"Two hundred millions dowry!" exclaims in a low voice, sighing vainly, the Vicomte de Lynen, a Belgian, after looking at the group, an unfortunate, but withal obstinate hunter after a dowry.
Around him, at the back of the church, there are other seekers after dowries, as if attracted together by a secret common desire. Come from Brussels, Paris, Florence, and everywhere, some spurred by a real need of readjusting their lives, others only to increase their luxury and their pleasures. Lynen is, as it were, their leader, and all of them, more or less young, some of them of grand name, all very fashionable, assume a sceptical air, that covers well their hidden interest. And in mountain clothes of great variety, from that of jacket and knickerbockers to white tennis flannels, from dark and subdued suits to the peculiar velvet of the chasseur, nearly all preserve the ingenuous and disinterested attitude of him who thinks only of enjoying life. Other men are scattered here and there, come at the order of a lady whom they strive to obey, come to seek one who is escaping them, or come through duty and curiosity; of every nation and condition, come as to a curious spectacle, as to a worldly invitation, to see the singular partnership of the Archduchess Maria Vittoria collecting with Mabel Clarke, to hear the two singers who so seldom allow themselves to be heard, the Smolenska, who is, in fact, a political exile, and who was consenting, schismatic as she was, to sing for the Roman Catholic church, and André de Beauregard—André whom the impresarii of New York were offering fantastic sums to make of him a rival to Caruso—while he was contemplating with melancholy the portrait of his ancestor slain at Malplaquet, or of another ancestor who was covered with glory at Fontenoy against the English. Nearly all the men are standing: there are no more seats. The caretaker of seats had his plate filled to overflowing with coins, such as he has never seen before. Standing, the men look around and turn every now and then, striving to discern who is entering and to distinguish which ladies are immersed in the gloom of the two narrow side aisles, and the mystery of certain veils which are too close.
"Ah, Madame Lawrence is not here! Then is it true that she is a Jewess, though she won't confess it?"
"No, no, she hurt her foot playing golf yesterday."
"But is she a Jewess?"
The Mass begins.
Mabel Clarke had entered a minute previously, dressed completely in white, her fresh, youthful face suffused with blushes beneath the white frame of her hat trimmed with cambric, which the dense mass of her hair raised and pressed back a little; she carried a soft bunch of white lilies-of-the-valley in one hand. Her mother is not with her, nor is the faithful shadow of Mrs. Broughton. She is accompanied by Don Vittorio Lante della Scala, who follows her step for step. Dressed in a dark blue suit, almost black, with the single bright and soft note of a pale yellow tie, in his sober smartness the young Italian aristocrat has a virile fascination together with delicacy and grace. As the two advance silently, but calmly and easily, their passage forward raises a murmur that creeps gradually through all the congregation.
Mabel Clarke, who is almost always used to hearing these whisperings on her passage, does not turn and has the appearance of not noticing them. Don Vittorio Lante seems to neither hear nor see, being intent on every action of the American girl he is accompanying. Mabel greets her American friends with a slight wave of the hand and a delightful smile, and reaching the top of the church looks for a place behind the two Archduchesses.
With difficulty she obtains a seat, and kneels for a moment. Vittorio Lante places himself most faithfully beside her, and they are shoulder to shoulder. While the priest at the altar makes the first genuflexion and whispers the first prayers, Mabel and Vittorio, bowing their heads to one another, carry on a conversation in a slight whisper.
All the crowd in the church is inattentive and distracted. Scarcely anyone follows the movements and acts of the priest at the altar. Many men and women raise themselves a little in their seats to watch the erect, proud, silent heads of the two Archduchesses. Others, the men especially, keep pointing at Mabel Clarke, who, smiling, distrait, and detached, turns her large grey eyes to those of Vittorio Lante, while he, with eyes fixed on her, distracted, seized, conquered, tells her things very softly, without ceasing to look and smile at her.