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

by Marie Corelli

  XXIX.

  IN the thickest part of the woods of Boulogne it is easy to fancy one’s self miles away from Paris, — the landscape is gently pleasing and pastoral, and to the eyes that are unsatiated with grander scenery, it will assuredly seem beautiful. I found myself there one morning about an hour before noon, — I had taken a sudden fancy to see the green trees, to inhale the odour of the pines, and to watch the light breath of the wind sweep over the grass, ruffling it softly, just as water is ruffled into varying ripples of delicate greys and greens. I avoided those avenues where the pretty young girls of Paris may be seen with their gouvernantes, willing demurely along with downcast eyes and that affectation of perfect innocence which does so charm and subdue the spirits of men until, — well! — until they find it is all put on for show, to ensnare them into the marriage-market! I strolled into bosky dells, rendered sweeter by the luxury of solitude, — I, though I had the stain of murder on my soul, for once felt almost at peace! I wandered about dreamily and listlessly, — the absintheur has his occasional phases of tranquillity like other people, — tranquillity that is as strange and as overpowering as a sudden swoon, — in which the tired senses rest, and the brain is for the nonce empty of all images and impressions. And so I was scarcely startled when, pushing aside the boughs that screened a mossy turn in the pathway, I came upon what at first seemed like the picture of a woman reading, — till at last it resolved itself into substantial fact and form, and I recognized Héloïse St. Cyr. She sat alone on a little rustic bench, — her face and figure were slightly turned away from me, — she was dressed in black, but she had taken off her hat and placed it beside her, and the sunlight flickering through the boughs above her, played fully on her glorious gold hair. Her head was bent attentively over the book she held, — her attitude was full of graceful ease and unstudied repose, — and as I watched her from a little distance, a sense of sudden awe and fear stole over me, — I trembled in every limb. A good girl, mark you! — a brave, sweet, pure-minded woman is the most terrific reproach that exists on earth to the evil-doer and wicked man. It is as though the deaf blind God suddenly made Himself manifest, — as though He not only heard and saw, but with His voice thundered loud accusation! Many of us, — I speak of men, — cling to bad women, and give them our ungrudging admiration — and why? Because they help us to be vile! — because they laugh at our vices and foster them, — and we love them for that! But good women! — I tell you that such are often left loveless and alone, because they will not degrade themselves to our brute-level. We want toys, — not angels! — puppets, not queens! But all the same, when the angel or the queen passes us by with the serene scorn of our base passions written in her clear calm eyes, we shrink and are ashamed, — aye! if only for a moment’s space!

  And she, — Héloïse, — sat there before me, unconscious of my presence — unconscious that the pure air about her was tainted by the unquiet breathing of a murderer and coward! For I knew myself to be both these things, — Absinthe had given me the spirit of braggardism, but had deprived me of all true courage. Boastfulness is not valour, — yet it often passes for such in France. Poor France, — fair France, — dear France! — there are some of her sons still left who would give their life blood to see her rise up in her old glory, and be again what she once was — a queen of nations. But alas! — it is not because of the German conquest, — nor because she has had foolish rulers, that she has fallen and is still falling, — it is because the new morals and opinions of the age, propounded and accepted by narrow-minded, superficial, and materialistic thinkers, breed in her a nest of vipers and scorpions instead of - men; and your ordinary modern Frenchman has too low an estimate of all high ideals to risk his life in fighting for any one of them. There are exceptions to the rule certainly, — there are always exceptions; — but they are rare; — so rare, that we have let all Europe know there is no really strong, wise ruling brain in France, any more than there is in England. One would no more accept M. Carnot as a representative of the French national intellect, than one would accept Mr. Gladstone and his contradictions as a representative of English stability.

