"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?"

"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 n.o.ble-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-embarra.s.sed 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 the Signora 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.