“I came here to attend Mass,” she said hurriedly. “There is Mass here? I have not been inside a church for many weeks.”
“Service is held here and well attended,” he replied, “but it is yet too early.”
She still kept her eyes on him.
“My brother is finding lodgings—he is to meet me here. I will stay for the Mass.”
The Marquis moved just outside the bronze gates so that the light of the green lamps cast a sea-pearl glow over his person. He was looking towards the high altar, and Carola Koklinska observed him keenly.
He appeared older than his years, which were twenty-seven, and was of a delicate, though dignified and manly, bearing. A little above the medium height, he carried himself with the full majesty of youth and health and the perfect ease of nobility and a long soldier’s training. His face, in its refinement, repose, and slight hauteur of composure, was typical of his nation and his rank; his expression was given a singular charm by the great sweetness of the mouth and the impression of reserved power conveyed by the deep hazel eyes, which were of a peculiarly innocent and dreamy lustre—not eyes to associate with a soldier, incongruous, indeed, with the stiff gorgeous uniform and the pomaded curls that waved loosely round his low serene forehead.
The details of his dress were fashionable and exquisite: he wore diamonds in his neckcloth and his sword-hilt was of great beauty. His manner and whole poise were so utterly calm that the Countess Carola felt it difficult to associate him with the ardent voice that had spoken to Georges d’Espagnac. He had put her very completely outside his thoughts. She winced under it as if it were a personal discourtesy.
“I regret I intruded,” she said sincerely.
The Marquis gave her a look of astonishment; her open glance met his; he blushed, opened his lips to speak, but did not.
“I also can admire St. Wenceslas,” she added.