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

by Marie Corelli

  “LA MORT HABITE ICI!”

  Quietly I put out my hand and made as though I would touch these seemingly substantial sable hangings, — they rolled away like rolling smoke, — the dismal inscription vanished, and all was clear again! Entering, I found my father sitting up for me.

  “Thou art late, Gaston!” he said, as I came towards him, yet smiling good-naturedly as he spoke. “Thou hast been at the De Charmilles’?”

  “Not to-night,” I answered carelessly. “I have only walked to the Boulevards and back.”

  “Vraiment! A new sort of amusement for thee, is it not? Thou art not likely to become a boulevardier?” And he clapped me kindly on the shoulder as we ascended the stairs together to our respective bedrooms. “But, no! Thou hast worked too well and conscientiously to have such a suggestion made to thee even in jest. I am well pleased with thee, mon fils, — I know how difficult thy duties have been during my absence, and how admirably thou hast fulfilled them.”

  I received his praise passively without remark, and he continued —

  “For the next week take holiday, Gaston, and for the week after that again! Then comes thy marriage, — and I will strive to do without thee for a full two months. Where wilt thou spend thy lune-de-miel?”

  “Where? In Paradise, of course!” I answered, with a forced smile.

  My father laughed, — brushed his bearded lips against my cheek, an old French custom of his whenever he felt particularly affectionate, and we parted for the night. What a sound sleep that good man would have, I thought, as I watched him turn into his room, and saluted him respectfully in response to his last cheerful nod and glance. He would not see what I saw when I entered my own chamber! Pauline was there, asleep! — she lay on my couch, her head resting on my pillows, — her lips parted in a sweet drowsy smile, — while over her whole fair form fell a shimmering veil of green, like mist hanging above the lakes and mountains in a halcyon midsummer noon! Ah, gentle soul! — image of child-like innocence and love — there she was, reflected on the mirror of my brain as purely and faithfully as she had been cherished in my thoughts for many and many a day! I stood, silently looking on for a space at the beautiful phantom of my lost idol, — looking as gravely, as sadly and as regretfully as I would have looked at the dead. Then, extending my hands slowly as a wizard might do, I attempted to touch that delicate recumbent figure, — and lo! — it melted into naught — my bed was once more smooth, bare, and empty, — empty of even the spectre of delight! I threw myself down upon it, fatigued in body and mind, yet not unpleasantly so; — closing my aching eyes, I wandered away into a cloudy realm of confused phantasmal pageant and fantastic vision, and, dreaming, fancied that I slept!

  XV.

  THAT same week, Héloïse St. Cyr returned from Normandy, and, two days after her arrival in Paris, my father and I were invited to dine with the De Charmilles, our good friend the Curé being also of the party. I was vaguely amused at the whole affair, — it went off so well, and there were two such admirable actors at table, namely, myself and Pauline. Trust a woman to eclipse every one in the art of feigning! She, Pauline, was a mere brilliant scintillation of dazzling mirth and coquetterie from the beginning of the dinner to its end. It was only pretence, I knew, but who would have thought she could have pretended so well! Now and then I was smitten with a sudden amaze at her, — but observing her narrowly, I noticed the feverish flush on her cheeks, the almost delirious brilliancy of her eyes, the unnatural scarlet of her lips, — and I realized that however unconcerned she might appear in outward bearing, she was inwardly enduring agonies of mental torture such as few could imagine. This conviction filled me with a certain morbid satisfaction, though I often found my attention wandering from her to her cousin Héloïse, whose stay in Normandy certainly seemed to have freshened and intensified her beauty. For she was beautiful, — I who had formerly been loth to admit this, acknowledged it at last. There was more colour in her face, — and she possessed a tranquil, almost imperial stateliness of manner that was singularly attractive. My gaze dwelt upon her with a sort of fascination, — and occasionally I caught her pure serious eyes regarding me with an anxious wistfulness and wonder. The Comte and Comtesse de Charmilles were evidently delighted to have their fair niece once more under their roof, — and as for Pauline, — why, she very cleverly affected to be glad! — she could do no less and no more! Of course the conversation turned frequently upon Silvion Guidèl and his sudden departure; and M. Vaudron told us he had received a telegram announcing his nephew’s safe arrival at his home in Brittany, but no further news than this.

  “He will never come back to Paris again, I am sure!” said Pauline, laughing quite hilariously. “He has gone for good!”

  “I am afraid he has, my child,” returned the old Curé regretfully. “But perhaps it is better so. Paris is not the place for men of serious purpose, — and he has seen it — he knows what it is like, — that is quite enough for him.”

