"A mystery then?" said Gherardi, still preserving his bland suavity of demeanour, "But permit me, Donna Sovrani, to express the hope that when the veil is lifted a crown of laurels may be disclosed for you!"
Angela thanked him by a silent inclination of her head, and in a few minutes the stately Vatican spy had taken his leave. As he disappeared the Cardinal rose from his chair and moving somewhat feebly, prepared to return to his own apartments.
"Dearest uncle, will you not stay with us to-night? Or are you too tired?" asked Angela as she came to his side.
He raised her sweet face between his two wrinkled hands and looked at her long and earnestly. "Dear child!" he said, "Dear brave little child! For you must always be nothing more than a child to me,—tell me, are you sure you are moved by the right spirit in the painting of your picture?"
"I think so!" answered Angela gently, "Indeed, indeed, I think so! I know that according to the teaching of our Master Christ, it is a TRUE spirit!"
Slowly the Cardinal released her, and slowly and with impressive earnestness traced the Cross on her fair brows.
"God bless you!" he said, "And God help you too! For if you work by 'the Spirit of Truth, the Comforter', remember it is the same Spirit which our Lord tells us 'the world cannot receive because it seeth Him not, neither knoweth Him.' And to testify of a Spirit which the world cannot receive makes the world very hard to you!"
And with these words he gently leaned on the arm she proffered and left the studio with her, the rich glow and voluminous folds of his scarlet robes contrasting vividly with the simple black gown which Angela wore without other adornment than a Niphetos rose to relieve its sombreness. As she went with her uncle she looked over her shoulder and smiled an adieu to Florian,—he, in his turn lightly kissed his hand to her, and then addressed Prince Pietro, who, with the care of a man to whom expense is a consideration, was putting out some of the tall lamps that had illumined the dusk of the late afternoon.
"The good Cardinal is surely breaking up," he said carelessly, "He looks extremely frail!"
"Young men sometimes break up before old ones!" returned the Prince drily, "Felix is strong enough yet. You dine with us to-night?"
"If you permit—" said Varillo, with a graceful salutation.
"Oh, my permission does not matter'" said Sovrani eyeing him narrowly, "Whatever gives pleasure to Angela must needs please me. She is all that is left to me now in an exceedingly dull world. A riverderci! At eight we dine."
Flonan nodded,—and took his departure, and the Prince for a moment stood hesitating, looking at the great white covering on the wall which concealed his daughter's mysterious work. His tall upright figure stiff and sombre, looked as if cast in bronze in the half light shed by the wood fire,—one lamp was still burning, and after a pause he moved from his rigid attitude of gloomy consideration, and extinguished it, then glancing round to see that all was in order, he left the studio, closing its great oaken door behind him. Five minutes after he had gone a soft step trod the polished floor, and the young Manuel, holding a lighted taper, entered all alone. The flame of the little torch he carried cast a soft golden glow about him as he walked noiselessly through the great empty room, his blue eyes lifted to the marble heads of gods and heroes which occupied their different positions on the gilded and oaken brackets set against the tapestried walls,—and presently he paused in front of Angela's hidden work. It was but a moment's pause, and then, still with the same light step, and the same bright glow reflected from the flame that glittered in his hand, he passed through the room, lifted the velvet portiere at the other end where there was another door leading to the corridor connected with the Cardinal's apartments, and so unnoticed, disappeared.
Meanwhile, the Marquis Fontenelle had been nearly a fortnight in Rome, living a sufficiently curious sort of life, and passing his time in a constant endeavour to avoid being discovered and recognised by any of his numerous acquaintances who were arriving there for the winter. His chief occupation was of course to watch the Comtesse Sylvie,—and he was rewarded for his untiring pains by constant and bewitching glimpses of her. Sometimes he would see her driving, wrapped in furs, her tiny Japanese dog curled up in a fold of her sables, and on her lap a knot of violets, the fresh scent of which came to him like a sweet breath on the air as she passed. Once he almost met her, face to face in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, walking all alone, and reading a book in which she seemed to be deeply interested. He made a few cautious enquiries about her, and learnt that she lived very quietly,—that she received certain "great" people,—especially Cardinals and Monsignori, notably Monsignor Gherardi, who was a constant visitor. But of any closer admirer he never gathered the slightest rumour, till one afternoon, just when the sun was sinking in full crimson glory behind the dome of St. Peter's, he saw her carriage come to a sudden halt on the Pincio and she herself leaned out of it to shake hands with, and talk to a tall fair man, who seemed to be on exceptionally friendly terms with her. It is true she was accompanied in the carriage by the famous Sovrani,—but that fact did not quell the sudden flame of jealousy which sprang up in Fontenelle's mind—for both ladies appeared equally charmed with the fair man, and their countenances were radiant with pleasure and animation all the time they were in conversation with him. When the carriage resumed its round again, the Marquis sauntered by a side path where he could take quiet observation of his apparent rival, who walked past him with a firm light step, looking handsome, happy, and amazingly confident. There was an old man raking the path, and of him Fontenelle asked carelessly,
"Do you know who that gentleman is?"
The gardener looked up and smiled.
"Ah, si, si! Il Signor Inglese! Molto generoso! Il Signor Aubri Lee!"
Aubrey Leigh! A "celebrity" then,—an English author;—not that all English authors are considered "celebrities" in Rome. Italian society makes very short work of spurious art, and closes its doors ruthlessly against mere English "Grub Street". But Aubrey Leigh was more than an author,—he was an influential power in the world, as the Marquis well knew.
"A great religious reformer! And yet a victim to the little Sylvie!" he mused, "Well! The two things will not work together. Though truly Sylvie would captivate a John Knox or a Cromwell. I really think,—I really do begin to think, that rather than lose her altogether, I must marry her!"
And he went back to the obscure hotel where he had chosen temporarily to reside in a meditative mood, and as he entered, was singularly annoyed to see a flaring poster outside, announcing the arrival of Miraudin and his whole French Company in Rome for a few nights only. The name "MIRAUDIN" glared at him in big, fat, red letters on a bright yellow ground; and involuntarily he muttered,
"D—n the fellow! Can I go nowhere in the world without coming across him!"
Irritated, and yet knowing his irritation to be foolish,—for after all, what was the famous actor to him?—what was there in his personality to annoy him beyond the trivial fact of a curious personal resemblance?—he retired to his room in no pleasant humour, and sitting down began to write a letter to Sylvie asking her to be his wife. Yet somehow the power of expression seemed lacking, and once or twice he laid down his pen in a fit of abstraction, wondering why, when he had sought Sylvie as a lover only, he had been able to write the most passionate love phrases, full of ardour and poetry, and now, when he was about to make her the offer of his whole life, his sentences were commonplace and almost cold. And presently he tore up what he had been writing, and paced the room impatiently.
"The fact is I shall make a bad husband, and I know it!" he said candidly to himself, "And Sylvie will make a great mistake if she accepts me!"
