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Updated: June 19, 2025
YOU, the last descendant of the Counts Hermenstein, a noble and loyal family, will degrade your birth by taking up with the rags and tags of humanity the scarecrows of life? And by your sheer stupidity and obstinacy, you will allow your husband's soul to be dragged to perdition with your own! You call it love to keep him an infidel?
Here, leaning far forward to watch the intense gold of the Roman moon strike brightness and shadow out of the dark uplifted pinions of her winged stone guardians, stood Sylvie Hermenstein, who, in her delicate white attire, with the moonbeams resting like a halo on her soft hair, might have easily passed for some favoured saint whom the sculptured angels were protecting.
In this regard, Sylvie Hermenstein had acted wisely by removing herself from association, or "blind contact" with her would-be lover, and yet, though she was aware that her doing so had caused a certain dispersal of the atmosphere which almost veered towards complete disillusion, she found nevertheless, that Rome as she had said, was "dull"; her heart was empty, and longing for she knew not what.
The next morning dawned with all the strange half mystical glow of light and colour common to the Italian sky, flushes of pink warmed the gray clouds, and dazzling, opalescent lines of blue suggested the sun without declaring it, and Sylvie Hermenstein, who had passed a restless and wakeful night, rose early to go on one of what her society friends called her "eccentric" walks abroad, before the full life of the city was up and stirring.
Here going to where Sylvie stood, he took her by the hand, and led her to the front of the platform. Then he turned again to his eager and expectant audience. "In your presence, my friends, and in the presence of God and before the Cross, I take Sylvie Hermenstein to be my wedded wife!
He has been here for half an hour and tells me that he takes a long adieu of France after Sunday, and he has promised me to LEAVE YOU TO YOURSELF. I am sure you are glad of this. My uncle and I go to Rome next week. She sealed and marked the envelope "private", and ringing the bell for her man-servant requested him to deliver it himself into the hands of the Comtesse Hermenstein.
St. Cecilia herself might have been enraptured by such sweet harmony, and Aubrey Leigh instinctively bent his head, moved strongly by the holy and tender fervour of the anthem. Growing accustomed to the flickering lights, he presently perceived the Princesse D'Agramont a little in front of him, and beside her were her two friends, Angela Sovrani and Sylvie Hermenstein.
"Generous of me!" and the Comtesse Hermenstein looked him full in the eyes, "Why I think it an honour to know her a privilege to touch her hand! All Europe admires her she is one of the world's greatest artists."
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