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

by Marie Corelli

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. He still breathes. But, a couple of minutes, — et c’est fini!”

  Gessonex heard, and made a slight movement to and fro with one hand on his breast.

  “Oui, c’est fini!” he muttered thickly. “Le dernier mot du Christ! — le dernier mot de tout le monde! — c’est fini! Enfin — j’ai payé... tout!”

  And stretching out his limbs with a long and terrible shudder he expired. The features whitened slowly and grew rigid — the jaw fell, — all was over! I rose from my kneeling attitude on the pavement like one in a dream, — scarcely noting the awed and pitying faces of the crowd of by-standers, — and found myself face to face with a couple of gendarmes. They were civil enough, but they had their duty to perform.

  “You knew him?” they asked me, pointing to the corpse.

  “Only slightly,” — I responded, “a mere acquaintance.”

  “Ah! But you can give us his name?”

  “Assuredly! André Gessonex.”

  “What? The artist?” exclaimed some one near me.

  “Yes. The artist.”

  “Mon Dieu! What a calamity! André Gessonex! A genius! — and we have so few geniuses! Messieurs, c’est André Gessonex qui est mort! grand peintre, voyez-vous! — grand homme de France!”

  I listened, stupefied. It was like one of the scenes of a wild nightmare! “Grand homme de France!” What! — so soon great, now that he was dead? Utterly bewildered I heard the name run from mouth to mouth, — people who had never known it before, caught it up like a watch-word, and in a moment the fever of French enthusiasm had spread all along the Boulevards. The man who had first started it, talked louder and louder, growing more and more eloquent with every bombastic shower of words he flung to his eager and attentive audience, — the excitement increased, — the virtues of the dead man were proclaimed and exalted, and his worth found out suddenly and as suddenly acknowledged with the wildest public acclaim! A stretcher was brought, — the body of Gessonex was laid upon it and covered reverently with a cloth, — I was asked for, and gave the address of the miserable room where the poor forlorn wretch had struggled for bare existence, — and in a very few minutes a procession was formed, which added to its numbers with every step of the way. Women wept, — men chattered volubly in true Parisian fashion concerning the great gifts of one whom they had scarcely ever heard of till now, — and I watched it all, listened to it all in a vague incredulous stupor which utterly darkened all my capability of reasoning out the mingled comedy and tragedy of the situation. But when the silly, hypocritical mourning-train had wound itself out of sight, I went away in my turn, — away from everything and everybody into a dusky, cool, old and unfrequented church, and there in full view of the sculptured Christ on the cross, I gave way to reckless laughter! Yes! — laughter that bordered on weeping, on frenzy, on madness, if you will! — for who would not laugh at the woeful yet ridiculous comedy of the world’s ways and the world’s justice! André Gessonex, alive, might starve for all Paris cared, — but André Gessonex dead, hurried out of existence by his own act, was in a trice of time discovered to be “grand homme de France!” Ah, ye cruel beasts that call yourselves men and women! — cruel and wanton defacers of God’s impress on the human mind, if any impress of God there be, — is there no punishment lurking behind the veil of the Universe for you that shall in some degree atone to all the great who have suffered at your hands? To be nobler than common is a sufficient reason for contempt and misprisal by the vulgar majority, — and never yet was there a grand spirit shut in human form, whether Socrates or Christ, that has not been laid on the rack of torture and wrenched piece-meal by the red-hot flaying-irons of public spite, derision, or neglect. Surely there shall be an atonement? If not, then there is a figure set wrong in the mathematical balance of Creation, — a line awry, — a flaw in the round jewel, — and God Himself cannot be Perfect! But why do I talk of God? I do not believe in Him, — and yet, — one is always perplexed and baffled by the Inexplicable Cause of things. And, — somehow, — my laughter died away in a sob, as I sat in the quiet gloom of the lonely old church and watched the dim lamps twinkle above the altar, while all that was mortal of André Gessonex was being carried mournfully back to his miserable attic by the capricious, weeping, laughing, frivolous crowds of Paris that had let him die, self-slain!

  XXVIII.

  A FEW days elapsed, and the rest of the little miserable farce of Fame was played out with all the pomp and circumstance of a great tragedy. The wretched attic which had served poor Gessonex for both studio and sleeping-room was piled so high with wreaths of roses and laurel that one could scarcely enter its low door for the abundance of flowers, — all his debts were paid by voluntary contributions from suddenly discovered admirers, and the merest unfinished sketch he had left behind him fetched fabulous sums. The great picture of the priest in the cathedral was found uncurtained, with a paper pinned across it bearing these words —

  “Bequeathed to France

  In exchange for a Grave!”

  And the fame of it went through all the land, — everybody spoke of “Le Prêtre” — as it was called, — all the newspapers were full of it, — it was borne reverently to the Musée du Luxembourg, and there hung in a grand room by itself, framed with befitting splendour and festooned about with folds of royal purple; — and people came softly in to look at it and to wonder at the terror and pathos of its story, — and whispering pity for the painter’s fate was on the lips of all the fair and fashionable dames of Paris, who visited it in crowds and sent garlands of rare value to deck its dead creator’s coffin. And I, — I looked on, sarcastically amused at everything, — and all I did, was to visit the blossom-scented garret from time to time to see the “brute” — the strange, uncouth little boy, whom Gessonex had designated as his “model for the Stone Period,” — and “a production of Absinthe.” This elvish creature would not believe his patron was dead, — he could not be brought to understand it in any sort of way, — neither could he be persuaded to touch a morsel of food. Night after night, day after day, he kept watch by the mortal remains of his only friend, like a faithful hound, — his whole soul concentrated as it seemed in his large bright eyes which rested on the set waxen features of the dead man with a tenderness and patience that was almost awful. At last the final hour came, — the time for the funeral, which was to be a public one, carried out with all the honours due to departed greatness, — and it was then that the poor “brute” began to be troublesome. He clung to the coffin with more than human strength and tenacity, — and when they tried to drag him away, he snarled and bit like a wild cat. No one knew what to do with him, — and finally a suggestion was made that he should be gagged, tied with cords, and dragged away by force from the chamber of death in which the poor child had learned all he knew of life. This course was decided upon, and early in the afternoon of the day on which it was to be carried out, I went into the room and looked at him, conscious of a certain vague pity stirring at my heart for his wretched fate. The-sunlight streamed in, making a wide pattern on the floor, — wreaths and cushions of immortelles, and garlands of laurel were piled about everywhere, — and in the centre of these heaped-up floral offerings, the coffin stood, — the lid partly off, for the little savage guardian of it would never allow it to be actually shut. The face of Gessonex was just visible, — it had changed from meagreness to beauty, — a great peace was settled and engraved upon it, — and fragrant lilies lay all about his throat and brow, hiding the wound in his temple and covering up all disfigurement. The boy sat beside the coffin immovable, — watchfully intent as usual, — apparently waiting for his friend to awake. On an impulse I spoke to him, —

  “Tu as faim, mon enfant?”

  He looked up.

  “Non!” The reply was faint and sullen, — and he kept his head turned away as he spoke.

  I waited a moment, and then went up and laid my hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Listen!” I
said slowly, separating my words with careful distinctness, for I knew his comprehension of language was limited, “You wait for what will not happen. He is not asleep — so he cannot wake. Try to understand me, — he is not here.”

  The great jewel-like eyes of the child rested on me earnestly.

  “Not here?” he repeated dully. “Not here?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “He has gone! Where? Ah, — that is difficult! — but — we believe, not so very far away. See!” — and I moved the flowers a little that covered the breast of the corpse, “This man is pale — he is made of marble, — he does not move, he does; not speak — he does not look at you, — how then can it be your friend? Surely you can observe for yourself that he cares nothing for you, — if it were your friend he would smile and speak to you. He is not here, — this white, quiet personage is not he! — he is gone!” Some glimmer of my meaning seemed to enter the boy’s brain, for he suddenly stood up, and an anxious look clouded his face.

