Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

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"Angela Sovrani!" cried Aubrey.

Cyrillon bent his head as a devotee might at the shrine of a saint.

"Yes--Angela Sovrani!"

Aubrey looked at his handsome face glowing with enthusiasm, and saw
the passion, the tenderness, the devotion of a life flashing in his
fine eyes.

"Love at first sight!" he said with a smile--"I believe it is the
only true fire! A glance ought to be enough to express the
recognition of one soul to its mate. Well! Angela Sovrani is a woman
among ten thousand--the love of her alone is sufficient to make a
man better and nobler in every way--and if you can win her--"

"Ah, that is impossible! She is already affianced--"

Aubrey took his arm.

"Come with me, and I will tell you all I know," he said--"For there
is much to say,--and when you have heard everything, you may not be
altogether without hope."

They turned, and went towards the Corso, which they presently
entered, and where numbers of passers-by paused involuntarily to
look at the two men who offered such a marked contrast to each
other,--the one brown-haired and lithe, with dark, eager eyes,--the
other with the slim well set up figure of an athlete, and the fair
head of a Saxon king. And of the many who so looked after them, none
guessed that the one was destined in a few years' time to create a
silent and bloodless French Revolution, which should give back to
France her white lilies of faith and chivalry,--or that the other
was the upholder of such a perfect form of Christianity as should
soon command the following of thousands in all parts of the world.

And while they thus walked through the Roman crowd, the two women
they severally loved were talking of them. In Angela's sick-room,
softly shaded from the light, with a cheery wood fire burning,
Sylvie sat by her friend, telling her all she could think of that
would interest her, and rouse her from the deep gravity of mood in
which she nearly always found her. The weary days of pain and
illness had given Angela a strange, new beauty,--her face, delicate
and pale, seemed transfigured by the working of the soul within,--
and her eyes, tired as they were and often heavy with tears, had a
serenity in their depths which was not of earth, but all of Heaven.
She was able now to move from her bed, and lie on a couch near the
fire,--and her little white hands moved caressingly and with loving
care among the bunches of beautiful flowers which Sylvie had laid on
her coverlet,--daffodils, anemones, narcissi, violets, jonquils, and
all the sweet-scented flowers of early spring which come to Rome in
December from the blossoming fields of Sicily.

"How sweet they are!" she said with a half sigh,--"They almost make
me in love with life again!"

Sylvie said nothing, but only kissed her.

"How good you are to me, dearest Sylvie!" she then said--"You
deserve to be very happy!"

"Not half so much as you do!" responded Sylvie tenderly--"I am of no
use at all to the world; and you are! The world would not miss me a
bit, but it would not find an Angela Sovrani again in a hurry!"

Angela raised a cluster of narcissi and inhaled their fine and
delicate perfume. There were tears in her eyes, but she hid them
with a spray of the flowers.

"Ah, Sylvie, you think too well of me! To be famous is nothing. To
be loved is everything!"

Sylvie looked at her earnestly.

"You are loved," she said.

"No, no!" she said--"No, I am not loved. I am hated! Hush, Sylvie!--
do not say one word of what is in your mind, for I will not hear
it!"

She spoke agitatedly, and her cheeks flushed a sudden feverish red.

Sylvie made haste to try and soothe her.

"My darling girl, I would not say anything to vex you for the world!
You must not excite yourself--"

"I am not excited," said Angela, putting her arms round her friend
and drawing her fair head down till it was half hidden against her
own bosom--"No--but I must speak--bear with me for a minute, dear!
We all have our dreams, we women, and I have had mine! I dreamt
there was such a beautiful thing in the world as a great, unselfish
love,--I fancied that a woman, if gifted with a little power and
ability above the rest of her sex, could make the man she loved
proud of her--not jealous!--I thought that a lover delighted in the
attainments of his beloved--I thought there was nothing too high,
too great, too glorious to attempt for the sake of proving oneself
worthy to be loved! And now--I have found out the truth, Sylvie!--a
bitter truth, but no doubt good for me to know,--that men will kill
what they once caressed out of a mere grudge of the passing breath
called Fame! Thus, Love is not what I dreamed it; and I, who was so
foolishly glad to think that I was loved, have wakened up to know
that I am hated!--hated to the very extremity of hate, for a poor
gift of brair and hand which I wish--I wish I had never had!"

