Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

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Sitting quietly in her tidy kitchen near the open window, after the
Cardinal's departure, Madame Patoux knitted busily, her thoughts
flying faster than her glittering needles. A certain vague
impression of solemnity had been left on her mind by the events of
the morning,--she could not quite reason out the why or the
wherefore of it--and yet--it was a fact that after Monseigneur had
gone, she had, when entering the rooms he had vacated, felt a
singular sense of awe.

"Almost as if one were in the Cathedral at the ringing of the
'Sanctus'" she murmured under her breath, glancing about timidly at
the plain furniture and bare walls. And after putting everything in
order, she closed and locked the doors jealously, with a
determination that she would not let those rooms to the first
chance-comer for a long time,--no, though she might have to lose
money by her refusal. And now, as she sat actively employed in
knitting socks for Henri, whom she could see sitting with his sister
outside on the bench under the house porch, reading or pretending to
read, she began to wonder what opinion those two young miscreants
had formed in their minds respecting the Cardinal, and also what
they thought of the boy who had been taken so suddenly under his
protection. She was almost tempted to call Henri and ask him a few
questions on the subject,--but she had learnt to value peace and
quietness when she could secure those rare blessings at the hands of
her children, and when they were employed with a book and visibly
out of mischief she thought it wisest to leave them alone. And so
she left them in the present instance, pushing her window open as
she sat and knitted, for the air was warm and balmy, and the long
rays of sunshine streaming across the square were of the hue of a
ripe nectarine just gathered, and the delicate mouldings and
traceries and statues on the porch of the Cathedral appeared like so
many twinings of grey gossamer web glistening in a haze of gold. Now
and then neighbours passed, and nodded or called a greeting which
Madame Patoux answered cheerily, still knitting vivaciously; and the
long shafts of sunshine grew longer, casting deeper shadows as the
quarters chimed. All at once there was a cry,--a woman's figure came
rushing precipitately across the square,--Madame Patoux sprang up,
and her children ran out of the porch as they recognised Martine
Doucet.

"Martine! Martine! What is it!" they all cried simultaneously.

Martine, breathless, dishevelled, laughing and sobbing alternately,
tried to speak, but could only gesticulate and throw up her hands in
a kind of ecstasy, but whether of despair or joy could not be
guessed. Madame Patoux shook her by the arm.

"Martine!--speak--what is it!"

Martine made a violent effort.

"Fabien!--Fabien--" she gasped, flinging herself to and fro and
still sobbing and laughing.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Madame in horror. "Is the child dead?"

"No, no!--" and Martine again tossed her arms aloft in a kind of
frenzy. "No--but look you!--there IS a God! Yes!--we thought He was
an invention of the priests--but no--He is a real God after all!--Oh
mes enfants!" and she tried to grasp the amazed Henri and Babette in
her arms, "You are two of His angels!--you took my boy to the
Cardinal--"

The children glanced at each other.

"Yes--yes!" they murmured breathlessly.

"Well! and see what has happened!--See!--Here comes Fabien--!"

And as she spoke exultantly with an excitement that seemed to
inspire every nerve of her body, a little figure came running
lightly towards them,--the light strong figure of a boy with fair
curls flying in the wind, and a face in which the large, grey,
astonished eyes flashed with an almost divine joy.

"Mother!--Mother!" he cried.

Madame Patoux felt as though the heavens had suddenly opened to let
the angels down. Was this Fabien? Fabien, who had hobbled painfully
upon crutches all his life, and had left her house in his usual
condition an hour or so ago?--This straight-limbed child, running
with the graceful and easy movement of a creature who had never
known a day's pain?

"Fabien, is it thou?" almost screamed Henri, "Speak, is it thou?"

"It is I" said Fabien, and he stopped, panting for breath,--then
threw his arms round his mother's neck and faced them,--"It is I--
strong and well!--thanks to God and the prayers of the Cardinal!"