He walked to the window and looked out. His hotel was not in a fashionable or frequented quarter of Rome, and the opposite view of the street was anything but enlivening. Dirty, frowsy women,—idle men, lounging along with the slouching gait which is common to the 'unemployed' Italian,—half-naked children, running hither and thither in the mud, and screaming like tortured wild animals,—this kind of shiftless, thriftless humanity, pictured against the background of ugly modern houses, such as one might find in a London back slum, made up a cheerless prospect, particularly as the blue sky was clouded and it was beginning to rain. One touch of colour brightened the scene for a moment, when a girl with a yellow handkerchief tied round her head passed along, carrying a huge flat basket overflowing with bunches of purple violets, and as Fontenelle caught the hue, and imagined the fragrance of the flowers, he was surprised to feel his eyes smart with a sudden sting of tears. The picture of Sylvie Hermenstein, with her child-like head, fair hair, and deep blue eyes, floated before him,—she was fond of violets, and whenever she wore them, their odour seemed to be the natural exhalation of her sweet and spirituelle personality.
"She is much too good for me!" he said half aloud, "To be perfectly honest with myself, I know I have no stability of character, and I cannot imagine myself remaining constant to any woman for more than six months. And the best way is to be perfectly straight-forward about it."
He sat down again, and without taking any more thought wrote straight from the heart of his present humour, addressing her by the name he had once playfully bestowed upon her.
"Enchanteresse! I am here in Rome, and this brief letter is to ask, without preamble or apology, whether you will do me the infinite honour to become my wife. I confess to you honestly that I am not worth this consideration on your part, for I am not to be relied upon. I repose no confidence in myself, therefore I will leave it to you to measure my audacity in making the suggestion that you should place a lifetime's confidence in me. But with all my heart, (as much as I know of it at the present), I desire to show you what respect so poor a life as mine can give to one who deserves all tenderness, as well as trust. If I may hope that you will pardon my past follies and libertinage with regard to you,—if you can love me well enough to wear my not too exalted name, and preserve my remaining stock of honour, summon me to your presence, and I will endeavour, by such devotion and fidelity as in me lies, to atone for whatsoever offence I may have given you previously by my too passionate pursuit of your beauty. Yours, unless you decide my fate otherwise,
Thrusting this note into an envelope he hastily sealed it, but decided not to post it till late at night, in order that Sylvie might only receive it with the early morning, when her mind was fresh, and unswayed by any opinions or events of a long day. And to pass the time he strolled out to one of the many "osterie," or wine-houses which abound in Rome,—a somewhat famous example of its kind in the Via Quattro Fontane. Choosing a table where he could sit with his back turned towards the door, so as to avoid being seen by either strangers or possible friends, he took up the Giornale Romano, and ordered a "mezzo-litro" of the "Genzano" wine, for which that particular house has long been celebrated. He sat there about half an hour thus quietly reading,—scarcely hearing the loud voices and louder laughter of the men who came and went around him, when suddenly the name "Sylvie Hermenstein" caught his ear. It was spoken carelessly and accompanied with a laugh. Quietly laying down his newspaper, he sat very still in his chair, keeping his back turned to the groups of wine drinkers who were gathering in large numbers as the evening advanced, and listened.
"The most delicious little bonbon in the whole box! Jolie a craquer!" said a man's voice.
"Chocolat fondant! Garantie tres pure!" cried another, his words being followed by a shout of laughter.
Fontenelle gripped the arm of his chair, and held himself rigid, but ready to spring.
"The Church always knows where to find the prettiest women," said the first man who had spoken, "from the Santissima Madonna downwards! What would become of the Pope if it were not for the women!"
"Bah! The Pope is only one man, but what would become of all the Monsignori?" asked a voice different to the rest in mellowness and deep quality, but with a touch of insolent mockery in its tone.
Another burst of laughter answered him.
Fontenelle turned in his chair and looked at the last speaker, and to his amazement saw the actor, Miraudin. He was leaning carelessly against the wine counter, a half-emptied "fiaschetto" in front of him, and a full glass of wine in his hand.
"The Monsignori would be all desolate bachelors!" he went on, lazily, "And the greatest rascal in the Vatican, Domenico Gherardi, would no longer be the fortunate possessor of the wealth, the influence, and the dear embraces of the fascinating Hermenstein!"
Scarcely had he spoken when the glass he held was dashed out of his hand, and Fontenelle, white with fury, struck him smartly and full across the face. A scene of the wildest confusion and uproar ensued. All the men in the wine-shop crowded around them, and for a moment Miraudin, blinded by the blow, and the wine that had splashed up against his eyes, did not see who had struck him, but as he recovered from the sudden shock and stared at his opponent, he broke into a wild laugh.
"Diantre! Ban soir, Monsieur le Marquis! Upon my life, there is something very strange in this! Fate or the devil, or both! Well! What now!"
"You are a liar and a blackguard!" said Fontenelle fiercely, "And unless you apologise for your insult to the lady whose name you have presumed to utter with your mountebank tongue—"
"Apologise! I! Moi!—genie de France! Never!" retorted Miraudin with an air of swaggering audacity, "All women are alike! I speak from experience!"
White to the lips, the Marquis Fontenelle looked around.
"Are there any MEN here?" he asked, eying the crowd about him with ineffable hauteur.
A young fellow stepped forward. "At your command, Marquis! You served me once—I shall be happy to serve you now!"
Quickly Fontenelle shook hands with this timely friend. He recognised in him a young Italian officer, named Ruspardi, an acquaintance of some years back, to whom he had chanced to be useful in a pressing moment of need.
"Thanks! Arrange everything for me, will you, Ruspardi? And as quickly as possible!"
"It is nearly midnight now," said Ruspardi in a low tone, "Shall we say five or six in the morning?"
"Yes—anything you like—but quickly!"
Then raising his head haughtily, he addressed Miraudin in distinct tones.
"Monsieur Miraudin, you have greatly insulted and falsely slandered a lady whom I have the honour to know. I have struck you for your lie; and consider you worthy of no further treatment save a horsewhipping in public. Gentlemen do not as a rule condescend to meet their paid servants—actors and the like,—in single combat—but I will do you that honour!"
And with these words he bowed haughtily to all present, and left the scene of noisy disorder.
