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

by Marie Corelli

  “Don’t talk of your mother!” And such a sudden fury lighted his eyes that I involuntarily recoiled. “She would have been the first to condemn your behaviour as cruel and unnatural. She had pity, tenderness, and patience for every suffering thing! She was an angel of grace and charity! You cannot have much of her nature; and truly you seem now to have little of mine! Some strange demon seems to inhabit your frame, — and the generous, warm-hearted young fellow I knew as my son might be dead for aught I recognize of him in you! I do not condemn you for refusing to marry Pauline de Charmilles, — I condemn you for the manner of your refusal! Enough! — I repeat, we must part, — and the sooner the better! I could not bear to meet the friends we know in your company and think of the ruthless barbarity you have displayed towards a fallen and utterly defenceless girl. You had best leave Paris and take a twelve-month’s sojourn in some other land than this, — I will place plenty of cash at your disposal. It is impossible that you should stay on here after what has occurred; — mon Dieu! — a madman, — a drunkard, — a delirious absintheur might be capable of such useless ferocity; — bub a man with all his senses about him — pah! it is the action of a beast rather than of a rational, reasoning human being!”

  I made no reply. The words “a delirious absintheur might be capable of such useless ferocity,” reiterated themselves over and over again in my ears, and caused me to smile! Of course I might have gone on arguing the pros and cons of my case ad infinitum, from the vantage-ground of that particular sort of moral justice I had chosen to take my stand upon, — but I was not in the humour for it, — besides which, my father was too indignant to be argued with.

  Arrived at our own house, our man-servant Dunois greeted us with a surprised face, and the information that the Curé, M. Vaudron, “looking very ill,” was waiting in the library.

  “There is no marriage?” he questioned, gazing at us open-eyed.

  “None, Dunois!” returned my father sharply. “Mademoiselle is not well; it is postponed!”

  Oh, famous old courtier! He would tell a lie thus to his own servant, just to shield a woman’s reputation a moment longer! There are a good many men like him; — I used to be of a similar disposition till the “fairy with the green eyes” taught me more worldly wisdom!

  “I will see poor Vaudron alone,” he said, addressing me stiffly as Dunois retired. “His grief must be beyond expression, — and he can dispense with more than one witness of it.”

  I bowed — and ascended the staircase leisurely to my own room. Once shut in there alone, I was seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter! How absurd it all seemed! What a triumph of pathos! To think of all those fine birds of Parisian society flocking to see a grand wedding, and coming in for a great scandal instead! And the pride of the De Charmilles! — where was it now? Down in the dust! — down, down like the lilies of France, never to bloom white and untarnished again! What a terrified fool the old Count had looked when I made my formal rejection! — and as for Pauline — she was not Pauline! — she was a ghost! — a spectre without feeling, voice, or voluntary movement! All the life she had was in her eyes, — great reproachful blue eyes! — they haunted me like twin burning sapphires hung in a vault of darkness!

  Sitting listlessly in an arm-chair at my window, I looked out, doing nothing, but simply thinking, and trying to disentangle the thronging images that rose one after the other with such confusing haste in my brain. I wondered what my father and old Vaudron were talking about below! Me? Yes! — no doubt they were shaking their grey heads mournfully over my strange waywardness! Smiling at the idea, I shut my eyes — and straightway saw a wealth of green and gold and amber flame — waves of, colour that seemed to rise heavingly towards me, while faces, lovelier far than mortal ones, floated forth and smiled at me in wise approval of all that I had done! Opening my eyes again, I gazed into the street, — the people passed hither and thither, — jingling trams ran by with their human freight to and fro, — the soft young foliage of the trees shimmered in the bright sun, — it was the perfect ideal of a marriage-day! And in my heart of hearts a wondrous wedlock was consummated, — an indissoluble union with the fair wild Absinthe-witch of my dreams! — she and she alone should be part of my flesh and blood from henceforth, I swore! — why, even the words of the marriage-ritual could be made to serve our needs! “Those whom God hath joined let no man put asunder!” God — or Chance! They are both one and the same thing — to the Absintheur!

