Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Tiens!” he murmured, — he had thrown himself back in a chair and closed his eyes— “That is easy!”

  His voice had a touch of deep pathos in it, and my heart ached for him. There could be no doubt that he was suffering greatly, — some acute unhappiness had him on the rack, — and perhaps he did not tell me all, or even half his griefs. I drew up my own chair to the table, where a large bundle of financial reports awaited my attention, — I was quite accustomed to have him often sitting in the same room with me while I worked, so that his presence did not disturb me in the least, — and I paid no heed to him for several minutes. All at once, though my head was bent down over my writing, I became instinctively aware that he was looking intently at me, — and, lifting my gaze to meet his, was exceedingly sorry to see what a strange expression of positive agony there was in his beautiful dark eyes, — eyes that were formerly so serene and untroubled as to be almost angelic. I laid down my pen and surveyed him anxiously.

  “Silvion, mon ami,” I said gently— “there is something else on your mind, more than this feeling about the priesthood. You have not told me everything!”

  He frowned. “What else should there be to tell!” he answered, with a certain quick brusquerie, — then in milder accents he added— “My dear Beauvais, don’t you know a man may have a thousand infinitesimal worries all mingled together in such confusion that he may be absolutely unable to dissever or distinguish them separately? That is my case! I cannot tell you plainly what is the matter with me, — for I hardly know myself.”

  “Miserable for nothing, then!” I Iaughed, scribbling away again. “Just like my little Pauline! It must be in the air, this malady!”

  There was a pause, during which the clock seemed to tick with an almost aggressive loudness. Then Guidèl spoke.

  “Is she indeed miserable, do you think?” he asked, in accents so hoarse and tremulous that I scarcely recognized them as his. “She, that bright child of joy? — the little ‘Sainte Vièrge’ as I have sometimes called her? — Oh, my God!”

  This last exclamation broke from him like a groan of actual physical torture, and seeing him cover his face with his hands, I sprang to his side in haste and alarm.

  “Guidèl, you are ill! I know you are! You must either stay here the night with me, or let me walk home with you, — you are not fit to be alone!”

  He drew away his hands from his eyes, and looked at me very strangely.

  “You are right, Beauvais! I am not fit to be alone! Only the straight-minded and pure of heart are fit for solitude, — there being no solitude anywhere! No solitude! — for every inch of space is occupied by some eyed germ of life, — and none can tell how, or by whom our most secret deeds are watched and chronicled! To be alone, simply means to be confronted with God’s invisible, silent cloud of witnesses, — and you say truly, Beauvais, I am not fit thus to be alone!” He rose from his chair and stood up, resting one hand on my arm. “All the same” — he continued, forcing a faint smile— “I will not bore you any longer with my present dismal humour! Do not bestow another thought on me, mon ami, — I am going! No! — positively I cannot allow you to come home with me; — I am not ill, Beauvais, I assure you! — I am only miserable. The malady of misery may be, as you say, ‘in the air!’” He laughed drearily, and I watched him with increasing concern and wonder. “Really I do believe there are strange influences in the air sometimes; like seeds of plants blown by the wind to places where they may best take root and fructify, so the unseen yet living organic infusions of hatred — or love, — joy or sorrow, may be, for all we know, broadcast in the seemingly clear ether, ready to sink sooner or later into the human hearts prepared to receive and germinate them. It is a wonderful Universe! — and wonderful things come of it! He paused again, and then held out his hand. “Forgive my spleen, Beauvais! Good night!”

  “Good night!” I answered, feeling somewhat saddened myself by his utter dejection. “But I wish you would let me accompany you part of the way!”

  “On the contrary, you will oblige me, mon cher, by sticking to your work, and allowing me to saunter home in my own desultory fashion. I want to think out a difficulty, and I must be by myself to do it.”

  He walked across the room, I following him, and had nearly reached the door when he turned sharply round and confronted me.

  “Supposing I had sinned greatly and irretrievably, Beauvais, could you forgive me?”

  I stared at him, astonished.