  The wind rustled the boughs, — a bird sang softly among the upper cool bunches of leaves, — and I stood, screened by the foliage, nervously hesitating and looking at Héloïse, the sweetest and best woman I had ever known. Always fond of reading she was! — and my restless mind flew off to a hazy consideration of what her book might possibly be. One might safely conclude it was not by Zola, — the literary scavenger of Paris would have no charm for that high-souled, proudly-delicate Normandy-bred maiden. Probably it was one of her favourite classics, — or a volume of poems, — she was a great lover of poesy. I heard her sigh, — a deep fluttering sigh that mingled itself with the low-whispering wind, — she suddenly closed her book, — and raising her eyes, looked out on the quiet landscape, — away from me. My heart beat fast, — but I resolved to speak to her, — and with a hasty movement I thrust aside the intervening boughs.

  “Héloïse!”

  She started, — what a pale, amazed, scared face she turned upon me! Did she not know me?

  “Héloïse!” I said again.

  She rose nervously from her seat, and glanced about her from right to left, apparently searching for some way of escape, — it was evident she took me for some drunken or impertinent stranger. I had forgotten how changed I was, — I had forgotten that I looked more like a tramp than a gentleman! I laughed a little confusedly, and lifted my hat.

  “You do not seem to recognize me, Héloïse!” I said carelessly. “Yet Gaston Beauvais was once no stranger to you!”

  Oh, what a wondering, piteous look she gave me! — what a speechless sorrow swam suddenly into the large, lovely grey eyes!

  “Gaston Beauvais!” she faltered— “oh no; — not possible! You, — you — Gaston? Oh no! — no!”

  And, covering her face with her two fair white hands, she broke into sudden weeping!... My God! — it would have been well if I could have killed myself then! For my heart was touched; — my hard, hard heart that I thought had turned to stone! Her tears, the sincere outflow of a pure woman’s womanly grief, fell like dew on my burnt and callous soul, and for a moment I was stricken dumb with an aching remorse — remorse that I should have voluntarily placed such a chasm of eternal separation between all good things and the accursed Me that now seemed to usurp Creation rather than belong to it. I felt a choking sensation in my throat, — my lips grew parched; — I strove to speak once or twice but failed, — and she, — she, poor child, wept on. Presently, making an effort to conquer myself, I ventured to approach her a step or two more nearly.

  “Héloïse! Mademoiselle St. Cyr! — I said unsteadily— “Pray — pray do not distress yourself like this! I was foolish to have spoken to you — you were not prepared to see me; — I have startled, — alarmed you! — I am much altered in my looks, I know, — but I forgot, — pray forgive me!”

  She checked her sobs, — and uncovering her tear-wet eyes, turned their humid lustre full upon me. I shrank a little backward, — but she stretched out her trembling hands.

  “It is really you, M. Gaston?” she murmured nervously. “Oh, have you been very ill? You look so strange and pale! — you have greatly changed!”

  “Yes, for the worse! — I know that!” I interrupted her quietly. “You could scarcely expect me to improve, could you, Héloïse? Nay, did you not yourself curse me, not so very long ago? — and are you surprised to find the curse fulfilled?”

  She sank on the rustic bench she had just quitted and regarded me with an affrighted look.

  “I cursed you?” she echoed— “I? — oh yes, yes! I remember — I was wicked — on that dreadful day of Pauline’s disgrace and ruin, I said hard things to you — I know! — I was full of pain and anger, — but, believe me, that very night I prayed for you! — indeed I have prayed for you always — for you and my lost Pauline!”

  The tenderness her presence had aroused in me, froze su
ddenly into chill cynicism.

  “Pardieu! Women are curious creatures!” I said, with a bitter laugh. “They curse a man at noon-day, — and pray for him at midnight! That is droll! But beware how you couple perjured lovers’ names together, even in prayer, mademoiselle — your God, if He be consistent can scarcely care to attend to such a petition, — as an instance, you see how He has taken care of me!”

  Her head drooped; — a shudder ran through her frame, but she was silent.