Out in the streets the moonlight lay in broad silver bands, like white glistening ribbon spread in shining strips across the blackness, and there was a moisture in the air which,—dropped as it were fresh, from the surrounding hills,—cooled Fontenelle's flushed face and burning brows. He walked rapidly,—he had a vague, unformed desire in his mind to see Sylvie again if possible. He knew where she lived, and he soon turned down the street where the quaint old central balcony of the Casa D'Angeli thrust itself forward into the moon-rays among the sculptured angels' wings,—and he saw that the windows were open. Pausing underneath he waited, hesitating—full of strange thoughts and stranger regrets. How poor and valueless seemed his life as he regarded it now!—now when he had voluntarily placed it in jeopardy! What had he done with his days of youth and prime? Frittered away every valuable moment,—thrown to the winds every costly opportunity,—spent his substance on light women who had kissed and clung to him one day, and repulsed him the next. Well—and after? His heart beat thickly,—if he could only see Sylvie for a moment! Hush! There was a murmur—a voice—a ripple of sweet laughter; and moving cautiously back into the shadows, he looked up—yes!—there she was—clad in some soft silvery stuff that gathered a thousand sparkles from the light of the moon,—her fair hair caught up in a narrow circlet of diamonds, and her sweet face purely outlined against the dark worn stone of one of the great carved angel-wings. But someone was with her,—someone whom Fontenelle recognised at once by the classic shape of his head and bright curly hair,—the man whom he had seen that very day on the Pincio,—Aubrey Leigh. With a jealous tightening at his heart, Fontenelle saw that Leigh held the soft plume of downy feathers which served Sylvie for a fan, and that he was lightly waving it to and fro as he talked to her in the musical, all-potent voice which had charmed thousands, and would surely not be without its fascination for the sensitive ears of a woman. Moving a little closer he tried to hear what was being said,—but Leigh spoke very softly, and Sylvie answered with equal softness, so that he could catch no distinct word. Yet the mere tone of these two voices melted into a harmony more dulcet and perfect than could be endured by Fontenelle with composure, and uttering an impatient exclamation at his own folly he hastily left his retreat, and with one parting glance up at the picture of fair loveliness above him walked swiftly away. Returning to his hotel he saw the letter that he had written to Sylvie lying on the table, and he at once posted it. Then he began to prepare for his encounter with Miraudin. He dressed quickly,—wrote a few business letters,—and was about to lie down for a rest of an hour or so when the swift and furious galloping of a horse's hoofs awoke the echoes of the quiet street, and almost before he had time to realise what had happened, his friend Ruspardi stood before him, breathless and wild with excitement.
"Marquis, you are tricked!" he cried, "Everything is prepared—seconds,—pistols,—all! But your man—your man has gone!"
"Gone!" exclaimed Fontenelle furiously, "Where?"
"Out of Rome! In a common fiacre—taking his latest mistress, one of the stage-women with him. They were seen driving by the Porta Pia towards the Campagna half an hour ago! He dare not face fire—bully and coward that he is!"
"I will go after him!" said Fontenelle promptly, "Half an hour ahead, you say! Good!—I will catch him up. Can I get a horse anywhere?"
"Take mine," said Ruspardi eagerly, "he is perfectly fresh—just out of the stable. Have you weapons?"
"Yes," and the Marquis unlocked a case, and loading two, placed them in a travelling holder. Then, turning to Ruspardi he shook hands.
"Thanks, a thousand times! There are a few letters here—see to them ifI should not come back."
"What are you going to do?" asked Ruspardi, his excitement beginning to cool a little, now that he saw the possible danger into which Fontenelle was voluntarily rushing.
"Persuade the worthy mountebank either to come back or fight at once on whatever ground I find him, and assume to be a gentleman—for once!" said Fontenelle, carelessly. "Addio!"
And without further words he hurried off, and tossing a twenty-franc piece to the sleepy hotel porter who was holding Ruspardi's horse outside, he flung himself into the saddle and galloped away. Ruspardi, young and hotblooded, was of too mercurial a disposition to anticipate any really serious results of the night's adventure;—his contempt for a coward was far greater than his fear of death, and he was delighted to think that in all probability the Marquis would use his riding-whip on Miraudin's back rather than honour him by a pistol shot. And so dismissing all fears from his mind he took Fontenelle's letters in his charge, and went straight out of the hotel singing gaily, charmed with the exciting thought of the midnight chase which was going on, and the possible drubbing and discomfiture of the "celebrated" Miraudin.
Meanwhile, under the flashing stars, and through the sleeping streets of Rome, the Marquis galloped with almost breakneck haste. He was a daring rider, and the spirited animal he bestrode soon discovered the force of his governing touch,—the resolve of his urging speed. He went by the Porta Pia, remembering Ruspardi's hurried description of the route taken by the runaway actor, and felt, rather than saw the outline of the Villa Torlonia, as he rushed past, and the Basilica of St. Agnese Fuori le Mura, which is supposed to cover the tomb of the child-martyr St. Agnes,—then across the Ponte Nomentano, till, two miles further on, in the white radiance of the moon, he perceived, driving rapidly ahead of him, the vehicle of which he was in pursuit. Letting the reins fall loosely on the neck of his straining steed, he raised himself in his stirrups, and by his own movements assisted the animal's now perfectly reckless gallop,—and at last, hearing the flying hoofs behind, the driver of the fiacre became seized with panic, and thinking of possible brigands and how to pacify them, he suddenly pulled up and came to a dead halt. A head was thrust out of the carriage window,—Miraudin's head,—and Miraudin's voice shouted in bad Italian,
"What are you stopping for, rascal! On with you! On with you! Five hundred francs for your best speed!"
Scarcely had he uttered the words when the Marquis gained the side of the vehicle, and pulling up his horse till it almost fell in rearing backwards, he cried furiously,
"Lache! Tu vas te crever sur terre avant je te quitte!"
And he struck his riding-whip full in the actor's face.
Springing out of the fiacre Miraudin confronted his antagonist. His hat was off—and his countenance, marked as it was with the crimson line of the lash, lightened with laughter.
"Again! Monsieur le Marquis, je vous salue!" he said, "Kismet! One cannot escape it! Better to fight with you, beau sire, than with destiny! I am ready!"
Fontenelle at once dismounted, and tied his horse to the knotted bough of a half-withered tree. Taking his pistols out of their holder he proffered them to Miraudin.
"Choose!" he said curtly, "Or use your own if you have any,—but mine are loaded,—take care yours are! Play no theatrical tricks on such a stage as this! "And then he gave a comprehensive wave of his hand towards the desolate waste of the Campagna around them, and the faint blue misty lines of the Alban hills just rimmed with silver in the rays of the moon.
At the first sight of the pistols the driver of the fiacre, who had been more or less stupefied till now, by the suddenness of the adventure, gave a sort of whining cry, and climbing down from his box fell on his knees before Miraudin, and then ran a few paces and did the same thing in front of the Marquis, imploring both men not to fight,—not to get killed, on account of the trouble it would cause to him, the coachman;—and with a high falsetto shriek a lady flung herself out of the recesses of the closed vehicle, and clung to the actor's arm.
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What is it you would do?" she cried, "Be killed out here on the Campagna? and not a soul in sight—not a house—not a shelter? And what is to become of me!—Me!—Me!—" and she tapped her heaving bosom in melodramatic style, "Have you thought of ME?"
