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Sylvie herself, in the exquisite clothing which she always made it her business to wear, was the brilliant completion of the general picturesqueness, and Florian Varillo seemed to think so as he looked at her with the practised underglance of admiration which is a trick common to Italians, and which some women accept as a compliment and others resent as an insult.
Paralysed with fear Varillo stared at him, every drop of blood seemed to rush from his heart to his brain, turning him sick and giddy, for in the dark yet fiery eyes of the priest, there was a look that would have made the boldest tremble. "I knew that you were here," he said, his thin lips widening at the corners in a slight disdainful smile.
Varillo gazed at him affrightedly, and pointed to Ambrosio. The monk said nothing, but merely took the rigid figure by its arm and shook it violently. Then, as suddenly as he had lost speech and motion, Ambrosio recovered both, and went on talking evenly, taking up the sentence he had broken off "If we did not choose to be as devils, we might be as gods!"
Gherardi stood still, breathing quickly, but otherwise unmoved. "Plot?" he echoed. "You must be mad! I have no plot against anyone. My business is to uphold the cause of truth and justice, and I shall certainly defend the name of the great artist who painted that picture" and he pointed to Angela's canvas "Florian Varillo! Dead as he is, his memory shall live!"
"She paints wonderfully well, for a woman," said Varillo lazily, "But there is so much in that phrase, cara Contessa, 'for a woman'. Your charming sex often succeeds in doing very clever and pretty things; but in a man they would not be considered surprising. You fairy creatures are not made for fame but for love!" The Comtesse glanced him up and down for a moment, then laughed musically.
"But how is one to amuse you?" asked Varillo, sitting down beside her and endeavouring to take her hand. She drew it quickly from him. "Not in that way!" she said scornfully, "Is it possible that you can be so conceited! A woman says she is dull and bored, and straightway the nearest man imagines his uncouth caresses will amuse her!
They take my ideas and use them, and then, when my work is produced they say it is I who have copied from THEM, and that women have no imagination! I have been cheated once or twice in that way, this time no one has any idea what I am doing." "No one? Not even Signer Varillo?" "No," said Angela, smiling a little, "Not even Signor Varillo. I want to surprise him."
Slowly Varillo lifted himself and looked up at the dark strong face above him. "A pity you did not succeed!" went on Gherardi, "for the world would have been well rid of at least one feminine would-be 'genius, whose skill puts that of man to shame!
"There is only one sorrow possible to a woman," replied the gentleman, who was no other than Florian Varillo, the ideal of Angela Sovrani's life, smiling as he spoke with a look in his eyes which conveyed an almost amorous meaning.
"Fancy nothing!" retorted Moretti quickly, "Fancy and I are as far apart as the poles, except in the putting together of words, in which easy art I daresay I am as great an adept as Florian Varillo, who can write verses on love or patriotism to order, without experiencing a touch of either emotion. What a humbug by the way, that fellow is!
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