From the sides of the church men and women stretch towards the organ, which is at the back, to find out if Lidia Smolenska, the great singer, is there. A pale and serious face is to be seen up above, a very light coiffure beneath a feathered hat, which at once disappears, hidden by the balustrade of the organ. Mechanically people rise to their feet when the priest opens the Gospel. Some cross themselves through old custom, others in imitation; very few make the three signs of the cross, on the forehead, lips, and heart, as the rite directs; vice versa, as they are standing people end by turning to look around them, and almost to form groups.
But the priest has left the altar, and after a minute he reappears in the pulpit to explain the day's Gospel. All sit down more comfortably: they turn towards the pulpit and gradually become silent. In a gently pronounced French, with a soft accent, stretching out in pleasant circumlocutions, the parable of the day's Gospel is expounded, that of the master who asks an account from his servants of the way in which they have employed their time. With florid gestures the priest questions the crowd and does not wait for a reply; he admonishes them, but tenderly, on the use of time, of that which has been done well and ill in ten years, in a year, in a day, in an hour. And he does it all in his insinuating and caressing French, so as not to oppress or frighten those who are listening to him, who have come from every part of the world, all of whom are very rich, or at least seem rich, all of whom are of high birth and origin, or at least bear great names, all these ladies who, as he sees and knows, cling to life—to a true or false youth, simple or artificial. Suddenly the priest heals with the balm of hope, in soft and rolling French, a certain light spiritual agitation that had risen in the souls of the crowd, at the doubt that they had badly used their time in enjoyment, vice, corruption, and cruelty. But what does it matter, for here is a priest to promise them divine mercy in a French full of pardon and indulgence? So the congregation, which perhaps has not been agitated at all, and has never considered that it has sacrificed to the senses, to vice, and perdition, hears the tenderest absolution falling on its shoulders in the name of divine clemency; and it finds this unasked-for pardon and clemency suddenly coming in plenitude in the name of God. But the priest has not finished. In even more mellifluous French, full of hélas and sighs, he begs alms for the poor, very poor, church of St. Moritz Bad, which for years has been crushed by its building debt. The church has cost too much because of its campanile, which is a monument, and through want of money its interior is undecorated and mean; so the priest turns humbly, sighing and lamenting, à ses très chers frères, à ses chères sœurs, that the collection may give a substantial sum to the poor church of St. Moritz Bad. Then he disappears from the pulpit.
The great moment has arrived: everybody in church rises, turns, and cranes to watch. The couple who are to collect are about to begin their duties.
The Archduchess Maria Vittoria was the first to rise, followed by a beardless youth of eighteen, the Comte de Roy, a Frenchman, the son of an Austrian Princess, hence connected, if remotely, with the House of Austria. Maria Vittoria kneels a moment before the High Altar, then she takes from the hands of the Comte de Roy a silver plate. She advances to her aunt, the Archduchess Maria Annunziata, and makes her a profound curtsey, a Court curtsey, and stoops to kiss the long, skinny, white hand which places in the plate a large gold coin, a hundred lire piece. Followed by the Comte de Roy, the fifteen-year-old girl, tall and slim, rather too tall and thin perhaps, like her great-aunt, enters among the congregation to the right of the High Altar. Maria Vittoria does not smile, her proud mouth with the thick lower lip is closed tightly, her very thick opaque eyes scarcely fix themselves for a moment upon the person from whom she is asking alms. Coins of silver and gold fall with a tinkle into the plate; she scarcely bows her head in thanks, and passes on, without looking at or turning to her cavalier who follows her. Curiosity about her is very soon exhausted; the congregation examines her first with respect, then with indifference, and in some she awakes antipathy by her stiffness and sovereign pride. Quietly she crosses the church imprisoned in her thoughts and feelings. Her plate is covered with gold and silver coins, covered but not overflowing. She pays no heed to what is given her; in fact, she moves and mingles with the congregation, without scarcely anyone bothering further about her.
Mabel Clarke also salutes the altar, but with a short, slight bow; Don Vittorio Lante follows her and offers her another silver plate. The American girl approaches the Archduchess Maria Annunziata, and instead of the deep Court curtsey she makes her an elegant bow, the bow of the Lancers, throwing her a lively glance and gracious smile. The Archduchess moulds a pallid smile on her lips, and places another big gold coin in the plate, the same alms that she had given to her niece—one hundred francs in gold.
"Merci, Altesse," exclaims Mabel Clarke, with a strong American accent.
She stops a moment, opens her white leather purse, spreads upon the plate, close to the gold coin of her Imperial and Royal Highness, the cheque for four hundred dollars—two thousand francs—which her mother, Annie Clarke, gave her. The Archduchess glances for a moment, a rush of blood flushes the pale, ivory-like face, then with an act of Christian humility she bows her head and prays.
Mabel Clarke's action has been seen by the first row of people near the altar, the action and the slip of white paper thrown into the plate has been seen and commented on. Like a long shiver it is communicated from row to row right to the back of the church. All murmur and whisper that there is a Clarke cheque in the plate, "Three hundred, five hundred lire, no, a thousand; scarcely a hundred and fifty, five hundred." And the crowd sways backwards and forwards, forgetful that already at the altar the first bell is ringing for the beginning of the sacrifice of the Host. Mabel Clarke in her white dress penetrates the congregation to the right of the High Altar, holding her plate a little raised to show it better. Her large grey eyes sparkle beneath the subtle arch of their chestnut eyebrows; the beautiful florid mouth over the white teeth smiles. She looks the person well in the face of whom she begs, as she smilingly repeats in French, "pour notre chère église, Madame ... pour notre chère église, Monsieur...." Neither woman nor man resists the curiosity of detaining near them for a moment the daughter of the man six hundred times a millionaire, Mabel Clarke, the bride to be with twenty, thirty, fifty millions; and immediately after the curiosity an irresistible sympathy rises for the beautiful creature, beautiful with a new beauty, a new florescence, a new blood, of a new grace caused by new features, and of a charm caused by a new fascination.