"You—you!" laughed Miraudin, tearing off the lace veil which she wore wrapped loosely round her head and shoulders, "You, Jeanne Richaud! What is to become of you? The same fate will attend you that attends all such little moths of the footlights! Perhaps a dozen more lovers after me—then old age, and the care of a third-class lodging-house for broken-down actors!" Here he chose his weapon. "At your service, Marquis!"
Jeanne Richaud, a soubrette, whose chief stock-in-trade had been her large dark eyes and shapely legs, uttered a desperate scream, and threw herself at the feet of the Marquis Fontenelle.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! Think for a moment! This combat is unequal—out of rule! You are a gentleman,—a man of honour!—would you fight without seconds? It is murder—murder—!"
Here she broke off, terrified in spite of herself by the immovability of Fontenelle's attitude, and the coldness of his eyes.
"I regret to pain you, Madame," he said stiffly, "This combat was arranged according to rule between Monsieur Miraudin and myself some hours since—and though it seems he did not intend to keep his engagement I intend to keep mine! The principals in the fight are here,—seconds are, as their name implies, a secondary matter. We must do without them."
"By no means!" exclaimed Miraudin, "We have them! Here they are! You, Jeanne, will you be my second—how often you have seconded me in many a devil's game—and you—cochon d'un cocher!—you will for once in your life support the honour of a Marquis!"
And with these words he seized the unhappy Roman cab-driver by the collar of his coat, and flung him towards Fontenelle, who took not the slightest notice of him as he lay huddled up and wailing on the grass, but merely stood his ground, silently waiting. Mademoiselle Jeanne Richaud however was not so easily disposed of. Throwing herself on the cold ground, thick with the dust of dead Caesars, she clung to Miraudin, pouring out a torrent of vociferous French, largely intermixed with a special slang of the Paris streets, and broken by the hysterical yells when she saw her "protector" throw off his coat, and, standing in his shirt-sleeves, take close observation of the pistol he held.
"Is this your care of me?" she cried, "Mon Dieu! What a thing is a man! Here am I alone in a strange country—and you endanger your life for some quarrel of which I know nothing,—yet you pretend to love me! Nom de Jesus! What is your love!"
"You do well to ask," said Miraudin, laughing carelessly, "What is my love! A passing fancy, chere petite! We actors simulate love too well to ever feel it! Out of the way, jou-jou! Your life will be amusing so long as you keep a little beaute de diable. After that—the lodging-house!"
He pushed her aside, but she still clung pertinaciously to his arm.
"Victor! Victor!" she wailed, "Will you not look at me—will you not kiss me!"
Miraudin wheeled round, and stared at her amazed.
"Kiss you!" he echoed, "Pardieu! Would you care! Jeanne! Jeanne! You are a little mad,—the moonlight is too much for you! To-morrow I will kiss you, when the sun rises—or if I am not here—why, somebody else will!"
"Who is the woman you are fighting for?" she suddenly demanded, springing up from her crouching position with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. Miraudin looked at her with nonchalant admiration.
"I wish you would have looked like that sometimes on my stage," he said, "You would have brought down the house! 'Woman!' No 'woman' at all, but WOMEN! The glamour of them—the witchery of them—women!—the madness of them! Women!—The ONE woman saves when the ONE woman exists, but then,—we generally kill HER! Now, once more, Jeanne,—out of the way! Time flies, and Monsieur le Marquis is in haste. He has many fashionable engagements!"
He flashed upon her a look from the bright amorous hazel eyes, that were potent to command and difficult to resist, and she cowered back, trembling and sobbing hysterically as the Marquis advanced.
"You are ready?" he enquired civilly.
"Ready!"
"Shall we say twelve paces?"
"Excellent!"
Deliberately Fontenelle dug his heel into the ground and measured twelve paces from that mark between himself and his antagonist. Then with cold courtesy he stood aside for Miraudin to assure himself that the measurement was correct. The actor complied with this formality in a sufficiently composed way, and with a certain grace and dignity which Fontenelle might almost have taken for bravery if he had not been so convinced that the man was "acting" still in his mind, and was going through a "part" which he disliked, but which he was forced to play. And with it all there was something indefinable about him—something familiar in the turn of his head, the glance of his eye, the movement of his body, which annoyed Fontenelle, because he saw in all these little personal touches such a strong resemblance to himself. But there was now no time to think, as the moment for the combat drew near. Jeanne Richaud was still weeping hysterically and expostulating with the cab-driver, who paid no attention whatsoever to her pleadings, but remained obstinately on his knees out of harm's way, begging the "Santissima Madonna" and all his "patron saints" to see him safely with his fiacre back to the city. That was all he cared for.
"We have no one to give us a signal," said Miraudin lightly, "But there is a cloud on the moon. When it passes, shall we fire?"
The Marquis bowed assent.
For a moment the moon-rays were obscured,—and a faint sigh from the wind stirred the long dry grass. A bat flew by, scurrying towards the Catacombs of Alexander,—a shadow lay upon the land. The combatants,—so singularly alike in form and feature,—stood rigidly in position, their weapons raised,—their only witnesses a cabman and a wanton, both creatures terrified out of their wits for themselves and their own safety. Swiftly the cloud passed—and a brilliant silver glory was poured out on hill and plain and broken column,—and as it shone, the two shots were fired simultaneously—the two bullets whizzed through the air. A light puff of smoke rose in the moonbeams—it cleared—and Miraudin reeled backwards and fell heavily to the ground. Fontenelle stood upright, but staggered a little,—instinctively putting his hand to his breast. Jeanne Richaud rushed to the side of her fallen lover.
"Victor! Victor!"
Miraudin struggled up to a half sitting position—the blood was welling up thickly from a wound in his lungs. Half suffocated as he was, he made a strong effort to speak, and succeeded.
"Not you—not you!" he gasped, "Do not touch me! Do not come near me! Him!—him!" And he pointed to Fontenelle who still stood erect, swaying slightly to and fro with a dazed far-off look in his eyes—but now—as the frenzied soubrette beckoned him, he moved unsteadily to the side of his mortally wounded opponent, and there, through weakness, not emotion, dropped on his knees. Miraudin looked at him with staring filmy eyes.
"How I have hated you, Monsieur le Marquis!" he muttered thickly, "How I have hated you! Yes—as Cain hated Abel! For we—we are brothers as they were—born of the same father—ah! You start!" for Fontenelle uttered a gasping cry—"Yes—in spite of your pride, your lineage, your insolent air of superiority—YOUR father was MY father!—the late Marquis was no more satisfied with one wife than any of us are!—and had no higher code of honour! YOUR mother was a grande dame,—MINE was a 'light o' love' like this feeble creature!" and he turned his glance for a moment on the shuddering, wailing Jeanne Richaud. "YOU were the legal Marquis—Ithe illegal genius! . . . yes—genius—!"
He broke off, struggling for breath.
"Do you hear me?" he whispered thickly, "Do you hear?"
"I hear," answered Fontenelle, speaking with difficulty, "You have hated me, you say—hate me no more!—for hate is done with—and love also!—I am—dying!"
