XX.
NEXT day I remembered I had a visit to make. The Comte de Charmilles expected me to call upon him before noon. I meant to go, of course; I had no wish to disappoint him! I was prepared for a stormy scene with him; I could already picture the haughty old aristocrat’s wounded pride and indignation at the dishonour brought on his name, — but I could not quite imagine what he would be likely to say. Certes, he could not excuse his daughter or her partner in iniquity; he might pour out his wrath upon me for making the affair public to all his friends and acquaintance, but that would be the utmost he could do. I determined to hear him out with the utmost patience and courtesy, — my quarrel was not with him, — he had never given me offence, save by his stupid Royalist tendencies and bigoted Catholicism, — and it was quite enough for me, a nineteenth century Republican, to have lowered his pride and broken it, — I wanted nothing more so far as he was concerned! Before starting on my ceremonious errand, I packed a few clothes and other necessaries in my portmanteau ready for immediate departure from home, and this done, I went in search of my father. He was just preparing to leave the house for his usual duties at the Bank, and he looked fagged and wearied. He lifted his eyes and regarded me steadily as I approached him — his lips quivered, and, suddenly laying his hand on my shoulder, he said —
“Gaston, it goes to my old heart to part with you! — for I love you! But something has embittered and crossed your once sweet and generous nature; and though I have thought about it anxiously all night, I have still come to the same conclusion, — namely, that it will be best for us both that we should separate for a time, especially under the unhappy circumstances that have just taken place. The whole position is too painful for everybody concerned! And I am quite ready to admit that the suffering you have personally undergone has been, and is, of a nature to chafe and exasperate your feelings. Change of scene and different surroundings will do much for you, mon garçon, — and this miserable esclandre will possibly die out during your absence. Choose your own time for going—”
“I have chosen it” — I interrupted him quietly — I shall leave you to-day.”
An expression of sharp pain contracted his fine old features for a moment, — then apparently rallying his self-possession, he returned —
“Soit”! It is perhaps best! You will find a note from me in your desk in the library; I have thought it wisest to give you at once a round sum sufficient for present needs. Your share in the Bank as my partner naturally continues, — and shall be religiously set aside for your use on your return. I do not know whether you have any idea of a destination, — I should suggest your visiting England for a time.”
I smiled.
“Thanks! I am too truly French in my sympathies to care for the British climate. No! — if, like a new Cain, I am to be a vagabond on the face of the earth, I will wander as far as my fancy takes me; Africa, par exemple, presents boundless forests, where, if one chose, one could almost lose one’s very identity!”
My father’s eyes flashed a keen and sorrowful reproach into mine.
“Mon fils, why speak so bitterly? Is it necessary to add an extra pang to my grief?”
A sudden impulse moved me to softer emotion, — taking his hand I kissed it respectfully.
“Mon père, I regret beyond all words that I am unhappily the cause of any distress to you! We part; — and it is no doubt advisable, as you say, that we should do so, — for a time; but in bidding you farewell I will ask you to think of me at my best, — and to believe that there is no man in all the world whom I admire and honour more than yourself! Sentiment between men is ridiculous I know, but—” I kissed his hand once more, and I felt his fingers tremble as they clung for a moment to mine.
“God bless thee, Gaston!” he murmured. “And, stay! — let me have time to think again! Do not leave Paris yet — wait till to-morrow!”
I made a half sign of assent — but uttered no promise; and watched him with a curious forsaken feeling, as with a kindly yet wistful last look at me, he left the house and walked rapidly along on his usual way to business. Should I ever dwell with him again in the old frank familiarity of intercourse that had made us more like comrades than father and son? I doubted it! My life was changed, — my road lay down a dark side-turning; his continued fair and open, with the full sunshine of honour lighting it to the end!
Entering the library, I looked in my desk for the packet my father had mentioned, and found it, — a bulky envelope containing French notes to the amount of what would be about five hundred pounds in English money. I took possession of these, — and then wrote a note to my father, thanking him for his generosity, and bidding him farewell, while, to satisfy him as to my destination, I added that it was my immediate intention to visit Italy. A lie of course! — I had no such intention; I never meant to leave Paris, but of this hereafter. I then finished my packing and other preparations, and went out of the dear old house at Neuilly with scarce a regret, — not realizing, as I afterwards realized, that I should never, never enter it again!
Hailing a passing carriage I bade the driver take me to the Gare de l’Est Our man-servant Dunois, who put my portmanteau into the vehicle and watched my departure more or less curiously, heard me give this order, which was precisely what I wanted. I knew he would repeat it to my father, who by this means would receive the impression that I had carried out my written intention, and departed for Italy by the Lucerne and Chiasso route to Milan. Arrived at the Gare, I put my portmanteau in charge of the official to whom such baggage is consigned for safe keeping — and then I leisurely proceeded to retrace my route on foot, till I reached the residence of the Comte de Charmilles. The very outside of the great house looked dreary, some of the blinds were down, — there was a deserted melancholy aspect about it that was doubly striking in comparison with the glitter and brilliancy that had surrounded it on the previous day. The maid who opened the door to me looked scared and miserable as though she had been up all night, — and, murmuring under her breath and with averted eyes that her master had been expecting me for some time, she showed me into the Count’s private study and announced me by name. The Count himself was sitting in his arm-chair, his back turned towards me, — his figure rigidly erect, — and he gave no sign of having heard my entrance.