  Pauline gave not the faintest sign of interest in these remarks, — she had been daintily dividing a large bunch of grapes with the grape-scissors, and she now held out a cluster of the fruit to me, smiling As I accepted it, I looked her full and steadily in the eyes, — but she did not blush or tremble. What mummers we both were, I thought! — and what a part we had chosen to play! Why did we not blurt out the truth of the position like honest folk and take the consequences? Why? — Well, why does not every sinner make a clean breast of his secret evil thoughts and misdeeds, and, blazoning them to the world, abide calmly by the result? It would be noble — it would be stern-principled, — but afterwards? When we had all frankly admitted ourselves to be more or less liars and knaves not worth a hand-shake or a thank-you, what then? Nothing but this, — society would be at an end, and we might as well pull down our cities and return in howling nudity to the forests of primeval barbarism. Besides, we in France always like to feign a little virtue, however much we may feel prone to vice, — we are fond of alluding melodramatically to “nôtre mère” and “le tombeau de notre père” — in fact, we generally manage to draw in our dead ancestors to support us in our feverish hours of strong mental excitement or high-pressure morality. And as regarded Pauline and her wretched secret, she was in my hands, — I had the ruling of the game, — I and my ‘green-eyed fairy, whose magical advice I now followed unhesitatingly, and I did not choose to speak, — yet. I waited, and the miserable child Pauline also waited on — my will.

  There are some few uncomfortable people in the world, however, who cannot be altogether deceived, and Héloïse St. Cyr was one of these. She always took things very tranquilly and with a sort of even Socratic philosophy, — but she would probe to the bottom of them somehow. And she was very difficult to deal with, as I found, when, after dinner, I entered the drawing-room as usual with the other gentlemen. It was a warm and beautiful evening, — the windows stood wide open, — the garden was gay with flowers, and across the small lawn in front strolled Pauline, carolling softly to herself the refrain of a song. Héloïse, in one of those straight simple white gowns she was so fond of wearing, stood within the window-embrasure looking out, but turned quickly round as soon as she was aware of my entrance.

  “M. Gaston,” she said hurriedly, in a half whisper, “tell me! — what is wrong with Pauline?”

  I met her eyes with a studied expression of complete amazement.

  “Wrong with Pauline?” I echoed. “Why nothing! Hear how she sings! — like a lark in full sunshine! — See bow merry she is! — how well she looks!”

  “Her merriment is forced,” declared Héloïse emphatically. “And she is not well. Oh, cannot you, who love her, see that she is unhappy? She is changed — quite changed, even to me, — she turns everything I say to a jest even when jesting is entirely out of place, — she is restless — irritable, — she will hardly remain quiet for an hour. She used to be so fond of me, — and now! — why she did not seem to be at all glad to see me come back, and she avoids my eyes so strangely! Oh
, M. Gaston! — did you think of the warning I gave you before I left? — or did it slip your memory? Did I not ask you to see that the child was not left too much alone?”

  What a strange hardness there was at my heart! — her anxious words, her eager looks excited no more emotion in me than this — that with each moment I grew increasingly conscious of her exceeding physical grace and beauty.

  “I always remember everything you say, Héloïse,” I answered, steadfastly regarding her with, as I know, a look of open admiration, and watching with a half smile, the rich blood mounting to her cheeks, while an amazed embarrassment gathered in her eyes. “But I never quite comprehended why you should so greatly concern yourself about the matter. Pauline can surely be trusted! Do you not think so?”

  “I do think so!” she responded swiftly — brave girl! — true friend!— “but it is hardly fair to expect the discretion of age and experience from one who is almost a child, — and such a beautiful child too! Pauline is all impulse, — she is sensitive, — wayward sometimes — she takes sudden fancies and sudden dislikes, — and, as I told you once before, she hardly understands herself—”

  Here she broke off and caught her breath, while her large eyes dealt on me in a vague fear. “Why do you look at me so strangely, M. Gaston?” she faltered nervously. “What is it?”

  I laughed coldly. “What is it? Why — nothing, ma chère Héloïse! — what should there be? It is you who seem to have vague ideas of something which you do not express — and it is I who should ask, ‘What is it?’”

  She still breathed quickly, and suddenly laid her hand on my arm.

  “You too are changed!” she said. “Tell me truly! — do you still love Pauline?”

  “Can you doubt it?” and I smiled. “I love her, — madly!”

  And I spoke the truth. The passion I felt for the little frail thing whom I could see from where I stood, flitting about the garden among the flowers, was indeed mad, — no sane mind would have ever indulged in such a tumult of mingled desire and hatred, as burned in mine.

  “I am going to her,” I added more tranquilly, seeing that Héloïse seemed alarmed as well as uneasy. “I shall ask her for one of those roses she is gathering, as a gage d’ amour” I moved away, — then paused a moment. “Your trip to Normandy has done you good, Héloïse. You are looking adorable!”

  What a lightning-glance she gave me! — it swept over me like the death-flash of a storm! I stopped, rooted to the ground, as it were, by the sudden spiritual dazzlement of her beauty, — why did my heart-throbs send such clamorous vibrations through my frame? — what force was there in the air that held us twain, man and woman, spell-bound for a moment, gazing at each other wildly as though on the brink of some strange destiny? In that one brief space of time all life seemed waiting in suspense, — and had I yielded to the fiery impulse that possessed me then, I should have clasped that fair angelic woman in my arms and called her love, salvation, hope, rescue! — I should have told her all, — given her my very soul to keep, and so I might have missed perdition! But it was a mere passing madness, — I could not account for it then, and can hardly account for it now, — but whatever shock it was that thus by magnetic impulse shook our nerves, it moved us both with strong and singular agitation, for Héloïse fled from my sight as though pursued by some avenging spirit, — and I, after a couple of minutes pause, recovered my composure, and stepping out into the garden there joined Pauline. She looked up at me as I approached — her face wore an expression of extreme weariness.