He grasped the rank grass with both hands in sudden agony, and his face grew livid. Miraudin turned himself on one arm.
"Dying! You, too! By Heaven! Then the Marquisate must perish! I should have fired in the air—but—but the sins of the fathers . . . what is it?" Here a ghastly smile passed over his features, "The sins of the fathers—are visited on the children! What a merciful Deity it is, to make such an arrangement!—and the excellent fathers!—when all the children meet them—I wonder what they will have to say to each other I wonder . . ." A frightful shudder convulsed his body and he threw up his arms.
"'Un peu d'amour,Et puis—bon soir!'
C'est ca! Bon soir, Marquis!"
A great sigh broke from his lips, through which the discoloured blood began to ooze slowly—he was dead. And Fontenelle, whose wound bled inwardly, turned himself wearily round to gaze on the rigid face upturned to the moon. His brother's face! So like his own! He was not conscious himself of any great pain—he felt a dizzy languor and a drowsiness as of dreams—but he knew what the dreaming meant,—he knew that he would soon sleep to wake again—but where? He did not see that the woman who had professed to love Miraudin had already rushed away from his corpse in terror, and was entreating the cabman to drive her quickly from the scene of combat,—he realised nothing save the white moonbeams on the still face of the man who in God's sight had been his brother. Fainter and still fainter grew his breath—but he felt near his heart for a little crumpled knot of filmy lace which he always carried—a delicate trifle which had fallen from one of Sylvie's pretty evening gowns once, when he had caught her in his arms and sworn his passion. He kissed it now, and inhaled its violet perfume—as he took it from his lips he saw that it was stained with blood. The heavy languor upon him grew heavier—and in the dark haze which began to float before his eyes he saw women's faces, some beautiful, some devilish, yet all familiar,—he felt himself sinking—sinking into some deep abyss of shadows, so dark and dreary that he shuddered with the icy cold and horror, till Sylvie came, yes!—Sylvie's soft eyes shone upon him, full of the pity and tenderness of some divine angel near God's throne,—an angel of sweetness—an angel of forgiveness—ah!—so sweet she was, so childlike, so trusting, so fair, so enticing in those exquisite ways of hers which had pleaded with him, prayed to him, tried to draw him back from evil, and incite him to noble thought; "ways" that would have persuaded him to cleanse his flag of honour from the mud of social vice and folly, and lift it to the heavens white and pure! Ah, sweet ways!—sweet voice!—sweet woman!—sweet possibilities of life now gone forever! Again that sinking,—that icy chill! His eyes were closing—yet he forced himself to open them as he sank back heavily on the turf, and then—then he saw the great white moon descending on him as it seemed, like a shield of silver flung down to crush him, by some angry god!
"Sylvie!—Sylvie!" he muttered, "I never knew—how much I loved you—till-now! Sylvie!"
His eyes closed—a little smile flickered on his mouth for a moment—and then the Shadow fell. And he lay stark and pallid in the moonlight, close to the brother he had never known till the last hour of life had revealed the bond of blood between them. Side by side they lay,—strangely alike in death,—men to whom the possibilities of noble living had been abundantly given, and who had wasted all their substance on vanity. For Victor Miraudin, despite his genius and the brilliancy of his art, was not likely to be longer remembered or mourned than the Marquis Fontenelle. The fame of the actor is even less than that of the great noble,—the actor's name is but a bubble on the air which a breath disperses,—and the heir to a proud house is only remembered by the flattering inscription on his tombstone. Forgotten Caesars, greater than any living monarch, had mixed their bones with the soil where these two sons of one father lay dead,—the bright moon was their sanctuary lamp,—the stars their funeral torches,—the width of the Campagna their bier, and the heavens their pall. And when the two terrified witnesses of the fatal fight realised the position, and saw that both combatants had truly perished, there were no regrets, no lamentations, no prayers, no thought of going for assistance. With the one selfish idea uppermost,—that of escaping immediate trouble—Jeanne Richaud rallied her scattered wits, and dragging the praying and gesticulating cab-driver up from his knees, she bade him mount his box and drive her back to the city. Tremblingly he prepared to obey, but not without unfastening the horse which the dead Marquis had so lately ridden, and taking some trouble to attach it to his vehicle for his own uses.
"For if we do this, they will never know!" he muttered with chattering teeth, "A horse is always a horse—and this is a good animal, more valuable than the men;—and when they find the men that is none of our business. In—in with you, Madama! I will drive you into the city,—that is, if you give me a thousand francs instead of the five hundred your man promised me! Otherwise I will leave you here!"
"A thousand!" shrieked Richaud, "Oh, thief! You know I am a poor stranger—Oh, mon Dieu! Do not murder me!" This, as the driver, having hustled her into the vehicle and shut the door, now shook his dirty fist at her threateningly. "Oh!—what a night of horror! Yes—yes!—a thousand!—anything!—only take me back to Rome!"
Satisfied in his own mind that he had intimidated her sufficiently to make her give him whatever he demanded, the driver who, despite his native cupidity, was seriously alarmed for his own safety, hesitated no longer, and the noise of the dashing wheels and the galloping hoofs woke loud echoes from the road, and dull reverberations from the Ponte Nomentano, as the equipage, with two horses now instead of one, clattered out of sight. And then came silence,—the awful silence of the Campagna—a silence like no other silence in the world—brooding like darkness around the dead.