For a moment there was a dead silence,--a silence of stupefied
amazement unbroken save by the joyful weeping of Martine. Then
suddenly a deep-toned bell rang from the topmost tower of Notre
Dame--and in the flame-red of the falling sun the doves that make
their homes among the pinnacles of the great Cathedral, rose
floating in cloudy circles towards the sky. One bell--and then
another--yet another!--

"The Angelus!" cried Babette dropping on her knees and folding her
hands, "The Angelus!--Mother--Martine--Henri!--Fabien!--the
Angelus!"--

Down they all knelt, a devotional group, in the porch through which
the good Cardinal had so lately passed, and the bells chimed sweetly
and melodiously as Fabien reverently repeated the Angelic Salutation
amid responses made with tears and thanksgiving, and neighbours and
townfolk hearing of the miracle came hastening to the Hotel Poitiers
to enquire into its truth, and pausing as they saw the cluster of
kneeling figures in the porch instinctively and without question
knelt also,--then as the news spread, group after group came running
and gathering together, and dropping on their knees amazed and awe-
struck, till the broad Square showed but one black mass of a
worshipping congregation under the roseate sky, their voices joining
in unison with the clear accents of one little happy child; while
behind them rose the towers of Notre Dame, and over their heads the
white doves flew and the bells of the Angelus rang. And the sun
dropped slowly into the west, crimson and glorious like the shining
rim of a Sacramental Cup held out and then drawn slowly back again
by angel hands within the Veil of Heaven.

VII.

Meanwhile, unconscious of the miracle his prayer had wrought,
Cardinal Bonpre and his young charge Manuel, arrived in Paris, and
drove from the station direct to a house situated near the Bois du
Boulogne, where the Cardinal's niece, Angela Sovrani, only daughter
of Prince Sovrani, and herself famous throughout Europe as a painter
of the highest promise, had a suite of rooms and studio, reserved
for her occasional visits to the French capital. Angela Sovrani was
a rare type of her sex,--unlike any other woman in the world, so
those who knew her best were wont to declare. Without being actually
beautiful, according to the accepted lines and canons of physical
perfection, she created around her an effect of beauty, which was
dazzling and exciting to a singular degree,--people who came once
within the charmed circle of her influence could never forget her,
and always spoke of her afterwards as a creature apart;--a "woman of
genius,--yes!"--they said, "But something more even than that." And
this "something more," was just the inexplicable part of her which
governed her whole being, and rendered her so indescribably
attractive. And she was not without beauty--or perhaps it should be
termed loveliness rather,--of an exquisitely suggestive kind, which
provoked the beholder into questioning where and how the glamour of
it fell. In her eyes, perhaps, the secret lay,--they were violet-
grey in hue, and drowsy-lidded, with long lashes that swept the
delicate pale cheeks in a dark golden fringe of shadow, through
which the sparkle of vision gleamed,--now warningly, now tenderly,--
and anon, these same half-shut and deep fringed lids would open
wide, letting the full brilliance of the soul behind the eyes pour
forth its luminance, in flashes of such lightning-like clearness and
compelling force, that it was impossible not to recognise something
higher than mere woman in the dazzle of that spiritual glory. In
figure she was wonderfully slight,--so slight indeed that she
suggested a delicate willow-withe such as can be bent and curved
with one hand--yet this slightness stood her in good stead, for
being united with extreme suppleness, it gave her a grace of
movement resembling that of some skimming mountain bird or sea-
swallow, which flies with amazing swiftness yet seeming slowness.
Angela never moved quickly,--no one had ever seen her in what is
termed a "rush," or a vulgar hurry. She did everything she had to do
without haste, without noise, without announcement or assertion of
any kind;--and all that she did was done as perfectly as her ability
could warrant. And that ability was very great indeed, and displayed
itself in small details as well as large attempts. Whether she
merely twisted her golden-brown hair into a knot, or tied a few
flowers together and fastened them on her dress with a pearl pin,
either thing was perfectly done--without a false line or a
discordant hue. Her face, form, voice and colouring were like a
chord of music, harmonious,--and hence the impression of
satisfaction and composure her presence always gave. In herself she
was a creature of remarkable temperament and character;--true
womanly in every delicate sentiment, fancy and feeling, but with
something of the man-hero in her scorn of petty aims, her delight in
noble deeds, her courage, her ambition, her devotion to duty and her
unflinching sense of honour. Full of rare perceptions and
instinctive knowledge of persons and motives, she could only be
deceived and blinded where her deepest affections were concerned,
and there she could certainly be fooled and duped as completely as
the wisest of us all. Looking at her now as she stood awaiting her
uncle's arrival in the drawing-room of her "suite," the windows of
which faced the Bois, she expressed to the air and surroundings the
personality of a thoughtful, charming young woman,--no more. Her
black silk gown, cut simply in the prevailing mode of definitely
outlining the figure from throat to hips, and then springing out in
pliant folds of trailing drapery, had nothing remarkable about it
save its Parisian perfection of fit,--the pale "Gloire de France"
rose that rested lightly amongst the old lace at her neck, pinned,
yet looking as though it had dropped there merely out of a languid
desire to escape from further growing, was her only ornament. Her
hair, full of curious lights and shades running from brown to gold
and gold to brown again, in a rippling uncertain fashion, clustered
thickly over her brow and was caught back at the sides in a loose
twist after the style of the Greek vestals,--and her fine, small
white hands and taper fingers, so skilled in the use of the artist's
brush, looked too tiny and delicate to be of any service save to
receive the kisses of a lover's lips,--or to be raised, folded pure
and calm, in a child-like appeal to Heaven. Certainly in her fragile
appearance she expressed nothing save indefinable charm--no one,
studying her physiognomy, would have accredited her with genius,
power, and the large conceptions of a Murillo or a Raphael;--yet
within the small head lay a marvellous brain--and the delicate body
was possessed by a spirit of amazing potency to conjure with. While
she watched for the first glimpse of the carriage which was to bring
her uncle the Cardinal, whom she loved with a rare and tender
devotion, her thoughts were occupied with a letter she had received
that morning from Rome,--a letter "writ in choice Italian," which
though brief, contained for her some drops of the essence of all the
world's sweetness, and was worded thus--

