“Et comme un faux gentilhomme est exclu de l’armorial,” added the preacher, a little irrelevantly, “ainsi ces faux martyrs furent bannis du martyrologe.”
Irene listened with interest, but wondered a little how this scientific, historical, slightly satirical lecture could touch or help the souls of the listeners. In half an hour it was over, and Irene rose to go, when suddenly the altar was brightly illuminated, the organ began to play, and from the gallery floated the dulcet tones of the beautiful angel-voiced choir. Irene had never heard such passionate romantic singing, except at the opera. It awakened no religious inspiration in her; on the contrary, closing her eyes in complete enjoyment, caressed by the softness of those delicious waves of sound, she saw before her her once-idolized singer Battestini, in the title rôle of Rubinstein’s “Demon.” The unhappy “exiled spirit” was wandering in the desert, solitary, forsaken, heartbroken, hopelessly in love!
“All the sorrow, all the suffering of life,” he sobbed passionately from the gallery, “is caused by solitude. Live together in couples! Love, caress, and comfort one another! And above all things, lose no time! Enjoy the delights of love, while you can!”
The sound of dull, stifled sobbing fell on Irene’s ear. It emanated from a grey-haired old man beside her, who had fallen on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
“He weeps because it is too late for him to love,” concluded Irene, as she glanced pityingly at the bent figure of the old man.
The service ended; the great doors opened, and the warm, golden, Roman evening rushed into the church. Irene turned her steps homewards, enjoying the blue sky, and the gay good-natured Sunday crowd that filled the streets. Somewhere in the distance a military band was playing, the air was full of laughter and merriment. Pretty children, in their best frocks, and with little bare legs, were frolicking about to the evident delight of their parents, who watched them with tender caressing smiles.
“How glorious, how beautiful life is!” thought Irene, still under the impression of the singing. But having traversed two streets and turned into the Piazza Venezia, she suddenly stopped short, horror-struck.
“But they did not sing about earthly love at all!” she exclaimed to herself in complete confusion. “How could such thoughts ever be awakened by their prayers? How did it happen? How came I to fall into such an error?”
Irene was both amazed and ashamed, and decided to say nothing to Père Etienne about her impressions of the service. This, however, was not as easy as it seemed. The wily priest cross-examined her severely, and of course, Irene ended by admitting everything. Père Etienne frowned. He knew all about this tragic “Demon,” singing so passionately in the desert—he had met him twice in the corridor, on the way to Irene’s room!
“You are far too impressionable,” he observed severely, “and music evidently irritates your nerves. You will do better to attend the lectures of Monsignor Berra, in the convent of the Ursulines.”