  “Look at me!” I went on recklessly. “Look! Why, you would not have known me if I had not declared myself! You remember Gaston Beauvais? — what a dandy he was, — how spruce and smart and even fastidious in dress? — a silly young fool for his pains! — you remember how he never took much thought about anything, except to make sure that he did his work conscientiously, ran into no debts, acted honourably to all men and stood well with the world. He was the stupidest creature extant; he believed in the possibility of happiness! — he loved, and fancied himself beloved! He was duped and deceived, — all such trusting noodles are! — and he took his whipping and scourging at the hands of Fate rather badly. But he learnt wisdom at last, — the wisdom of the wisest! — he found out that men were sots and knaves, and women coquettes and wantons, and he resolved to make the best of an eternally bad business and please himself since he could please nobody else. And ha has succeeded! — here he is! — here I am to answer for the truth of his success! I am very happy! — one does not want a new coat to be contented. I have heard say that a woman always judges a man by his clothes, — but if you judge me by mine you will do wrongly. They are shabby, I admit — but I am at ease in them, and they serve me better than a court suit serves a lacquey. I look ill, you tell me, — but I am not ill; — the face is always a tell-tale in matters of dissipation, — and I do not deny that I am dissipated,” — here I laughed harshly as I met her grieved and wondering gaze, “I live a fast life, — I consort with evil men and evil women, — that is, people who do not, like the hypocritical higher classes of soçiety, waste valuable time in pretending to be good. I am a gamester, — an idler — a fainéant of the Paris cafés, — I have taken my life in my own hands and torn it up piecemeal for any dog to devour, — and to conclude, I am an absintheur, by which term, if you understand it at all, you will obtain the whole clue to the mystery of my present existence. Absinthe-drinking is a sort of profession as well as amusement in Paris, — it is followed by many men both small and great, — men of distinction, as well as nobodies, — I am in excellent company, I assure you! — and, upon my word, when I think of my past silly efforts to keep in a straight line of law with our jaded system of morals and behaviour, and compare it with my present freedom from all restraint and responsibility, I have nothing — positively nothing to regret!”

  During this tirade, the fair woman’s face beside me had grown paler and paler, — her lips were firmly pressed together, — her eyes cast down. When I had finished, I waited, expecting to hear some passionate burst of reproach from her, but none came. She took up her book, methodically marked the place in it where she had left off reading, — put on her hat, (though I noticed her hands trembled) and then rising, she said simply —

  “Adieu!”

  I stared at her amazed.

  “Adieu!” I echoed— “What do you mean? Do you think I can let you go without more words than these after so many weeks of separation? It was in June I last saw you, — and it is now close upon the end of September, — and what a host of tragedies, have been enacted since then! — Tragedies! — aye! — murders and suicides!” — and with an involuntary gesture of appeal I stretched out my hand, “Do not go, Héloïse! — not yet! I want to speak to you! — I want to ask you a thousand things!”

  “Why?” she queried in a mechanical sort of way— “you say you have nothing to regret!”

  I stood mute. Her eyes now rested on me steadfastly enough, yet with a strained piteousness in them that disturbed me greatly.

  “You have nothing to regret,” — she repeated listlessly— “Old days are over for you — as they are for me! In the space of a few months; the best, the happiest part of our lives has ended. Only” — and she caught her breath hard— “before I go — I will say one thing — it is that I am sorry I cursed you or seemed to curse you. It was wrong, — though indeed it is not I that would have driven you to spoil your life as you yourself have spoiled it. I know you suffered bitterly — but I had hoped you were man enough to overcome that suffering and make yourself master of it. I knew you were deceived — but I had thought you generous enough to have pardoned deceit. You seemed to me a brave and gallant gentleman, — I was not prepared to find your nature weak and — and cowardly!”

  She hesitated before the last word, — but, as she uttered it, I smiled.

  “True, quite true, Héloïse!” I said quietly— “I am a coward! I glory in it! The brave are those that run all sorts of dangerous risks for the sake of others, — or for a cause, the successful results of which they personally will not be permitted to share. I avoid all this trouble! I am ‘coward’ enough to wish comfort and safety for myself, — I leave the question of Honour to the arguing tongues and clashing swords of those who care about it, — I do not!”

  She looked at me indignantly, and her large eyes flashed.