  “Sinned? You? Greatly and irretrievably? Nonsense! One might as well expect sin from the archangel Raphael!”

  He broke into a laugh, forced, harsh, and bitter.

  “Milles remerciements! Upon my word, Beauvais, you flatter me! If I am like the arch-angel Raphael, then Raphael has deserted Heaven for Hell quite recently! But you do not answer my question. Could you forgive me?”

  His feverishly brilliant eyes seemed to probe my very soul, and I hesitated before replying, for, strange to say, the old inexplicable sense of distrust and aversion rose up in me anew, and seemed not only to throw a sudden cloud over his beauty, but also in part to quench my friendly sympathy.

  “I do not think I have a malicious nature” — I said at last doubtfully— “and I have never borne any one a lasting grudge that I can remember. I do not profess particularly Christian principles either, because, like many of my countrymen of to-day, I rather adhere to the doctrines of a new Universal Religion springing solely out of Human Social Unity, — but I think I could forgive everything except—”

  “Except what?” he asked eagerly.

  “Deliberate deceit,” I answered, “wilful betrajal of trust, — insidious tampering with honor, — this sort of thing I do not fancy I could ever pardon.”

  “And suppose I deceived you in a great and important matter?” persisted Guidèl, still looking at me. I met his gaze fixedly, and spoke out the blunt truth as I then felt it.

  “Frankly, — I should never forgive you!”

  He laughed again, rather boisterously this time, and once more shook hands.

  “Well said, Beauvais! I honour you for the sturdy courage of your opinions! Never put up with deceit! A spoken lie is bad enough, — but a wilfully acted lie is worse! And yet, alas! — what a false world we live in! — how full of the most gracefully performed lying! The pity of it is that when truth is spoken, no one can be got to believe it. You know the pretty song which says —

  “‘Mieux que la réalité

  Vaut un beau mensonge!’

  Oddly enough, the least strophe of poetry always reminds me of that clever Mademoiselle St. Cyr! She returns to Paris soon, I suppose?”

  “She is expected every day,” I replied, glad of a more commonplace turn to the conversation. “She may be home to-morrow.”

  “Indeed! I shall be glad to see her again!”

  “So shall I!” I agreed emphatically. “Pauline will soon recover her good spirits in her cousin’s company.”

  “No doubt, — no doubt! “And he looked preoccupied and thoughtful, then, with a sudden start, he exclaimed “My good Beauvais! I forgot! Your marriage takes place almost immediately, does it not?”

  “At the beginning of next month,” I answered, smiling.

  He seized me by both hands enthusiastically.

  “Ah! Voilà le bonheur qui vient vite!” And his eyes flashed radiance into mine, “I am ashamed, Beauvais! — positively ashamed to have darkened your threshold with the shadow of myself in an ill-humour! A thousand pardons! I will go home and get to bed — with to-morrow’s sun I shall probably rise a wiser and more cheerful man! Think no more of my peevishness; we all grumble at fate now and then. Au revoir, cher ami! and may your dreams be rose-lit with the glory of love and the face of — Pauline!”

  With a bright smile, more dazzling than usual by contrast with his previous gloom, he left me, — and I watched him from the street-door as he strode swiftly across the road and turned in the direction of his uncle’s residence. His behaviour was
certainly strange for one who was usually the very quintessence of saintly serenity and studious reserve; — I was puzzled by it, and could not make him out at all. However, after a little cogitation with myself, I came to the conclusion that matters were truly as he had said, — that Paris had unsettled him, and that he was beginning to have serious doubts as to whether after all it was his true vocation to be a priest. I myself had doubted it ever since I had come to know him intimately, — he was too fond of science and philosophy, — too clever, too handsome, and too young to resign all life’s splendid opportunities for the service of a narrow and cramping religion. I could thoroughly understand the difficulty in which he was placed, — and I wished him well out of bondage into the liberty of the free. That night I was busy at my work up to the small hours of the morning; and when I did get to bed at last, my slumber was not very refreshing. I continued my task of adding up figures throughout my dreams, without ever arriving at any precise conclusion. I tried in the usual futile visionary way to come to some result of all these distressful and anxious calculations, but in vain, — the arithmetical jumble refused to clear itself up in any sort of fashion, and bothered me all night long, though now and then it dispersed itself out of numbers into words, and became a monotonous refrain of the lines “Mieux que la réalité Vaut un beau mensonge!”

  IX.

  ON the following afternoon, between four and five o’clock, I went to see Pauline, as I had promised her mother I would, — a promise I myself was only too eager to fulfil. Remembering her extreme fondness for flowers, I bought a basket of lilies-of-the-valley at the establishment of a famous horticulturist, noted for his exquisite taste in floral designs, — it was tied with loops of white and palest pink ribbon, and the delicate blossoms loved by Christ of old, were softly shaded over by the fine fronds of the prettiest fern known, the dainty maiden-hair. Armed with this fragrant trophy of love, I entered the little morning-room where the “the à l’Anglaise” was already prepared, and found Pauline awaiting me, looking a perfect fairy vision of youthful grace, mirth, and loveliness! She sprang forward to greet me, — she took the lilies from my hands and kissed them, — she threw her arms round my neck and thanked me with the same child-like rapture and enthusiasm that had distinguished her on the night I first met her, when she had talked so ecstatically about the “marrons glacé” I held her in my close embrace, and studied her features with all a lover’s passionate scrutiny, — but I could discover no traces of tears in her eyes, — no touch of pallid grief upon her rose-flushed cheeks; — her smiles were radiant as a June morning, and I inwardly rejoiced to find her so full of her old sparkling animation and vivacity. Drawing a comfortable chair up to the table, she made me sit down while she prepared the tea, and I watched her with almost dazzled eyes of love and admiration, as she flitted about the room like a sylph on wings.

  “I was told that you were ill yesterday, Pauline!” — I said presently— “That you were crying, — that you were unhappy. Was that true?”

  She looked up laughingly.

  “Oh yes, quite true!” she answered, with a droll little gesture of self-disdain. “So many tears, Gaston! I almost floated away on an ocean of them! So many dreadful gasps and ugly sobs! Tiens! I am sure I have a red nose still, — is it not so?”

  And, kneeling down beside me, she raised her fair face to mine in mirthful inquiry. Kissing her, I told her she had never looked lovelier, which was true, — whereupon she sprang up and curtsied demurely.

  “I am glad I am pretty still!” she said, — then all at once a darkness crossed her brows like the shadow of a cloud. “How horrible it would be to grow ugly, Gaston! — to get worn and thin and old, with great black rings like spectacles round the eyes, — to lose all the gloss out of one’s hair, — and to be so weary, so weary, that the feet will hardly bear one along! Ah! — I saw a woman like that the other day, — she sat on one of the seats in the Bois, quite, quite alone, — with no one to pity her. Her eyes said despair, despair! — always despair! — and my heart ached for her!”

  “But you must not think about these things, my darling,” I said, taking her hand and drawing her towards me. “There are many such sad sights in Paris and in all large cities, — but you must not dwell upon them. And as for getting ugly!” — I laughed— “you need have no fear of that! — you are growing more beautiful every day!”

  “You think so?” she queried with a coquettish inquisitiveness. “That is well! I am pleased, — for I wish to be beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful!” I re-asserted emphatically.

  “Not as beautiful as I should like to be!” she murmured musingly. “There are some people, — even men, — who are possessed of beauty that can never be matched, — that is quite unique, like the beauty of the sculptured Greek heroes, and then it is indeed wonderful! “She paused, — then rousing herself with a slight start, she went on more gaily. “Come, Gaston, we will have tea! We will be like the good people in England, — we will sip hot stuff and talk a little scandal between the sips. That is the proper way! Now there is your cup, — here is mine. Bien! — Whom shall we abuse?”

  I laughed, — she looked so pretty and mischievous.