The servant departed noiselessly, closing the door behind her, — and I stood irresolute, waiting for him to speak. But he uttered not a word. All at once my eyes lighted on a case of pistols open on the table, — from the position and appearance of the weapons, I saw they were loaded and ready for use. The situation flashed upon me in an instant, and I smiled with some contempt as I realized it. This foolish old man — this withering stump of ancient French chivalry, — had actually resolved to fight out the question of his daughter’s honour with me, face te face! Was ever such a mad scheme! What a Don Quixote of a father to be sure! If he had taken up arms for a stage mistress now, — if he had risen in eager defence of some coarse painted dancing woman, whose nearly nude body was on view to the public for so many francs per night, one would not have blamed him, or thought him ridiculous, — no, not in Paris! But to think of fighting a duel for merely a daughter’s reputation! — Dieu! it was a freak worthy of laughter! Yet there was a touch of the romantic and pathetic about it that moved me in spite of myself — though of course I determined to refuse his challenge. I did not want to shed the blood of that old white-haired man! But suppose he still persisted? Well, then I must defend myself, and if I killed him, it would be unfortunate, but it could not be helped. The idea of his dispatching me never entered my head. There was something in me, or so I imagined, that could not be killed! — not yet!
Meanwhile the subject of my musings remained immovably silent, — and I began rather to wonder at such obstinate taciturnity. His indomitable pride had met with a terrific fall, I reflected! — probably he found it difficult to begin the conversation. I advanced a little.
“M. de Charmilles! You bade me come to you, and I am here!
”
He made no answer. His left hand, thin and wrinkled, rested on the carved oak arm of the chair, and I thought I saw it tremble ever so slightly. Was his rage so great that it had rendered him absolutely speechless? I moved a few steps nearer.
“M. de Charmilles!” I repeated, raising my voice a little— “I am here — Gaston Beauvais. Have you anything to say to me?”
No answer! A vague awe seized me, and instinctively hushing my footsteps, I approached and ventured to touch the fingers that were lightly closed round the arm of the chair, — they were warm, but they did not move, — only the diamond signet on the third finger glittered coldly like a wintry star.
“M. de Charmilles!” I said loudly once more; then, mastering the curious sensation of terror that held me momentarily inert and uncertain what to do, I went resolutely forward and round, so that I could look him full in the face. As I did so I recoiled with an involuntary exclamation; the old man’s features were rigid and bloodless, — the eyes were wide open, fixed and glassy, though they appeared to stare at me with an expression of calm and freezing disdain, — the lips were parted in a stern smile, — and the fine white hair was slightly roughened about the forehead as though a hand had been lately pressed there to still some throbbing ache. A frozen figure of old-world dignity he sate, surveying me, or so it seemed, in speechless but majestic scorn; while I, for one amazed, breathless moment stood confronting him, overpowered by the cold solemnity and grandeur of his aspect. Then — all suddenly — the set jaw dropped; the ghastly look of Death darkened the erstwhile tranquil countenance; and my awe gave way to the wildest nervous horror. Springing to the bell I rang it violently and incessantly; the servants flocked in, and in a few seconds the room was a scene of confusion and lamentation. As in a dream I saw the Comtesse de Charmilles feebly totter in and distractedly fall on her knees by her husband’s passive form; I saw Héloïse busying herself in chafing her uncle’s yet warm hands — I heard the sound of convulsive sobbing; — and then I became dimly aware of a physician’s presence, and of the sudden hush of suspense following his arrival. A brief examination sufficed; — the words “Il est mort!” though uttered in the lowest whisper, reached the ears of the desolate Countess who, with a long shuddering wail of agony, sank senseless at the dead man’s feet. It was all over! — some little vessel in the heart had snapt, — some little subtle chord in the brain had given way under the pressure of strong indignation, grief, and excitement, — and the proud old aristocrat had gone to that equalizing dust where there is neither pride nor shame! He was dead, — and some narrow minded fools may consider, if they like, that I killed him. But how? What crime had I committed? None! I had merely made a stand for moral law in social life! My career was stainless, save for the green trail of the absinthe-slime which no one saw. And Society never blames vice that does not publicly offend. Pauline was the sinner, — little, child-like, blue-eyed Pauline! — and I took a sort of grim and awful pleasure in regarding her as a parricide! Why, because she had a sweet face, a slim form and a bright smile, should she escape from the results of her own treachery and crime? I could not see it then, — and I cannot see it even now! No one can make me responsible for the old Count’s death, — no one I say! — though at times, his white, still, majestic face confronts me in the darkness with a speechless reproach and undying challenge. But I know it is only a phantasm; and I quickly take refuge in the truth as declared by the fashionable world of Paris when his death became generally known, — namely, that his daughter’s dishonour (not my proclamation of it, observe!) had broken his heart; — and that even so, broken-hearted for her sake, he died.
XXI.