"MY OWN LOVE!--A century seems to have passed away since you left
Rome. The hours move slowly without you--they are days,--even
years!--but I feel your spirit is always with me! Absence for those
who love, is not absence after all! To the soul, time is nothing,--
space is nothing,--and my true and passionate love for you makes an
invisible bridge, over which my thoughts run and fly to your sweet
presence, carrying their delicious burden of a thousand kisses!--a
thousand embraces and blessings to the Angela and angel of my life!
From her devoted lover,

"Florian."

Her devoted lover, Florian! Yes; Florian Varillo--her comrade in
art, was her lover,--a genius himself, who had recognised HER genius
and who bowed before it, conquered and subdued! Florian, the creator
of exquisitely delicate landscapes and seascapes, with nymphs and
cupids and nereids and sirens all daintily portrayed therein,--
pictures so ethereal and warm and bright in colour that they were
called by some of the best Italian critics, the "amoretti" of
painting,--he, this wonderful man, had caught her soul and heart by
storm, in a few sudden, quickly-whispered words one night when the
moon was at the full, hanging high over the gardens of the Pincio,--
and, proud of her security in the love she had won, Angela had risen
by leaps and bounds to a magnificence of creative effort and
attainment so far beyond him, that old and wise persons, skilled in
the wicked ways of the world, would sometimes discourse among
themselves in dubious fashion thus: "Is it possible that he is not
jealous? He must surely see that her work is superior to his own!"
And others would answer, "Oh no! No man was ever known to admit,
even in thought, that a woman can do better things in art than
himself! If a masculine creature draws a picture on a paving-stone
he will assure himself in his own Ego, that it is really much more
meritorious simply as 'man's work' than the last triumph of a Rosa
Bonheur. Besides, you have to remember that in this case the man is
the woman's lover--he could soon kill her genius if he chose. He has
simply to desert her,--such an easy thing!--so often done!--and she
will paint no more. Women are all alike,--they rest on love,--when
that fails, then everything fails, and they drop into old age
without a groan." And then perhaps a stray cynic would say, "But
Angela Sovrani need not depend on one lover surely?--" and he would
get for answer, "No, she need not--but it so happens that she
does,"--which to everybody seemed extraordinary, more particularly
in Italy, where morals are so lax, that a woman has only to be seen
walking alone in the public gardens or streets with one of the
opposite sex, and her reputation is gone for ever. It is no use to
explain that the man in question is her father, her brother or her
uncle,--he simply could not be. He is THE man, the one inevitable.
Few Italians (in Italy) believe in the chastity of English women,--
their reasons for doubt being simply because they see the fair and
free ones going to parties, theatres and other places of amusement
with their friends of the other sex in perfect ease and confidence.
And in the case of Angela Sovrani, though she was affianced to
Florian Varillo with her father's consent, (reluctantly obtained,)
and the knowledge of all the Roman world of society, she saw very
little of him,--and that little, never alone. Thus it was very sweet
to receive such consoling words as those she had had from him that
day--"Time is nothing,--space is nothing,--and my true and
passionate love for you makes an invisible bridge over which my
thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence!" The letter lay warm in
her bosom just under the "Gloire de France" rose; she pressed it
tenderly with her little hand now simply for the childish pleasure
of hearing the paper rustle, and she smiled dreamily.

