"... Von Raabe?"
"... the great banker?"
"... musician, nephew of the great master, Raabe?"
"... a Lutheran?"
"... a Lutheran playing in a Catholic church?"
There is a loud ringing: the great mystery of Tran-substantiation has been softly accomplished once more, though the congregation perceives nothing but the relief of rising and sitting down again, of being able to turn towards the organ, as they get up to sit down, and look at the white face of the Smolenska, where in its pallor is expressed a mortal melancholy, and who knows what secret voluptuousness. The two couples who have halted at the back of the church, with bowed heads, while our Lord descended in the consecrated Host, bow to each other as they return to their places.
"Bonne quête, Altesse!" exclaimed Mabel Clarke, with a familiar smile.
The Archduchess Maria Vittoria does not thank her or exchange the good wishes. Bending her head with a slight bow she withdraws, followed by the Comte de Roy, and disappears on her side in the lateral nave. Mabel Clarke with her plate full of money, which she holds on high for fear of losing any of it, turns to Don Vittorio Lante, encouraging him to continue the walk, and both are lost on the other side. The priest at the altar communicates with the species; but no one heeds him. For now André de Beauregard is singing a motet from Handel. His pure, crystalline voice resembles a clear spring of mountain water that rises singing and trilling amidst the rocks of a very lofty ridge, and proceeds therefrom, ever singing and trilling, amidst meadows and grass and flowers. Just as the Smolenska's voice is ardent, so is André's limpid and silvery, and Otto von Raabe with his large, brown, knotty hands sounds the organ lightly, as if for a gay, childish game. In vain the second Gospel invites the faithful to rise again; in vain the last formalities of the Divine Sacrifice unfold themselves. From head to head the murmuring begins afresh.
"... He could have millions."
"... If he liked to."