The Trail of the Serpent

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  He bowed, and left the room. She did not lift her eyes to look at him as he bade her adieu. Those hollow tearless eyes were fixed on the letter she held in her left hand. She was thinking of the first time she saw this handwriting, when every letter seemed a character inscribed in fire, because his hand had shaped it; when the tiniest scrap of paper covered with the most ordinary words was a precious talisman, a jewel of more price than the diamonds of all the Cevennes.

  The short winter’s day died out, and through the dusk a young man, in a thick greatcoat, walked rapidly along the broad quiet street in which the pavilion stood. Once or twice he looked round to assure himself that he was unobserved. He tried the handle of the little wooden door, found it unfastened, opened it softly, and went in. In a few minutes he was in the boudoir, and by the side of Valerie. The girl’s proud face was paler than when he had last seen it; and when he tenderly asked the reason of this change, she said,—

  “I have been anxious about you, Gaston. You can scarcely wonder.”

  “The voice too, even your voice is changed,” he said anxiously. “Stay, surely I am the victim of no juggling snare. It is—it is Valerie.”

  The little boudoir was only lighted by the wood fire burning on the low hearth. He drew her towards the blaze, and looked her full in the face.

  “You would scarcely believe me,” he said; “but for the moment I half doubted if it were really you. The false alarm, the hurried journey, one thing and another have upset me so completely, that you seemed changed—altered; I can scarcely tell you how, but altered very much.”

  She seated herself in the easy-chair by the hearth. There was an embroidered velvet footstool at her feet, and he placed himself on this, and sat looking up in her face. She laid her slender hands on his dark hair, and looked straight into his eyes. Who shall read her thoughts at this moment? She had learnt to despise him, but she had never ceased to love him. She had cause to hate him; but she could scarcely have told whether the bitter anguish which rent her heart were nearer akin to love or hate.

  “Pshaw, Gaston!” she exclaimed, “you are full of silly fancies to-night. And I, you see, do not offer to reproach you once for the uneasiness you have caused me. See how readily I accept your excuse for your absence, and never breathe one doubt of its truth. Now, were I a jealous or suspicious woman, I might have a hundred doubts. I might think you did not love me, and fancy that your absence was a voluntary one. I might even be so foolish as to picture you with another whom you loved better than me.”

  “Valerie!” he said, reproachfully, raising her small hand to his lips.

  “Nay,” she cried, with a light laugh, “this might be the thought of a jealous woman. But could I think so of you, Gaston?”

  “Hark!” he said, starting and rising hastily; “did you not hear something?”

  “What?”

  “A rustling sound by that door—the door of your dressing-room. Finette is not there, is she? I left her in the anteroom below.”

  “No, no, Gaston; there is no one there; this is another of your silly fancies.”

  He glanced uneasily towards the door, but re-seated himself at her feet, and looked once more upward to the proudly beautiful face. Valerie did not look at her companion, but at the fire. Her dark eyes were fixed upon the blaze, and she seemed almost unconscious of Gaston de Lancy’s presence. What did she see in the red light? Her shipwrecked soul? The ruins of her hopes? The ghost of her dead happiness? The image of a long and dreary future, in which the love on whose foundation she had built a bright and peaceful life to come could have no part? What did she see? A warning arm stretched out to save her from the commission of a dreadful deed, which, once committed, must shut her out from all earthly sympathy, though not perhaps from heavenly forgiveness; or a stern finger pointing to the dark end to which she hastens with a purpose in her heart so strange and fearful to her she scarcely can believe it is her own, or that she is herself?

  With her left hand still upon the dark hair—which even now she could not touch without a tenderness, that, having no part in her nature of to-day, seemed like some relic of the wreck of the past—she stretched out her right arm towards a table near her, on which there were some decanters and glasses that clashed with a silvery sound under her touch.

  “I must try and cure you of your fancies, Gaston. My physician insists on my taking every day at luncheon a glass of that old Madeira of which my uncle is so fond. They have not removed the wine—you shall take some; pour it out yourself. See, here is the decanter. I will hold the glass for you.”

  She held the antique diamond-cut glass with a steady hand while Gaston poured the wine into it. The light from the wood fire flickered, and he spilt some of the Madeira over her dress. They both laughed at this, and her laugh rang out the clearer of the two.

  There was a third person who laughed; but his was a silent laugh. This third person was Monsieur Marolles, who stood within the half-open door that led into Valerie’s dressing-room.

