“Do you see that girl opposite, in white, with the shaded crimson carnations in her dress?”
My friend looked, shook her head, and rejoined —
“No; where is she sitting?”
“Right opposite!” I repeated in a more excited tone. “Surely you can see her! She is alone in that large box en face.”
My friend turned to me in wonder. “You must be dreaming, my dear! That large box is perfectly empty!”
Empty — I knew better! But I endeavoured to smile; I said I had made a mistake — that the lady I spoke of had moved — and so changed the subject. But throughout the evening, though I feigned to watch the stage, my eyes were continually turning to the place where SHE sat so quietly, with her stedfast, mournful gaze fixed upon me. One addition to her costume she had — a fan — which from the distance at which I beheld it seemed to be made of very old yellow lace, mounted on sticks of filigree silver. She used this occasionally, waving it slowly to and fro in a sort of dreamy, meditative fashion; and ever and again she smiled that pained, patient smile which, though it hinted much, betrayed nothing. When we rose to leave the theatre “the Lady with the Carnations” rose also, and drawing a lace wrap about her head, she disappeared. Afterwards I saw her gliding through one of the outer lobbies; she looked so slight and frail and childlike, alone in the pushing, brilliant crowd, that my heart went out to her in a sort of fantastic tenderness.
“Whether she be a disembodied spirit,” I mused, “or an illusion called up by some disorder of my own imagination, I do not know; but she seems so sad, that even were she a Dream, I pity her!” This thought passed through my brain as in company with my friends I reached the outer door of the theatre. A touch on my arm startled me — a little white hand clasping a cluster of carnations rested there for a second — then vanished. I was somewhat overcome by this new experience; but my sensations this time were not those of fear. I became certain that this haunting image followed me for some reason; and I determined not to give way to any foolish terror concerning it, but to calmly await the course of events, that would in time, I felt convinced, explain everything. I stayed a fortnight longer in Paris without seeing anything more of “the Lady with the Carnations,” except photographs of her picture in the Louvre, one of which I bought — though it gave but a feeble idea of the original masterpiece — and then I left for Brittany. Some English friends of mine, Mr and Mrs. Fairleigh, had taken up their abode in a quaint old rambling chateau near Quimperlé on the coast of Finisterre, and they had pressed me cordially to stay with them for a fortnight — an invitation which I gladly accepted. The house was built on a lofty rock overlooking the sea; the surrounding coast was eminently wild and picturesque; and on the day I arrived, there was a boisterous wind which lifted high the crests of the billows and dashed them against the jutting crags with grand and terrific uproar. Mrs. Fairleigh, a bright, practical woman, whose life was entirely absorbed in household management, welcomed me with effusion — she and her two handsome boys, Rupert and Frank, were full of enthusiasm for the glories and advantages of their holiday resort.
“Such a beach!” cried Rupert, executing a sort of Indian war-dance beside me on the path.
“And such jolly walks and drives!” chorussed his brother.
“Yes, really!” warbled my hostess in her clear gay voice, “I’m delighted we came here. And the château is such a funny old place, full of odd nooks and corners. The country people, you know, are dreadfully superstitious, and they say it is haunted; but of course that’s all nonsense! Though if there were a ghost, we should send you to interrogate it, my dear!”
This with a smile of good-natured irony at me. I laughed. Mrs. Fairleigh was one of those eminently sensible persons who had seriously lectured me on a book known as “A Romance of Two Worlds,” as inculcating spiritualistic theories, and therefore deserving condemnation.
I turned the subject.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Three weeks — and we haven’t explored half the neighbourhood yet. There are parts of the house itself we don’t know. Once upon a time — so the villagers say — a great painter lived here. Well, his studio runs the whole length of the chateau, and that and some other rooms are locked up. It seems they are never let to strangers. Not that we want them — the place is too big for us as it is.”
“What was the painter’s name?” I enquired, pausing as I ascended the terrace to admire the grand sweep of the sea.
“Oh, I forget! His pictures were so like those of Greuze that few can tell the difference between them — and —— —— —”
I interrupted her. “Tell me,” I said, with a faint smile, “have you any carnations growing here?”
“Carnations! I should think so! The place is full of them. Isn’t the odour delicious?” And as we reached the highest terrace in front of the château I saw that the garden was ablaze with these brilliant scented blossoms, of every shade, varying from the palest salmon pink to the deepest, darkest scarlet. This time that subtle fragrance was not my fancy, and I gathered a few of the flowers to wear in my dress at dinner. Mr. Fairleigh now came out to receive us, and the conversation became general.
I was delighted with the interior of the house; it was so quaint, and old, and suggestive. There was a dark oaken staircase, with a most curiously carved and twisted balustrade — some ancient tapestry still hung on the walls — and there were faded portraits of stiff ladies in ruffs, and maliciously smiling knights in armour, that depressed rather than decorated the dining-room. The chamber assigned to me upstairs was rather bright than otherwise — it fronted the sea, and was cheerfully and prettily furnished. I noticed, however, that it was next door to the shut-up and long-deserted studio. The garden was, as Mrs. Fairleigh had declared, full of carnations. I never saw so many of these flowers growing in one spot. They seemed to spring up everywhere, like weeds, even in the most deserted and shady corners. I had been at the château some three or four days, when one morning I happened to be walking alone in a sort of shrubbery at the back of the house, when I perceived in the long dank grass at my feet a large grey stone, that had evidently once stood upright, but had now fallen flat, burying itself partly in the earth. There was something carved upon it. I stooped down, and clearing away the grass and weeds, made out the words
“MANON
Cœur perfide!”
