Lothair, Benjamin Disraeli [crime books to read TXT] 📗

the Greek emperors. Her uncle is prince of Samos. Mr. Cantacuzene was very much opposed to the match, but I think quite wrong. Mr. Phoebus is a most distinguished man, and the alliance is of the happiest. Never was such mutual devotion."

"I am not surprised," said Lothair, wonderfully relieved.

"Her sister Euphrosyne is in the room," continued Mrs. Giles, "the most extraordinary resemblance to her. There is just the difference between the matron and the maiden; that is all. They are nearly of the same age, and before the marriage might have been mistaken for each other. The most charming thing in the world is to hear the two sisters sing together. I hope they may to-night. I know the family very well. It was Mrs. Cantacuzene who introduced me to Theodora. You know it is quite en r gle to call her Theodora. All the men call her Theodora; 'the divine Theodora' is, I believe, the right thing."

"And do you call her Theodora?" asked Lothair, rather dryly.

"Why, no," said Mrs. Giles, a little confused. "We are not intimate, at least not very, Ms. Campian has been at my house, and I have been here two et three times; not so often as I could wish, for Mr. Giles, you see, does not like servants and horses to be used on Sundays--and no more do I--and on weekdays he is too much engaged or too tired to come out this distance; so you see--"

The singing had ceased, and Theodora approached them. Addressing Lothair, she said: "The Princess of Tivoli wishes that you should be presented to her."

The Princess of Tivoli was a Roman dame of one of the most illustrious houses, but who now lived at Paris. She had in her time taken an active part in Italian politics, and had sacrificed to the cause to which she was devoted the larger part of a large fortune. What had been spared, however, permitted her to live in the French capital with elegance, if not with splendor; and her saloon was the gathering roof, in Paris, of almost every one who was celebrated for genius or accomplishments. Though reputed to be haughty and capricious, she entertained for Theodora an even passionate friendship, and now visited England only to see her.

"Madame Campian has been telling me of all the kind things you did for her at Oxford," said the princess. "Some day you must show me Oxford, but it must be next year. I very much admire the free university life. Tell me now, at Oxford you still have the Protestant religion?"

Lothair ventured to bow assent.

"Ah! that is well," continued the princess. "I advise you to keep it. If we had only had the Protestant religion in Italy, things would have been very different. You are fortunate in this country in having the Protestant religion and a real nobility. Tell me now, in your constitution, if the father sits in the Upper Chamber, the son sits in the Lower House--that I know; but is there any majorat at attached to his seat?"

"Not at present."

"You sit in the Lower House, of course?"

"I am not old enough to sit in either House," said Lothair, "but when I am of age, which I shall be when I have the honor of showing Oxford to your highness, I must sit in the Upper House, for I have not the blessing of a living father."

"Ah! that is a great thing in your country," exclaimed the princess, "a man being his own master at so early an age."

"I thought it was a 'heritage of woe,'" said Lothair.

"No, no," said the princess; "the only tolerable thing in life is action, and action is feeble without youth. What if you do not obtain your immediate object?--you always think you will, and the detail of the adventure is full of rapture. And thus it is the blunders of youth are preferable to the triumphs of manhood, or the successes of old age."

"Well, it will be a consolation for me to remember this when I am in a scrape," said Lothair.

"Oh! you have many, many scrapes awaiting you," said the princess. "You may look forward to at least ten years of blunders--that is, illusions--that is, happiness. Fortunate young man!"

Theodora had, without appearing to intend it, relinquished her seat to Lothair, who continued his conversation with the princess, whom he liked, but who, he was sorry to hear, was about to leave England, and immediately--that very night. "Yes," she said, "it is my last act of devotion. You know, in my country we have saints and shrines. All Italians, they say, are fond, are superstitious; my pilgrimage is to Theodora. I must come and worship her once a year."

A gentleman bowed lowly to the princess, who returned his salute with pleased alacrity. "Do you know who that is?" said the princess to Lothair. "That is Baron Gozelius, one of our great reputations. He must have just arrived. II will present you to him; it is always agreeable to know a great man," she added--"at least Goethe says so!"

The philosopher, at her invitation, took a chair opposite the sofa. Though a profound man, he had all the vivacity and passion which are generally supposed to be peculiar to the superficial. He had remarkable conversational power, which he never spared. Lothair was captivated by his eloquence, his striking observations, his warmth, and the flashing of his southern eye.

"Baron Gozelius agrees with your celebrated pastor, Dr. Cumming," said Theodora, with a tinge of demure sarcasm, "and believes that the end of the world is at hand."

"And for the same reasons?" inquired Lothair.

"Not exactly," said Theodora, "but in this instance science and revelation have arrived at the same result, and that is what all desire."

