Chapter XI: The Grotto of the Naiad

Princess Agatha was reclining on a divan of dark velvet, where her graceful and noble figure resembled a ghost in the moonlight. Michel could see her profile in the dim light, and the reflection of the candles behind her outlined with admirable distinctness features as delicate and pure as a young maid's. Her long full white gown assumed all the shades of the opal in that soft light, and the diamonds in her coronet shot flames of changing hue, now like the sapphire and again like the emerald. Michel lost altogether the idea that he had formed of her age when he first saw her. It seemed to him that she was a child, and when he remembered that he had believed her to be above thirty, he asked himself whether she was thus transfigured by a celestial radiance or by a gleam from hell, wherewith she was able, like a sorceress, to envelop herself in order to deceive the senses.

She seemed fatigued and depressed. But her attitude was modest and her expression serene. She was inhaling the perfume of her bouquet of cyclamen and playing idly with her fan. Michel gazed at her a long time before he heard, or, at least, attached a meaning to the words she was saying. She seemed to him lovelier than any of the beauties he had been scrutinizing so closely, and he could not understand the unmixed, boundless admiration which she aroused in him. He strove in vain to examine her features in detail and analyze her charms; he could not succeed. She seemed to be floating in a magic fluid which protected her from being studied like other women. From time to time, thinking that he understood her, he closed his eyes and tried to sketch her portrait in his memory, to draw her in imagination, in strokes of flame, on the black veil which he spread before his own eyes by lowering his lids. But he saw naught but confused lines, and could not conjure up any distinct face. He was compelled to reopen his eyes in haste and gaze at her with anxiety, with intense delight, and above all, with surprise.

For there was a something indescribable about her. She was perfectly natural; of all the women Michel had seen, she alone seemed to have no thought of herself; she had assumed no studied air or manner; she did not know, or did not choose to know, what people thought of her, what they felt as they looked at her; she had the tranquillity of a mind disassociated from all human things, and the entire freedom from constraint that she might have had in absolute solitude.

And yet she was arrayed like a genuine princess; she was giving a ball, she displayed her magnificence, she played her rôle of a great lady and of a woman of the world, like any other, to all appearance. Why then that madonna-like air, that inward meditation, or that rapt contemplation of a soul above human vanities?

She was a living enigma to the young artist's restless imagination. Something still more strange perplexed him beyond measure; and that was that it seemed to him that he had not seen her that day for the first time.

Where could he have seen her before? In vain did he rack his memory. When he arrived at Catania her very name was strange to him. A person of such exalted rank, and so remarkable by reason of her wealth, her beauty, and her reputation for virtue, could not have come to Rome _incognito_. Michel cudgelled his brain. He could recall no occasion when he could have seen her; especially as when he looked at her, he had a feeling, not that he had known her slightly, but that he had known her intimately and for a long time, ever since he was born.

When he had exhausted his memory, he said to himself that there must be some abstract reason for that sensation. It must be due to the fact that she was the ideal type of beauty of which he had always dreamed, but which he had never been able to grasp and produce. That was a poetic commonplace. He was fain to be content with it for lack of a better.

But the princess was not alone, for she was talking; and Michel soon discovered that she was tête-à-tête with a man. That was certainly a reason to impel him to withdraw, but it was difficult to do so. To preserve the mysterious obscurity of the grotto and exclude the brilliant light of the ball-room, the entrance had been masked by a heavy blue velvet curtain, which our inquisitive hero, by the merest chance, had drawn aside a little way when he entered, without attracting the attention of the two persons who were talking there. The entrance to the grotto being only half as wide as the grotto itself, formed a frame, not of artificial rocks, as would have been the case with us, in our imitations of _rococo_, but of genuine blocks of lava, vitrified, and of divers shades of color, curious and valuable specimens collected long before in the very crater of the volcano to be set like jewels in the masonry. This beautiful door-frame protruded far enough into the grotto to conceal Michel, who was able to see because of its uneven surface. But, in order to go out, he must raise the curtain again, and he could hardly hope that both the princess and her companion would be sufficiently engrossed not to notice him.

Michel thought of all this too late to avert the consequences of his imprudence. It was too late for him to go out naturally, as he had entered. Moreover he was nailed to his place by the most intense curiosity and anxiety. Doubtless that man was the princess's lover.

He was a man of about thirty-five years, tall, and with a grave, sweet face, wonderfully handsome and regular. In his manner, as he sat facing Agatha at a distance, which indicated something betwixt respect and intimacy, there was nothing to criticise; but when Michel had recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to listen to the words that fell upon his ears, he fancied that he could detect an indication of mutual affection in this observation of the princess:

"Thank heaven it has not yet occurred to anyone to raise the curtain and discover this delightful retreat; although I might naturally take some pride in bringing my guests here,--for it is beautifully decorated to-night,--I would like to pass the night here all alone, or with you, marquis, while the fête and the dancing and the tumult run their course behind the curtain."

