"Princesse," he said, in a low tone of vibrating earnestness, "If I
thought--if I could think such abominable lies were told of her . . ."
"Chut!" And the Princesse smiled rather sadly,--"It is not like you
to 'pretend,' Mr. Leigh--You DO know,--you MUST know--that a coarse
discussion over her name was the cause of the duel between the
Marquis Fontenelle and that miserable vaurien of the stage,
Miraudin,--gossip generously lays the two deaths at her door--and
the poor child is as innocent of harm as the lilies we have just
seen left to die in the darkness of St. Cecilia's tomb. The fact is,
she came to Rome to escape the libertinage and amorous persecution
of Fontenelle; and she never knew till the day she heard of his
death, that he had followed her. Nor did I. In fact, I asked him to
be my escort to Rome, and he refused. Naturally I imagined he was
still in Paris. So we were all in the dark,--and as often happens in
such cases, when the world does not know whom to blame for a
disaster, it generally elects to punish the innocent. All the Saints
we have heard about this morning, bear witness to THAT truth!"
Aubrey lifted his eyes and looked yearningly at the sylph-like
figure of Sylvie walking a little ahead of him with her friend
Angela.
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