Books: The Master Christian

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Pierre Midon had nothing to say in answer,--the subject was getting
beyond him, and he was a man who, when thought became difficult,
gave up thinking altogether.

And while these two simple-minded worthies were thus talking and
strolling together home through the streets of Paris, Cyrillon
Vergniaud, having parted from the few friends who had paid him the
respect of their attendance at his father's grave, was making his
way towards the Champs Elysees in a meditative frame of mind, when
his attention was suddenly caught and riveted by a placard set up in
front of one of the newspaper kiosks at the corner of a boulevard,
on which in great black letters, was the name "Angela Sovrani." His
heart gave one great bound--then stood still--the streets of the
city reeled round him, and he grew cold and sick. "Meurtre de la
celebre Angela Sovrani!"

Hardly knowing what he was about, he bought the paper. The news was
in a mere paragraph briefly stating that the celebrated artist had
been found stabbed in her studio, and that up to the present there
was no trace of the unknown assassin.

Passionate and emotional as his warm nature was, the great tears
rushed to Cyrillon's eyes. In one moment he realized what he had
been almost unconsciously cherishing in his own mind ever since
Angela's beautiful smile had shone upon him. When in the few minutes
of speech he had had with her she admitted herself to be the
mysterious correspondent who had constantly written to him as "Gys
Grandit," fervently sympathising with his theories, and urging him
on to fresh and more courageous effort, he had been completely
overcome, not only with surprise, but also with admiration. It had
taken him some time to realize that she, the greatest artist of her
day, was actually his unknown friend of more than two years'
correspondence. He knew she was engaged to be married to her comrade
in art, Florian Varillo, but that fact did not prevent him from
feeling for her all the sudden tenderness, the instinctive intimacy
of spirit with spirit, which in the highest natures means the
highest love. Then,--they had all been brought together so
strangely!--his father, and himself, with Cardinal Bonpre,--and she-
-the Cardinal's fair niece, daughter of a proud Roman house,--she
had not turned away from the erring and repentant priest whom the
Church had cast out; she had given him her hand at parting, and had
been as sweetly considerate of his feelings as though she had been
his own daughter. And when he was ill and dying at the Chateau
D'Agramont, she had written to him two or three times in the kindest
and tenderest way, and her letters had not been answered, because
the Abbe was too ill to write, and he, Cyrillon, had been afraid--
lest he should say too much! And now--she was dead?--murdered? No!--
he would not believe it!

"God is good!" said Cyrillon, crushing the paper in his hand and
raising his eyes to the cloudy heavens--"He does nothing that is
unnecessarily cruel. He would not take that brilliant creature away
till she had won the reward of her work--happiness! No!--something
tells me this news is false!--she cannot be dead! But I will start
for Rome to-night."

He returned to the cheap pension where he had his room, and at once
packed his valise. With all his fame he was extremely poor; he had
for the most part refused to take payment for his books and
pamphlets which had been so freely spread through France, preferring
to work for his daily bread in the fields of an extensive farm near
his birthplace in Touraine. He had begun there as a little lad,
earning his livelihood by keeping the birds away from the crops--and
had steadily risen by degrees, through his honesty and diligence, to
the post of superintendent or bailiff of the whole concern. No one
was more trusted than he by his employers,--no one more worthy of
trust. But his wages were by no means considerable,--and though he
saved as much as he could, and lived on the coarsest fare, it was a
matter of some trouble for him to spare the money to take him from
Paris to Rome. What cash he had, he carried about him in a leathern
bag, and this he now emptied on the table to estimate the strength
of his finances. Any possibility of changing his mind and waiting
for further news from Rome did not occur to him. One of his chief
characteristics was the determined way he always carried through
anything he had set his mind upon. In one of his public speeches he
had once said--"Let all the powers of hell oppose me, I will storm
them through and pass on! For the powers of Heaven are on MY side!"-
-the audacity and daring of this utterance carrying away his
audience in a perfect whirlwind of enthusiasm. And though it is
related of a certain cynical philosopher, that when asked by one of
his scholars for a definition of hell, he dashed into the face of
his enquirer an empty purse for answer, the lack of funds was no
obstacle to Cyrillon's intended journey.

"Because if I can go no other way, I will persuade the guard to let
me ride in the van, or travel in company with a horse or dog--quite
as good animals as myself in their way," he thought.

