Part 43 (1/2)
”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!” murmured Sylvie, 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 pa.s.sion. 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 n.o.bler 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. What _I_ wanted 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 pa.s.sions 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?”