  Watching the street with drowsy unintelligent eyes I presently saw my father and M. Vaudron come out of the house and cross the road together. The old Cure’s head was bent, — he appeared to walk with difficulty, and he was evidently more than half supported by my father’s stalwart arm. Respectable old fellows both — with warm hearts and clear consciences! — wonderful! It seemed so absurd to me that any one should try to lead an uncorrupt life in such a corrupt world! What was the use of it? Was there any possible end but death to all this aggressive loving-kindness and charity towards one’s fellow-men? Yet a faint sense of admiration stirred me, as I looked after the slowly retreating figures of the two old friends; and a lingering regret just touched my heart as with a pin’s prick to think that my father’s indignation should have made him resolve to send me from him so suddenly. Not only was I sorry to lose his always agreeable and intellectual companionship, — I felt instinctively that when I bade him farewell, I should also bid farewell to the last link that held me to the rapidly vanishing shadow of honour.

  Tired of the whirling confusion of my thoughts, I shut my eyes once more, and allowed my senses to slip into the spectral land of visions, — and my brain-wanderings took me so far, that when I started back to common-place reality at last, I was in total darkness. I had not been asleep — that I knew well enough! — but I had been actively dreaming, — and the afternoon was over. Night had descended upon me all unawares, — and suddenly seized with a nervous terror at the silence and obscurity of my room, I groped about for matches, trembling like a leaf and afraid of I knew not what. Not finding what I sought, and unable to resist the fantastic horror of myself that had stolen over me, I flung open the door wildly, and to my intense relief, admitted a flood of light from the gas-lamps in the outer hall. Just as I did so, my father’s voice cried suddenly —

  “Gaston! Gaston!”

  He had come back then, I mused hazily. What did he want me for, — me, the ‘pariah’ of Parisian society, rejected because I had dared to make a woman’s vice public! My mouth was parched and dry — I could not answer him immediately.

  “Gaston! Gaston!” he called for the second time, and there was a sharp ring of pain in his tone.

  Without reply, I descended the stairs, — entered the library, — and there, to my amazement, came face to face with Héloïse St. Cyr! Pale, impassioned, wondrously beautiful in grief, she stood beside my father whose face was full of grave and pitying sympathy, — great tears were in her eyes, — and as soon as she saw me she gave me no time to speak, but sprang forward, extending her hands appealingly.

  “Oh, M. Gaston, help me!” she cried sobbingly. “Help me — and I will forgive all your cruelty to poor Pauline! only help me to find her! — she has left us! — she has gone! — and we know not where!”

  XIX.

  I GAZED at her a moment in blank silence; — then, remembering that she, even she was the same fair woman, who had but lately cursed me, — I rallied my forces and smiled a little.

  “Gone!” I echoed. “Bien l I fail to see what difficulty you can possibly have in tracing her, mademoiselle! She has only fled to her lover!”

  As I said this with freezing tranquillity, Héloïse suddenly gave way, and, breaking into smothered sobbing, hid her face on my father’s arm.

  “Oh, I hope,” she cried piteously. “I hope God is more merciful than man! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! My poor, poor Pauline! — alone at night in Paris! — such a little, soft, timid thing! Oh, cruel, cruel! She would never go to Silvion Guidèl,
now he has become a priest — never! — and see — see, Monsieur Beauvais, what she has written here,” — and, addressing herself to my father, she drew from her bosom a little crumpled note and unfolded it. “I had left her,” she sobbed “lying on her own bed, after we had carried her upstairs in her swoon, — and when I came back after attending to my aunt who is very, very ill, she had gone! Her bridal dress was thrown aside, — she had not taken one of her jewels, — and I do not think she had any money. Only a little black dress and cloak and hat were missing from her wardrobe, — and this letter I found on her table. In it she says” — here Héloïse tried to master her tears, and, steadying her voice, she read—”’Try to forgive me, darling Héloïse; you are so good that you will even pity those who are wicked. Never think of me again except when you say your prayers, — then ask God just once to be kind to your little Pauline.’”

  My father’s old eyes brimmed over; — his heart was touched, but not mine! I sat down leisurely, and looked on as unconcernedly as a cynical critic looks on at a new play.

  “Poor child — poor child!” murmured my father huskily; then he turned towards me. “Have you nothing to say, Gaston? — no suggestion to make?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Absolutely; I am powerless in the matter,” I said coldly. “I am in a very peculiar position myself, — a position which neither you nor Mademoiselle St. Cyr seem at all to recognize. I am a wronged man, — yet I receive not the slightest sympathy for my wrong, — all the compassion and anxiety being, oddly enough, bestowed on the perpetrators of the injury done to me. I confess, therefore, that I am not particularly interested in the present dénouement!”

