A Romance of Two Worlds by Marie Corelli (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

I laughed merrily as I rose to pick up the discarded volume from the floor.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said; “I’ll give back the book to Signor Cellini tomorrow, and I will tell him that you do not like the idea of my reading it, and that I am going to study the Bible instead. Come now, dear, don’t look cross!” and I embraced her warmly, for I liked her far too well to wish to offend her. “Let us concentrate our attention on our finery for to-night, when a ‘dense and brilliant multitude,’ not of air, but of the ‘earth earthy,’ will pass us under critical survey. I assure you I mean to make the best of my improved looks, as I don’t believe they will last. I dare say I shall be the ‘sick nun’ that you termed me again tomorrow.”

“I hope not, dearest,” said my friend kindly, returning my caress and forgetting her momentary ill-humour. “A jolly dance will do you good if you are careful to avoid over-exertion. But you are quite right, we must really fix our things ready for the evening, else we shall be all in a flurry at the last moment, and nothing riles the Colonel so much as to see women in a fuss. I shall wear my lace dress; but it wants seeing to. Will you help me?”

Readily assenting, we were soon deep in the arrangement of the numberless little mysteries that make up a woman’s toilette; and nothing but the most frivolous conversation ensued. But as I assisted in the sorting of laces, jewels, and other dainty appendages of evening costume, I was deep in earnest meditation. Reviewing in my own mind the various sensations I had experienced since I had tasted that Eastern wine in Cellini’s studio, I came to the conclusion that he must have tried an experiment on me with some foreign drug, of which he alone knew the properties. Why he should do this I could not determine; but that he had done it I was certain. Besides this, I felt sure that he personally exerted some influence upon me—a soothing and calming influence I was forced to admit—still, it could hardly be allowed to continue. To be under the control, however slight, of one who was almost a stranger to me, was, at the least, unnatural and unpleasant. I was bound to ask him a few plain questions. And, supposing Mrs. Everard were to speak to him about his being betrothed, and he were to deny it, and afterwards were to turn round upon me and ask what authority I had for making such a statement, what should I say? Convict myself of falsehood? However, it was no use to puzzle over the solution of this difficulty till it positively presented itself. At any rate, I determined I would ask him frankly, face to face, for some explanation of the strange emotions I had felt ever since meeting him; and thus resolved, I waited patiently for the evening.

CHAPTER IV.

A DANCE AND A PROMISE.

Our little French friend, Madame Didier, was not a woman to do things by halves. She was one of those rare exceptions among Parisian ladies—she was a perfectly happy wife; nay, more, she was in love with her own husband, a fact which, considering the present state of society both in France and England, rendered her almost contemptible in the eyes of all advanced thinkers. She was plump and jolly in appearance; round-eyed and brisk as a lively robin. Her husband, a large, mild-faced placid man—“mon petit mari,” as she called him—permitted her to have her own way in everything, and considered all she did as perfectly well done. Therefore, when she had proposed this informal dance at the Hotel de L–-, he made no objection, but entered into her plans with spirit; and, what was far more important, opened his purse readily to her demands for the necessary expenses. So nothing was stinted; the beautiful ballroom attached to the hotel was thrown open, and lavishly decorated with flowers, fountains, and twinkling lights; an awning extended from its windows right down the avenue of dark ilex-trees, which were ornamented with Chinese lanterns; an elegant supper was laid out in the large dining-room, and the whole establishment was en fete. The delicious strains of a Viennese band floated to our ears as Colonel Everard, his wife, and myself descended the staircase on our way to the scene of revelry; and suggestions of fairyland were presented to us in the graceful girlish forms, clad in light, diaphanous attire, that flitted here and there, or occasionally passed us. Colonel Everard marched proudly along with the military bearing that always distinguished him, now and then glancing admiringly at his wife, who, indeed, looked her very best. Her dress was of the finest Brussels lace, looped over a skirt of the palest shell-pink satin; deep crimson velvet roses clustered on her breast, and nestled in her rich hair; a necklace of magnificent rubies clasped her neck, and the same jewels glittered on her round white arms. Her eyes shone with pleasurable excitement, and the prettiest colour imaginable tinted her delicate cheeks.

“When an American woman is lovely, she is very lovely,” I said. “You will be the belle of the room to-night, Amy!”

“Nonsense!” she replied, well pleased, though, at my remark. “You must remember I have a rival in yourself.”

I shrugged my shoulders incredulously.

“It is not like you to be sarcastic,” I said. “You know very well I have the air of a resuscitated corpse.”

The Colonel wheeled round suddenly, and brought us all up to a standstill before a great mirror.

“If YOU are like a resuscitated corpse, I’ll throw a hundred dollars into the next mud-pond,” he observed. “Look at yourself.”

