Part 30 (1/2)
Varillo drew back, chafed and sullen. His AMOUR PROPRE was wounded, and he began to feel exceedingly cross. The pretty laugh of Sylvie rang out like a little peal of bells.
”Suppose Angela knew that you wished to 'amuse' me in that particularly unamusing way?” she went on, ”You--who, to her, are CHEVALIER SANS PEUR ET SANS REPROCHE!”
”Angela is different to all other women,” said Varillo quickly, with a kind of nervous irritation in his manner as he spoke, ”and she has to be humoured accordingly. She is extremely fantastic--full of strange ideas and unnatural conceptions of life. Her temperament is studious and dreamy--self-absorbed too at times--and she is absolutely pa.s.sionless. That is why she will make a model wife.”
The Comtesse drew her breath quickly,--her blood began to tingle and her heart to beat--but she repressed these feelings and said,
”You mean that her pa.s.sionless nature will be her safety in all temptation?”
”Exactly!” and Varillo, smiling, became good natured again--”For Angela to be untrue would be a grotesque impossibility! She has no idea of the stronger sentiment of love which strikes the heart like a lightning flash and consumes it. Her powers of affection are intellectually and evenly balanced,--and she could not be otherwise than faithful because her whole nature is opposed to infidelity. But it is not a nature which, being tempted, overcomes--inasmuch as there is no temptation which is attractive to her!”
”You think so?” and a sparkle of satire danced in Sylvie's bright eyes, ”Really? And because she is self-respecting and proud, you would almost make her out to be s.e.xless?--not a woman at all,--without heart?--without pa.s.sion? Then you do not love her!”
”She is the dearest creature to me in all the world!” declared Florian, with emotional ardour, ”There is no one at all like her! Even her beauty, which comes and goes with her mood, is to an artist's eye like mine, exquisite,--and more dazzling to the senses than the stereotyped calm of admitted perfection in form and feature. But, CARA CONTESSA, I am something of an a.n.a.lyst in character--and I know that the delicacy of Angela's charm lies in that extraordinary tranquillity of soul, which, (YOU suggested the word!) may indeed be almost termed s.e.xless.
She is purer than snow--and very much colder.”
”You are fortunate to be the only man selected to melt that coldness,”
said Sylvie with a touch of disdain, ”Myself, I think you make a great mistake in calling Angela pa.s.sionless. She is all pa.s.sion--and ardour--but it is kept down,--held firmly within bounds, and devoutly consecrated to you. Pardon me, if I say that you should be more grateful for the love and trust she gives you. You are not without rivals in the field.”
Florian Varillo raised his eyebrows smilingly.
”Rivals? VERAMENTE! I am not aware of them!”
”No, I should say you had too good an opinion of yourself to imagine any rival possible!” said the Comtesse, ”But such a person may exist!”
Varillo yawned, and flicked a grain of dust off his waistcoat with a fastidious thumb and finger.
”Impossible! No one could possibly fall in love with Angela now! She is an icicle,--no man save myself has the ghost of a chance with her!”
”Of course not,” said Sylvie impatiently, ”Because she is betrothed to you. But if things were not as they are--”
”It would make no difference, I a.s.sure you,” laughed Varillo gaily, ”Angela does not like men as a rule. She is fondest of romance--of dreams--of visions, out of which come the ideas for her pictures--”
”And she is quite pa.s.sionless with all this, you think?” said Sylvie, ”The 'stronger sentiment which strikes the heart like a flash of lightning, and consumes it', as you so poetically describe it--could never possibly disturb her peace?”
”I think not,” replied Varillo, with a meditative air, ”Angela and I glided into love like two children wandering by chance into a meadow full of flowers,--no storm struck us--no sudden danger signal flashed from our eyes--no trembling hurry of the blood bade us rush into each other's arms and cling!--nothing of this marvel touched us!--we loved with all the calm--but without the glory!”