Surely this was a strange inscription! I told my discovery to the Fairleighs, and we all examined and re-examined the mysterious slab, without being able to arrive at any satisfactory explanation of its pictures. Even enquiries made among the villagers failed to elicit anything save shakes of the head, and such remarks as “Ah, Madame! si on savait!...” or “Je crois bien qu’il y a une histoire là!”
One evening we all returned to the château at rather a later hour than usual, after a long and delightful walk on the beach in the mellow radiance of a glorious moon. When I went to my room I had no inclination to go to bed — I was wide awake, and moreover in a sort of expectant frame of mind; expectant, though I knew not what I expected.
I threw my window open, leaning out and looking at the moon-enchanted sea, and inhaling the exquisite fragrance of the carnations wafted to me on every breath of the night wind. I thought of many things — the glory of life; the large benevolence of Nature; the mystery of death; the beauty and certainty of immortality, and then, though my back was turned to the interior of my room, I knew — I felt, I was no longer alone. I forced myself to move round from the window; slowly but determinedly I brought myself to confront whoever it was that had thus entered through my locked door; and I was scarcely surprised when I saw “the Lady with the Carnations” standing at a little distance from me, with a most woebegone, appealing expression on her shadowy lovely face. I looked at her, resolved not to fear her; and then brought all my will to bear on unravelling the mystery of my strange visitant. As I met her gaze unflinchingly she made a sort of timid gesture with her hands, as though she besought
something.
“Why are you here?” I asked, in a low, clear tone. “Why do you follow me?”
Again she made that little appealing movement. Her answer, soft as a child’s whisper, floated through the room —
“You pitied me!”
“Are you unhappy?”
“Very!” And here she clasped her wan white fingers together in a sort of agony. I was growing nervous, but I continued —
“Tell me, then, what you wish me to do?”
She raised her eyes in passionate supplication.
“Pray for me! No one has prayed for me ever since I died — no one has pitied me for a hundred years!”
“How did you die?” I asked, trying to control the rapid beating of my heart. The “Lady with the Carnations” smiled most mournfully, and slowly unfastened the cluster of flowers from her breast — there her white robe was darkly stained with blood. She pointed to the stain, and then replaced the flowers. I understood.
“Murdered!” I whispered, more to myself than to my pale visitor—” murdered!”
“No one knows, and no one prays for me!” wailed the faint sweet spirit voice—” and though I am dead I cannot rest. Pray for me — I am tired!” And her slender head drooped wearily — she seemed about to vanish. I conquered my rising terrors by a strong effort, and said —
“Tell me — you must tell me” — here she raised her head, and her large pensive eyes met mine obediently— “who was your murderer?”
“He did not mean it,” she answered. “He loved me. It was here” — and she raised one hand and motioned towards the adjacent studio—” here he drew my picture. He thought me false — but I was true. ‘Manon, cœur perfide!’ Oh, no, no, no! It should be ‘Manon, cœur fidèle!’”
She paused and looked at me appealingly. Again she pointed to the studio.
“Go and see!” she sighed. “Then you will pray — and I will never come again. Promise you will pray for me — it was here he killed me — and I died without a prayer.”
“Where were you buried?” I asked, in a hushed voice.
“In the waves,” she murmured; “thrown in the wild cold waves; and no one knew — no one ever found poor Manon; alone and sad for a hundred years, with no word said to God for her!”
Her face was so full of plaintive pathos, that I could have wept. Watching her as she stood, I knelt at the quaint old prie-Dieu just within my reach, and prayed as she desired. Slowly, slowly, slowly a rapturous light came into her eyes; she smiled and waved her hands towards me in farewell. She glided backwards towards the door — and her figure grew dim and indistinct. For the last time she turned her now radiant countenance upon me, and said in thrilling accents —
“Write, ‘Manon cœur fidèle!’”
I cannot remember how the rest of the night passed; but I know that with the early morning, rousing myself from the stupor of sleep into which I had fallen, I hurried to the door of the closed studio. It was ajar! I pushed it boldly open and entered. The room was long and lofty, but destitute of all furniture save a battered-looking, worm-eaten easel that leaned up against the damp stained wall. I approached this relic of the painter’s art, and examining it closely, perceived the name “Manon” cut roughly yet deeply upon it. Looking curiously about, I saw what had nearly escaped my notice — a sort of hanging cupboard, on the left-hand side of the large central bay window. I tried its handle — it was unlocked, and opened easily. Within it lay three things — a palette, on which the blurring marks of long obliterated pigments were still faintly visible; a dagger, unsheathed, with its blade almost black with rust; and — the silver filigree sticks of a fan, to which clung some mouldy shreds of yellow lace. I remembered the fan the “Lady with the Carnations” had carried at the Théâtre Français; and I pieced together her broken story. She had been slain by her artist lover — slain in a sudden fit of jealousy ere the soft colours on his picture of her were yet dry — murdered in this very studio; and no doubt that hidden dagger was the weapon used. Poor Manon! Her frail body had been cast from the high rock on which the château stood “into the wild cold waves,” as she or her spirit had said; and her cruel lover had carried his wrath against her so far as to perpetuate a slander against her by writing “Cœur perfide” on that imperishable block of stone! Full of pitying thoughts I shut the cupboard, and slowly left the studio, closing the door noiselessly after me.