  Héloïse looked straight at me, and then, suddenly approaching me, laid her hand on my arm.

  “After all, did you never love Pauline?” she asked. At this question my blood rose to fever-heat, and I spoke, scarcely knowing what I was saying.

  “Love her!” I cried. “I loved her with such a passion as she never knew! I hallowed her with a worship such as she never dreamt of! She was everything to me — life, soul, hope, salvation! — and you ask me if I loved her! Oh, foolish woman! you cannot measure the love I had for her! — such love that, once betrayed must and ever will turn to loathing for its betrayer!” My father looked startled at this sudden outburst of feeling on my part, — but Héloïse did not flinch. Her grey eyes shone upon me through the mist of tears as steadfastly as stars.

  “Such love is not love at all!” she said. “It is selfishness; — no more! The injury done to you appears all paramount, — you have no thought, no pity for the injury done to her. The world is still open to you; but on her it is shut for ever. You may sin as she has sinned, without even the plea of an overwhelming passion to excuse you, — and society will not turn its back on you! But it will scorn her for the evil it endures in you and in all men! Such is humanity’s scant justice! If you had ever loved her truly, you would have forgotten your own wrong in her misery; you would have raised her up, not crushed her down lower than she already was; you would have saved her, not destroyed her! I warned you long ago that she was a creature of impulse, too young and too inexperienced to be certain of her own mind in the perplexities of love or marriage; but you paid no heed to my warning. And now, she is ruined, — desolate! — a mere child cast out on the cruel wilderness of Paris all alone; — think of it Gaston Beauvais! — think of it! — and take comfort in the thought that you have had your miserable revenge to the uttermost end of man’s cowardice!” Every word fell from her lips with a quiet decisiveness that stung me in spite of my enforced calm; but I restrained myself, and when she had finished speaking, I simply bowed and smiled.

  “Your brave and eloquent words, mademoiselle, make me regret that I was so unwise as to love your cousin instead of yourself! It was a serious mistake! — for both of us, perhaps!”

  She drew back, — the colour flushing proudly to her cheeks, — and her look of indignation, surprise, reproach, and anguish dazzled and confounded me for an instant. What chance arrow had sped to its mark now? I wondered vaguely, — I had nigh insulted her by my remark, — and yet grief expressed itself in her eyes more than anger. Had she ever cared for me? — Not possible! she had always mistrusted me, — and now she hated me! With supreme disdain, she turned from me to my father.

  “I must go home now, Monsieur Beauvais” — she said quietly and with dignity— “I have come here on a useless errand I see! Will you take me to the carriage? — it is in waiting. My uncle does not yet know of Pauline’s flight; we are afraid to tell him; — and we thought — my aunt and I — that perhaps you might help us to some clue—” She hesitated, and nearly broke down again.

  “My dear girl” — returned my father, hastily offering her his arm in obedience to her mute sign— “be certain that if I hear the slightest rumour that may lead you on the right track, you shall know it at once. I will make every possible private inquiry; — alas, alas! what an unfortunate day it was for everybody when that nephew of my poor old friend Vaudron came to Paris! Who would have thought it! Vaudron is broken-hearted; he would as soon have believed in an angel turning traitor, as that his favourite Silvion would have been guilty of such deception and cruelty. But whatever his grief, I know he will assist us in the search for Pauline; that you may be sure of. Try, try to take comfort my dear; you must not give way. There is always the hope that the poor child may be terrified at her sudden loneliness, and may write to you and tell you where she is.”

  Thus talking, he led her out of the room, — she passed me without acknowledging my presence by the slightest gesture of farewell; and I waited, sitting near the table and turning over the newspapers, till I heard the carriage drive away, and my father’s returning steps echoed slowly along the hall. He entered the room, sat down, and was silent for many minutes. I felt that he was looking at me intently. Presently he said with some sharpness —

  “Gaston!”

  “Sir?”

  “Are you satisfied with the evil you have done?”

  I smiled.

  “Really, mon père, you talk as if I were the only criminal in the matter! There are others—”

  “And they are punished!” he declared passionately. “Punished more bitterly than most people are for their misdeeds; and the heaviest punishment has fallen on the weakest offender, thanks to you! As for Silvion Guidèl, you may depend upon it, he is a prey to the deepest remorse and misery!”

  “You think so? I queried languidly, without raising my eyes. “Now I should fancy he finds quite sufficient atonement for his sins in the muttering of an ‘Ave’or a ‘Pater-noster.’”