Sylvie raised her head and gently put aside the weak trembling
little hands that embraced her.

"Angela, Angela! You must not scorn the gifts of the gods! No, No!--
you will not let me say anything--you forbid me to express my
thoughts fully, and I know you are not well enough to hear me yet--
but one day you WILL know!--you will hear,--you will even be
thankful for all the sorrow you have passed through,--and meanwhile,
dear, dearest Angela, do not be ungrateful!"

She said the word boldly yet hesitatingly, bending over the couch
tenderly, her eyes full of light, and a smile on her lips. And
taking up a knot of daffodils she swept their cool blossoms softly
across Angela's burning forehead, murmuring--

"Do not be ungrateful!"

"Ungrateful--!" echoed Angela,--and she moved restlessly.

"Yes, darling! Do not say you wish you never had received the great
gifts God has given you. Do not judge of things by Sorrow's
measurement only. I repeat--you ARE loved--though not perhaps where
you most relied on love. Your father loves you--your uncle loves
you--Manuel loves you . . ."

Angela interrupted her with a protesting gesture.

"Yes--I know," she murmured, "but--"

"But you think all this love is worthless, as compared with a love
that was no love at all?" said Sylvie. "There! We will not speak
about it any more just now,--you are not strong, and you see things
in their darkest light. Shall I talk to you about Aubrey?"

"Ah! That is a subject you are never tired of!" said Angela with a
faint smile. "Nor am I."

"Well, you ought to be," answered Sylvie gaily, "for I am too
blindly, hopelessly in love to know when to stop! I see nothing else
and know nothing else--it is Aubrey, Aubrey all the time. The air,
the sunlight, the whole world, seem only an admirable exposition of
Aubrey!"

"Then how would you feel if he did not love you any more?" asked
Angela.

"But that is not possible!" said Sylvie. "Aubrey could not change.
It is not in him. He is not like our poor friend Fontenelle."

"Ah! That love of yours was only fancy, Sylvie!"

"We all have our fancies!" answered the pretty Comtesse, looking
very earnestly into Angela's eyes. "We are not always sure that what
we first call love is love. But I had much more than a fancy for the
Marquis Fontenelle. If he had loved me--as I think he did at the
last--I should certainly have married him. But during all the time I
knew him he had a way of relegating all women to the same level--
servants, actresses, ballet-dancers, and ladies alike,--he would
never admit that there is as much difference between one woman and
another as between one man and another. And this is a mistake many
men make. Fontenelle wished to treat me as Miraudin would have
treated his 'leading lady';--he judged that quite sufficient for
happiness. Now Aubrey treats me as his comrade,--his friend as well
as his love, and that makes our confidence perfect. By the way, he
spoke to me a great deal yesterday about the Abbe Vergniaud, and
told me all he knew about his son Cyrillon."

"Ah, the poor Abbe!" said Angela. "They are angry with him still at
the Vatican--angry now with his dead body! But 'Gys Grandit' is not
of the Catholic faith, so they can do nothing with him."

"No. He is what they call a 'free-lance,'" said Sylvie. "And a
wonderful personage he is! I You have seen him?"

A faint colour crept over Angela's pale cheeks.

"Yes. Once. Just once, in Paris, on the day his father publicly
acknowledged him. But I wrote to him long before I knew who he
realty was."

"Angela! You wrote to him?"

"Yes. I admired the writings of Gys Grandit--I used to buy all his
books as they came out, and study them. I wrote to him--as many
people will write to a favourite author--not in my own name of
course--to express my admiration, and he answered. And so we
corresponded for about two years, not knowing each other's identity
till that scene in Paris brought us together--"

"How VERY curious,--ve--ry!" said Sylvie, with a little mischievous
smile. "And so you are quite friends?"

"I think so--I believe so--" answered Angela--"but since we met, he
has ceased to write to me."

Sylvie made a mental note of that fact in her own mind, very much to
the credit of "Gys Grandit," but said nothing further on the
subject. Time was hastening on, and she had to return to the Casa
D'Angeli to receive Monsignor Gherardi.