  “So,” he says to himself, “this is even better than I had hoped. I feared his handsome face would shake her resolution. The light in those dark eyes is very beautiful, no doubt, but it has not long to burn.”

  As the firelight flashed upon the glass, Gaston held it for a moment between his eyes and the blaze.

  “Your uncle’s wine is not very clear,” he said; “but I would drink the vilest vinegar from the worst tavern in Paris, if you poured it out for me, Valerie.”

  As he emptied the glass the little time-piece struck six.

  “I must go, Valerie. I play Gennaro in Lucretia Borgia,3 and the King is to be at the theatre to-night. You will come? I shall not sing well if you are not there.”

  “Yes, yes, Gaston.” She laid her hand upon her head as she spoke.

  “Are you ill?” he asked, anxiously.

  “No, no, it is nothing. Go, Gaston; you must not keep his Majesty waiting,” she said.

  I wonder whether as she spoke there rose the image in her mind of a King who reigns in undisputed power over the earth’s wide face; whose throne no revolution ever shook; whose edict no creature ever yet set aside, and to whom all terrible things give place, owning in him the King of Terrors!

  The young man took his wife in his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. It was damp with a deadly cold perspiration.

  “I am sure you are ill, Valerie,” he said.

  She shivered violently, but pushing him towards the door, said, “No, no, Gaston; go, I implore you; you will be late; at the theatre you will see me. Till then, adieu.”

  He was gone. She closed the door upon him rapidly, and with one long shudder fell to the ground, striking her head against the gilded moulding of the door. Monsieur Marolles emerged from the shadow, and lifting her from the floor, placed her in the chair by the hearth. Her head fell heavily back upon the velvet cushions, but her large black eyes were open. I have said before, this woman was not subject to fainting-fits.

  She caught Raymond’s hand in hers with a convulsive grasp.

  “Madame,” he said, “you have shown yourself indeed a daughter of the haughty line of the De Cevennes. You have avenged yourself most nobly.”

  The large black eyes did not look at him. They were fixed on vacancy. Vacancy? No! there could be no such thing as vacancy for this woman. Henceforth for her the whole earth must be filled with one hideous phantom.

  There were two wine-glasses on the table which stood a little way behind the low chair in which Valerie was seated—very beautiful glasses, antique, exquisitely cut, and emblazoned with the arms of the De Cevennes. In one of those glasses, the one from which Gaston de Lancy had drunk, there remained a few drops of wine, and a little white sediment. Valerie did not see Raymond, as with a stealthy hand he removed this glass from the table, and put it in the pocket of his greatcoat.

  He looked once more at her as she sat with rigid mouth and staring eyes, and then he said, as he moved towards the door,—

  “I shall see yo
u at the opera, madame! I shall be in the stalls. You will be, with more than your wonted brilliancy and beauty, the centre of observation in the box next to the King’s. Remember, that until to-night is over, your play will not be played out. Au revoir, madame. To-morrow I shall say mademoiselle! For to-morrow the secret marriage of Valerie de Cevennes with an opera-singer will only be a foolish memory of the past.”

  CHAPTER VII

  THE LAST ACT OF LUCRETIA BORGIA

  Two hours after this interview in the pavilion Raymond Marolles is seated in his old place in the front row of the stalls. Several times during the prologue and the first act of the opera his glass seeks the box next to that of the King, always to find it empty. But after the curtain has fallen on the finale to the first act, the quiet watcher raises his glass once more, and sees Valerie enter, leaning on her uncle’s arm. Her dark beauty loses nothing by its unusual pallor, and her eyes to-night have a brilliancy which, to the admiring crowd, who know so little and so little care to know the secrets of her proud soul, is very beautiful. She wears a high dress of dark green velvet, fastened at the throat with one small diamond ornament, which trembles and emits bright scintillations of rainbow light. This sombre dress, her deadly pallor, and the strange fire in her eyes, give to her beauty of to-night a certain peculiarity which renders her more than usually the observed of all observers.

  She seats herself directly facing the stage, laying down her costly bouquet, which is of one pure white, being composed entirely of orange-flowers, snowdrops, and jasmine, a mixture of winter, summer, and hot-house blossoms for which her florist knows how to charge her. She veils the intensity which is the distinctive character of her face with a weary listless glance to-night. She does not once look round the house. She has no need to look, for it seems as if without looking she can see the pale face of Monsieur Marolles, who lounges with his back to the orchestra, and his opera-glass in his hand.

  The Marquis de Cevennes glances at the programme of the opera, and throws it away from him with a dissatisfied air.

  “That abominable poisoning woman!” he says; “when will the Parisians be tired of horrors?”

  His niece raises her eyebrows slightly, but does not lift her eyelids as she says—“Ah, when, indeed!”

  “I don’t like these subjects,” continued the marquis. “Even the handling of a Victor Hugo1 cannot make them otherwise than repulsive: and then again, there is something to be said on the score of their evil tendency. They set a dangerous example. Lucretia Borgia, in black velvet, avenging an insult according to the rules of high art and to the music of Donizetti2 is very charming, no doubt; but we don’t want our wives and daughters to learn how they may poison us without fear of detection. What do you say, Rinval?” he asked, turning to a young officer who had just entered the box. “Do you think I am right?”

  “Entirely, my dear marquis. The representation of such a hideous subject is a sin against beauty and innocence,” he said, bowing to Valerie. “And, though the music is very exquisite——”

  “Yes,” said Valerie, “my uncle cannot help admiring the music. How have they been singing to-night?”

  “Why, strange to say, for once De Lancy has disappointed his admirers. His Gennaro is a very weak performance.”

  “Indeed!” She takes her bouquet in her hand and plays with the drooping blossom of a snowdrop. “A weak performance? You surprise me really!” She might be speaking of the flowers she holds, from the perfect indifference of her tone.

  “They say he is ill,” continues Monsieur Rinval. “He almost broke down in the ‘Pescator ignobile.’3 But the curtain has risen—we shall have the poison scene soon, and you can judge for yourself.”

  She laughs. “Nay,” she says, “I have never been so enthusiastic an admirer of this young man as you are, Monsieur Rinval. I should not think the world had come to an end if he happened to sing a false note.”

  The young Parisian bent over her chair, admiring her grace and beauty—admiring, perhaps, more than all, the haughty indifference with which she spoke of the opera-singer, as if he were something too far removed from her sphere for her to be in earnest about him even for one moment. Might he not have wondered even more, if he had admired her less, could he have known that as she looked up at him with a radiant face, she could not even see him standing close beside her; that to her clouded sight the opera-house was only a confusion of waving lights and burning eyes; and that, in the midst of a chaos of blood and fire, she saw the vision of her lover and her husband dying by the hand that had caressed him?

  “Now for the banquet scene,” exclaimed Monsieur Rinval. “Ah! there is Gennaro. Is he not gloriously handsome in ruby velvet and gold? That clubbed Venetian wig becomes him. It is a wig, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no doubt. That sort of people owe half their beauty to wigs, and white and red paint, do they not?” she asked, contemptuously; and even as she spoke she was thinking of the dark hair which her white fingers had smoothed away from the broad brow so often, in that time which, gone by a few short days, seemed centuries ago to her. She had suffered the anguish of a lifetime in losing the bright dream of her life.

  “See,” said Monsieur Rinval, “Gennaro has the poisoned goblet in his hand. He is acting very badly. He is supporting himself with one hand on the back of that chair, though he has not yet drunk the fatal draught.”

  De Lancy was indeed leaning on an antique stage-chair for support. Once he passed his hand across his forehead, as if to collect his scattered senses, but he drank the wine, and went on with the music. Presently, however, every performer in the orchestra looked up as if thunderstruck. He had left off singing in the middle of a concerted piece; but the Maffeo Orsini4 took up the passage, and the opera proceeded.

  “He is either ill, or he does not know the music,” said Monsieur Rinval. “If the last, it is really shameful; and he presumes on the indulgence of the public.”

  “It is always the case with these favourites, is it not?” asked Valerie.

  At this moment the centre of the stage was thrown open. There entered first a procession of black and shrouded monks singing a dirge. Next, pale, haughty, and vengeful, the terrible Lucretia burst upon the scene.

  Scornful and triumphant she told the companions of Gennaro that their doom was sealed, pointing to where, in the ghastly background, were ranged five coffins, waiting for their destined occupants. The audience, riveted by the scene, awaited that thrilling question of Gennaro, “Then, madame, where is the sixth?” and as De Lancy emerged from behind his comrades every eye was fixed upon him.