The marquis replied, in a tone which did not indicate a presumptuous man:

"You should have had the grotto closed altogether by a door to which you alone had a key, and have transformed it into a private salon, whither you could come from time to time to obtain some repose from the heat, the glare and the compliments. You are not accustomed to society now, and you were over-confident of your strength. You will be terribly tired to-morrow."

"I am already; but it was not the crowd and the noise that broke me down so in an instant."

"I understand that, my dear friend," said the marquis, pressing Agatha's hand fraternally in his. "Try to think of something else, at least for a few hours, so that your preoccupation may not be manifest; for you cannot escape people's eyes, and, outside of this grotto, you have not left yourself a single corner of your whole palace where you can take refuge without running the gauntlet of obsequious salutations, inquisitive glances--"

"And trite remarks with which I am already sated," added the princess, struggling to smile. "How can anyone be fond of society, marquis? Can you understand it?"

"I can understand it in the case of people who are satisfied with themselves, and who think that it is always an advantage to exhibit themselves."

"To my mind, the ball is delightful thus, at a distance, when we cannot see it or be seen. There is something piquant--almost poetic--in the buzzing, this distant music that we hear, and in the idea that people are being amused or bored outside, and that we are not compelled to take any part in it."

"But it is reported to-day that you are about to become reconciled to society, and that this magnificent fête, which you are giving for love of good works, will incline you to give or to see others. In short, they say that you are going to change all your habits and reappear in the world, like a star too long eclipsed."

"And why do people say such an extraordinary thing?"

"Ah! in order to answer that question, I should have to constitute myself the echo of all the laudations to which you refused to listen; and I am not in the habit of telling you even the truth when it bears a resemblance to insipid compliments."

"I do you that justice, and I authorize you to-night to repeat all that you have heard."

"Very well! People say that you are still lovelier than all those women who take pains to appear lovely; that you outshine the most brilliant and most admired women by a certain charm peculiar to yourself, and by an air of noble simplicity which wins all hearts. They are beginning anew to be surprised that you live in solitude, and--must I tell everything?"

"Yes, absolutely everything."

"They say--I heard it with my own ears as I brushed against people who had no idea that I was so near: 'What strange whim prevents her marrying the Marquis della Serra?'"

"Go on, go on, marquis; say on; have no fear. They say, doubtless, that I am the more ill-advised in that you are my lover?"

"No, signora, they do not say that," replied the marquis, in a chivalrous tone; "and they will not say it, so long as I have a tongue to deny it, and an arm to avenge your honor."

"Dear and generous friend!" exclaimed the princess, offering him her hand; "you take that too seriously. I will wager that everybody believes and says that we love each other."

"They may believe and say that I love you, for that is the truth; and the truth always comes out sooner or later. That is why people know also that you do not love me."

"Noble heart! But, now less than ever---- To-morrow I will talk to you more freely on this subject than I have ever done. I will tell you everything. This is neither a fitting time nor place. I must return to the ball, where it is probable that my long absence causes surprise."

"Are you sufficiently rested and calm?"

"Yes; now I can resume my mask of impassibility."

"Ah! it costs you little to assume it, terrible woman!" cried the marquis, rising and pressing convulsively to his breast the arm that she had passed through his. "You are as invulnerable in the depths of your heart as you are on the surface."

"Do not say that, marquis," said the princess, detaining him and looking at him with a clear penetrating glance that sent a thrill through Michel's whole being. "At this solemn moment of my life, that is a stab of which you do not realize the depth. To-morrow, for the first time in the twelve years that we have known without comprehending each other, you will comprehend me perfectly! Come," she added, shaking her lovely head, as if to banish serious thoughts, "let us go and dance! But first let us say good-night to the naiad, so lovely in this light, and to this charming grotto, which will soon be desecrated by the indifferent multitude."

"Was it old Pier-Angelo who decorated it so beautifully?" inquired the marquis, turning toward the naiad.

"No," replied the princess, "_it was he!_"

And hurrying from the room, as if impelled by a courageous resolution, she suddenly drew the curtain aside and threw it upon Michel, who, by unhoped-for good-fortune, was thus doubly concealed when she passed very near him.

As soon as the disquietude due to his own situation as an interloper was dispelled, he entered the grotto, and finding that he was quite alone there, he sank upon the divan, beside the place the princess had occupied. All that he had heard had agitated him strangely; but all the reflections in which he might have indulged were overshadowed by the last words that extraordinary woman had uttered.

Those words might have been an enigma to an absolutely humble and innocent young man: "_No, it was not Pier-Angelo; it was he!_" What a mysterious reply, or what extraordinary abstraction! But to Michel it was not abstraction: that _he_ did not relate to Pier-Angelo, but to himself. To the princess, therefore, he was a person whom it was not necessary to call by name, and she spoke of him in that concise and emphatic way to a man who was in love with her.

That inexplicable sentence, and the reticence which had preceded it, her refusal to admit that she loved the marquis, that _solemn moment of her life_ to which she had referred, that terrible shock which she said that she had had during the evening, that important confidential communication which she was to make the next day--did all of these relate to Michel?