That morning as soon as I could get Mrs. Fairleigh alone I told her my adventure, beginning with the very first experience I had had of the picture in the Louvre. Needless to say, she heard me with the utmost incredulity.
“I know you, my dear!” she said, shaking her head at me wisely; “you are full of fancies, and always dreaming about the next world, as if this one wasn’t good enough for you. The whole thing is a delusion.”
“But,” I persisted, “you know the studio was shut and locked; how is it that it is open now?”
“It isn’t open!” declared Mrs. Fairleigh—” though I am quite willing to believe you dreamt it was.”
“Come and see!” I exclaimed eagerly; and I took her upstairs, though she was somewhat reluctant to follow me. As I had said, the studio was open. I led her in, and showed her the name cut on the easel, and the hanging cupboard with its contents. As these convincing proofs of my story met her eyes, she shivered a little, and grew rather pale.
“Come away,” she said nervously—” you are really too horrid! I can’t bear this sort of thing! For goodness’ sake, keep your ghosts to yourself!” I saw she was vexed and pettish, and I readily followed her out of the barren, forlorn-looking room. Scarcely were we well outside the door when it shut to with a sharp click. I tried it — it was fast locked! This was too much for Mrs. Fairleigh. She rushed downstairs in a perfect paroxysm of terror; and when I found her in the breakfast-room she declared she would not stop another day in the house. I managed to calm her fears, however; but she insisted on my remaining with her to brave out whatever else might happen at what she persisted now in calling the “haunted” château, in spite of her practical theories. And so I stayed on. And when we left Brittany, we left all together, without having had our peace disturbed by any more manifestations of am unearthly nature. One thing alone troubled me a little — I should have liked to obliterate the word “perfide” from that stone, and to have had “fidèle” carved on it instead; but it was too deeply engraved for this. However, I have seen no more of “the Lady with the Carnations.” But I know the dead need praying for — and that they often suffer for lack of such prayers — though I cannot pretend to explain the reason why. And I know that the picture in the Louvre is not a Greuze, though it is called one — it is the portrait of a faithful woman deeply wronged; and her name is here written as she told me to write it —
“MANON
Cœur fidèle!”
MY WONDERFUL WIFE.
CHAPTER I.
SHE was really a wonderful woman! — I always said so! She captivated me with a smile; she subjugated my frail and trembling soul with a glance. She took such utter possession of me from the very moment I set eyes on her that I had no longer any will of my own; in fact, to this day I don’t know how I came to marry her. I have a hazy idea that she married me. I think it is very likely, knowing, as I know now, what a powerful, sweeping-away-of-all-obstacles sort of intellect she has. But when I first saw her she was a glorious girl! One of those “fine” girls, don’t you know? — with plump shoulders, round arms, ample bosom, full cheeks, good teeth and quantities of hair — a girl with “go,” and “pluck,” and plenty of “style just the kind of creature for a small, mild, rather nervous man like me. She had just come back from the Highlands, where she had “brought down” a superb stag with a single unerring shot from her gun; and all the blowsy glow of the Scotch breeze was about her, and all the scent of the gorse and heather seemed to come out in whiffs from her cropped and frizzy “fringe.” She talked — ye gods! how amazingly she talked — she laughed, till the superabundant
excess of her immense vitality made me positively envious! She danced with the vigour and swing of a stalwart amazon — danced till my brain swung round and round in wild gyrations to the delirious excitement of her ceaseless twirl. For she never tired, never felt faint, never got giddy — not she! She was in sound health, mark you; sound and splendid physical condition, and had appetite enough for two ordinary men of middle size; moreover, she ate a mixture of things that no ordinary man could possibly eat without future spasms. I watched her that night we met (we were at one of those “at homes” with a small “dancing” in the corner of the card which help to make up the melancholy pleasures of London social life) — I watched her, I say, in breathless surprise and admiration, as between every couple of dances she ate three ices and a plateful of lobster-salad — I stared at her in unfeigned ecstasy and awe when at supper she made such short work of the mayonnaise, the salmon and cucumber, the veal and ham pie, the cream puffs, the red jelly, the cheese and sardines, the champagne and tipsy-cake, and then more ice cream! I hastened to provide her with two cups of coffee, one after the other, and a thrill of wonder and delight ran through me when, in reply to my interested query, “Does not coffee keep you awake at night?” she gave a loud and cheerful laugh at my simplicity and replied —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 908
