Not so--known! This
sheath belongs to Florian Varillo. Where is he? Tell me at once--if
only to save YOURSELF trouble!"

Overcome by fear, and to do her justice, horror as well, the
miserable Pon-Pon threw herself on her knees.

"I swear he has gone to Naples!" she cried--"On my word!--as I
live!--I swear it!--he has gone! He seemed as usual,--he was not in
any haste--he left no message--he said he would be back in two or
three days--he sent flowers to la Donna Sovrani--he wrote to her
. . . O Santissima Virgine! . . . I swear to you I know nothing!"

The Prince eyed her with grim attention.

"They are shouting it in the streets--" he said--"Listen!" He held
up one hand,--she cowered on the floor--she could hear nothing, and
she stared at him in fascinated terror--"They are telling all Rome
of the death of my child! First Rome--and then--the world! The world
shall hear of it! For there is only one Angela Sovrani,--and earth
and heaven cry out for justice in her name! Tell this to the devil
who has bought you for his pleasure! I leave the message with you,--
tell him that when the world clamours for vengeance upon her
murderer, I KNOW WHERE TO FIND HIM!"

With that, he put the dagger-sheath back in his breastpocket with
jealous care, and left her where she crouched, shivering and
moaning. Walking as in a dream he brushed past the astonished and
frightened servant unseeingly, and went out of the house into the
street once more. There he paused dizzily,--the stars appeared to
rock in the sky, and the houses seemed moving slowly round him in a
sort of circular procession. The shouting of the newsvendors which
had ceased for a while, began again with even louder persistency.

"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"

"La bella Sovrani!--Assassinamento crudele!"

The old man's heart beat in strong hammer-strokes,--he listened
vaguely,--his tall figure shaking a little with the storm pent-up
within him, till all at once as if the full realization of the
position had only just burst upon him, he uttered a sharp cry--

"Her lover! Her promised husband! One whom she trusted and loved
more than her own father! The hope of her life!--the man whose
praise was sweeter to her than the plaudits of the whole world!--he-
-even he--her MURDERER! For even if she lives in body, he has
murdered her soul!"

He looked up at the deep starlit heavens, his dark face growing
livid in the intensity of his wrath and pain.

"May God curse him!" he whispered thickly--"May all evil track his
footsteps, and the terrors of a cursed conscience hound him to his
death! May he never know peace by day or night!--may the devils in
his own soul destroy him! God curse him!"

He clenched his fist and raised it threateningly,--and gathering his
cloak about him tried to walk on,--but there was a black mist before
his eyes . . . he could not see--he stumbled forward blindly, and would
have fallen, had not a strong arm caught him and held him upright.
He turned a dazed and wondering look on the man whose friendly grasp
supported him,--then, with an exclamation, made a trembling attempt
to raise his hat.

"Il Re!" he murmured feebly--"Il Re!"

King Humbert--for it was he--held him still more closely.

"Courage, amico!" he said kindly--"Courage!--yes--yes!--I know--I
have heard the news! All Italy will give you vengeance for your
child! We will spare no pains to discover her murderer. But now--you
are ill--you are weary--do not try to speak--come with me! Let me
take you home--come!"

A great sob broke from the old man's breast as he yielded to his
Sovereign's imperative yet gentle guidance, and before he could
realize the situation, he was in the King's own carriage, with the
King beside him, being rapidly driven back to his own house. Arrived
at the Palazzo Sovrani, a strange sight greeted them. The great
porte-cochere was wide open, and, pressing through it, and
surrounding the stately building at every point was a vast crowd,--
densely packed and almost absolutely silent. Quite up to the inner
portico these waiting thousands pressed,--though, as they recognised
the Royal liveries, they did their best to make immediate way, and a
low murmur arose "Evviva il Re!" But there was no loud shouting, and
the continued hush was more distinctly recognisable than the murmur.
Prince Sovrani gazed bewilderedly at the great throng as the
carriage moved slowly through, and putting his hand to his head
murmured--

"What--what is this! I do not understand--why are these people
here?"

The King pressed his hand.

"All the world honours and loves your daughter, my friend!" he said,
"And Rome, the Mother of Nations, mourns the loss of her youngest
child of genius."

"No--no, not loss!--she is not dead--" began Sovrani stammeringly,--
"I should have told your Majesty--she is grievously wounded--but not
dead . . ."

At that moment the carriage stopped. The door of the Sovrani palace
was open, and in the centre of a group of people that had gathered
within, among whom were Aubrey Leigh, Sylvie Hermenstein, and the
Princesse D'Agramont, stood Cardinal Bonpre and Manuel. Manuel was a
little in advance of the rest, and as the King and Prince Sovrani
alighted, he came fully forward, his eyes shining, and a smile upon
his lips.

"She will recover!" he said, "She is sleeping peacefully,--and all
is well!" His voice rang clear and sweet, and was heard by everyone
on the outskirts of the crowd. The good news ran from mouth to
mouth, till all the people caught it up and responded with one
brief, subdued, but hearty cheer. Then, without bidding, they began
to disperse, and the King, baring his head in the presence of
Cardinal Bonpre, gave up his self-imposed charge of old Sovrani,
who, faint and feeble, grasped Aubrey Leigh's quickly proffered arm,
and leaned heavily upon it.

"He needs care," said Humbert gently,--"The shock has moved him
greatly!"

"Your Majesty is ever considerate of the sorrows of others," said
the venerable Felix with emotion, "And God will bless you as He
blesses all good men!"

The King bowed reverently to the benediction. Then he looked up with
a slight smile.

"It is not wise of your Eminence to say so,--in Rome!" he observed,-
-"But I thank you, and am grateful!"