The next morning dawned with all the strange half mystical glow of light and colour common to the Italian sky,—flushes of pink warmed the gray clouds, and dazzling, opalescent lines of blue suggested the sun without declaring it,—and Sylvie Hermenstein, who had passed a restless and wakeful night, rose early to go on one of what her society friends called her "eccentric" walks abroad, before the full life of the city was up and stirring. She, who seemed by her graceful mignonne fascinations and elegant toilettes, just a butterfly of fashion and no more, was truly of a dreamy and poetic nature,—she had read very deeply, and the griefs and joys of humanity presented an ever-varying problem to her refined and penetrative mind. She was just now interesting herself in subjects which she had never studied so closely before,—and she was gradually arriving at the real secret of the highest duty of life,—that of serving and working for others without consideration for oneself. A great love was teaching her as only a great love can;—a love which she scarcely dared to admit to herself, but which nevertheless was beginning to lead her step by step, into that mysterious land, half light, half shadow, which is the nearest road to Heaven,—a land where we suffer gladly for another's sorrow, and are joyous in our own griefs, because another is happy! To love ONE greatly, means to love ALL more purely,—and to find heart-room and sympathy for the many sorrows and perplexities of those who are not as uplifted as ourselves. For the true mission of the divine passion in its divinest form, is that it should elevate and inspire the soul, bringing it to the noblest issues, and for this it must be associated with respect, as well as passion. No true soul can love what it does not sincerely feel to be worthy of love. And Sylvie—the brilliant little caressable Sylvie, whose warm heart had been so long unsatisfied, was, if not yet crowned by the full benediction of love, still gratefully aware of the wonderful colour and interest which had suddenly come into her life with the friendship of Aubrey Leigh. His conversation, so different to the "small talk" of the ordinary man, not only charmed her mind, but strengthened and tempered it,—his thoughtful and tender personal courtesy filled her with that serenity which is always the result of perfect manner,—his high and pure ideas of life moved her to admiration and homage,—and when she managed to possess herself of every book he had written, and had read page after page, sentence after sentence, of the glowing, fervent, passionate language, in which he denounced shams and glorified truth,—the firmness and fearlessness with which he condemned religious hypocrisy, and lifted pure Christianity to the topmost pinnacle of any faith ever known or accepted in the world, her feelings for him, while gaining fresh warmth, grew deeper and more serious, merging into reverence as well as submission. She had a book of his with her as a companion to her walk this very morning, and as she entered the Pamphili woods, where she had a special "permesso" to go whenever she chose, and trod the mossy paths, where the morning sun struck golden shafts between the dark ilex-boughs, as though pointing to the thousands of violets that blossomed in the grass beneath, she opened it at a page containing these lines:—
"Who is it that dares assert that his life or his thoughts are his own? No man's life is his own! It is given to him in charge to use for the benefit of others,—and if he does not so use it, it is often taken from him when he least expects it. 'THOU FOOL, THIS NIGHT THY LIFE SHALL BE REQUIRED OF THEE!' No man's thoughts even, are his own. They are the radiations of the Infinite Mind of God which pass through every living atom. The beggar may have the same thought as the Prime Minister,—he only lacks the power of expression. The more helpless and inept the beggar, the greater the responsibility of the Premier. For the Premier has received education, culture, training, and the choice of the people, and to him is given the privilege of voicing the beggar's thought. And not only the beggar's thought, but the thoughts of all in the nation who have neither the skill nor the force to speak. If he does not do what he is thus elected to do, he is but an inefficient master of affairs. And what shall we say of the ministers of Religion who are 'ordained' to voice the Message of Christ? To echo the Divine!—to repeat the grand Ethics of Life,—the Law of Love and Charity and Forbearance and Pity and Forgiveness! When one of these highly destined servants of the Great King fails in his duty,—when he cannot pardon the sinner,—when he looks churlishly upon a child, or condemns the innocent amusements of the young and happy,—when he makes the sweet Sabbath a day of penance instead of praise—of tyranny instead of rest,—when he has no charity for backsliders, no sympathy for the sorrowful, no toleration for the contradictors of his own particular theory—do we not feel that his very existence is a blasphemy, and his preaching a presumption!"
Here Sylvie raised her eyes from the book. She was near an ancient cedar-tree whose dark spreading boughs, glistening with the early morning dew, sparkled like a jewelled canopy in the sun,—at her feet the turf was brown and bare, but a little beyond at the turn of the pathway, a cluster of white narcissi waved their graceful stems to the light wind. There was a rustic bench close by, and she sat down to rest and think. Very sweet thoughts were hers,—such thoughts as sweet women cherish when they dream of Love. Often the dream vanishes before realisation, but this does not make the time of dreaming less precious or less fair. Lost in a reverie which in its pleasantness brought a smile to her lips, she did not hear a stealthy footstep on the grass behind her, or feel a pair of dark eyes watching her furtively from between the cedar-boughs,—and she started with surprise, and something of offence also, as Monsigner Gherardi suddenly appeared and addressed her,—
"Buon giorno, Contessa!"
She rose from her seat and saluted him in silence, instinctively grasping the book she held a little closer. But Gherardi's quick glance had already perceived the title and the name of its author.
"You improve the time!" he said, sarcastically, pacing slowly beside her. "To one of your faith and devotion that book should be accursed!"
She raised her clear eyes and looked at him straightly,
"Is the sunlight accursed?" she said, "The grass or the flowers? The thoughts in this book are as pure and beautiful as they!"
Gherardi smiled. The enthusiasm of a woman's unspoilt nature was always a source of amusement to him.
"Your sentiments are very pretty and poetic!" he said, "But they are exaggerated. That book is on the 'Index'!"
"Yes, of course it would be!" answered Sylvie quietly, "I have often wondered why so much fine literature is condemned by the Church,—and do you know, it occurred to me the other day that if our Lord had WRITTEN what He said in the form of a book, it might be placed on the 'Index' also?"
Gherardi lifted his eyes from their scrutiny of the ground, and fixed them upon her with a look of amazement that was almost a menace. But she was not in the least intimidated,—and her face, though pale as the narcissi she had just seen in blossom, was very tranquil.
"Are you the Comtesse Hermenstein?" said Gherardi then, after an impressive pause, "The faithful, gentle daughter of Holy Church? or are you some perverted spirit wearing her semblance?"
Sylvie laughed.
"If I am a perverted spirit you ought to be able to exorcise me, Monsignor!" she said,—"With the incense of early Mass clinging to you, and the holy water still fresh on your hands, you have only to say, 'Retro me Sathanas!' and if I am NOT Sylvie Hermenstein I shall melt into thin air, leaving nothing but the odour of sulphur behind me! But if I AM Sylvie Hermenstein, I shall remain invincible and immovable,—both in myself and in my opinions!"
Gherardi controlled his rising irritation, and was silent for some minutes, reflecting within himself that if the fair Countess had suddenly turned restive and wayward, it was probably because she was falling in love with the author whose works she defended, and taking this into consideration, he judged it would be wisest to temporise.
"Invincible you always are!" he said in softer tones, "As many unhappy men in Europe can testify!"
"Are you among them?" queried Sylvie mischievously, the light of laughter beginning to twinkle and flash in her pretty eyes.
"Of course!" answered Gherardi suavely, though his heart beat thickly, and the secret admiration he had always felt for the delicate beauty of this woman who was so utterly out of his reach, made his blood burn with mingled rage and passion. "Even a poor priest is not exempt from temptation!"
Sylvie hummed a little tune under her breath, and looked up at the sky.
"It will be a lovely day!" she said—"There will be no rain!"
"Is that the most interesting thing you can say to me?" queriedGherardi.
"The weather is always interesting," she replied, "And it is such a safe subject of conversation!"
"Then you are afraid of dangerous subjects?"
"Oh no, not at all! But I dislike quarrelling,—and I am afraid I should get very angry if you were to say anything more against the book I am reading"—here she paused a moment, and then added steadily, "or its author!"
