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

by Marie Corelli

  “Eh bien, M. Beauvais!” she observed, setting her arms akimbo. “What can one do for you at this early hour in the morning? Not eight o’clock yet, and M. Vaudron is at mass-service — and his breakfast is not yet prepared, — and what should be do with visitors before noon?”

  All this breathlessly, and with much pettish impatience.

  “Tut, Margot! You must not look upon me as a visitor,” I said quietly. “My errand is soon done. This” — and I held out my sealed-up challenge— “is for M. Silvion Guidèl, voilà tout!”

  “For M. Guidèl!” she exclaimed, with a toss of her head and a quivering of her nostrils, which always betokened rising temper. “Hien! best send it after him, then! He is not here any longer — he is gone!”

  “Gone!” I echoed stupidly. “Gone!”

  “Gone! Yes! — and why should he not go, if you please?” she inquired testily, I have had enough of him! He is as difficult to please as an English milord, — and he has no more heart than a bad onion! I have been as kind to him as his own mother could have been, — and yet away he went last night without a thank-you for my trouble! He left ten francs on my table — bah! — what is ten francs when one wants a kind word! And M. Vaudron is grieving for the loss of his company like a cat for a drowned kitten!”

  I was so confounded by this unexpected turn to affairs, that for a moment I knew not what to say.

  “Where has he gone?” I asked presently, in a faint unsteady voice.

  “Back to Brittany, of course!” shrilled Margot irritably. “Where else should such a pretty babe be wanted? His father has met with a dangerous accident, — a horse kicked him, I believe — anyhow, he is thought to be dying — and the precious Silvion was telegraphed for in haste. And, as I tell you, he left last night, without a word or a look or a ‘Dieu vous bénisse, to me! — me, — who have worked for him and waited upon him like a slave! — ah! the wicked ingratitude of the young to the old!”

  I looked at her in vague surprise, — she was always more or less touchy, but there was evidently something deeper than mere touchiness in her present humour.

  “Margot, you are cross!” I said, endeavouring to smile.

  “Yes, I am cross!” — and she stamped her foot viciously, — then all at once tears welled up in her hard old eyes, “I am cross and sorry both together, voilà! He was a beau garçon; — it was pleasant to see him smile, — and he had pretty ways, both for his uncle and for me, — that is, when he remembered me, which truly was not often. But then it was enough, so long as he was in the house, voyez-vous? — and though he would do strange things, such as taking those long walks in the Bois by himself, for no earthly reason that I could see, — still one could look at him now and then, and think of the days when one was young. Bah!” — and she stamped her foot again, and rubbed away her tears with her coarse apron— “I am an old fool, and he is, I dare say, a thriftless vaurien, in spite of all his prayers and fasting!”

  I laughed rather bitterly.

  “Parbleu! Did he pray? — did he fast?” I inquired, with a touch of sarcastic amusement.

  Margot flared round upon me quite indignantly.

  “Did he pray? — did he fast? — Why, what else was he made for?” she snapped out. “He was always praying — and he ate enough for a bird — no more! He would kneel before his crucifix so long that I used to fancy I heard the rustle of the Blessed Virgin’s robes about the house, — for if his petitions would not bring her to take care of us all, then I wonder what would? And once — ah, truly! where would he have been if I had not looked after him! — I found him in a faint in the church itself — he had been walking in the Bois as usual, and had come back to pray without touching a morsel of food, — but what else could you expect? He was a great big innocent! — the holy saints were the same!”

  I shrugged my shoulders disdainfully.

  “Do you know, Margot, that there are several ways of fighting the devils out of a man?” I said; “and starvation is one! Yet even then, it sometimes happens that the devils still get the upper hand! Can you tell me whether M. Guidèl is coming back to Paris?”

  “No, I cannot!” she retorted snappishly. “It is certain that he is gone, and that I have work to do, — and that if you want more news of him, you had better speak to M. le Curé. I have no time to stand talking here any longer!”

  “Bien! Bon jour, Margot!” and I raised my hat to her playfully.

  “Bon jour, M. Gaston!” she returned tartly; “and try not to be jealous of young men whom God has made better-looking than yourself!”

