All, men and women, from curiosity, sympathy, or vanity, as they see the Clarke cheque on which the coins are piling, give more than they wish to give; and she, smiling and bowing the white forehead, where the rebellious wave of hair is falling, thanks them with her marked American accent: "Oh, merci, Madame, mille fois ... merci, Monsieur, bien merci." She smiles and passes by, Don Vittorio Lante follows almost close beside her. He is a little pale and disturbed; perhaps all these contacts annoy him; but he does not say so. Then the altar bell invites the faithful to kneel; a few who are attentive kneel. Mabel Clarke has gradually reached her American friends and they surround her with little subdued cries of joy and affection, while she smilingly offers the plate among them. The Wests, Milners, Rodds open their purses and smilingly draw out long white cheques and throw them in the plate, exclaiming, "Dear Mabel," "Darling," "Mabel dear."
Overwhelmed, contented, and happy she piles up the cheques in the middle, under the gold pieces. She smiles and smiles, showing her white teeth.
"Thank you, dearest Ellen; thank you, dear, dear Norah."
The two couples have now reached the back of the church and meet, her Imperial and Royal Highness, the Archduchess Maria Vittoria, and the Comte de Roy, Mabel Clarke and Don Vittorio Lante della Scala. They form a motionless group, for now at the altar the acolyte's bell rings shrilly for the Elevation, and the congregation is on its knees with bowed heads. But a pure voice is raised up above at the organ. Lidia Smolenska sings an Ave Maria in her deep, touching voice, accompanied by the organ, which a German is playing, a tall German with a pointed, iron-grey beard and the most beautiful blue eyes—Otto von Rabbe, the friend of the mountains. The deep notes of the organ accompany the voice of the Polish lady that penetrates right to the heart, a voice full of ardour, languor, and melancholy. Some heads are gradually raised to hear better, faces are turned, and other heads draw together to speak a word or two in a very low whisper.
"... exiled?"
"... nihilist?"
"... schismatic?"
"... on the stage?"
The Elevation bell rings, and almost grudgingly heads are lowered again, as they listen to the perfect voice filling the church with its indescribable harmony, and to the organ touched with a master's touch till it reaches the most intimate fibres of the soul. Again there is a light whispering: