“Jealous!” I exclaimed, with some heat, “I? Why should I be? I know nothing about the young man — I have not seen him yet! When I do I will tell you frankly what I think of him. Meanwhile” — here I gathered my hesitating courage together— “Pauline, I want to speak to you; will you be serious for a moment and listen to me?”
“Serious?” and a surprised look flitted over her face. Then, as I fixed my ardent gaze upon her, a deep blush coloured her fair cheeks and brow, and she quickly rose from her chair with a sudden movement of fear or timidity, making as though she would have fled from the room. But I caught her hands and held her fast, and all the pent-up longing of my soul found utterance in words. Her beauty, her irresistible sweetness, my deep and deathless love, the happiness we would enjoy when once united, — these were the themes on which I discoursed with the fiery eloquence and pleading of a troubadour; though, truly I scarcely knew what I said, so overwhelming was the released tide of my excitement and ardour. And she? She trembled a little at first, but soon grew very quiet, and, still allowing me to hold her hands, looked up with an innocent Vague wonder.
“You really want to marry me, Monsieur Gaston?” she asked, a faint smile parting her lips. “Soon?”
“Soon?” I echoed passionately. “Would I might claim you to-morrow’ as my bride, Pauline! then should I be the happiest of men! But you have not answered me, mon ange!” And now I ventured to put my arm about her and draw her to my breast, while I adopted the endearing “thou” of more familiar speech. “Dost thou love me, Pauline — even as I love thee?”
She did not answer at once, and a cold dread seized my heart; was Héloïse St. Cyr right after all, and was she not sure of herself? A meditative expression darkened her eyes into lovelier hues; she seemed to consider; and I watched her in an agonized suspense that almost stopped my breath. Then, with a swift action, as though she threw all reflection to the winds, she laughed, and nestled her pretty head confidingly against my shoulder.
“Oui, mon Gaston! I love thee! Thou art good and kind; papa is pleased with thee, maman also; we shall be very, very happy! Oh, quel baiser!” for I had in the relief and ecstasy of the moment pressed my first love-kiss on her sweet mouth. “Must we always kiss each other now? Is it necessary?”
“Not necessary to thee, perhaps!” I whispered tenderly, kissing her again. “But it is to me!”
With an impulsive half-petulant movement, she drew herself suddenly away from my embrace; then, apparently regretting the hastiness of this action, she came once more towards me, and, folding her hands in demure fashion on my arm, looked at me searchingly, as though she sought to read my very soul.
“Pauvre garçon!” she sighed softly, “thou dost truly love me? very, very dearly?”
More dearly, I assured her, than my own life!
“It is very kind of thee,” she said, with a pretty plaintiveness, “for I am very stupid, and every one says thou art such a clever man! It is good for us to marry, is it not, Gaston? Thou art sure?”
“If we love each other — yes, my Pauline! Of course it is good for us to marry!” I answered eagerly, a vague fear arising in my mind lest she should retract or hesitate. She waited with downcast eyes for a minute, and then glanced up at me radiantly smiling.
“Then we will marry!” she said. “We will live at Neuilly, and papa and maman will visit us, and Héloïse will come and see us, and we shall please everybody! C’est fini! So!” and she dropped me a mischievous little courtesy. “Me voici, Monsieur Gaston! votre jolie petite fiancée! à votre service!”
She looked so ravishingly pretty and enchanting that I was about to snatch her in my arms and kiss her again and yet again, when the door opened and the discreet Comtesse de Charmilles entered with a serene and gracious kindliness of manner that plainly evinced her knowledge and approval of the situation. She glanced smilingly from her daughter to me, and from me back to her daughter, and straightway comprehended that all was well.
“Bon jour, mon fils!” she said gently, laying a slight emphasis on the affectionate title, and adopting the tutoyer form of address without further ceremony. “Thou art very welcome! Thou wilt stay and dine this evening? M. de Charmilles has gone to persuade thy father to join us, and M. Vaudron is coming also, with his nephew, M. Silvion Guidèl.”
V.
I HAVE forgotten many things. Many circumstances that I might otherwise have remembered are now, thanks to the merciful elixir I love, effaced from my brain as utterly as though they had been burnt out with fire; but that one night in my life — the night of my betrothal to Pauline de Charmilles — remains a fixture in my memory, a sting implanted there to irritate and torture me when I would fain lose my very sense of being in the depths of oblivion. It was a marked evening in many respects, marked, not only by my triumph as Pauline’s accepted lover, but also by the astonishing and bewildering presence of the man Silvion Guidèl. I say astonishing and bewildering, because that was the first effect his singular beauty made upon the most prejudiced and casual observer. It was not that he was in the first flush of youth, and that his features still had all the fine transparency and glow of boyhood upon them; it was not that his eyes, grey-black and fiery, seemed full of some potent magnetic force which compelled the beholder’s fascinated gaze; no, it was the expression of the whole countenance that was so extraordinarily interesting, an expression such as an inspired painter might strive to convey into the visage of some ideal seraph of patience and wisdom supernal. I, like every one else at the house of the De Charmilles that night, found myself attracted against my will by the graceful demeanour and refined courtesy of this son of a Brittany farmer, this mere provincial, whose face and figure would have done honour to the most brilliant aristocratic assemblage.
The former instinctive aversion I had felt with regard to him subsided for the time being, and I listened as attentively as any one at table whenever his voice, melodious as a bell, chimed in with our conversation. I was perfectly happy myself, for in a few brief words, simple and suited to the occasion, the Comte de Charmilles had announced to all present the news of his daughter’s engagement to me. When he did so I glanced quickly at Héloïse St. Cyr, but though she looked even paler than usual she gave no sign either of surprise or pleasure. My father had then, in his turn, proposed the health of the “chers fiancés,” which was drunk with readiness by all except Silvion Guidèl, who never touched wine. He apologized for this lack of bon camaraderie, and was about to raise a glass of water to his lips, in order to join in the toast, when Héloïse spoke across the table in swift eager accents.
“Do not drink my cousin’s health in water, M. Guidèl!” she said. “It is unlucky, and your wishes may prove fatal to them both!”
He smiled, and at once set down the glass.
“You are superstitious, mademoiselle!” he replied, gently bending his handsome head towards her. “But I will not try to combat your feeling. I will content myself with a silent prayer in my heart for your cousin’s happiness, a prayer which, though it may not find expression in words, is none the less sincere.”
His voice was so serious and soft and full of emotion, that it left an impression of gravity upon us; that vague subdued sensation that comes across the mind when the little bell rings at mass, and the people kneel before the Host unveiled. And then I saw the meditative eyes of Héloïse rest upon the Breton stranger with a curiously searching earnestness in their grey-green depths, a look that seemed to be silently indicative of a desire to know more of his character, life, and aims. The dinner went on, and we were all conversing more or less merrily on various desultory matters, when she quite suddenly asked him the question— “Are you really going to be a priest, Monsieur Guidèl?”
He turned his dark picturesque face in her direction. “I hope so, God willing! As my revered uncle will tell you, I have studied solely for the priesthood.”
“Yes, that may be,” returned Héloïse, a faint colour creeping through the soft pallor of her cheeks. “Bu
t pardon me! you seem also to have studied many things not necessary to religion. For instance—”
“Now, Héloïse, petite femme Socrate!” exclaimed the Comte de Charmilles good-naturedly. “What art thou going to say out of thy stores of wisdom? You must understand, M. Guidèl” — and he turned to the person he addressed— “my niece is a great student of the classics, and is well versed in the literature of many nations, so that she often puts me to shame by her knowledge of the strange and wonderful works done by men of genius in this world for the benefit of the ignorant. Excuse her, therefore, if she trespasses on your ground of learning; I have often told her that she studies like a man.”
Silvion Guidèl bowed courteously, and looked towards Héloïse with renewed interest.