  “Gone?” he echoed. “Gone? — but why should he go?”

  “He was tired!” I replied, smiling a little, “He needed peace and rest. You will find him, I am sure, if you look, among the green trees where the birds sing — where there are running brooks and flowers, and fresh winds to shake the boughs, — where all artists love to dwell when they can escape from cities. He has gone, I tell you! — and Paris is making one of its huge mistakes as usual. This is not Gessonex, — why do you not go after him and find him?”

  An eager light sparkled in his eyes, — he clenched his hands and set his teeth.

  “Oui, — oui!” he murmured rapidly. “Je vais le chercher — mon Dieu! — mais... où donc?”

  Now was my opportunity, if he would only suffer himself to be persuaded away!

  “Come with me,” I said. “I will take you to him.” He fixed his gaze upon me, — the half-timorous, half-trusting gaze of a wild animal — a look that somehow shamed me by its strange steadfastness, so that it was as much as I could do to meet it without embarrassment. He was a little savage at heart, — and he had the savage’s instinctive perception of treachery.

  “Non!” he muttered resolutely— “Je vais le chercher seul!... Il n’est pas ici?”

  And with this query addressed more to himself than to me, he sprang again to the side of the coffin and looked in; — and then for the first time as it seemed, the consciousness of the different aspect of his friend, appeared to strike him.

  “C’est vrai!” he said amazedly. “Il n’est pas ici! ce n’est pas lui! J’ai perdu le temps; — je vais le chercher! — mais, seul! — seul!”

  And without another moment’s delay he crept past me like the strange, stealthy creature he was, and running swiftly down the stairs, disappeared. I sat still in the room for some time expecting he would return; but he did not; — he was gone, heaven only could tell where. A little later in the day the men came who were prepared to take him captive, — and glad enough they were to find him no longer in their way, for no one had much relished the idea of a tussle with the wild, devilish-looking little creature whose natural ferocity was so declared and so untameable; and all the arrangements for the last obsequies of André Gessonex were now completed without any further delay or interruption. As for me, I knew I had sent the child into a wilderness of perplexities that would never be cleared up, — he would search and search for his patron probably till he died of sheer fatigue and disappointment, — but what then? As well die that way as any other, — I could not befriend him, — besides, even had I wished to do so, the chances were that he would not have trusted me. Anyway I saw him no more, — whatever his fate I never knew it.

  And so it came about that the funeral of the starved, unhappy half mad painter of “Le Prêtre” was the finest thing that had been seen in Paris for many a long day! Such pomp and solemnity, — such prancing of black steeds — such glare of blessed candles — such odorous cars of flowers! Once upon a time a suicide was not entitled to any religious rites of burial, — but we, with our glorious Republic which keeps such a strong coercing hand on the priests and will hear as little of God as may be, — we have changed all that! We do as seemeth good unto ourselves, — and we do not despise a man for having sent himself out of the world, — on the contrary we rather admire his spirit. It is a sort of defiance of the Divine, — and as such, meets with our ready sympathy! And I smiled as I saw the mortal remains of my absinthe-drinking friend carried to the last long rest; — I thought of his own fantastic dreams as to what his final end should be. “The Raphael of France!” — so he had imagined he would be called, when he had, in his incoherent, yet picturesque style, described to me his own fancied funeral. Well! — so far he had been a fairly accurate seer; — and in leaping the boundary-line of life he had caught Fame like a shooting-star and turned it into a torch to shed strange brilliancy on his grave. All was well with him, — he had not missed glory in death though he had lacked food in life! All was well with him! — he had received the best possible transformation of his being, — his genius was everything, and he was nothing! I watched his solemn obsequies to their end, — I heard one of the most famous orators of France proclaim his praise over the yawning tomb in which they laid him down — and when all was done, I, with every one else, departed from the scene. But some hours later, — after the earth had been piled above him, — I returned to Père-la-Chaise and sat by the just-covered grave alone. I remembered he had said he liked white violets, — and I had yielded to a foolish sentiment and had bought a small garland of them. I laid, them on the cold and fresh-turned soil, — their scent sweetened the air — and I rested quietly for a few moments, thinking. My mind had been clearer since the last one or two days, — my faculties, instead of being dulled, were more than usually acute, — painfully so at times, — for every nerve in my body would throb and quiver at the mere passage of an idea through my brain. I looked up at the sky, — it was a dappled grey colour, flecked here and there with gold, — for the setting of the sun was nigh, — then I looked again at the white violets that lay, fragrant and pure, on the top of all the other wreaths of laurel and myrtle that covered Gessonex’s grave. There was to be a fair monument raised above it, so the people said, — but I doubted it! Doré’s last resting-place remains unmarked to this day! My countrymen promise much more than they perform, — it is charming “politesse” on their part, so we do not call it lying!

