The service concluded, and St. Cecilia solemnly commended once more to her eternal rest, the people all rose and wandered like black ghosts, through the darkness of the Catacombs, following the flicker of the torches carried by the Trappist monks, who always perform the duty of guides on this occasion,—­and, once out in the open air, in the full blaze of the sunshine which had now broken brilliantly through the mist of the previously threatening rain-clouds, Aubrey Leigh saw with pain that Sylvie looked very pale and ill.  He ventured to say something solicitous concerning this to the Princesse D’Agramont, whose bright dark eyes flashed over him with an enigmatical look, half wonder, half scorn.

“What strange creatures men are!” she said satirically, “Even you, clever, and gifted with an insight into human nature, seem to be actually surprised that our poor, pretty little Sylvie looks ill!  With half Rome declaring that she was the mistress of Fontenelle, and the other half swearing itself black in the face that she is the mistress of Gherardi, she certainly ought to be very happy, ought she not?  Indeed, almost dancing with the joy and consolation of knowing how pleasant her ‘Society’ friends are making her life for her!”

Aubrey’s heart beat violently.

“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.

“I thought,” he said hesitatingly,—­“I confess, I thought there might have been something between her and the late Marquis . . .”