  And, with a bang, she shut the door upon me. I laughed, and sauntered slowly away. Idiotic old woman! She too, withered and wan and uncomely, had also felt the influence of Silvion Guidèl’s accursëd beauty, — so much so, as to be actually fretting over his careless omission to say good-bye to her! And she became rude to me directly she saw that I was inclined to depreciate his value! What dolts women were, I thought! Caught by a charming smile, — a pair of fine eyes, and a graceful form, — caught and infatuated to folly, and worse than folly, all for a man’s outward bearing! Positively, when one comes to think of it, with all our intellectual progress, we are little better than the beasts in love! Physical perfection generally enchains us far more than mental, — as the tiger paces round his mate, attracted by her sinuous form, her velvety skin and fiery eyes, so we court and ogle the woman whose body seems to us the fairest, — so women, in their turn, cast amorous eyes at him whose strength seems the best comparison to their weakness. Of course there are exceptions to the rule, — but so rarely do they occur, that they are chronicled among the world’s “romances,” not realities. And we want realities nowadays, do we not? — no foolish glozing over of true and ugly facts? Well! — one very true and very ugly fact is paramount in human history, namely, that this merely physical attraction between man and woman is of the briefest continuance, and nearly always turns to absolute loathing! We are punished when we admire one another’s perishable beauty to the exclusion of all mental or intelligent considerations, — punished in a thousand frightful ways, — ways which have truly a savour of Hell! It is, perhaps, unjust that the punishment should fall so heavily, — but fall it does, without question — unless, — unless one is an absintheur! Then, neither crime nor punishment matter one iota to the soul that has thus been rendered brutishly impervious to both!

  I had plenty of food for reflection as I walked away from the Curé’s house, — and to give myself time to think quietly, I entered the Bois which was close by, and roamed up and down there for more than an hour.

  Silvion Guidèl had left Paris; — did Pauline know of this, I wondered? I tore up the challenge I had written him, and flung the little bits of paper far and wide into the air, — should I follow him to his home in Brittany? I was not at all inclined for the trouble of the journey. Old Margot’s allusion to those long walks he used to take had opened my eyes to the manner in which he and Pauline must have arranged their clandestine interviews; — the nervous presentiments of Héloïse St. Cyr had evidently been only too well founded! Pauline, under pretence of attending mass at M. Vaudron’s church, had really gone to meet her lover; — while he, after assisting his uncle at the first celebration, had hastened off to keep the tryst at whatever part of the Bois they had secretly appointed, — and so the amour had been cleverly carried on in the early morning hours, without awakening any suspicion of wrong in those whose simple belief in woman’s virtue and man’s honour had been thus deliberately outraged. Other meetings elsewhere too, might easily have been arranged, — liars have a thousand cunning ways of keeping up their lies! What dupes we had all been! — what unsuspecting, blind, good-natured, trusting fools! — for I felt certain that even Héloïse, though she might have had her private fears of Pauline’s impulsiveness and Guidèl’s attractiveness, never imagined her idolized cousin would have fallen so far as she had fallen now. I meditated on the whole position for awhile, and finally returned home, — the result of my
solitary reverie framing itself into the following letter: —

  “To MADEMOISELLE PAULINE DE CHARMILLES.

  “MADEMOISELLE, “I hear this morning that M. Silvion Guidèl has left Paris, Has he made his departure known to you, or signified in any way his future intentions? If not, I presume that his return to Brittany will be for good, in which case I may possibly (I do not say certainly) endeavour to forget our painful interview of last night. To make the best of the terrible position you are in, and also for the sake of those to whom your honour is dear, you will do well, at any rate for the present, to keep silence — and allow the arrangements for our marriage to proceed uninterruptedly. As time progresses some new course of action may suggest itself to me, — but, till either definite news is heard from M. Guidèl, or I can see my way to an alteration of the contract settled and agreed upon by our respective families, you will serve every one concerned best, by allowing things to remain as they are. Accept my respectful salutations!

  “GASTON BEAUVAIS.”

  I wrote this, — but why? Did I really intend to “endeavour to forget” her crime? Certainly not! What then did I mean? — what did I propose to do? I cannot tell you! I had, or seemed to have, an ulterior motive lurking in the background of my thoughts, — but what that motive was, I could not explain even to myself! Some force outside of me apparently controlled my movements, — I was a passive slave to some unseen but imperative master of my will! There is such a thing as hypnotism, remember! — the influence of one mind acting upon and commanding the other even at a distance. But there is something stronger even than hypnotism — and that is Absinthe! The suggestions IT offers are resistless and implacable — no opposing effort will break ITS bonds! And IT had placed an idea, — a diabolical conception of revenge somewhere in my brain, — but whatever the plan was it did not declare itself in bold form as yet, — it was a fiery nebula of disconnected fancies from which I could obtain no settled fact. But I was satisfied that I meant something, — something that would, I supposed, evolve itself into action in due time, — and for that time I was languidly content to wait.