FROM this period I may begin to date my rapid downward career, — a career that however disreputable and strange it may seem to those who elect to be virtuous and self-controlled, has brought to me, personally, the wildest and most unpurchasable varieties of pleasure. Pleasure, such as a forest-savage may know when the absolute freedom of air, woodland, and water, is his, — when no laws bind him, — and when he has no one to whom he is bound to account for his actions. I hate your smug, hypocritical civilization, good world! — I would rather be what I am, than play the double part your rules of life enjoin! I am an alien from all respectability; what then? Respectability is generally dull! And I am never dull; my Absinthe-witch takes care of that! Her kaleidoscope of vision is exhaustless, — and though of late she has shown me the same sights somewhat too often, I am perchance, the most to blame for this, — the tenacity of my own brain holding fast to certain images that it would be best to forget. This is the fault of my constitution, — a tendency to remember, — I cannot forget, if I would, and whereas on some temperaments the emerald nectar bestows oblivion, on mine it sharpens and intensifies memory. Nevertheless the feverish excitation of pleasure never dies out, and my disposition is such that I am able to brood on things that would appal most men with the keenest and most appreciative delight! It is not perhaps agreeable, is it, to peaceable and right-minded people to dwell gloating on the harrowing details of a murder, for instance? To me, however, it is not only agreeable, but absolutely fascinating, — and I have merely to shut my eyes to see — what? Water glimmering in the moonlight, — trees waving in the wind — and a face upturned to the quiet skies drifting steadily and helplessly down stream, — but, stop! I must not brood too tenderly upon this picture yet; — but it is difficult to me sometimes to keep my thoughts in sequence. No “absintheur” can be always coherent; it is too much to expect of the green fairy’s votaries!
Well! the Comte de Charmilles was dead, — and as whole fortnight had elapsed since his funeral had wound its solemn black length through the streets of Paris to Père-la-Chaise, where the family vault had opened its stone jaws to receive the mortal remains of him who was the last male heir of his race. His great house was shut up as a house of mourning; the widowed Comtesse and her niece Héloïse dwelt there together, so I learned, in melancholy solitude, denying themselves to all visitors. Under any other circumstances they would most probably have left the city, and sought in change of scene a relaxation from grief, but I knew why they remained immured in their desolate town mansion, — simply in the hope that now, having nothing to fear from the wrath of her father, the lost Pauline might return to her home.
And I — I also was still in Paris. As I said before, I had never for a moment intended to leave it. I had formed certain plans of my own respecting the wild new mode of life I purposed to follow, — and these plans I was able to carry out with entire success. I took a small apartment in an obscure hotel under an assumed name, and in my daily and nightly rambles, I carefully kept to the back streets, partly to avoid a chance meeting with any of my acquaintance, and partly under the impression that in one of these poorer quarters of Paris I should find Pauline. I had no idea what I should do if I really did happen to discover her whereabouts, — part of the quality of one in my condition of absinthism, is that he cannot absolutely decide anything too long beforehand. When the time for decision comes, he acts as suddenly as a wild beast springs, — on impulse — needless to add that the impulse is always more or less evil.
A fortnight is not a long time is it? — save to children and parted lovers, — yet it had sufficed me to make deadly progress in my self-chosen method of enjoying existence; so much so, in fact, that nothing in the world seemed to me of real importance provided Absinthe never failed. I think, at this particular juncture, that if any one possessing the power to deny me the full complement of the nectar which was now as necessary to me as the blood in my veins, had denied it, I should have killed him on the spot without a moment’s compunction! But fortunately, Absinthe is obtainable everywhere in Paris, — it is not a costly luxury either, — and I soon became familiar with the different haunts where the most potent forms of it were obtainable. It must of course be understood by the inquisitive reader, that the effects of this divine cordial are different on different temperaments. On the densely stupid brain it can only r
ender the stupefaction more complete. The habituated Chinese opiumeater, for example, gets no dreams out of his drug, his own mind being too slow and sluggish for the creation of any sort of vision. But, put a quick-witted Frenchman or Italian in an Oriental opium-den, and the poison-fumes will invoke for him a crowd of phantom images, horrible or beautiful, according to the tendency of his thoughts. So with Absinthe. Only that Absinthe differs from opium in this respect, — namely that it has not only one but three distinct gradations of action. Imagine, for the sake of metaphor, the brain to be a musical instrument, well strung and in perfect tune, — Absinthe first deadens the vibrating power; then, one by one, reverses the harmonies; and finally, completely alters the very nature of the sounds. Music can still be drawn from it, — but it is a different music to what it erstwhile was capable of. On the active brain, its effect is to quicken the activity to feverishness, while hurling it through new and extraordinary channels of thought; on a slow brain it quenches whatever feeble glimmer of intelligence previously existed there, the result in such a case, being frequently cureless idiotcy. But what does this matter? Its charm is irresistible for both wit and fool; and in this age, when to follow our own immediate desires is the only accepted gospel, — the gospel of Paris at least, if of no other city, Absinthe is to many, as to me, the chief necessity of life. Because, however uncertain in its other phases it may prove, it can be absolutely relied upon to kill Conscience!
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 223