  “I tell you he suffers!” and my father struck his hand emphatically on the table, “I have studied his nature, and I know he has the scholar’s mind, — the subtle and self-tormenting disposition which is always a curse to its owner! He has behaved like a coward and a villain, and he knows it! But you, — you also have behaved like a coward and a villain, and you do not seem to know it!”

  “No! — you are right;” I responded calmly. “I do not!”

  “Dieu! Have you no heart?”

  “None!” and I fixed my eyes quietly upon him. “How should you expect it? I gave what heart I had to my betrothed wife, and she has killed it. It is stone dead! I forget that it ever existed! Pray do not let us talk any more of the matter, mon père; I am perfectly content to leave Paris for a time as you suggest, — indeed I think the plan an admirable one. It will certainly be best that I should remove my presence from you, and from all to whom I have suddenly become obnoxious. But, before we part, I will ask you to remember, first, — that I have never wilfully, through all my life, given you a moment’s cause for pain or reproach, — and secondly, that in this rupture of a marriage which was to have been the completion of life’s happiness for me, I am guiltless of anything save a desire to wreak just punishment on the betrayers of my honour. Thirdly, that the only offence you can charge against me is, a want of sympathy with
a dishonoured woman, who has not only confessed, but almost glories in her dishonour!”

  With that I saluted him profoundly and left him to his own reflections. I had shown no heat — I had displayed no temper — I had stated my case with the coolest logic — the logic of an absintheur! But once up again in the solitude of my own room with the door shut fast, I laughed aloud and bitterly at the persistent and ridiculous wrong-sidedness with which everybody insisted on viewing the whole affair. All the pity was for Pauline! and yet people would go on prating about ‘morality!’ Judged strictly, Pauline de Charmilles had not a shadow of defence on her side; but because she was young, beautiful, and a woman, her fate excited sympathy. Had she been ugly and misshapen, she might have been scourged and driven from pillar to post till she died of sheer exhaustion for aught any one would have cared! We are most of us ruled by the flesh and the devil; and very few of us have any real conception of justice.

  But do not imagine, good friends, that I, a confirmed drinker of Absinthe, want to be moral! Not I! I should win scanty attention from some of you, if I did! I only observe to you, en passant, that, considering how the barriers between vice and virtue are being fast broken down in all great “civilized” countries; how, even in eminently virtuous and respectable “Albion” — women of known disreputable character are allowed to enter and mix with the highest aristocratic circles, — and how it will most probably soon be necessary to establish in church-going London and under the very nose of good Mrs. Grundy, a recognized demi-monde after the fashion of my dear Paris, — in the face of all these facts, I say, surely it is time to leave off sermonizing about dull household virtues! — an age of Realism and Zola has no time for them! But whatever you may think of my opinions, — opinions born of blessed Absinthe; — sit in judgment on yourselves, my readers, before you venture to judge me! Believe me, I used, like many other young men, to have my ideals of greatness and goodness; the beautiful, the mystical, the impersonal and sublime had attractions for my spirit; but the wise “green fairy” has cured me of this unworldly foolishness. Formerly, I loved to read noble poetry; I could lose myself in inward communion with the divine spirit of Plato and other thinkers grand and true as he, — but now! now, I grin in company with the “educated” masses over the indecent wit of the cheap Paris press, — now, like “un vrai absintheur” I enjoy a sneer at virtue, — now, like many of my class who wish to “go with the time,” I fling a stone or a handful of mud at any one presuming to live a cleaner and greater life than his fellows. I am one of your “newer” generation, you poor old world! — the generation under which you groan as you roll silently on in your fate-appointed orbit; the generation of brute-selfishness, littleness, and godlessness, — the generation of the finite Ego opposed to infinite Eternities! I please myself in the way I live, I am answerable to none other! And you, dear reader, whose languid eyes rest carelessly on this printed page, — entre nous soit dit! — do not you follow the same wise rule? Is not your every thought, idea, and plan, however much it may at first seem for the benefit of others, really for your own ultimate interest and good? Of course! Excellent! Let us then metaphorically shake hands upon our declared brotherhood, — for though you may be, and no doubt are, highly respectable, while I am all together disreputable, — though you may be everything that society approves, while I am an absinthe-drinking outcast from polite life, a skulking pariah of the slums and back streets of Paris, we are both at one — yes, my dear friend, I assure you, — entirely at one! — in the worship of Self!