  “Oh God!” she cried, “Is it possible you can have fallen so low! Was not your cruel vengeance sufficient? You drove Pauline from her home, — her disgrace which you so publicly proclaimed killed, as you know, my uncle her father, — evil and misfortune have been sown broadcast by that one malicious act of yours, — even the wretched Silvion Guidèl has disappeared mysteriously — no trace of him can be found, — and not content with this havoc, you ruin yourself! And all for what? For a child’s broken troth-plight! — a child who, as I told you at first, was too young to know her own mind, and who simply accepted you as her affianced husband, because she thought it would please her parents, — no more! She had then no idea, no conception of love; — and when it came, she fell a victim to it — it was too strong for her slight resistance. I warned you as well as I could, — I foresaw it all, — I dreaded it — for no woman as young and impressionable as Pauline could have been long in Silvion Guidèl’s company without being powerfully attracted. I warned you, — but you would see nothing — men are so blind! They cannot — they will not understand that in every woman’s heart there is the hunger of love — a hunger which must be appeased. When you first met Pauline she had never known this feeling, — and you never roused it in her, — but it woke at the mere glance, the mere voice of Silvion Guidèl. These things will happen — they are always happening, — one is powerless to prevent them. If one could always love where love is advisable! — but one cannot do so! Pauline’s sin was no more than that of hundreds of other women who not only win the world’s pardon, but also the exoneration of the sternest judges, — and yet I am sure she has suffered with a sharper intensity than many less innocent! But you — you have nothing to regret, you say — no! — not though two homes lie wasted and deserted by your pitilessness! — and, now you have ravaged your own life too — you might have spared that — yes, you might have spared that, — you might have left that — to God!”

  Her breast heaved, and a wave of colour rushed to her cheeks and as quickly receded, — she pressed one hand on her heart.

  “You need not” — she went on pathetically— “have given me cause to-day to even imagine that perhaps my foolish curse did harm to you. It is a vague reproach that I shall think of often! And yet I know I spoke in haste only — and without any malicious intent, — I could not,” — here her voice sank lower and lower— “I could not have truly cursed what I once loved!”

  My heart gave a fierce bound, — and then almost stood still. Loved! What she once loved! Had she, then, loved me? Certes, a glimmering guess, — a sort of instinctive feeling that she might have loved me, had stolen over me now and then during my courtship of her cousin Pauline,
— but that she had really bestowed any of her affection on me unasked, was an idea that had never positively occurred to my mind. And now?... We looked at each other, — she with a strange pale light on her face such as I had never seen there, — I amazed, yet conscious of immense, irreparable loss, — loss which those words of hers— “what I once loved” made absolute and eternal! Both vaguely conscience-smitten, we gazed into one another’s eyes, — even so might two spirits, one on the gold edge of Heaven, the other on the red brink of Hell, and all Chaos between them, gaze wistfully and wonder at their own fro ward fate, — aye! — and such, if such there be, may lean far out from either sphere, stretch hands, waft kisses, smile, weep, cry aloud each other’s names, — and yet no bridge shall ever span the dark division, — no ray of light connect those self-severed souls!

  “Héloïse!” I stammered, — and then, my voice failing me, I was silent.

  She, moving restlessly where she sat on the rustic seat with the shadows of the green leaves flickering over her, entwined her white hands one within the other, and lifted her large solemn eyes towards the deep blue sky.

  “There is no shame in it now” — she said, in hushed serious accents. “There is never any shame in what is dead. The darkest sin, — the worst crime — is expiated by death, — and so my love, being perished, is no longer blameable. I have not seen you for a long time — and perhaps I shall never see you again, — one tells many lies in life, and one seldom has the chance of speaking the truth, — but I feel that I must speak it now. I loved you! — you see how calmly I can say it — how dispassionately — because it is past. The old heart-ache troubles me no longer, — and I am not afraid of you any more. But before, — I used to be afraid, — I used to think you must be able to guess my secret, and that you despised me for it. You loved Pauline, — she was much worthier love than I, — and I should have been quite contented and at rest had I felt certain that she loved you in return. But I never was certain; I felt that her affection was merely that of a playful child for an elder brother, — I felt sure that she knew nothing of love, — love such as you had for her — or — as I had for you. But you — you saw nothing—”