"Florian," she murmured half aloud!--"MY Florian!" And she recalled
certain lines of verse he had written to her,--for most Italians
write verse as easily as they eat maccaroni;--and there are
countless rhymes to "amor" in the dulcet Dante-tongue, whereas our
rough English can only supply for the word "love" some three or four
similar sounds,--which is perhaps a fortunate thing. Angela spoke
English and French as easily and fluently as her native Tuscan, and
had read the most notable books in all three languages, so she was
well aware that of all kinds of human speech in the world there is
none so adapted for making love and generally telling lies in, as
the "lingua Toscana in bocca Romana." And this particular "lingua"
Florian possessed in fullest perfection of sweetness, so far as
making love was concerned;--of the telling of lies he was, according
to Angela's estimate of him, most nobly ignorant. She had not many
idle moments, however, for meditation on her love matters, or for
dreamy study of the delicate beginnings of the autumnal tints on the
trees of the Bois, for the carriage she had been awaiting soon made
its appearance, and bowling rapidly down the road drew up sharply at
the door. She had just time to perceive that her uncle had not
arrived alone, when he entered,--and with a pretty grace and
reverence for his holy calling, she dropped on one knee before him
to receive his benediction, which he gave by laying a hand on her
soft hair and signing the cross on her brow. After which he raised
her and looked at her fondly.

"My dear child!"--he said, tenderly,--and again "My dear child!"

Then he turned towards Manuel, who had followed him and was now
standing quietly on the threshold of the apartment.

"Angela, this is one of our Lord's 'little ones,'" he said,--"He is
alone in the world, and I have made myself his guardian and
protector for the present. You will be kind to him--yes--as kind as
if you were his sister, will you not?--for we are all one family in
the sight of Heaven, and sorrow and loneliness and want can but
strengthen the love which should knit us all together."

Raising her candid eyes, and fixing them on Manuel, Angela smiled.
The thoughtful face and pathetic expression of the boy greatly
attracted her, and in her heart she secretly wondered where her
uncle had found so intelligent and inspired-looking a creature. But
one of her UNfeminine attributes was a certain lack of curiosity
concerning other people's affairs, and an almost fastidious dislike
of asking questions on matters which did not closely concern her. So
she contented herself with giving him that smile of hers which in
itself expressed all sweetness, and saying gently,--

"You are very welcome! You must try to feel that wherever my uncle
is,--that is 'home'."

"I have felt that from the first,"--replied Manuel in his soft
musical voice, "I was all alone when my lord the Cardinal found me,-
-but with him the world seems full of friends."

Angela looked at him still more attentively; and the fascination of
his presence became intensified. She would have liked to continue
the conversation, but her uncle was fatigued by his journey, and
expressed the desire for an hour's rest. She therefore summoned a
servant to show him to the rooms prepared for his reception, whither
he went, Manuel attending him,--and when, after a little while,
Angela followed to see that all was arranged suitably for his
comfort, she found that he had retired to his bed-chamber, and that
just outside his door in a little ante-room adjoining, his "waif and
stray" was seated, reading. There was something indescribable about
the boy even in this reposeful attitude of study,--and Angela
observed him for a minute or two, herself unseen. His face reminded
her of one of Fra Angelico's seraphs,--the same broad brow, deep
eyes and sensitive lips, which seemed to suggest the utterance of
wondrous speech or melodious song,--the same golden hair swept back
in rich clusters,--the same eager, inspired, yet controlled
expression. A curious fluttering of her heart disturbed the girl as
she looked--an indefinable dread--a kind of wonder, that almost
touched on superstitious awe. Manuel himself, apparently unconscious
of her observation, went on reading,--his whole attitude expressing
that he was guarding the door to deter anyone from breaking in upon
the Cardinal's rest, and Angela at last turned away reluctantly,
questioning herself as to the cause of the strange uneasiness which
thrilled her mind.