  Presently my eyes began to wander round and about the cemetery which is beautiful in its way, — a veritable City of the Dead, where no rough rumours stir the air, — and by-and-bye I caught sight of the name “De Charmilles” carved on the marble portal of a tomb not very far distant. I realized that I was close to the funeral-vault of the once proud family Pauline (not I!) had disgraced and ruined, — and acting on a sudden instinct which I could not explain to myself, I rose and went towards it. It was built in the shape of a small chapel, as many of these tombs are, — it had stained glass windows and armorial bearings, and a pair of sculptured angels guarded it with uplifted crosses and drooping wings. But there was a figure in front of it kneeling at the closed door that was no angel, — but merely a woman. She was slight, and clad in poorest garments, — the evening wind blew her thin shawl about her like a gossamer sail, — but the glimmer of the late sunlight glistened on a tress of nut-brown hair that had escaped from its coils and fell loosely over her shoulders, — and my heart beat thickly as I looked, — I knew — I felt that woman was Pauline! Now, should I speak to her, or should I wait, — wait till those open-air devotions of hers were done, and then follow her stealthily and track her out to whatever home she had found in the wilderness of the city? I pondered a moment and decided on the latter course, — then, crouching behind one of the gravestones hard by, I watched her and kept still. How long she knelt there! — and what patience women have! They never seem to tire of asking favours of the God who never hears, — or if He does hear, never answers! It must be dull work, — and yet they do it! The sun went d
own — the breeze blew more coldly, — and at last, with a long sigh that was half a moan, a sound that came shuddering forlornly to me where I was in hiding, she rose, and with slow, rather faltering tread went on her way out of the cemetery. I followed, walking on the grass that my footsteps might not be heard. Once she turned round, — I saw her face, and seeing it, recoiled. For it was still so wondrously fair and child-like, though ravaged by grief and made pallid by want and anxiety, — it was still the face that had captivated my soul and made me mad! — though I had now discarded that form of madness for another more lasting! Out into the public thoroughfare we passed, she and I, one following the other, — and for more than half an hour I kept her in sight, closely tracking the movement of her slender figure as it glided through the throng of street-passengers, — then, — all suddenly I lost her! With a muttered curse, I stood still, searching about me eagerly on all sides, — but vainly, — she was gone! Was she a phantom too, like Silvion Guidèl? What a fool I had been not to at once attack her with a rough speech while she was kneeling at her father’s gravé! It was no sentiment of pity that had held me back from so doing, — why had I let her go? Heartily enraged at my own stupidity, I sauntered discontentedly homeward. I had changed residence of late, — for my money was not inexhaustible, — and as I had refused the additional funds I might have had by right at my father’s hands, it was well I had already decided to exercise economy. I had taken a couple of small rooms, decent and tidy enough in their way, in a clean and fairly respectable house, — that is, respectable for the poorer quarters of Paris, — it is only recently that I have come to the den where I live now. But that is the humour of Absinthe! — it leads one down in the social scale so gently, step by step, — so insidiously, — so carefully — that one cannot see the end. And even for me, the end is not yet!