  He advanced towards Lucretia, tried to sing, but his voice broke on the first note; he caught with his hand convulsively at his throat, staggered a pace or two forward, and then fell heavily to the floor. There was immediate consternation and confusion on the stage; chorus and singers crowded round him; one of the singers knelt down by his side, and raised his head. As he did so, the curtain fell suddenly.

  “I was certain he was ill,” said Monsieur Rinval, “I fear it must be apoplexy.”

  “It is rather an uncharitable suggestion,” said the marquis; “but do you not think it just possible that the young man may be tipsy?”

  There was a great buzz of surprise amongst the audience, and in about three minutes one of the performers came before the curtain, and announced that in consequence of the sudden and alarming illness of Monsieur de Lancy it was impossible to conclude the opera. He requested the indulgence of the audience for a favourite ballet which would commence immediately.

  The orchestra began the overture of the ballet, and several of the audience rose to leave the house.

  “Will you stop any longer, Valerie? or has this dismal finale dispirited you?” said the marquis.

  “A little,” said Valerie; “besides, we have promised to look in at Madame de Vermanville’s concert before going to the duchess’s ball.”

  Monsieur Rinval helped to muffle her in her cloak, and then offered her his arm. As they passed from th
e great entrance to the carriage of the marquis, Valerie dropped her bouquet. A gentleman advanced from the crowd and restored it to her.

  “I congratulate you alike on your strength of mind, as on your beauty, mademoiselle!” he said, in a whisper too low for her companions to hear, but with a terrible emphasis on the last word.

  As she stepped into the carriage, she heard a bystander say—

  “Poor fellow, only seven-and-twenty! And so marvellously handsome and gifted!”

  “Dear me,” said Monsieur Rinval, drawing up the carriage window, “how very shocking! De Lancy is dead!”

  Valerie did not utter one exclamation at this announcement. She was looking steadily out of the opposite window. She was counting the lamps in the streets through the mist of a winter’s night.

  “Only twenty-seven!” she cried hysterically, “only twenty-seven! It might have been thirty-seven, forty-seven, fifty-seven! But he despised her love; he trampled out the best feelings of her soul; so it was only twenty-seven! Marvellously handsome, and only twenty-seven!”

  “For heaven’s sake open the windows and stop the carriage, Rinval!” cried the marquis—“I’m sure my niece is ill.”

  She burst into a long, ringing laugh.

  “My dear uncle, you are quite mistaken. I never was better in my life; but it seems to me as if the death of this opera-singer has driven everybody mad.”

  They drove rapidly home, and took her into the house. The maid Finette begged that her mistress might be carried to the pavilion, but the marquis overruled her, and had his niece taken into her old suite of apartments in the mansion. The first physicians in Paris were sent for, and when they came they pronounced her to be seized by a brain-fever,5 which promised to be a very terrible one.

  CHAPTER VIII

  BAD DREAMS AND A WORSE WAKING

  The sudden and melancholy death of Gaston de Lancy caused a considerable sensation throughout Paris; more especially as it was attributed by many to poison. By whom administered, or from what motive, none could guess. There was one story, however, circulated that was believed by some people, though it bore very little appearance of probability. It was reported that on the afternoon preceding the night on which De Lancy died, a stranger had obtained admission behind the scenes of the opera-house, and had been seen in earnest conversation with the man whose duty it was to provide the goblets of wine for the poison scene in Lucretia Borgia. Some went so far as to say, that this stranger had bribed the man to put the contents of a small packet into the bottom of the glass given on the stage to De Lancy. But so improbable a story was believed by very few, and, of course, stoutly denied by the man in question. The doctors attributed the death of the young man to apoplexy. There was no inquest held on his remains; and at the wish of his mother he was buried at Rouen, and his funeral was no doubt a peculiarly quiet one, for no one was allowed to know when the ceremonial took place. Paris soon forgot its favourite. A few engravings of him, in one or two of his great characters, lingered for some time in the windows of the fashionable print-shops. Brief memoirs of him appeared in several papers, and in one or two magazines; and in a couple of weeks he was forgotten. If he had been a great general, or a great minister, it is possible that he would not have been remembered much longer. The new tenor had a fair complexion and blue eyes, and had two extra notes of falsetto. So the opera-house was as brilliant as ever, though there was for the time being a prejudice among opera-goers and opera-singers against Lucretia Borgia, and that opera was put on the shelf for the remainder of the season.