"I am going to be lectured I suppose," she said laughingly. "I have
not seen the worthy Domenico since my engagement to Aubrey was
announced!"

Angela looked at her intently.

"Are you at all prepared for what he will say?"

"Not in the least. What CAN he say?"

"Much that may vex you," said Angela. "Considering Aubrey Leigh's
theories, he may perhaps reproach you for your intended marriage--or
he may bring you information of the Pope's objection."

"Well! What of that?" demanded Sylvie.

"But you are a devout Catholic--"

"And you? With a great Cardinal for your uncle you paint 'The Coming
of Christ'! Ah!--I have seen that picture, Angela!"

"But I am different,--I am a worker, and I fear nothing," said
Angela, her eyes beginning to shine with the latent force in her
that was gradually resuming its dominion over her soul--"I thought
long and deeply before I put my thought into shape--"

"And _I_ thought long and deeply before I decided to be the
companion of Aubrey's life and work!" said Sylvie resolutely. "And
neither the Pope or a whole college of Cardinals will change my love
or prevent my marriage. A riverderci!"

"A riverderci!" echoed Angela, raising herself a little to receive
the kiss her friend tenderly pressed on her cheeks. "I shall be
anxious to know the result of your interview!"

"I will come round early to-morrow and tell you all," promised
Sylvie, "for I mean to find out, if I can, what happened at the
Vatican when Cardinal Bonpre last went there with Manuel."

"My uncle is most anxious to leave Rome," said Angela musingly.

"I know. And if there is any plot against him he MUST leave Rome--he
SHALL leave it! And we will help him!"

With that she went her way, and an hour or so later stood, a perfect
picture of grace and beauty, in the grand old rooms of the Casa
D'Angeli, waiting to receive Gherardi. She had taken more than the
usual pains with her toilette this afternoon, and had chosen to wear
a "creation" of wonderful old lace, with knots of primrose and
violet velvet caught here and there among its folds. It suited her
small lissom figure to perfection, and her only ornaments were a
cluster of fresh violets, and one ring sparkling on her left hand,--
a star of rose brilliants and rubies, the sign of her betrothal.

Punctual to the hour appointed, Gherardi arrived, and was at once
shown into her presence. There was a touch of aggressiveness and
irony in his manner as he entered with his usual slow and dignified
step, and though he endeavoured to preserve that suavity and cold
calmness for which he was usually admired and feared by women, his
glance was impatient, and an occasional biting of his lips showed
suppressed irritation. The first formal greetings over, he said--

"I have wished for some time to call upon you, Contessa, but the
pressure of affairs at the Vatican--"

He stopped abruptly, looking at her. How provokingly pretty she
was!--and how easily indifferent she seemed to the authoritative air
he had chosen to assume.

"I should, I know, long ere this have offered you my felicitations
on your approaching marriage--"

Sylvie smiled bewitchingly, and gave him a graceful curtsey.

"Will you not sit down, Monsignor?" she then said. "We can talk more
at our ease, do you not think?"

She seated herself, with very much the air of a queen taking
possession of a rightful throne, and Gherardi was vexedly aware that
he had not by any means the full possession of his ordinary dignity
or self-control. He took a chair opposite to her and sat for a
moment perplexed as to his next move. Sylvie did not help him at
all. Ruffling the violets among the lace at her neck, she looked at
him attentively from under her long golden-brown lashes, but
maintained a perfect silence.

"The news has been received by the Holy Father with great pleasure,"
he said at last. "His special benediction will grace your wedding-
day."

Sylvie bent her head.

"The Holy Father is most gracious!" she replied quietly. "And he is
also more liberal than I imagined, if he is willing to bestow his
special benediction on my marriage with one who is considered a
heretic by the Church."

He flashed a keen glance at her,--then forced a smile. "Mr. Leigh's
heresy is of the past," he said--"We welcome him--with you--as one
of us!"

Sylvie was silent. He waited, inwardly cursing her tranquillity.
Then, as she still did not speak, he went on in smooth accents--

"The Church pardons all who truly repent. She welcomes all who come
to her in confidence, no matter how tardy or hesitating their
approach. We shall receive the husband of our daughter Sylvie
Hermenstein, with such joy as the prodigal son was in old time
received--and of his past mistakes and follies there shall be
neither word nor memory!"

