Part 61 (2/2)

”Ah, but the world will soon guess!” said Sylvie--”For everyone is beginning to ask where her fiance is--why he has shown no anxiety--why he has not been to see her--and a thousand other questions.”

”That does not matter! While she is silent, no one dare accuse him.

What a marvellous spirit of patience and forgiveness she has!”

”Angela is like her name--an angel!” declared Sylvie impulsively, the tears springing to her eyes--”I could almost wors.h.i.+p her, when I see her there in her sickroom, looking so white and frail and sad,--quiet and patient--thanking us all for every little service done--and never once mentioning the name of Florian--the man she loved so pa.s.sionately.

Sometimes the dear old Cardinal sits beside her and talks--sometimes her father,--Manuel is nearly always with her, and she is quite easy and content, one would almost say happy when he is there, he is so very gentle with her. But you can see through it all the awful sorrow that weighs upon her heart,--you can see she has lost something she can never find again,--her eyes look so wistful--her smile is so sad--poor Angela!”

Aubrey was silent a moment. ”What of the Princesse D'Agramont?”

”Oh, she is simply a treasure!” said Sylvie enthusiastically--”She and my dear old Bozier are never weary in well-doing! As soon as Angela can be moved, the Princesse wants to take her back to Paris,--because then Rome can be allowed to pour into her studio to see her great picture.”

”What does Angela say to that?”

”Angela seems resigned to anything!” answered Sylvie. ”The only wish she ever expresses is that Manuel should not leave her.”

”There is something wonderful about that boy,” said Aubrey slowly--”From the first time I saw him he impressed me with a sense of something altogether beyond his mere appearance. He is a child--yet not a child--and I have often felt that he commands me without my realising that I am so commanded.”

”Aubrey! How strange!”

”Yes, it is strange!--” and Aubrey's eyes grew graver with the intensity of his thought--”There is some secret--but--” he broke off with a puzzled air--”I cannot explain it, so it is no use thinking about it! I went to Varillo's studio yesterday and asked if there had been any news of him--but there was none. I wonder where the brute has gone!”

”It would be well if he had made exit out of the world altogether,”

said Sylvie--”But he is too vain of himself for that! However, his absence creates suspicion--and even if Angela does not speak, people will guess for themselves what she does not say. He will never dare to show himself in Rome!”

Their conversation was abruptly terminated here by the entrance of Madame Bozier with a quant.i.ty of fresh flowers which she had been out to purchase, for Sylvie to take as usual on her morning visit to her suffering friend; and Aubrey took his leave, promising to return later in the afternoon, after Monsignor Gherardi had been and gone.

But he had his own ideas on the subject of Gherardi's visit to his fair betrothed,--ideas which he kept to himself, for if his surmises were correct, now was the time to put Sylvie's character to the test. He did not doubt her stability in the very least, but he could never quite get away from her mignonne child-like appearance of woman, to the contemplation of the spirit behind the pretty exterior. Her beauty was so riante, so dazzling, so dainty, that it seemed to fire the very air as a sunbeam fires it,--and there was no room for any more serious consideration than that of purely feminine charm. Walking dreamily, almost unseeingly through the streets, he thought again and yet again of the sweet face, the rippling hair, the laughing yet tender eyes, the sunny smile. Behind that beautiful picture or earth-phantom of womanhood, is there that sword of flame, the soul?--the soul that will sweep through shams, and come out as bright and glittering at the end of the fight as at the beginning?--he mused;--or is it not almost too much to expect of a mere woman that she can contend against the anger of a Church?

He was still thinking on this subject, when someone walking quickly came face to face with him, and said--

”Aubrey!” He started and stared,--then uttered a cry of pleasure.

”Gys Grandit!”

The two men clasped each other's hands in a warm, strong grasp--and for a moment neither could speak.

”My dear fellow!” said Aubrey at last--”This is indeed an unexpected meeting! How glad I am to see you! When did you arrive in Rome?”

”This morning only,” said Cyrillon, recovering his speech and his equanimity together--”And as soon as I arrived, I found that my hopes had not betrayed me--she is not dead!”

”She?” Aubrey started--”My dear Grandit! Or rather I must call you Vergniaud now--who is the triumphant 'she' that has brought you thus post haste to Rome?”

Cyrillon flushed--then grew pale.

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