His keen eyes rested for a moment on Manuel,--and the fair aspect of
the boy seemed to move him to a sense of wonder--but he did not
speak. With a light salute to all present he re-entered his carriage
and was driven away--and Aubrey Leigh led Prince Sovrani into his
own library where, when he was seated, they all waited upon him
eagerly, the fair Sylvie chafing his cold hands, and the Princesse
D'Agramont practically making him drink a glass of good wine.
Gradually, warmth and colour and animation came back to his pale
features,--his fears were soothed,--his heart relieved, and a smile
crossed his lips as he met Sylvie's earnest, anxious eyes.

"What a pretty rosebud it is!" he said softly,--"Full of sunshine--
and love!"

With returning strength he gathered up the forces of his native
pride and independence and rose from his chair.

"I am well--quite well again now!" he said, "Where is the boy,
Manuel?"

"Gone back to Angela," replied the Cardinal, "He said he would watch
her until she wakes."

"An angel watching an angel!" then said the Prince musingly, "That
is as it should be!" He paused a moment, "The King was very kind.
And you, Princesse--and you, bella Contessina!" and he courteously
bent over Sylvie's little hand and kissed it,--"You are all much too
good to an old man like me! I am strong again--I shall be ready to
speak--when Angela bids. But I must wait. I must wait!" He ruffled
his white hair with one hand and looked at them all very strangely.
"That was a great crowd outside--all waiting to hear news of my
girl! If--if they knew who it was that stabbed her--"

"Do you know?" cried Aubrey quickly.

"Per Dio!" And Sovrani smiled, "I thought Englishmen were
phlegmatic, and here is one ablaze, and ready to burst like a bomb!
No!--I did not say I knew!--but I say, if the crowd had known, they
would have lynched him! Yes, they would have torn him to pieces!
. . . and he would have deserved it! He will deserve it!--If he is ever
found! Come--we will all sup here together this evening--sorrow
strengthens the bonds of friendship . . . and I will tell you . . ."

He paused, and again the strange far-off look came into his eyes.

"I will tell you--" he went on slowly--"how I found my Angela lying
dead, as I thought--dead at the feet of Christ!"

XXXI.

Meanwhile Florian Varillo had not gone to Naples. He had been turned
back by a spectre evoked from his own conscience--coward fear. He
was on his way to the station when he suddenly discovered that he
had lost the sheath of his dagger. A cold perspiration broke out on
his forehead as this fact flashed upon him. What had he done with
it? Surely he had drawn the weapon out and left the sheath in his
breast pocket as usual--but no!--search as he would, he could not
find it. It must have dropped on the floor of Angela's studio! If
that were so, he would be traced!--most surely traced--as the sheath
was of curious and uncommon workmanship, and many of his friends had
seen it. He had told everybody he was going to Naples, and of course
he would be followed there. Then, he would not go! But he went to
the station as if bent on the journey, and took a ticket for Naples.
Then, setting down his portmanteau on a bench, he surreptitiously
tore off the label on which his name was written, and tearing it up
in small bits scattered the fragments on the line. After this, he
walked away leisurely, leaving the portmanteau behind him for there
was nothing in it by which he could be traced, and sauntered slowly
out of the station into the streets of Rome once more. Hailing the
first fiacre he saw, he told the driver to take him to Frascati. The
man was either lazy or sulky.

"Why not take the train, Signor?"

"Because I wish to drive!" replied Varillo. "What is your fare?"

"Twenty-five francs for half the way!" said the man, showing his
white teeth in a mischievous grin.

"Good!"

The driver was surprised, as he had not thought his terms would be
accepted. But he made no further demur, and Varillo jumped into the
vehicle, his teeth chattering with an inward terror he could not
control. "Drive quickly!" he said.

The man shouted an affirmative, and they clattered away through the
streets, Varillo shrinking back in the carriage overcome by panic.
What a fool he had been!--what a fool! He ought to have told Pon-
Pon. If the dagger-sheath were found and taken to his residence, it
would be recognised instantly! And all Rome would rise against
Angela Sovrani's murderer. Murderer! Yes,--that was what he had
chosen to make of himself!

"It was all an impulse," he muttered,--"Just a hot impulse, nothing
more! Just a sudden hatred of her which made me stab her! It was
enough to make any man angry to see such a picture as that painted
by a woman! Her fame would have ruined mine! But I never meant to
kill her--no--no, I never meant to kill her!"

Shuddering and whimpering, he huddled himself in a corner of the
carriage, and did not dare to look out of the window to see which
way he was being driven. He only rallied a little when the wheels
moved more quietly and smoothly, and he knew that he was on the open
road, and out of Rome. Suddenly, after jolting along a considerable
time, the vehicle stopped, and the driver shouted to him. Varillo
dashed down the window and put his head out, almost beside himself
with rage.

"What are you stopping for! What are you stopping for!" he yelled.
"Go on--go on--we are not half way to Frascati yet! Go on, I tell
you!"

"Ma-che! Eccellenza, I only stopped to ask a question!"

"What question--what? Is this a time for asking questions?" cried
Varillo,--"The night is falling,--I want to get on!"

"But we are going on as fast as we can!" expostulated the driver,--
"It is only this--there is an albergo on the way--where we can get
food and wine. Would the Eccellenza like to stop there? It is as far
as I can go, for I am wanted to-night in Rome."

"Very well--stop where you like--only get on now!" said Varillo,
pulling his head in with a jerk. And sinking back in his seat again
he wiped his hot face and cursed his miserable destiny. It would
have been all right if he had only remembered that sheath! No one
would have got on such a track of suspicion as that he, the lover
and affianced husband of Angela, was her brutal assassin!