Then Sylvie looked up and fixed her deep blue eyes steadily upon
him.

"Caro Monsignor!" she said very sweetly. "Why talk all this nonsense
to me? Do you not realise that as the betrothed wife of Aubrey Leigh
I am past the Church counsel or command?"

Gherardi still smiled.

"Past Church counsel or command?" he murmured with an indulgent air,
as though he were talking to a very small child. "Pardon me if I am
at a loss to understand--"

"Oh, you understand very well!" said Sylvie. "You know perfectly--or
you should--that a wife's duty is to obey her husband,--and that in
future HIS Church,--not yours,--must be hers also."

"Surely you speak in riddles?" said Gherardi, preserving his suave
equanimity. "Mr. Leigh is (or was) a would-be ardent reformer, but
he has no real Church."

"Then I have none!" replied Sylvie.

There was a moment's silence. A black rage began to kindle in
Gherardi's soul,--rage all the more intense because so closely
suppressed.

"I am still at a loss to follow you, Contessa," he said coldly.
"Surely you do not mean to imply that your marriage will sever you
from the Church of your fathers?"

"Monsignor, marriage for me means an oath before God to take my
husband for better or for worse, and to be true to him under all
trial and circumstances," said Sylvie. "And I assuredly mean to keep
that oath! Whatever his form of faith, I intend to follow it,--as I
intend to obey his commands, whatever they may be, or wherever they
may lead. For this, to me, is the only true love,--this to me, is
the only possible 'holy' estate of matrimony. And for the Church--a
Church which does not hesitate to excommunicate a dying man, and
persecute a good one,--I will leave the possibility of its wrath,
together with all other consequences of my act--to God!"

For one moment Gherardi felt that he could have sprung upon her and
throttled her. The next, he had mastered himself sufficiently to
speak,--this woman, so slight, so beautiful, so insolent should not
baffle him, he resolved!--and bending his dark brows menacingly, he
addressed her in his harshest and most peremptory manner.

"You talk of God," he said, "as a child talks of the sun and moon,
with as little meaning, and less comprehension! What impertinence it
is for a woman like yourself,--vain, weak and worldly,--to assert
your own will--your own thought and opinion--in the face of the Most
High! What! YOU will desert the Church? YOU whose ancestors have for
ages been devout servants of the faith? YOU, the last descendant of
the Counts Hermenstein, a noble and loyal family, will degrade your
birth by taking up with the rags and tags of humanity--the
scarecrows of life? And by your sheer stupidity and obstinacy, you
will allow your husband's soul to be dragged to perdition with your
own! You call it love--to keep him an infidel? You call it marriage-
-to be united to him without the blessings of Holy Church? Where is
your reason?--Where is your judgment?--Where your faith?"

"Not in my bank, Monsignor!" replied Sylvie coldly. "Though that is
the place where you would naturally expect to find these virtues
manifested, and the potency of their working substantially proved!
Pardon!--I have no wish to offend--but your manner to ME is
offensive, and unless you are disposed to discuss this matter
temperately, I must close our interview!"

Gherardi flushed a dark red, then grew pale. After all, the Countess
Hermenstein was in her own house,--she had the right to command his
exit if she chose. Small and slight as she was, she had a dignity
and power as great as his own, and if anything was to be gained from
her it was necessary to temporize. Among many other qualifications
for the part he had to play in life, he was an admirable actor, and
would have made his fortune on the legitimate stage,--and this
"quick change" ability served him in good stead now. He rose from
his chair as though moved by uncontrollable agitation, and walked to
the window, then turned again and came slowly and with bent head
towards her.

"Forgive me!" he said simply. "I was wrong!"

Sylvie, easily moved to kindness, was touched by this apparent
humility on the part of a man so renowned for unflinching hauteur,
and she at once gave him her hand.

"I shall forget your words!" she said gently. "So there is nothing
to pardon."