"All that I said was," said Gozelius, "that the action of the sun had become so irregular that I thought the chances were in favor of the destruction of our planet. At least, if I were a public office, I would not insure it."

"Yet the risk would not be very great under those circumstances," said Theodora.

"The destruction of this worlds foretold," said Lothair; "the stars are to fall from the sky; but while I credit, I cannot bring my mind to comprehend, such a catastrophe."

"I have seen a world created and a world destroyed," said Gozelius. "The last was flickering ten years, and it went out as I was watching it."

"And the first?" inquired Lothair, anxiously.

"Disturbed space for half a century--a great pregnancy. William Herschel told me it would come when I was a boy, and I cruised for it through two-thirds of my life. It came at last, and it repaid me."

There was a stir. Euphrosyne was going to sing with her sister. They swept by Lothair in their progress to the instrument, like the passage of sultanas to some kiosk on the Bosporus. It seemed to him that he had never beheld any thing so resplendent. The air was perfumed by their movement and the rustling of their wondrous robes. "They must be of the Aryan race," thought Lothair, "though not of the Phidian type." They sang a Greek air, and their sweet and touching voices blended with exquisite harmony. Every one was silent in the room, because every one was entranced. Then they gave their friends some patriotic lay which required chorus, the sisters, in turn, singing a stanza. Mr. Phoebus arranged the chorus in a moment, and there clustered round the piano al number of gentlemen almost as good-looking and as picturesque as himself. Then, while Madame Phoebus was singing, Euphrosyne suddenly, and with quickness, moved away and approached Theodora, and whispered something to her, but Theodora slightly shook her head, and seemed to decline.

Euphrosyne regained the piano, whispered something to Colonel Campian, who was one of the chorus, and then commenced her own part. Colonel Campian crossed the room and spoke to Theodora, who instantly, without the slightest demur, joined her friends. Lothair felt agitated, as he could not doubt Theodora was going to sing. And so it was; when Euphrosyne had finished, and the chorus she had inspired had died away, there rose a deep contralto sound, which, though without effort, seemed to Lothair the most thrilling tone he had ever listened to. Deeper and richer, and richer and deeper, it seemed to become, as it wound with exquisite facility through a symphony of delicious sound, until it ended in a passionate burst, which made Lothair's heart beat so tumultuously that for a moment he thought he should be overpowered.

"I never heard any thing so fine in my life," said Lothair to the French philosopher.

"Ah! if you had heard that woman sing the Marseillaise, as I did once, to three thousand people, then you would know what was fine. Not one of us who would not have died on the spot for her!"

The concert was over. The Princess of Tivoli had risen to say farewell. She stood apart with Theodora, holding both her hands, and speaking with earnestness. Then she pressed her lips to Theodora's forehead, and said, "Adieu, my best beloved; the spring will return."

The princess had disappeared, and Madame Phoebus came up to say good-night to her hostess.

"It is such a delicious night," said Theodora, "that I have ordered our strawberries-and-cream on the terrace. You must not go."

And so she invited them all to the terrace. There was not a breath of air, the garden was flooded with moonlight, in which the fountain glittered, and the atmosphere was as sweet as it was warm.

"I think the moon will melt the ice to-night," said Theodora, as she led Madame Phoebus to a table covered with that innocent refreshment in many forms, and pyramids of strawberries, and gentle drinks which the fancy of America could alone devise.

"I wonder we did not pass the whole evening on the terrace," said Lothair.

"One must sing in a room," said Euphrosyne, "or the nightingales would eclipse us."

Lothair looked quickly at the speaker, and caught the glance of a peculiar countenance--mockery blended with Ionian splendor.

"I think strawberries-and-cream the most popular of all food," said Madame Phoebus, as some touched her beautiful lips.

"Yes; and one is not ashamed of eating it," said Theodora.

Soon there was that stir which precedes the breaking up of an assembly. Mrs. Giles and some others had to return to town. Madame Phoebus and Euphrosyne were near neighbors at Roehampton, but their carriage had been for some time waiting. Mr. Phoebus did not accompany them. He chose to walk home on such a night, and descended into the garden with his remaining friends.

"They are going to smoke," said Theodora. "Is it your habit?"

"Not yet."

"I do not dislike it in the air and at a distance; but I banish them the terrace. I think smoking must be a great consolation to a soldier;" and, as she spoke, she moved, and, without formally inviting him, he found himself walking by her side.

Rather abruptly he said, "You wore last night at the opera the same ornament as on the first time I had the pleasure meeting you."

She looked at him with a smile, and a little surprised. "My solitary trinket; I fear you will never see any other."

"But you do not despise trinkets?" said Lothair.

"Oh no; they are very well. Once I was decked with jewels and ropes of pearls, like Titian's Queen of Cyprus. I sometimes regret my pearls. There