  XIV.

  ABOUT a couple of hours after I had written my letter, I called at the De Charmilles’ house, and delivered it in person to Pauline’s own maid. I bade this girl tell her mistress that I waited for an answer, — and presently the answer came, — a little blotted blurred note closely sealed.

  “I cannot, will not believe he has gone!” — it ran— “without a word to me! — it would be too cruel! What shall I do? — I am desolate and helpless. But I trust you, Gaston, — and, as you wish it, I will say nothing, though to keep silence breaks my heart, — nothing — until you give me leave to speak.

  “PAULINE.”

  This was all, but it satisfied me. I read it, standing on the doorstep with the femme-de-chambre watching me somewhat curiously. Smiling unconcernedly, I inquired —

  “How is mademoiselle this morning?”

  “Not very well, monsieur. She has a severe headache and has not slept.”

  I feigned a proper anxiety.

  “I am exceedingly sorry! Pray convey to her the expression of my deep solicitude! By the way, have you any news of Mademoiselle Héloïse?”

  “Oh oui, monsieur! She returns to-morrow afternoon.”

  With this information I retired, — and straightway proceeded to the Gare du Nord to meet my father.

  He arrived, punctual to time, and greeted me with the utmost affection.

  “Gloire à la France!” he exclaimed, as he alighted on the platform and clasped me by both hands. “What a joy it is to be out of gloomy England! It is the month of May as we all know, — and yet I have only seen the sun three times since I left Paris! But thou art pale, mon fils? Thou hast worked too hard?”

  “Not at all,” I assured him.

  “The little Pauline has been cruel?”

  I laughed.

  “Cruel! She is an angel of sweetness, mon père! — too kind, too virtuous and too true for such a worthless fellow as I!”

  My father gave me a quick puzzled glance.

  “You speak with a strange harshness in your voice, Gaston,” he said anxiously. “Is there anything wrong?”

  I tried to be as much like my old self as possible, and took his arm affectionately.

  “Nothing, mon père! — nothing! All is well. I have lost a friend, that is all; — the admirable Silvion Guidèl has gone back to Brittany.”

  “Tiens! what a pity!” and my father looked quite concerned about it. “He had become thy favourite comrade too! When did he go?”

  “Last night only, and quite suddenly,” and I detailed the news of the morning as received from Margot.

  My father shook his head vexedly.

  “Ah well! Then he will have to be a priest after all, I suppose! Quel dommage! Such a brilliant young man should have chosen a different career. I had hoped Paris would have changed him.”

  “You are as fascinated with him as everybody else!” I said, laughing somewhat nervously. My father laughed too.

  “Well! He is a fascinating boy!” he admitted; “I am already quite sorry for the ladies, old and young, who may need to have recourse to his spiritual counsels!”

  “By my faith, so am I!” I rejoined emphatically, in a half sotto-voce, which my father, just then busy with his luggage, did not hear.

  All that day was one of comparatively empty leisure; but, though I had both chance and opportunity, I did not venture to visit Pauline. Old Vaudron came disconsolately in at dinner-time, the forlorn expression of his countenance betokening how greatly he missed his nephew, though he brightened up a little in my father’s company. I watched him, — thinking of the secret I held — yet saying nothing.

  “Who would have thought,” he dismally complained, “that the boy Silvion could have become so dear to me! And to Margot also! — she is inconsolable! What a warning it is against setting too much store by the ties of earthly affection! It is altogether very unfortunate; for now I suppose his parents will hardly bear him out of their sight for months! You see, mon ami,” — and his kind old eyes moistened as he spoke— “he is such a beautiful and gentle soul that one considers him more an angel than a human being, — he is unlike everybody else. Yet, all the same, I think Paris scarcely agreed with him. There was an odd restlessness about his manner of late, — and a certain bitterness of speech that did not well become his nature; and once indeed we had together a very melancholy discussion which, if I had not handled it with the nicest care, might have led to his indulgence in a deadly sin!”