"I am aware that he is a great friend of yours," said Gherardi gently, "And I assure you, Contessa—seriously I assure you, I should be the last person in the world to say anything against him. Indeed, there is nothing to say, beyond the fact that he is, according to our religion, a heretic—but he is a brilliant and intellectual heretic,—WELL WORTH REDEEMING!" He emphasised the words, and shot a meaning glance at her; but she did not appear to take his hint or fathom his intention. She walked on steadily, her eyes downcast,—her tiny feet, shod in charming little French walking shoes, peeping in and out with a flash of steel on their embroidered points, from under the mysterious gleam of silk flounces that gave a soft "swish," as she moved,—her golden hair escaping in one or two silky waves from under a picturesque black hat, fastened on by velvet ribbons, which were tied in a captivating knot under the sweetest of little white chins, a chin whose firm contour almost contradicted the sensitive lines of the kissable mouth above it. A curious, dull sense of anger teased the astute brain of Domenico Gherardi, as with all the dignified deportment of the stately churchman, he walked on by her side. What was all his scheming worth, he began to think, if this slight feminine creature proved herself more than a match for him? The utmost he could do with his life and ambitions was to sway the ignorant, cram his coffers with gold, and purchase a change of mistresses for his villa at Frascati. But love,—real love, from any human creature alive he never had won, and knew he never should win. Sylvie Hermenstein was richer far than he,—she had not only wealth and a great position, but the joys of a natural existence, and of a perfect home-life were not denied to her. Presently, seeing that they were approaching the gates of exit from the Pamphili, he said,—
"Contessa, will you give me the favour of an hour's conversation with you one afternoon this week? I have something of the very greatest importance to say to you."
"Can you not say it now?" asked Sylvie.
"No, it would take too long,—besides, if walls have ears, it is possible that gardens have tongues! I should not presume to trouble you, were it not for the fact that my business concerns the welfare of your friend, Mr. Aubrey Leigh, in whose career I think you are interested,—and not only Mr. Leigh, but also Cardinal Bonpre. You will be wise to give me the interview I seek,—unwise if you refuse it!"
"Monsignor, you have already been well received at my house, and will be well received again,"—said Sylvie with a pretty dignity, "Provided you do not abuse my hospitality by calumniating my FRIENDS, whatever you may think of myself,—you will be welcome! What day, and at what hour shall I expect you?"
Gherardi considered a moment.
"I will write," he said at last, "I cannot at this moment fix the time, but I will not fail to give you notice. A riverderci! Benedicite!"
And he left her abruptly at the gates, walking rapidly in the direction of the Vatican. Full of vague perplexities to which she could give no name, Sylvie went homewards slowly, and as she entered her rooms, and responded to the affectionate morning greetings of Madame Bozier, she was conscious of a sudden depression that stole over her bright soul like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and made her feel chilled and sad. Turning over the numerous letters that waited her perusal, she recognised the handwriting of the Marquis Fontenelle on one, and took it up with a strange uneasy dread and beating of the heart. She read it twice through, before entirely grasping its meaning, and then—as she realised that the man who had caused her so much pain and shame by his lawless and reckless pursuit of her in the character of a libertine, was now, with a frank confession of his total unworthiness, asking her to be his wife,—the tears rushed to her eyes, and a faint cry broke from her lips.
"Oh, I cannot . . . I cannot!" she murmured, "Not now—not now!"
Madame Bozier looked at her in distress and amazement.
"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, "Some bad news?"
Silently Sylvie handed her Fontenelle's letter.
"Dear me! He is actually in Rome!" said the old lady, "And he asks you to be his wife! Well, dear child, is not that what you had a right to expect from him?"
"Yes—perhaps—but I cannot—not now!—Oh no, not now!" murmuredSylvie, and her eyes, wet with tears, were full of an infinite pain.
"But—pardon me dear—do you not love him?"
Sylvie stood silent—gazing blankly before her, with such perplexity and sorrow in her face that her faithful gouvernante grew anxious and troubled.
"Child, do not look like that!" she exclaimed, "It cuts me to the heart! You were not made for sorrow!"
"Dear Katrine,—we were all made for sorrow," said Sylvie slowly, "Sorrow is good for us. And perhaps I have not had sufficient of it to make me strong. And this is real sorrow to me,—to refuse Fontenelle!"
"But why refuse him if you love him?" asked Madame Bozier bewildered.
Sylvie sat down beside her, and put one soft arm caressingly round her neck.
"Ah, Katrine,—that is just my trouble," she said, "I do not love him now! When I first met him he attracted me greatly, I confess,—he seemed so gentle, so courteous, and above all, so true! But it was 'seeming' only, Katrine!—and he was not anything of what he seemed. His courtesy and gentleness were but a mask for licentiousness,—his apparent truth was but a disguise for mere reckless and inconstant passion. I had to find this bit by bit,—and oh, how cruel was the disillusion! How I prayed for him, wept for him, tried to think that if he loved me he might yet endeavour to be nobler and truer for my sake. But his love was not great enough for that. What he wanted was the body of me, not the soul. WhatIwanted of him was the soul, not the body! So we played at cross purposes,—each with a different motive,—and gradually, as I came to recognise how much baseness and brutality there is in mere libertinism,—how poor and paltry an animal man becomes when he serves himself and his passions only, my attraction for him diminished,—I grew to realise that I could never raise him out of the mud, because he had lived by choice too long in it,—I could never persuade him to be true, even to himself, because he found the ways of falsehood and deceit more amusing. He did unworthy things, which I could not, with all my admiration for him, gloze over or excuse;—in fact, I found that in his private life and code of honour he was very little better than Miraudin,—and Miraudin, as you know, one CANNOT receive!"
"He is in Rome also," said Madame Bozier, "I saw his name placarded in the streets only yesterday, and also outside one of the leading theatres. He has brought all his Parisian company here to act their repertoire for a few nights before proceeding to Naples."
"How strange he should be here!" said Sylvie, "How very strange! He is so like the Marquis Fontenelle, Katrine! So very like! I used to go to the theatre and frighten myself with studying the different points of resemblance! be the rough copy of Fontenelle's,—and I always saw in the actor what the gentleman would be if he continued to live as he was doing. Miraudin, whose amours are a disgrace, EVEN to the stage!—Miraudin, who in his position of actor-manager, takes despicable advantage of all the poor ignorant, struggling creatures who try to get into his company, and whose vain little heads are turned by a stray compliment,—and to think that the Marquis Fontenelle should be merely the better-born copy of so mean a villain! Ah, what useless tears I have shed about it,—how I have grieved and worried myself all in vain!—and now . . ."
"Now he asks you to marry him," said Madame Bozier gently, "And you think it would be no use? You could not perhaps make him a better man?"
"Neither I nor any woman could!" said Sylvie, "I do not believe very much in 'reforming' men, Katrine. If they need to reform, they must reform themselves. We make our own lives what they are."
"Dear little philosopher!" said Madame Bozier tenderly, taking Sylvie's small white hand as it hung down from her shoulder and kissing it, "You are very depressed to-day! You must not take things so seriously! If you do not love the Marquis as you once did—"
"As I once did—ah, yes!" said Sylvie, "I did love him. I thought he could not be otherwise than great and true and noble-hearted—but—"
She broke off with a sigh.
"Well, and now that you know he is not the hero you imagined him, all you have to do is to tell him so," said the practical Bozier cheerfully, "Or if you do not want to pain him by such absolute candour, give him his refusal as gently and kindly as you can."