"It is foolish, of course,"--she murmured, "but I feel just as if
there were a supernatural presence in the house, . . . however,--I
always do have that impression with Uncle Felix, for he is so good
and noble-minded,--almost a saint, as everyone says--but to-day
there is something else--something quite unusual--"

She re-entered the drawing-room, moving slowly with an abstracted
air, and did not at once perceive a visitor in the room,--a portly
person in clerical dress, with a somewhat large head and strongly
marked features,--a notable character of the time in Paris, known as
the Abbe Vergniaud. He had seated himself in a low fauteuil, and was
turning over the pages of the month's "Revue de Deux Mondes",
humming a little tune under his breath as he did so,--but he rose
when he saw Angela, and advanced smilingly to greet her as she
stopped short, with a little startled exclamation of surprise at the
sight of him.

"Forgive me" he said, with an expressively apologetic gesture,--
"Have I come at an inopportune moment? I saw your uncle arrive, and
I was extremely anxious to see him on a little confidential matter--
I ventured to persuade your servant to let me enter--"

"No apologies are necessary, Monsieur l'Abbe" said Angela, quickly,
"My uncle Felix is indeed here, but he is tired with his journey and
is resting--"

"Yes, I understand!" And Monsieur l'Abbe, showing no intention to
take his leave on account of the Cardinal's non-presence, bowed low
over the extended hand of "the Sovrani" as she was sometimes called
in the world of art, where her name was a bone for envious dogs-in-
the-manger to fight over--"But if I might wait a little while--"

"Your business with my uncle is important?" questioned Angela with
slightly knitted brows.

"My dear child, all business is important,"--declared the Abbe, with
a smile which spread the light of a certain satirical benevolence
all over his plump clean-shaven face, "or so we think--we who
consider that we have any business,--which is of course a foolish
idea,--but one that is universal to human nature. We all imagine we
are busy--which is so curious of us! Will you sit here?--Permit me!"
And he dexterously arranged a couple of cushions in an arm-chair and
placed it near the window. Angela half-reluctantly seated herself,
watching the Abbe under the shadow of her long lashes as he sat down
opposite to her. "Yes,--the emmets, the flies, the worms and the
men, are all of one equality in the absurd belief that they can do
things--things that will last. Their persistent self-credulity is
astonishing,--considering the advance the world has made in science,
and the overwhelming proofs we are always getting of the fact that
we are only One of an eternal procession of many mighty
civilizations, all of which have been swept away with everything
they have ever learnt, into silence,--so that really all we do, or
try to do, amounts to doing nothing in the end!"

"That is your creed, I know," said Angela Sovrani with a faint sigh,
"But it is a depressing and a wretched one."

"I do not find it so," responded the Abbe, complacently looking at a
fine diamond ring that glittered on the little finger of his plump
white hand, "It is a creed which impresses upon us the virtue of
being happy during the present moment, no matter what the next may
bring. Let each man enjoy himself according to his temperament and
capabilities. Do not impose bounds upon him--give him his liberty.
Let him alone. Do not try to bamboozle him with the idea that there
is a God looking after him. So will he be spared much disappointment
and useless blasphemy. If he makes his own affairs unpleasant in
this world', he will not be able to lift up his hands to the
innocent skies, which are only composed of pure ether, and blame an
impossible Large Person sitting up there who can have no part in
circumstances which are entirely unknown outside the earth's
ridiculously small orbit."

He smiled kindly as he spoke, and looked paternally at "the
Sovrani," who flushed with a sudden warmth that sent a wave of pale
rose over her face, and made her cheeks the colour of the flower she
wore.

"How cruel you are!" she said,--"How cold--how didactic! You would
give each man his freedom according to habit and temperament,--no
matter whether such habit and temperament led to crime or
otherwise,--you would impose upon him no creed,--no belief in
anything higher than himself,--and yet--you remain in the Church!"

The Abbe laughed softly.

"Chere Sovrani! You are angry--deliciously angry! Impulsively,
enthusiastically, beautifully vexed with me! I like to see you so,--
you are a woman of remarkable genius, and yet you are quite a little
child in heart,--a positive child, with beliefs and hopes! I should
not wonder if you even believed that love itself is eternal!--that
most passing of phantoms!--yes--and you exclaim against me because I
venture to think for myself? It is appalling that I should think for
myself and yet remain in the Church? My dear lady, you might just as
well, after unravelling the dirty entanglement of the Dreyfus case,
have turned upon our late friend Faure ancl exclaimed 'And yet you
remained President!'"