“I am proud to have the honour of being addressed by one who has the air of a Corinne, and is no doubt the possessor of more than Corinne’s admirable qualities!” he said suavely. “You were observing, mademoiselle, that I seem to have studied things not altogether necessary to religion. In what way do you consider this proved?”
Héloïse met his gaze very fixedly.
“I heard you speaking with my uncle some minutes age, of science,” she answered, “of modern science in particular, and its various wonderful discoveries. Now do you not find something in that branch of study, which confutes much of the legendary doctrine of the Church?”
“Much that seems to confute it, yes,” he returned quietly, “but which, if pursued far enough, would, I am fully persuaded, strengthen our belief instead of weakening it. I am not afraid of science, mademoiselle; my faith is firm!”
Here he raised his magnificent eyes with the expression of a rapt saint, and again we felt that embarrassed gravity stealing over us as if we were in church instead of at dinner. M. Vaudron, good-hearted man, was profoundly touched.
“Well said, Silvion, mon garçon!” he said with tender seriousness. “When the good God has once drawn our hearts to the love of His Holy service, it matters little what the learning or the philosophy of the world can teach us. The world and the things of the world are always on the surface, but the faith of a servant of the Church is implanted deep in the soul!”
He nodded his head several times with pious sedateness, then, relapsing into smiles, added, “Not that even I can boast of such strong faith as my old Margot after all! She has a favourite saint, St. Francis of Assisi; she has made a petticoat for his image which she keeps in her sleeping-chamber, and whenever she wishes to obtain any special favour she sticks a pin in the petticoat, with the most absolute belief that the saint noticing that pin, will straightway remember what he has to do for her, without any further reminder!”
We laughed, — I say we, but Silvion Guidèl did not laugh.
“It is very touching and very beautiful,” he said, “that quaint faith of the lower classes concerning special intercession, I have never been able to see anything ridiculous in the superstition which is born of ignorance; as well blame an innocent child for believing in the pretty fancies taken from fairy-tales, as scoff at the poor peasant for trusting that one or other of the saints will have a special care of his vineyard or field of corn. I love the ignorant! they are our flock, our ‘little ones,’ whom we are to guide and instruct; if all were wise in the world—”
“There would be no necessity for churches or priests!” I put in hastily.
My father frowned warningly; and I at once perceived I had ruffled the devout feelings of the Comte de Charmilles who, nevertheless, remembering that I was the excellent match he had just secured for his daughter, refrained from allowing any angry observation to escape him. Silvion Guidèl however, looked straight at me, and as his brilliant eyes flashed on mine, the aversion I had felt for him before I ever saw him sprang up afresh in my mind.
“Monsieur is of the new school of France?” he inquired with the faintest little curl of mockery dividing his delicate lips. “He possibly entertains — as so many do — the progressive principles of atheist and republican?”
The blood rushed to my face; his manner angered me, and I should have answered him with a good deal of heat and impatience, had I not felt a soft little hand suddenly steal into mine and press my fingers appealingly. It was Pauline’s hand; she was a timid creature, and she dreaded any sort of argument, lest it might lead to high words and general unpleasantness. But whatever I might have said was forestalled by M. Vaudron, who addressed his nephew gently, yet with a touch of severity too.
“Tais-toi — tais-toi, mon garz!” he said, using the old Breton term of endearment, “Monsieur Gaston Beauvais is a young man like thee, and in all probability he is no more certain of his principles than thou art! It takes a long while to ripen a man’s sense of right and honour into a fixed guiding-rule for life. Those who are republicans in the flash of their impetuous youth may be Royalists or Imperialists when they arrive at mature manhood; those who are atheists when they first commence their career, may become devout servants of heaven before they have reached the middle of their course. Patience for all and prejudice for none! otherwise we, as followers of Christ, lay ourselves open to just blame. You are boys — both you and Monsieur Gaston; as boys you must be judged by your elders, till time and experience give you the right to be considered as men.”