Sylvie sighed again.
"I am very sorry," she said, "If I could have foreseen this—perhaps—"
"But did you not foresee it?" asked Madame Bozier persistently, "Did you not realize that men always want what they cannot have—and that the very fact of your leaving Paris increased his ardour and sent him on here in pursuit?"
Sylvie Hermenstein was of a very truthful nature, and she had not attempted to deny this suggestion.
"Yes—I confess I did think that if I separated myself altogether from him it might induce him to put himself in a more honourable position with me—but I did not know then—" she paused, and a deep flush crimsoned her cheeks.
"Did not know what?" queried Madame Bozier softly.
Sylvie hesitated a moment, then spoke out bravely.
"I did not know then that I should meet another man whose existence would become ten times more interesting and valuable to me than his! Yes, Katrine, I confess it! There is no shame in honesty! And so, to be true to myself, however much the Marquis might love me now, I could never be his wife."
Madame Bozier was silent. She guessed her beloved pupil's heart's secret,—but she was too tactful to dwell upon the subject, and before the brief, half-embarrassed pause between them had ended, a servant entered, asking,
"Will the Signora Contessa receive the Capitano Ruspardi?"
Sylvie rose from her seat with a look of surprise.
"Ruspardi?—I do not know the name."
"The business is urgent;—the Capitano is the bearer of a letter to theSignora Contessa."
"Remain with me, Katrine," said Sylvie after a pause,—then to the servant—"Show Captain Ruspardi in here."
Another moment, and a young officer in the Italian uniform entered hurriedly,—his face was very pale,—and as the Comtesse Hermenstein received him in her own serene sweet manner which, for all its high-bred air had something wonderfully winning and childlike about it, his self-control gave way, and when after a profound salute he raised his eyes, she saw they were full of tears. Her heart began to beat violently.
"You bring some bad news?" she asked faintly.
"Madama, I beg you not to distress yourself—this letter—" and he held out a sealed envelope,—"was given to me specially marked, among others, by my friend, the Marquis Fontenelle—last right before—before he went to his death!"
"His death!" echoed Sylvie, her eyes dilating with horror—"His death!What do you mean?"
Madame Bozier came quickly to her side, and put a hand gently on her arm. But she did not seem to feel the sympathetic touch.
"His death!" she murmured. And with trembling fingers she opened and read the last lines ever penned by her too passionate admirer.
"SWEETEST SYLVIE! Dearest and purest of women! If you ever receive this letter I shall be gone beyond the reach of your praise or your blame. For it will not be given to you at all unless I am dead. Dead, dear Sylvie! That will be strange, will it not? To be lying quite still, cold and stiff, out of the reach of your pretty warm white arms,—deprived for ever and ever of any kiss from your rose-red lips,—ah, Sylvie, it will be very cold and lonely! But perhaps better so! To-night I saw you, up in your balcony, with someone who is a brave and famous man, and who no doubt loves you. For he cannot fail to love you, if he knows you. God grant you may be happy when I am gone! But I want you to feel that to-night—to-nightIlove you!—love you as I have never loved you or any woman before—without an evil thought,—without a selfish wish!—to the very height and breadth of love, I love you, my queen, my rose, my saving grace of sweetness!—whose name I shall say to God as my best prayer for pardon, if I die to-night!
Sylvie shuddered as with icy cold . . . a darkness seemed to overwhelm her . . . she staggered a little, and Ruspardi caught her, wondering—at the lightness and delicacy and beauty of her, as he assisted Madame Bozier to lead her to a deep fauteuil where she sank down, trembling in every nerve.
"And—he is dead?" she asked mechanically.
Ruspardi bowed a grave assent. She paused a moment—then forced herself to speak again.
"How did it happen?"
In brief, concise words Ruspardi gave the account of the quarrel with Miraudin,—and Sylvie shrank back as though she had received a blow when she heard that her name had been the cause of the dispute.
"And this morning, hearing no news," continued Ruspardi, "I made enquiries at the theatre. There I found everything in confusion; Miraudin and a soubrette named Jeanne Richaud, had left Rome the previous evening so the box-keeper said, and there was no news of either of them beyond a note from the girl saying she had returned alone to Paris by the first morning train. Nothing had been heard of Miraudin himself;—I therefore, knowing all the circumstances, drove out to the Campagna by the Porte Pia, the way that Miraudin had gone, and the way I bade the Marquis follow;—but on the Ponte Nomentano I met some of the Miserecordia carrying two corpses on the same bier,—two corpses so strangely alike that they might almost have been brothers!—they were the bodies of the Marquis Fontenelle and,—Miraudin!"
Sylvie uttered a low cry and covered her face with her hands.
"Miraudin!" exclaimed Madame Bozier in horrified tones. "Miraudin! Is he killed also?"
"Yes, Madame! Both shots must have been fired with deadly aim. They had no seconds. Miraudin had hired a common fiacre to escape in from the city, and the police will offer a reward for the discovery of the driver. My horse, which my unfortunate friend Fontenelle rode, is gone, and if it could be discovered, its possessor might furnish a clue;—but I imagine it will be difficult, if not impossible to trace the witnesses of the combat. The woman Richaud is on her way to Paris. But by this time all Rome knows of the death of Miraudin; and in a few hours all the world will know!"
"And what of the Marquis Fontenelle?" asked Madame Bozier.
"Madama, I posted all the letters he entrusted to my charge. The one I have brought to the Contessa was enclosed in an envelope to me and marked 'To be personally delivered in case of my death.' But among the letters for the post was one to the Marquis's only sister, the Abbess of a convent in Paris—she will probably claim her brother's remains."
He was silent. After a pause Sylvie rose unsteadily, and detached a cluster of violets she wore at her neck.
"Will you—" her voice faltered.
But Ruspardi understood, and taking the flowers, respectfully kissed the little hand that gave them.
"They shall be buried with him," he said. "His hand was clenched in death on a small knot of lace—you perhaps might recognise it,—yes?—so!—it shall be left as it was found."
And,—his melancholy errand being done,—he bowed profoundly once more, and retired.
Sylvie gazed around her vaguely,—the letter of her dead admirer grasped in her hand,—and his former letter, proposing marriage, lying still open on the table. Her old gouvernante watched her anxiously, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"You are crying, Katrine!" she said, "And yet you knew him very little,—he never loved you! I wish—I wish MY tears would come! But they are all here—aching and hurting me—"and she pressed her hand to her heart—"You see—when one is a woman and has been loved by a man, one cannot but feel sorry—for such an end! You see he was not altogether cruel!—he defended my name—and he has died for my sake! For my sake!—Oh, Katrine! For MY sake! So he DID love me—at the last! . . . and I—I—Oh, Katrine!—I wish—I wish the tears would come!"
And as she spoke she reeled—and uttering a little cry like that of a wounded bird, dropped senseless.