  “How long is this to last, Gaston?” she murmured. “How long must I play this terrible part of seeming to be what I am not? I am so tired of it! — Oh God! — so tired!”

  I walked silently by her side round among the shadows of some tall trees to a spot where we were out of the observation of any one who might be looking from the house-windows.

  “Have you heard from your lover?” I then asked coldly.

  Her head drooped. “No!”

  “Do you think it likely that you will hear?”

  She sighed. “I believe in him,” she said. “If my belief is vain — then God help me!”

  I studied her fair and delicate features scrutinizingly. She was lovely, — lovelier in her grief than in her joy, I thought — a broken angel in a ruined shrine. But her beauty left me cold as ice, — impervious as adamant, — Absinthe had numbed the tenderer fancies of my brain, and in obedience to its promptings I answered her.

  “That is what all criminals say, when confronted with the disastrous consequences of crime—’ God help me!’ But God’s assistance is not always to be relied upon, — it frequently fails as in cases of the direst necessity. The beggar says, ‘God help me!’ yet continues to beg on, — the suffering cry, ‘God help us,’ and still they starve and weep, — the dying man in his agony exclaims, ‘God help me!’ and his torments are not softened a whit, — and you, poor little thing, are like the rest of us, trusting to a divine rescue that is frequently too late in coming, if indeed it ever comes at all.”

  She gave a languid gesture of hopelessness.

  “Then God is cruel,” she said wearily. “And yet — He made these.”

  And she held out the roses she had lately plucked and made a posy of, — but as she did so, the fairest bud suddenly crumbled and fell in a shower of pale pink leaves upon the ground.

  “Yes! — He made them, — made them to perish! — for which strange and unaccountable end He has seemingly made all things, even you and me,” I responded, taking her cold passive hand in mine. “As the rose-leaves fall, so beauty dies, — so hope passes, — so fidelity proves naught! Silvion Guidèl has deserted you, Pauline!”

  She shivered, but made no reply.

  “What will you do?” I went on mercilessly. “What way is there left for you to escape dishonour? How will you avert shame from those parents whose pride is centred in you? Think! As yet they know nothing, — but when they do know, what then?”

  Her blue eyes fixed themselves unseeingly upon the roses in her hands, — her lips moved, and she murmured faintly —

  “I can die!”

  I was silent, She could die, — this little fair thing for whom life had scarcely begun, — certainly, she could die! We all have that universal remedy. And there was no power on earth that could prevent her, if she chose, from deliberately shutting out the world for ever from her sight, and finding peace in death’s acceptable darkness. Yes — she could die — even she!

  “Pauline, Pauline! what a fate!” I said at last. “How terrible to realize it! — to think that you — you for whom nothing seemed too good, too happy, or too bright, should be at this pass of dire misfortune, — and all through the black base treachery of a liar, a traitor, a dishonourable cowardly villain—”

  “Stop!” she exclaimed in a low fierce voice that startled me. “You shall not blame him in my hearing! I have told you I can die, — but I shall die loving him, — adoring him, — to the end!”

  Oh the love of a desperately loving woman! Can anything under the sun equal its strength, its tamelessness, its marvellous tenacity! This fragile girl — wronged, deserted, ruined, — still clung to the memory of her betrayer with such constancy that she, not having yet seen full nineteen years of existence, could calmly contemplate death for his sake! Ah God! — why could she not have loved me thus tenderly! I looked at her, and she met my gaze with an almost queenly challenge of mingled sorrow and pride.

  “You are brave, Pauline,” I said quietly, “brave to recklessness, — brave to the extremest limits of unreasoning despair! But pray compose yourself and listen to me. I am more cautious — perhaps more practical in the foreseeing of events than you can be. Of course it is well-nigh impossible to calculate the social result of our unhappy position towards each other should we decide to make the whole affair public, — but, in the meanwhile, I want you to understand that your secret is safe in my hands, — the honour of the De Charmilles is not yet given over to the dogs of scandal!�
� I paused, and a tremor ran through her frame, — she knew, as I knew, that her sin was one that her father, proud of his lineage and ancestral glories, would never forgive and never forget. “You gave me credit once for generosity,” I continued, “and the most generous thing I could do would be to still take you as my wife, and shield your name from blemish under cover of mine. For your parents’ sake this would be best and kindest, — but for me, not so well! I doubt much whether I could ever reconcile myself to such a course of action. It is therefore, sincerely to be hoped that M. Silvion Guidèl will find it consistent with his honour” — and I laid a sarcastic emphasis on this word— “to write and inform you of his intentions before the day appointed for your marriage with me comes much closer at hand. As you must be aware, there is only a space of about ten days between then and now.”