I looked, at first indifferently, and then with searching scrutiny. I saw a small, slender girl, clad in white, with a mass of gold hair twisted loosely up from her neck, and fastened with a single star of diamonds. A superb garniture of natural lilies of the valley was fastened on this girl’s shoulder; and, falling loosely across her breast, lost itself in the trailing folds of her gown. She held a palm-leaf fan entirely covered with lilies of the valley, and a girdle of the same flowers encircled her waist. Her face was serious, but contented; her eyes were bright, but with an intense and thoughtful lustre; and her cheeks were softly coloured, as though a west wind had blown freshly against them. There was nothing either attractive or repulsive about her that I could see; and yet— I turned away from the mirror hastily with a faint smile.

“The lilies form the best part of my toilette,” I said.

“That they do,” asserted Amy, with emphasis. “They are the finest specimens I ever saw. It was real elegant of Mr. Cellini to send them all fixed up ready like that, fan and all. You must be a favourite of his!”

“Come, let us proceed,” I answered, with some abruptness. “We are losing time.”

In a few seconds more we entered the ballroom, and were met at once by Madame Didier, who, resplendent in black lace and diamonds, gave us hearty greeting. She stared at me with unaffected amazement.

“Mon dieu!” she exclaimed—her conversation with us was always a mixture of French and broken English—“I should not ‘ave know zis young lady again! She ‘ave si bonne mine. You veel dance, sans doute?”

We readily assented, and the usual assortment of dancing-men of all ages and sizes was brought forward for our inspection; while the Colonel, being introduced to a beaming English girl of some seventeen summers, whirled her at once into the merry maze of dancers, who were spinning easily round to the lively melody of one of Strauss’s most fascinating waltzes. Presently I also found myself circling the room with an amiable young German, who ambled round with a certain amount of cleverness, considering that he was evidently ignorant of the actual waltz step; and I caught a glimpse now and then of Amy’s rubies as they flashed past me in the dance— she was footing it merrily with a handsome Austrian Hussar. The room was pleasantly full—not too crowded for the movements of the dancers; and the whole scene was exceedingly pretty and animated. I had no lack of partners, and I was surprised to find myself so keenly alive to enjoyment, and so completely free from my usual preoccupied condition of nervous misery I looked everywhere for Raffaello Cellini, but he was not to be seen. The lilies that I wore, which he had sent me, seemed quite unaffected by the heat and glare of the gaslight—not a leaf drooped, not a petal withered; and their remarkable whiteness and fragrance elicited many admiring remarks from those with whom I conversed. It was growing very late; there were only two more waltzes before the final cotillon. I was standing near the large open window of the ballroom, conversing with one of my recent partners, when a sudden inexplicable thrill shot through me from head to foot. Instinctively I turned, and saw Cellini approaching. He looked remarkably handsome, though his face was pale and somewhat wearied in expression. He was laughing and conversing gaily with two ladies, one of whom was Mrs. Everard; and as he came towards me he bowed courteously, saying:

“I am too much honoured by the kindness mademoiselle has shown in not discarding my poor flowers.”

“They are lovely,” I replied simply; “and I am very much obliged to you, signor, for sending them to me.”

“And how fresh they keep!” said Amy, burying her little nose in the fragrance of my fan; “yet they have been in the heat of the room all the evening.”

“They cannot perish while mademoiselle wears them,” said Cellini gallantly. “Her breath is their life.”

“Bravo!” cried Amy, clapping her hands. “That is very prettily said, isn’t it?”

I was silent. I never could endure compliments. They are seldom sincere, and it gives me no pleasure to be told lies, however prettily they may be worded. Signor Cellini appeared to divine my thoughts, for he said in a lower tone:

“Pardon me, mademoiselle; I see my observation displeased you; but there is more truth in it than you perhaps know.”

“Oh, say!” interrupted Mrs. Everard at this juncture; “I am SO interested, signor, to hear you are engaged! I suppose she is a dream of beauty?”

The hot colour rushed to my cheeks, and I bit my lips in confusion and inquietude. What WOULD he answer? My anxiety was not of long duration. Cellini smiled, and seemed in no way surprised. He said quietly:

“Who told you, madame, that I am engaged?”

“Why, she did, of course!” went on my friend, nodding towards me, regardless of an imploring look I cast at her. “And said you were perfectly devoted!”

“She is quite right,” replied Cellini, with another of those rare sweet smiles of his; “and you also are right, madame, in your supposition: my betrothed is a Dream of Beauty.”

I was infinitely relieved. I had not, then, been guilty of a falsehood. But the mystery remained: how had I discovered the truth of the matter at all? While I puzzled my mind over this question, the other lady who had accompanied Mrs. Everard spoke. She was an Austrian of brilliant position and attainments.

“You quite interest me, signor!” she said. “Is your fair fiancee here to-night?”

“No, madame,” replied Cellini; “she is not in this country.”

“What a pity!” exclaimed Amy. “I want to see her real bad. Don’t you?” she asked, turning to me.

I raised my eyes and met the dark clear ones of the artist fixed full upon me.

“Yes,” I said hesitatingly; “I should like to meet her. Perhaps the chance will