With a characteristic indifference to all worldly matters he had
entirely forgotten that the father whom he had just buried had died
wealthy, and that his entire fortune had been left to the son whom
he had so lately and strangely acknowledged. And when,--while he was
still engaged in counting up his small stock of money,--a knock came
at the door, and a well-dressed man of business-like appearance
entered with a smiling and propitiatory air, addressing him as
"Monsieur Vergniaud," Cyrillon did not know at all what to make of
his visitor. Sweeping his coins together with one hand, he stood up,
his flashing eyes glancing the stranger over carelessly.

"Your name, sir?" he demanded--"I am not acquainted with you."

The smiling man unabashed, sought about for a place to put down his
shiny hat, and smiled still more broadly.

"No!" he said--"No! You would not be likely to know me. I have not
the celebrity of Gys Grandit! I am only Andre Petitot--a lawyer,
residing in the Boulevard Malesherbes. I have just come from your
father's funeral."

Cyrillon bowed gravely, and remained silent.

"I have followed you," pursued Monsieur Petitot affably, "as soon as
I could, according to the instructions I received, to ask when it
will be convenient for you to hear me read your father's will?"

The young man started.

"His will!" he ejaculated. He had never given it a thought. "Yes.
May I take a chair? There are only two in the room, I perceive!
Thanks!" And the lawyer sat down and began drawing off his gloves,--
"Your father had considerable means,--though he parted with much
that he might have kept, through his extraordinary liberality to the
poor--"

"God bless him!" murmured Cyrillon.

"Yes--yes--no doubt God will bless him!" said Monsieur Petitot
amicably--"According to your way of thinking, He ought to do so. But
personally, I always find the poor extremely ungrateful, and God
certainly does not bless ME whenever I encourage them in their
habits of idleness and vice! However, that is not a question for
discussion at present. The immediate point is this--your father made
his will about eighteen months ago, leaving everything to you. The
wording of the will is unusual, but he insisted obstinately on
having it thus set down--"

Here the lawyer drew a paper out of his pocket, fixed a pair of
spectacles on his nose, and studied the document intently--"Yes!--it
reads in this way:--' Everything of which I die possessed to my son,
Cyrillon Vergniaud, born out of wedlock, but as truly my son in the
sight of God, as Ninette Bernadin was his mother, and my wife,
though never so legalised before the world, but fully acknowledged
by me before God, and before the Church which I have served and
disobeyed.' A curious wording!" said Petitot, nodding his head a
great many times--"Very curious! I told him so--but he would have it
his own way,--moreover, I am instructed to publish his will in any
Paris paper that will give it a place. Now this clause is to my mind
exceedingly disagreeable, and I wish I could set it aside."

"Why?" asked Cyrillon quietly.

"My dear young man! Can you ask? Why emphasise the fact of your
illegitimacy to the public!"

"Why disguise it?" returned Cyrillon. "You must remember that I have
another public than the merely social,--the people! They all know
what I am, and who I am. They have honoured me. They shall not
despise me. And they would despise me if I sought to hold back from
them what my father bade me tell. Moreover, this will gives my
mother the honour of wifehood in the sight of God,--and I must tell
you, monsieur l'avocat, that I am one of those who care nothing what
the world says so long as I stand more or less clear with the
world's Creator!"

His great dark eyes were brilliant,--his face warm with the fire of
his inward feeling. Monsieur Petitot folded up his document and
looked at him with an amiable tolerance.

"Wonderful--wonderful!" he said--"But of course eccentricities WILL
appear in the world occasionally!--and you must pardon me if I
venture to think that you are certainly one of them. But I imagine
you have nograsped the whole position. The money--I should saythe
fortune--which your father has left to you, will make you a
gentleman--"

He paused, affrighted. Drawing himself up to his full height, young
Vergniaud confronted him in haughty amazement.

"Gentleman!" he cried--"What do you mean by the term? A loafer?--a
lounger in the streets?--a leerer at women? Or a man who works for
daily food from sunrise to sunset, and controls his lower passions
by hard and honest labour! Gentleman! What is that? Is it to live
lazily on the toil of others, or to be up and working one's self,
and to eat no bread that one has not earned? Will you answer me?"