When he remembered the inexplicable glance she had bestowed upon him when she saw him for the first time before the opening of the ball, he was tempted to give way to the most insane presumptions. It is true that, while she was talking with the marquis, there had been a moment when her dreamy eyes had shone with no less extraordinary brilliancy; but it seemed to Michel that their expression was not the same as when they had looked into his. Glance for glance, he preferred the one that had fallen to him.

Who could describe the marvellous and gorgeous romances which that rash youth's brain developed during the next quarter of an hour? They were all built upon the same foundation, the unheard-of genius of a young artist who was ignorant of his own powers, and who had suddenly revealed them in a brilliant and extensive piece of decorative work. The lovely princess for whom that masterly work was undertaken had come often, by stealth, to observe its progress, and during the week that the artist had spent in the enchanted palace, taking his siesta and eating at certain hours, in certain mysterious rooms, this invisible fairy had come to gaze upon him, sometimes from behind a curtain, sometimes from a rose-window in the wall. She had been smitten with love for his person or with admiration for his talents--at any rate with an infatuation of some sort for him; and that sentiment was so intense that she could not summon the necessary self-possession to manifest it by words. Her glance had revealed everything to him in spite of herself; and how should he, trembling and bewildered as he was, find a way to tell her that he had understood her?

He had reached that point when the Marquis della Serra, the princess's adorer, suddenly reappeared before him and surprised him holding in his hands the fan the princess had left on the divan, and gazing at it without seeing it.

"I beg your pardon, my dear child," said the marquis, saluting him with charming courtesy, "but I am compelled to deprive you of that object, for which a lady has sent me. But if the Chinese pictures on this fan interest you, I can place at your disposal a collection of interesting vases and images from which you will be at liberty to choose."

"You are much too kind, signor marquis," replied Michel, offended by an air of benevolence in which he fancied that he could detect an impertinent assumption of superiority; "the fan does not interest me, and Chinese painting is not to my taste."

The marquis perceived Michel's irritation, and rejoined with a smile:

"Presumably you have seen only coarse specimens of the art of that people; but there are colored drawings, which, despite the elementary simplicity of the process, are worthy to be compared with the Etruscan vases in purity of outline and delightful artlessness of subjects. I shall be happy to show you those that I own. It is a small pleasure which I should be glad to afford you, but which would by no means pay my debt to you, for I have taken very great pleasure in looking at your paintings."

The marquis's tone was so sincere, and his face wore such an unmistakable expression of kindliness, that Michel, attacked on his weak side, could not refrain from saying ingenuously what he felt.

"I fear," he said, "that your lordship desires to encourage me by more indulgence than I deserve; for I cannot suppose that you would stoop to make sport of a young artist at the outset of his career."

"God forbid, my young friend!" replied the marquis, holding out his hand with an irresistibly cordial air. "I know your father too well and esteem him too highly not to be predisposed in your favor; that much I must admit; but I can say to you in all sincerity that your paintings disclose genius and give promise of talent. You see, I do not flatter you; there are still great faults in your work, due to inexperience or to overheated imagination: but there is a stamp of grandeur and originality of conception which can neither be acquired nor lost. Work, work, my young Michelangelo, and you will deserve the noble name you bear."

"Are others of your opinion, signor marquis?" queried Michel, strongly tempted to introduce the princess's name in the conversation.

"I think that everybody shares my opinion. Your defects are criticised indulgently, your good qualities warmly praised; people are not surprised at your brilliant performance when they learn that you are from Catania and the son of Pier-Angelo Lavoratori, an excellent workman, full of fire and spirit. We are loyal compatriots hereabout, Michelangelo! We rejoice at the triumphs won by a child of the country, and everyone generously claims a share in them. We esteem so highly those who are born on our beloved soil, that we forget all distinctions of rank, and nobles and peasants, artists and artisans, mutually overlook their ancient prejudices and unite their prayers in a fervent desire for national unity."

"Oho!" thought Michel, "the marquis is talking politics to me! I don't know his opinions. Perhaps, if he has guessed the princess's feelings, he proposes to try to ruin me! I will not trust him.--Will your lordship tell me," he said aloud, "if the Princess of Palmarosa has deigned to look at my paintings, and if she is not altogether dissatisfied with my work?"

"The princess is enchanted, do not doubt it, my dear fellow," replied the marquis, with extraordinary warmth; "and if she knew that you were here she would come and tell you so herself. But she is too much engaged at this moment for you to obtain speech of her. To-morrow, I doubt not, she will give you the praise that you deserve, and you will lose nothing by waiting. By the way," he said, turning again as he was about to leave the grotto, "will you come and see my Chinese paintings, and some other pictures not altogether without merit? I shall be delighted to see you often. My country house is close at hand."

Michel bowed, as if to thank him and accept his invitation; but, although he could not help being flattered by the marquis's gracious manner toward him, he was depressed, crushed as it were. Evidently the marquis was not jealous of him. He was not even disturbed.