  “Wait a little,” I said, “you have not told me yet why you cried so much yesterday, Pauline? You admit that you did cry, — well! — what was the reason?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Qui sait! I cannot tell! It was pleasant — it did me good!”

  “Pleasant to cry?” I queried amusedly.

  “Very pleasant!” she answered. “Something was in my heart, you know, — something strange, like a bird that wished to sing and fly far far away! — but it was caged, — and so it fluttered and fluttered a little and teased me, — but when the tears came it was quite still. And now it remains quite still! — I do not think it will try to sing or to fly any more!”

  There was a quaint touch of pathos in these words that moved me uneasily. I put down my as yet untasted cup of tea, and stretched out my hand.

  “Come here, Pauline!”

  She came obediently.

  I sat her, like a little child, on my knee, and looked earnestly into her face.

  “Tell me, my darling,” I said, with tender seriousness, “is there anything that is troubling you? Have you some unhappiness that you conceal from every one? — and, if so, may I not be your confidant? Surely you can trust me! You know how truly and ardently I love you! — you know that I would do anything in the world for you, — you might set me any task, however difficult, and I would somehow manage to perform it! My whole life is yours, my dearest! — will you not confide your griefs to me, — if you have griefs, — and let me not only share them, but lift the burden of them altogether from your mind, which ought to be as bright and untroubled as a midsummer sky!”

  She met my searching gaze openly, — her breathing was a little quicker than usual, but she gave no other sign of disquietude.

  “I have no griefs, Gaston,” she said, in a low, rauner tremulous voice; “none at least that I can give words to. I think — perhaps, — I am a little tired! — and — I have missed Héloïse—”

  “Is that your trouble!” and I smiled. “But what will you do without Héloïse when you are married?”

  “I — I do not know!” she faltered timidly. “I shall have you then!” I kissed her. “And you are very, very kind to me, Gaston! and I promise you—”

  “What?” I asked eagerly.

  She hesitated a moment, then went on— “I promise you I will tell you if I get sad again — yes! — I will tell you everything! — and you will be good and gentle with me, and comfort me, will you not?”

  “Indeed I will, my darling, my angel!” I said, fondly caressing her pretty hair. “Who should console you in any sorrow if not I? I shall be quite jealous of Héloïse if she is to have the largest share of your confidence.”

  “But she will not have it,” interrupted Pauline quite suddenly. “I could never tell her any �
� any dreadful trouble!”

  I laughed. “Let us hope you will never know what any ‘dreadful, trouble is!” I rejoined earnestly. “But why could you not tell Héloïse?”

  She mused a little before replying, — then said, speaking slowly and thoughtfully —

  “Because she is so great and grand and far above me in everything! Ah, you smile as if you did not believe me, Gaston, — but you do not know her! Héloïse is divine i — her goodness seems to me quite unearthly!

  I have caught her sometimes at her prayers — and it is beautiful to see her face looking as pure and sweet as an angers! — and her lovely closed eyelids just like shut-up shells, — and she has such long lashes, Gaston! — longer than mine! She reminds me of a picture that used to hang in one of the chapels at the Convent of the Sacré Cœur, — Santa Filoména it was, crowned with thorns and lilies. And she is so very very good in every way that I know I should never have courage to tell her if — if I had been wicked!”

  Here she lowered her eyes, and a hot blush wavered across her face.

  “But you have not been wicked, child!” I exclaimed, still somewhat puzzled by her manner. “You could not be wicked, if you tried!”

  “You think not?” she returned softly, raising her eyes again to mine, and I observed that she was now as pale as she had a minute before been flushed. “Dear Gaston! You are so fond of me! — and always kind! I am very very grateful!”

  Nestling down, she laid her head against my breast for a second, — then springing up again, pushed back her rich curls, and laughingly remonstrated with me for not drinking my tea.

  “It is cold now, — I will pour you out some more,” she said, suiting the action to the word. “Don’t let us talk of disagreeable things, Gaston, — of my crying, and all that nonsense! It was very stupid of me to cry, — you must forget it, — for to-day I am quite well and merry, — and — and — oh, do let us be happy while we can!”