"My dear sir, you must really excuse me!" said Petitot nervously--"
I am quite unable to enter into any sort of discussion with you on
these things! Please recollect that my life as a lawyer, depends
entirely on men's stupidities and hypocrisies,--if they all
entertained your views I should have to beg in the streets, or seek
another profession. In my present business I should have nothing
whatever to do. You perceive the position? Yes, of course you do!"
For Cyrillon with one of the quick changes of mood habitual to him,
smiled, as his temporary irritation passed like a cloud, and his
eyes softened--"You see, I am a machine,--educated to be a machine;
and I am set down to do certain machine-like duties,--and one of
these duties is,--regardless of your fame, your eccentric theories,
your special work which you have chosen to make for yourself in the
world,--to put you in possession of the money your father left you--
"

"Can you now--at once--" said Cyrillon suddenly--"give me enough
money to go to Rome to-night?"

Monsieur Petitot stared.

"To go to Rome to-night?" he echoed--"Dear me, how very
extraordinary! I beg your pardon! . . . of course--most certainly! I can
advance you any sum you want--would ten thousand francs suffice?"

"Ten thousand francs!" Cyrillon laughed. "I never had so much money
in all my life!"

"No? Well, I have not the notes about me at the moment, but I will
send you up that sum in an hour if you wish it. Your father's will
entitles you to five million francs, so you see I am not in any way
endangering myself by advancing you ten thousand."

Cyrillon was quite silent. The lawyer studied him curiously, but
could not determine whether he was pleased or sorry at the
announcement of his fortune. His handsome face was pale and grave,--
and after a pause he said simply--

"Thank you! Then I can go to Rome. If you will send me the money you
speak of I shall be glad, as it will enable me to start to-night.
For the rest,--kindly publish my father's will as he instructed you
to do,--and I--when I return to Paris, will consult you on the best
way in which I can dispose of my father's millions."

"Dispose of them!" began Petitot amazedly. Young Vergniaud
interrupted him by a slight gesture.

"Pardon me, Monsieur, if I ask you to conclude this interview! For
the present, I want nothing else in the world but to get to Rome as
quickly as possible!--apres ca, le deluge!"

He smiled--but his manner was that of some great French noble who
gently yet firmly dismisses the attentions of a too-officious
servant,--and Petitot, much to his own surprise, found himself
bowing low, and scrambling out of the poorly furnished room in as
much embarrassment as though he had accidentally stumbled into a
palace where his presence was not required.

And Cyrillon, left to himself, gathered up all the coins he had been
counting out previous to the lawyer's arrival, and tied them again
together in the old leathern bag; then having closed and strapped
his little travelling valise, sat down and waited. Punctually to the
time indicated, that is to say, in one hour from the moment Petitot
had concluded his interview with the celebrated personage whom he
now mentally called "an impossible young man," a clerk arrived
bringing the ten thousand francs promised. He counted the notes out
carefully,--Cyrillon watching him quietly the while, and taking
sympathetic observation of his shabby appearance, his thread-bare
coat, and his general expression of pinched and anxious poverty.

"You will perceive it is all right, Monsieur," he said humbly, as he
finished counting.

"What are you, mon ami?" asked Cyrillon; scarcely glancing at the
notes but fixing a searching glance on the messenger who had brought
them.

"I?" and the clerk coughed nervously and blushed,--"Oh, I am
nothing, Monsieur! I am Monsieur Petitot's clerk, that is all!"

"And does he pay you well?"

"Thirty francs a week, Monsieur. It is not bad,--only this--I was
young a few years ago, and I married--and two dear little ones came-
-so it is a pull at times to make everything go as it should--not
that I am sorry for myself at all, oh no! For I am well off as the
people go--"

Cyrillon interrupted him.

"Yes--as the people go! That is what you all say, you patient, brave
souls! See you, my friend, I do not want all this money--"and he
took up a note for five hundred francs--"Take this and make the wife
and little ones happy!"

"Monsieur!" stammered the astonished clerk--"How can I dare--!"

"Dare! Nay, there is no daring in freely taking what your brother
freely gives you! You must let me practise what I preach, my friend,
otherwise I am only a fraud and unfit to live. God keep you!"

The clerk still stood trembling, afraid to take up the note, and
unable through emotion to speak a word, even of thanks. Upon which,
Cyrillon folded up the note and put it himself in the man's pocket.

"There!--go and make happiness with that bit of paper!" he said--
"Who can tell through what dirty usurer's hand it has been, carrying
curses with it perchance on its way! Use it now for the comfort of a
woman and her little children, and perhaps it will bring blessing to
a living man as well as to a departed soul!"

And he literally put the poor stupefied fellow outside his door,
shutting it gently upon him.

