The Sorrows of Satan. Мария Корелли

“At last I have the honour of meeting you. I have seen you often, as one sees a star,—at a distance.”

      She smiled,—a smile so slight and cold that it scarcely lifted the corners of her lovely lips.

      “I do not think I have ever seen you,” she replied. “And yet there is something oddly familiar in your face. I have heard my father speak of you constantly,—I need scarcely say his friends are always mine.”

      He bowed.

      “To merely speak to Lady Sibyl Elton is counted sufficient to make the man so privileged happy,” he said. “To be her friend is to discover the lost paradise.”

      She flushed,—then grew suddenly very pale, and shivering, she drew her cloak towards her. Rimânez wrapped its perfumed silken folds carefully round her beautiful shoulders,—how I grudged him the dainty task! He then turned to me, and placed a chair just behind hers.

      “Will you sit here Geoffrey?” he suggested—“I want to have a moment’s business chat with Lord Elton.”

      Recovering my self-possession a little, I hastened to take the chance he thus generously gave me to ingratiate myself in the young lady’s favour, and my heart gave a foolish bound of joy because she smiled encouragingly as I approached her.

      “You are a great friend of Prince Rimânez?” she asked softly, as I sat down.

      “Yes, we are very intimate,” I replied—“He is a delightful companion.”

      “So I should imagine!” and she looked over at him where he sat next to her father talking earnestly in low tones—“He is singularly handsome.”

      I made no reply. Of course Lucio’s extraordinary personal attractiveness was undeniable,—but I rather grudged her praise bestowed on him just then. Her remarks seemed to me as tactless as when a man with one pretty woman beside him loudly admires another in her hearing. I did not myself assume to be actually handsome, but I knew I was better looking than the ordinary run of men. So out of sudden pique I remained silent, and presently the curtain rose and the play was resumed. A very questionable scene was enacted, the ‘woman with the past’ being well to the front of it. I felt disgusted at the performance and looked at my companions to see if they too were similarly moved. There was no sign of disapproval on Lady Sibyl’s fair countenance,—her father was bending forward eagerly, apparently gloating over every detail,—Rimânez wore that inscrutable expression of his in which no feeling whatever could be discerned. The ‘woman with the past’ went on with her hysterical sham-heroics, and the mealy-mouthed fool of a hero declared her to be a ‘pure angel wronged,’ and the curtain fell amid loud applause. One energetic hiss came from the gallery, affecting the occupants of the stalls to scandalized amazement.

      “England has progressed!” said Rimânez in soft half-bantering tones—“Once upon a time this play would have been hooted off the stage as likely to corrupt the social community. But now the only voice of protest comes from the ‘lower’ classes.”

      “Are you a democrat, prince?” inquired Lady Sibyl, waving her fan indolently to and fro.

      “Not I! I always insist on the pride and supremacy of worth,—I do not mean money value, but intellect. And in this way I foresee a new aristocracy. When the High grows corrupt, it falls and becomes the Low;—when the Low educates itself and aspires, it becomes the High. This is simply the course of nature.”

      “But, God bless my soul!” exclaimed Lord Elton—“you don’t call this play low or immoral do you? It’s a realistic study of modern social life—that’s what it is. These women you know,—these poor souls with a past—are very interesting!”

      “Very!” murmured his daughter.—“In fact it would seem that for women with no such ‘past’ there can be no future! Virtue and modesty are quite out of date, and have no chance whatever.”

      I leaned towards her, half whispering,

      “Lady Sibyl, I am glad to see this wretched play offends you.”

      She turned her deep eyes on me in mingled surprise and amusement.

      “Oh no, it doesn’t,” she declared—“I have seen so many like it. And I have read so many novels on just the same theme! I assure you, I am quite convinced that the so-called ‘bad’ woman is the only popular type of our sex with men,—she gets all the enjoyment possible out of life,—she frequently makes an excellent marriage, and has, as the Americans say ‘a good time all round.’ It’s the same thing with our convicted criminals,—in prison they are much better fed than the honest working-man. I believe it is quite a mistake for women to be respectable,—they are only considered dull.”

      “Ah, now you are only joking!” I said with an indulgent smile. “You know that in your heart you think very differently!”

      She made no answer, as just then the curtain went up again, disclosing the unclean ‘lady’ of the piece, “having a good time all round” on board a luxurious yacht. During the unnatural and stilted dialogue which followed, I withdrew a little back into the shadow of the box, and all that self-esteem and assurance of which I had been suddenly deprived by a glance at Lady Sibyl’s beauty, came back to me, and a perfectly stolid coolness and composure succeeded to the first feverish excitement of my mind. I recalled Lucio’s words—“I believe Lady Sibyl is for sale”—and I thought triumphantly of my millions. I glanced at the old earl, abjectly pulling at his white whiskers while he listened anxiously to what were evidently money schemes propounded by Lucio. Then my gaze came back appraisingly to the lovely curves of Lady Sibyl’s milk-white throat, her beautiful arms and bosom, her rich brown hair of the shade of a ripe chestnut, her delicate haughty face, languid eyes and brilliant complexion,—and I murmured inwardly—“All this loveliness is purchaseable, and I will purchase it!” At that very instant she turned to me and said—

      “You are the famous Mr Tempest, are you not?”

      “Famous?” I echoed with a deep sense of gratification—“Well,—I am scarcely that,—yet! My book is not published …”

      Her eyebrows arched themselves surprisedly.

      “Your book? I did not know you had written one?”

      My flattered vanity sank to zero.

      “It has been extensively advertised,” I began impressively,—but she interrupted me with a laugh.

      “Oh I never read advertisements,—it’s too much trouble. When I asked if you were the famous Mr Tempest, I meant to say were you the great millionaire who has been so much talked of lately?”

      I bowed a somewhat chill assent. She looked at me inquisitively over the lace edge of her fan.

      “How delightful it must be for you to have so much money!” she said—“And you are young too, and good-looking.”

      Pleasure took the place of vexed amour-propre and I smiled.

      “You are very kind, Lady Sibyl!”

      “Why?” she asked laughing,—such a delicious little low laugh—“Because I tell you the truth? You are young and you are good-looking! Millionaires are generally such appalling creatures. Fortune, while giving them money, frequently deprives them of both brains and personal attractiveness. And now do tell me about your book!”

      She seemed to have suddenly dispensed with her former reserve, and during the last act of the play, we conversed freely, in whispers which assisted us to become almost confidential. Her manner to me now was full of grace and charm, and the fascination she exerted over my senses became complete. The performance over, we all left the box together, and as Lucio was still apparently engrossed with Lord Elton I had the satisfaction of escorting Lady Sibyl to her carriage. When her father joined her, Lucio and I both stood together looking in at the window of the brougham, and the Earl, getting hold of my hand shook it up and down with boisterous friendliness.

      “Come and dine,—come and dine!” he spluttered excitedly; “Come—let me see,—this is Tuesday—come on Thursday. Short notice and no ceremony! My