"Thank you for your generosity," he said, still standing before her
and preserving his grave and quiet demeanour. "In my zeal for Holy
Church, my tongue frequently outruns my prudence. I confess you have
hurt me,--cruelly! You are a mere child to me--young, beautiful,
beloved,--and I am growing old; I have sacrificed all the joys of
life for the better serving of the faith--but I have kept a few fair
dreams--and one of the fairest was my belief in YOU!"

Sylvie looked at him searchingly, but his eyes did not flinch in
meeting hers.

"I am sorry you are disappointed, Monsignor," she began, when he
raised his hand deprecatingly.

"No--I am not disappointed as yet!" he said, with an affectation of
great kindness. "Because I do not permit myself to believe that you
will allow me to be disappointed! Just now you made a passing
allusion--and I venture to say a hasty and unworthy one--to your
'bank,' as if my whole soul were set on retaining you as a daughter
of the Church for your great wealth's sake only! Contessa, you are
mistaken! Give me credit for higher and nobler motives! Grant me the
right to be a little better--a little more disinterested, than
perhaps popular rumour describes me,--believe me to be at least your
friend--"

He paused--his voice apparently broken by emotion, and turning away
his head he paced the room once more and finally sat down, covering
his eyes with one hand, in an admirably posed attitude of fatigue
and sorrow.

Sylvie was perplexed, and somewhat embarrassed. She had never seen
him in this kind of humour before. She was accustomed to a certain
domineering authority in his language, rendered all the more
difficult to endure by the sarcasm with which he sometimes
embittered his words, as though he had dipped them in gall before
pronouncing them,--but this apparent abandonment of reserve, this
almost touching assumption of candour, were phases of his
histrionical ability which he had never till now displayed in her
presence.

"Monsignor," she said after a little silence, "I sincerely ask your
pardon if I have wronged you, even in a thought! I had no real
intention of doing so, and if anything I have said has seemed to you
unduly aggressive or unjust, I am sorry! But you yourself began to
scold"--and she smiled--"and I am not in the humour to be scolded!
Though, to speak quite frankly, I have always been more or less
prepared for a little trouble on the subject of my intended marriage
with Mr. Aubrey Leigh,--I have felt and known all along that it
would incur the Pope's displeasure . . ."

Here Gherardi uncovered his eyes and looked at her fully.

"But there you are mistaken!" he said gently, with a smile that was
almost paternal. "I know of nothing in recent years that has given
the Holy Father greater satisfaction!"

She glanced at him quickly but said nothing, whereat he was secretly
annoyed. Why did she not express her wonder and delight at the
Pope's lenity, as almost any other woman in her position would have
done? Her outward appearance was that of child-like ultra-
femininity,--how was it then that he felt as if she were mentally
fencing with him, and that her intellectual sword-play threatened to
surpass his own?

"Nothing," he repeated suavely, "has given the Holy Father greater
satisfaction! For very naturally, he looks upon you as one of his
most faithful children, and rejoices that by the power of perfect
love--love which is an emanation of the Divine Spirit in itself--you
have been chosen by our Lord to draw so gifted and brilliant a man
as Aubrey Leigh out of the error of his ways and bring him into the
true fold!"

XXXIV.

Still the Countess Sylvie was silent. Bending a quick scrutinising
glance upon her, he saw that her eyes were lowered, and that the
violets nestling near her bosom moved restlessly with her quickened
breath, and he judged these little signs of agitation as the
favourable hints of a weakening and hesitating will.

"Aubrey Leigh," he went on slowly, "has long been an avowed enemy of
our Church. In England especially, where many of the Protestant
clergy, repenting of their recusancy--for Protestantism is nothing
more than a backsliding from the true faith--are desirous of
gradually, through the gentler forms of Ritualism, returning to the
Original source of Divine Inspiration, he has taken a great deal too
much upon himself in the freedom of his speeches to the people. But
we are bound to remember that it is not against OUR Church only that
he has armed himself at all points, but seemingly against all
Churches; and when we examine, charitably and with patience, into
the sum and substance of his work and aim, we find its chief object
is to purify and maintain--not to destroy or deny--the Divine
teaching of Christ. In this desire we are one with him--we are even
willing to assist him in the Cause he has espoused--and we shall
faithfully promise to do so, when we receive him as your husband.
Nay, more--we will endeavour to further his work among the poor, and
carry out any scheme for their better care, which he may propose to
us, and we may judge as devout and serviceable. The Church has wide
arms,--she stretches far, and holds fast! The very fact of a man
like Aubrey Leigh voluntarily choosing as his wife the last scion of
one of the most staunch Roman Catholic families in Europe, proves
the salutary and welcome change which your good influence has
brought about in his heart and mind and manner and judgment,--
wherefore it follows, my dear child, that in his marriage with you
he becomes one of us, and is no longer outside us!"