That night he left for Rome. And as the express tore its grinding
way along over the iron rails towards the south, he repeated to
himself over and over again as in a dream--

"No--Angela Sovrani is not dead! She cannot be dead! God is too good
for that. He will not let her die before she knows--before she knows
I love her!"

XXXIII.

The chain of circumstance had lengthened by several links round the
radiant life of Sylvie Hermenstem since that bright winter morning
when she had been startled out of her reverie, in the gardens of the
Villa Borghese, by the unexpected appearance of Monsignor Gherardi.
The untimely deaths of the Marquis Fontenelle and the actor Miraudin
in the duel over her name, had caused so much malicious and cruel
gossip, that she had withdrawn herself almost entirely from Roman
society, which had, with one venomous consent, declared that she was
only marrying Aubrey Leigh to shield herself from her esclandre with
the late Marquis. And then the murderous attack on her friend Angela
Sovrani, which occurred almost immediately after her engagement to
Aubrey was announced, had occupied all her thoughts--so that she had
almost forgotten the promise she had made to grant a private
interview to Gherardi whenever he should seek it. And she was not a
little vexed one morning when she was talking to her betrothed
concerning the plans which were now in progress for their going to
England as soon as possible, to receive a note reminding her of that
promise, and requesting permission to call upon her that very
afternoon.

"How very unfortunate and tiresome!" said Sylvie, with a charming
pout and upward look at her lover, who promptly kissed the lips that
made such a pretty curve of disdain--"I suppose he wants to give me
a serious lecture on the responsibilities of marriage! Shall I
receive him, Aubrey? I remember when I met him last that he had
something important to say about Cardinal Bonpre."

"Then you must certainly give him an audience," answered Aubrey--
"You may perhaps find out what has happened to bring the good
Cardinal into disfavour at the Vatican, for there is no doubt that
he is extremely worried and anxious. He is strongly desirous of
leaving Rome at once with that gentle lad Manuel, who, from all I
can gather, has said something to displease the Pope. Angela is out
of danger now--and I am trying to persuade the Cardinal to accompany
us to England, and be present at our marriage."

"That would be delightful!" said Sylvie with a smile,--"But my
Aubrey, where are we going to be married?"

"In England, as I said--not here!" said Aubrey firmly--"Not here,
where evil tongues have spoken lies against my darling!" He drew her
into his arms and looked at her fondly. "I want you to start for
England soon, Sylvie--and if possible, I should like you to go, not
only with the faithful Bozier, but also in the care of the Cardinal.
I will precede you by some days, and arrange everything for your
reception. And then we will be married--in MY way!"

Sylvie said nothing--she merely nestled like a dove in the arms of
her betrothed, and seemed quite content to accept whatever ordinance
he laid down for the ruling of her fate.

"I think you must see Gherardi," he resumed--"Write a line and say
you will be happy to receive him at the hour he appoints."

Sylvie obeyed--and despatched the note at once to the Vatican by her
man-servant.

Aubrey looked at her intently.

"I wonder--Sylvie, I wonder--" he began, and then stopped.

She met his earnest eyes with a smile in her own.

"You wonder what, caro mio?" she enquired.

"I wonder whether you could endure a very great trial--or make a
very great sacrifice for my sake!" he said,--then as he saw her
expression, he took her little hand and kissed it.

"There! Forgive me! Of course you would!--only you look such a
slight thing--such a soft flower of a woman--like a rose-bud to be
worn next the heart always--that it seems difficult to picture you
as an inflexible heroine under trying circumstances. Yet of course
you would be."

"I make no boast, my Aubrey!" she said gently.

He kissed her tenderly,--reverently,--studying her sweet eyes and
delicate colouring with all the fond scrutiny of a love which cannot
tire of the thing it loves.

"Are you going round to see Angela this morning?" he asked.

"Yes, I always go. She is much better--she sits up a little every
day now."

"She says nothing of her assassin?"

"Nothing. But I know him!"

"We all know him!" said Aubrey sternly--"But she will never speak--
she will never let the world know!"

"Ah, but the world will soon guess!" said Sylvie--"For everyone is
beginning to ask where her fiance is--why he has shown no anxiety--
why he has not been to see her--and a thousand other questions."

"That does not matter! While she is silent, no one dare accuse him.
What a marvellous spirit of patience and forgiveness she has!"