This little homily was evidently very satisfactory to both my father and the Comte de Charmilles. Silvion Guidèl bowed respectfully, as he always did whenever his uncle spoke to him, and the conversation again drifted into more or less desultory channels. When the ladies left the dinner-table for the drawing-room, Guidèl crossed over and took Pauline’s vacated seat next to mine.
“I must ask you to pardon me!” he said softly, under cover of a discussion on finance which was being carried on by the other gentlemen. “I feel that I spoke to you rudely and roughly, and I am quite ashamed. Will you forget it and be friends?”
He extended his hand. There was a soft caressing grace about him that was indescribably fascinating; his beautiful countenance was like that of a pleading angel, his eyes bright with warmth and sympathy. I could do no less than take his proffered hand in my own, and assure him of my esteem, and though my words were brief and scarcely enthusiastic, he seemed quite satisfied.
“How lovely she is!” he then said in the same confidential tone, leaning back in his chair and smiling a little. “How like a fairy dream! It is impossible to imagine a more enchanting creature!”
I looked at him surprised. I had got the very foolish idea into my head that the devotees of religion never perceived a woman’s beauty.
“You mean—” I began.
“I mean your lovely fiancée, Mademoiselle de Charmilles! Ah! you are indeed to be congratulated! She is like some fair saint in a sculptured niche where the light falls through rose-coloured windows, her eyes have so pure a radiance in them! an innocence such as is seen in the eyes of birds! She would infuse into the dullest mind gleams of inspired thought; she is the very model of what we might imagine Our Lady to have been before the Annunciation!”
“You are more likely to be a poet than a priest!” I said, amazed and vaguely vexed at his enthusiasm.
He smiled. “Mon ami, religion is poetry, — poetry is religion. The worship of beauty is as holy a service as the worship of the beauty-creating Divinity. There is a great deal of harm done to the Church by bigotry — the priesthood are too fond of sack-cloth and ashes, penitence and prayer. They should look out upon the mirror of the world, and see life reflected there in all its varying dark and brilliant colours, then, raising their thoughts to heaven, they should appeal for grace to understand these wonders and explain them to the less enlightened multitude. The duty of a priest is, to my thinking, to preach of happiness and hope, not sorrow and death. If ever I become an ordained servant of Christ” — here he raised his eyes devoutly and made almost imperceptibly the sign of the Cross— “I shall make it my province to preach joy! I shall speak of the flowers, the birds and trees, of the stars and their inexhaustible
marvels, of the great rivers and greater oceans, of the blessedness of life, of everything that is fair and gracious and suggestive of promise!”
“Would you take the beauty of woman as a text, for example?” I asked incredulously.
“Why not?” he answered calmly. “The beauty of woman is one of the gifts of God, to gladden our eyes, it is not to be rejected or deemed unsacred. I should love to preach of beautiful women! they are the reflexes of beautiful souls!”
“Not always!” I said drily, and with a slight scorn for his ignorance. “You have not lived in Paris, M. Guidèl! There are lovely women at the cafés chantants; and also at other places not mentionable to the ears of a student of religion; women delicate as nymphs and dainty as flowers, who possess not a shred of character and who have been veritable harpies of vice from their earliest years!”
A sudden interest flashed into his face. I noticed it with surprise, and he saw that I did, for a rich wave of colour rushed up to his brows, and he avoided my gaze. Then an idea seemed to strike him, and he uttered it directly, with that faint tinge of mockery that once before had marked his accents when addressing me.
“Ah! you have had a wider experience!” he said softly, “you have met these — these harpies?”
I was indescribably irritated at this. What business had he to cast even the suspicion of such a slur on my manner of conduct? I controlled my annoyance with difficulty, and replied curtly —
“You mistake! No gentleman who cares a straw for his good reputation visits such low and despicable haunts as they inhabit. What I have told you I know by hearsay.”
“Indeed!” and he sighed gently. “But one should always prove the truth of things before believing in an ill report. Virtue is so very easily calumniated!”
I laughed aloud. “Perhaps you would like to meet the harpies in question?” I said half jestingly.
He was not offended. He looked at me with the utmost seriousness.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 207