With a swift and graceful imperiousness, Sylvie suddenly rose and
faced him.

"It is time we understood each other, Monsignor," she said quietly.
"It is no good playing at cross purposes! With every respect for
you, I must speak plainly. I am fully aware of all you tell me
respecting my descent and the traditions of my ancestors. I know
that the former Counts Hermenstein were faithful servants of the
Church. But they were all merely half-educated soldiers; brave, yet
superstitious. I know also that my father, the late Count, was
apparently equally loyal to the Church,--though really only so
because it was too much trouble for him to think seriously about
anything save hunting. But I--Sylvie--the last of the race, do not
intend to be bound or commanded by the trammels of any Church, in
the face of the great truths declared to the world to-day! My faith
in God is as my betrothed husband's faith in God,--my heart is his,-
-my life is his! From henceforth we are together; and together we
are content to go, after death, wherever God shall ordain, be it
Hell or Heaven!"

"Wait!" said Gherardi in low fierce accents, his eyes glittering
with mingled rage and the admiration of her beauty which he could
ill conceal. "Wait! If you care nothing for yourself in this matter,
is it possible that you care nothing for him? Have you thought of
the results of such rashness as you meditate? Listen!" and he leaned
forward in his chair, his dark brows bent and his whole attitude
expressive of a relentless malice--"Your marriage, without the
blessing of the Church of your fathers, shall be declared illegal!--
your children pronounced bastards! Wherever the ramifications of the
Church are spread (and they are everywhere) you, the brilliant, the
courted, the admired Sylvie Hermenstein, shall find yourself not
only outside the Church, but outside all Society! You will be
considered as 'living in sin';--as no true wife, but merely the
mistress of the man with whom you have elected to wander the world!
And he, when he sees the finger of scorn pointed at you and at his
children, he also will change--as all men change when change is
convenient or advantageous to themselves;--he will in time weary of
his miserable Christian-Democratic theories,--and of you!--yes, even
of you!" And Gherardi suddenly sprang up and drew nearer to her.
"Even of YOU, I say! He will weary of your beauty--that delicate
fine loveliness which makes me long to possess it!--me, a priest of
the Mother-Church, whose heart is supposed to beat only for two
things--Power and Revenge! Listen--listen yet a moment!" and he drew
a step nearer, while Sylvie held her ground where she stood,
unflinchingly, and like a queen, though she was pale to the very
lips--"What of the friend you love so well, Angela Sovrani, who has
dared to paint such a picture as should be burnt in the public
market-place for its vile heresy! Do you think SHE will escape the
wrath of the Church? Not she! We in our day use neither poison nor
cold steel--but we know how to poison a name and stab a reputation!
What! You shrink at that? Listen yet--listen a moment longer! And
remember that nothing escapes the vigilant eye of Rome! At this very
moment I can place my hand on Florian Varillo, concerning whom there
is a rumour that he attempted the assassination of his betrothed
wife,--an inhuman deed that no sane man could ever have
perpetrated"--here Sylvie uttered a slight exclamation, and he
paused, looking at her with a cold smile--"Yes, I repeat it!--a deed
WHICH NO SANE MAN COULD HAVE PERPETRATED! The unfortunate, the
deeply wronged Florian Varillo, is prepared to swear, and I AM
PREPARED TO SWEAR WITH HIM, that he is guiltless of any such vile
act or treachery--and also that he painted more than half of the
great picture this woman Sovrani claims as her own work! Whilst
strongly protesting against its heresy and begging her to alter
certain figures in the canvas, still he gave her for love's sake,
all his masculine ability. The blasphemous idea is hers--but the
drawing, the colouring, the grouping, are HIS!"