"Angela is like her name--an angel!" declared Sylvie impulsively,
the tears springing to her eyes--"I could almost worship her, when I
see her there in her sickroom, looking so white and frail and sad,--
quiet and patient--thanking us all for every little service done--
and never once mentioning the name of Florian--the man she loved so
passionately. Sometimes the dear old Cardinal sits beside her and
talks--sometimes her father,--Manuel is nearly always with her, and
she is quite easy and content, one would almost say happy when he is
there, he is so very gentle with her. But you can see through it all
the awful sorrow that weighs upon her heart,--you can see she has
lost something she can never find again,--her eyes look so wistful--
her smile is so sad--poor Angela!"

Aubrey was silent a moment. "What of the Princesse D'Agramont?"

"Oh, she is simply a treasure!" said Sylvie enthusiastically--"She
and my dear old Bozier are never weary in well-doing! As soon as
Angela can be moved, the Princesse wants to take her back to Paris,-
-because then Rome can be allowed to pour into her studio to see her
great picture."

"What does Angela say to that?"

"Angela seems resigned to anything!" answered Sylvie. "The only wish
she ever expresses is that Manuel should not leave her."

"There is something wonderful about that boy," said Aubrey slowly--
"From the first time I saw him he impressed me with a sense of
something altogether beyond his mere appearance. He is a child--yet
not a child--and I have often felt that he commands me without my
realising that I am so commanded."

"Aubrey! How strange!"

"Yes, it is strange!--" and Aubrey's eyes grew graver with the
intensity of his thought--"There is some secret--but--" he broke off
with a puzzled air--"I cannot explain it, so it is no use thinking
about it! I went to Varillo's studio yesterday and asked if there
had been any news of him--but there was none. I wonder where the
brute has gone!"

"It would be well if he had made exit out of the world altogether,"
said Sylvie--"But he is too vain of himself for that! However, his
absence creates suspicion--and even if Angela does not speak, people
will guess for themselves what she does not say. He will never dare
to show himself in Rome!"

Their conversation was abruptly terminated here by the entrance of
Madame Bozier with a quantity of fresh flowers which she had been
out to purchase, for Sylvie to take as usual on her morning visit to
her suffering friend; and Aubrey took his leave, promising to return
later in the afternoon, after Monsignor Gherardi had been and gone.

But he had his own ideas on the subject of Gherardi's visit to his
fair betrothed,--ideas which he kept to himself, for if his surmises
were correct, now was the time to put Sylvie's character to the
test. He did not doubt her stability in the very least, but he could
never quite get away from her mignonne child-like appearance of
woman, to the contemplation of the spirit behind the pretty
exterior. Her beauty was so riante, so dazzling, so dainty, that it
seemed to fire the very air as a sunbeam fires it,--and there was no
room for any more serious consideration than that of purely feminine
charm. Walking dreamily, almost unseeingly through the streets, he
thought again and yet again of the sweet face, the rippling hair,
the laughing yet tender eyes, the sunny smile. Behind that beautiful
picture or earth-phantom of womanhood, is there that sword of flame,
the soul?--the soul that will sweep through shams, and come out as
bright and glittering at the end of the fight as at the beginning?--
he mused;--or is it not almost too much to expect of a mere woman
that she can contend against the anger of a Church?

He was still thinking on this subject, when someone walking quickly
came face to face with him, and said--

"Aubrey!" He started and stared,--then uttered a cry of pleasure.

"Gys Grandit!"

The two men clasped each other's hands in a warm, strong grasp--and
for a moment neither could speak.

"My dear fellow!" said Aubrey at last--"This is indeed an unexpected
meeting! How glad I am to see you! When did you arrive in Rome?"

"This morning only," said Cyrillon, recovering his speech and his
equanimity together--"And as soon as I arrived, I found that my
hopes had not betrayed me--she is not dead!"

"She?" Aubrey started--"My dear Grandit! Or rather I must call you
Vergniaud now--who is the triumphant 'she' that has brought you thus
post haste to Rome?"

Cyrillon flushed--then grew pale.

"I should not have spoken!" he said--"And yet, why not! You were my
first friend!--you found me working in the fields, a peasant lad,
untrained and sullen, burning up my soul with passionate thoughts
which, but for you, might never have blossomed into action,--you
rescued me--you made me all I am! So why should I not confess to you
at once that there is a woman I love!--yes, love with all my soul,
though I have seen her but once!--and she is too far off, too fair
and great for me: she does not know I love her--but I heard she had
been murdered--that she was dead--"