His voice,--the most fascinating quality attached to his personality,--rose and fell in this little speech with an exquisite cadence, half sad, half sweet,--and Sylvie, impressionable creature as she was, with her innate love of romance and poetry, was unconsciously moved by it to a faint sigh. There was nothing to sigh for, really,--it was just a mere melodious noise of words, in the making of which Florian Varillo was an adept. He had not an atom of serious thought in his remark, any more than in the dainty verses he was wont to append to his pictures--verses which he turned out with the lightest and swiftest ease, and which read like his spoken sentences, as if there were a meaning in them, when truly there was none. But Sylvie was just then in a curious state of mind, and slight things easily impressed her. She was in love--and yet she was not in love. The handsome face and figure of the Marquis Fontenelle, together with many of his undoubted good and even fine qualities, attracted her and held her in thrall, much more than the consciousness of his admiration and pursuit of her,--but--and this was a very interfering ”but” indeed,--she was reluctantly compelled to admit to herself that there was no glozing over the fact that he was an incorrigibly ”fast”, otherwise bad man. His life was a long record of LIAISONS with women,--an exact counterpart of the life of the famous actor Miraudin. And though there is a saying that a reformed rake makes the best husband, Sylvie was scarcely sure of being willing to try this test,--besides, the Marquis had not offered himself in that capacity, but only as a lover. In Paris,--within reach of him, surrounded by his gracious and graceful courtesies everywhere, the pretty and sensitive Comtesse had sometimes felt her courage oozing out at her finger's ends,--and the longing to be loved became so strong and overwhelming in her soul that she had felt she must perforce one day yield to her persistent admirer's amorous solicitations, come what would of it in the end. Her safety had been in flight; and here in Rome, she had found herself, like a long-tossed little s.h.i.+p, suddenly brought up to firm anchorage. The vast peace and melancholy grandeur of the slowly dying ”Mother of Nations”, enveloped her as with a sheltering cloak from the tempest of her own heart and senses, and being of an exquisitely refined and dainty nature in herself, she had, while employing her time in beautifying, furnis.h.i.+ng and arranging her apartments in the casa D'Angeli, righted her mind, so to speak, and cleared it from the mists of illusion which had begun to envelop it, so that she could now think of Fontenelle quietly and with something of a tender compa.s.sion,--she could pray for him and wish him all things good,--but she could not be quite sure that she loved him. And this was well. For we should all be very sure indeed that we do love, before we crucify ourselves to the cross of sacrifice. Inasmuch as if the love in us be truly Love, we shall not feel the nails, we shall be unconscious of the blood that flows, and the thorns that p.r.i.c.k and sting,--we shall but see the great light of Resurrection springing glorious out of death! But if we only THINK we love,--when our feeling is the mere attraction of the senses and the lighter impulses--then our crucifixion is in vain, and our death is death indeed. Some such thoughts as these had given Sylvie a new charm of manner since her arrival in Rome--she was less mirthful, but more sympathetic--less RIANTE, but infinitely prettier and more fascinating. Florian Varillo studied her appreciatively in this regard after he had uttered his little meaningless melody of sentiment, and thought within himself--”A week or two and I could completely conquer that woman!” He was mistaken--men who think these sort of things often are. But the thought satisfied him, and gave bold l.u.s.tre to his eyes and brightness to his smile when he rose to take his leave. He had been one of the guests at a small and early dinner-party given by the Comtesse that evening,--and with the privilege of an old acquaintance, he had lingered thus long after all the others had gone to their respective homes.
”I will bid you now the felicissima notte, cara e bella contessa!” he said caressingly, raising her small white hand to his lips, and kissing it with a lingering pressure of what he considered a peculiarly becoming moustache--”When Angela arrives to-morrow night I shall be often at the Palazzo Sovrani--shall I see you there?”
”Of course you will see me there,” replied Sylvie, a little impatiently, ”Am I not one of Angela's closest friends?”
”True! And for the sake of la mia dolcezza, you will also be a friend to me?”
”'la mia dolcezza'”, repeated Sylvie, ”Is that what you call her?”
”Yes--but I fear it is not original!” said Varillo smiling, ”One Ariosto called his lady thus.”
”Yes?” and Sylvie's eyes darkened and grew humid with a sudden tenderness of thought, ”It is a pretty phrase!”