  “Impossible!” I ejaculated with a slight smile, “Sin and Silvion Guidèl are leagues apart!”

  “True, very true!” responded the gentle, unsuspecting old man. “And I thank God for it! Yet, without carnal errors, there are spiritual transgressions which must be avoided, — and one of these Silvion was inclined to fall a prey to, — namely, despair! Despair of God’s mercy! — ah! this is terrible presumption, and we find it so designated in the Holy Roman Missal. He put strange and awful questions to me at that time, such as this, ‘Whether I believed God really cared how we lived or what good or evil we committed!’ Such a frightful idea! — a positive tempting of Divine justice! — it quite alarmed me, I assure you!”

  “And you answered — what?” I queried, vaguely interested.

  “Why, mon cher garçon, I answered as my faith and duty taught me,” he replied with mild austerity. “I told him that God certainly did care, — or else He would not have placed in the inner consciousness of every human being such a distinct comprehension betwixt right and wrong.”

  “But — pardon me — it is not always distinct,” I interposed; “it is frequently very doubtful and uncertain. If it were more plainly defined, right action would perhaps be easier.”

  “Not so, monp’tit” declared Vaudron gently. “Because the unfortunate fact is that, though men have this distinct feeling of the difference between right and wrong, they invariably choose t
he wrong, — the reason being that Right is the hardest road, — Wrong the easiest.”

  “Then one would argue Wrong to be natural, and Right unnatural,” I said, “and also that it is useless to oppose Nature!”

  The Curé’s eyes opened wide at this remark, and my father shook his head at me smilingly.

  “Do not thou be a sophist, Gaston!” he said kindly. “One can argue any and everyway, — but Right is God’s compass to the end of all worlds!”

  I made no reply; — I thought I had begun to know the meaning of this “God’s compass,” — it was nothing but the small, delicately poised balance of the brain which could, by man’s own wish and will, be as easily set wrong as right!

  After dinner I left the two elderly gentlemen over their wine and slipped out, for a sudden craving possessed me, — a craving, the unwholesome nature of which I perfectly understood, though I had neither strength nor desire to resist it. The action of absinthe can no more be opposed than the action of morphia. Once absorbed into the blood, a clamorous and constant irritation is kept up throughout the system, — an irritation which can only be assuaged and pacified by fresh draughts of the ambrosial poison. This was the sort of nervous restlessness that shook me now, — and, as it was a fine night, I made my way down to the Boulevard Montmartre, where I entered one of the best and most brilliant cafés, and at once ordered the elixir that my very soul seemed athirst for! What a sense of tingling expectation quivered in my veins as I prepared the greenish-opal mixture, whose magical influence pushed wide ajar the gates of dreamland! — with what a lingering ecstasy I sipped to the uttermost dregs two full glasses of it, — enough, let me tell you, to unsteady a far more slow and stolid brain than mine! The sensations which followed were both physically and mentally keener than on the previous evening, — and when I at last left the café and walked home at about midnight, my way was encompassed with the strangest enchantments. For example: there was no moon, and clouds were still hanging in the skies heavily enough to obscure all the stars, — yet, as I sauntered leisurely up the Champs Elysées, a bright green planet suddenly swung into dusky space, and showered its lustre full upon my path. Its dazzling beams completely surrounded me, and made the wet leaves of the trees overhead shine like jewels; and I tranquilly watched the burning halo spreading about me in the fashion of a wide watery rim, knowing all the time that it was but an image of my fancy. Elixir Vitæ! — the secret so ardently sought for by philosophers and alchemists! — I had found it, even I! — I was as a god in the power I had obtained to create and enjoy the creations of my own fertile brain, — for, truly, this is all that even high Omnipotence can do, — namely, to command worlds to be borne by the action of His thought, — and again, to bid them die by an effort of His will! The huge creative force of all time and all space can be no more than an endless and boundlessly immense Imagination. And one spark of this Imagination is perhaps the only divine thing we have in our mortal composition, — though, of course, like Reason, it can easily be perverted to false and criminal ends. Rut we of Paris care nothing as to whether our thoughts run in wholesome or morbid channels so long as self-indulgence is satiated. My thoughts, for instance, were poisoned, — but I was satisfied with their poisonous tendency! And I was in no wise disconcerted or dismayed when, on reaching home and ascending the steps, I found the door draped with solemn black, as if for a funeral, and saw written across it in pale yet lustrous emerald scintillations —