He gave a deprecatory gesture. “Monsieur, we Frenchmen have hearts! La pauvre petite there is too delicate and pretty to lie in the common fosse!”
Good God! What an absurd influence the loveliness of a woman can exert on the weak minds of men! Here was a girl dead and incapable of knowing whether she was lying in the common fosse or any other place of interment, and yet this stern officer of the Morgue, touched by her looks, regretted the necessity of burying her thus harshly and without reverence.
I laughed carelessly.
“You are very gallant, Monsieur! I wish I could assist you! This girl-suicide is beautiful as you say, — I have contemplated her face and figure with much pleasure—”
“Will you look at her more closely, Monsieur?” he asked, suddenly turning a keen glance upon me.
I perceived his drift. He suspected me of knowing something, and wanted to startle me into confessing it! Cunning rogue! — But I was a match for him!
“I shall be charmed to do so!” I responded with easy indifference. “It will be a privilege! — a lesson in art!”
He said nothing, but simply led the way within. One minute more, and the electric light flashed in a dazzling white effulgence over the drowned girl, — I felt the official’s eye upon me, and I kept firm. But in very truth I was sick — sick at heart! — and a chill crept through all my blood, — for I was near enough to touch the woman I had so loved! — I could have kissed her! — her little white stiff hand lay within a few inches of mine! I breathed with difficulty, — do what I would, I could not prevent a slight shiver visibly shaking my limbs. And she! — she was like a little marble goddess asleep — poor little Pauline!
Then — all suddenly — the official bent over her corpse and raised it up forcibly by the head and shoulders,... I thought I should have shrieked aloud!
“Do not touch her!” I exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “It is a — sacrilege!”
He looked at me steadily, quite unmoved by my words.
“You are sure you cannot identify the body? — you have no idea who she was when living?” he demanded, in measured accents. I shrank backward. As he held the dead girl in that upright attitude I was afraid she might open her eyes!
“I tell you, no!” I answered with a sort of sullen ferocity. “No, no, no! Lay her down! Why the devil can you not let her be?”
He gave me another searching, distrustful look. Then he slowly and with a certain tenderness laid the body back in its former recumbent position, and beckoned me to follow him out of the mortuary. I did so.
“Voyons, Monsieur” — he said confidentially— “this is not a case of murder, — there is no ground for any suspicion of that kind. It is simply a suicide, — we have many such, — and surely from your manner and words, you could, if you choose, give us some information. Why not speak frankly? Par exemple, will you swear that you know absolutely nothing of the woman’s identity?”
Persistent fool! I returned his glance defiantly, — we were in the outer chamber now, and the glass screen was once more between us and the corpse, so I felt more at ease.
“Why, oaths are not of such value nowadays in France!” I answered carelessly. “Our teachers have left us no God, so what am I to swear by? By your head or my own?”
He was patient, this man of the Morgue, and though I spoke loudly, and there were people standing about, he took no offence at my levity.
“Swear by your honour, Monsieur! — that is enough.”
My honour! Ha! — that was excellent! — I, who had no more sense of honour than a carrion crow!
“By my honour, then!” I said, laughing— “I swear I know nothing of your pretty dead Magdalen in there!
A fille de joie, no doubt! Strange that so many men have pity for such; even the amiable Christ had a good word to say on behalf of these naughty ones! What was it? — Yes — I remember; ‘Her sins, which are many, are forgiven her, for she loved much!’ True — love excuses many follies. And she, — the little drowned one, — is charming — I admire her with all my heart! — but I cannot tell you who she is, or — to speak more correctly — who she was!”
As I uttered the deliberate lie, a sort of electric shock ran through me — my heart leaped violently and the blood rushed to my brows, — a pair of steadfast, sorrowful, lustrous eyes flashed wondering reproach at me over the heads of the little throng of spectators, — they were the eyes of Héloïse St. Cyr!
Yes! — it was she! — she had kept her word! — she had come to rescue Pauline, — to defraud me of my vengeance on the dead! Stately, angelic, pitiful, and pure, she stood in that cold and narrow chamber, her face pale as the face of her drowned cousin, — her hands tremblingly outstretched! As in a dream I saw the press of people make way for her, — I saw men take off their hats and remain uncovered as though a prayer were being spoken, — I saw the official in charge approach her and murmur some respectful inquiry, — and then — then I heard her voice, sweet though shaken with tears, — a voice that sent its penetrating music straight to the very core of my wretched and worthless being!
“I come to claim her!” she said simply, addressing herself to the official. “She is my cousin, Pauline de Charmilles, — only daughter of the late Count de Charmilles. We have lost her — long!” — and a half sob escaped her lips—’
‘Give her to me now, — and I will take her — oh, poor Pauline! — I will take her... home!”
Her strength gave way — she hid her face in her hands — and some women near her began crying for sympathy. It was what cynical people would call a “scene” — and yet — somehow, I could not mock at it as I would fain have done. The spirit of Humanity was here — even here among the morbid frequenters of the Morgue, — the “touch of nature which makes the whole world kin” was not lacking anywhere — save in me! — and more than all, Héloïse was here, — and in her presence one could not jest. One believed in God; — one always believes in God, by the side of a good woman!
I raised my eyes, — I was resolved to look at her straight, — and I did so — but only for one second! For her glance swept over me with such unutterable horror, loathing, and agony, that I cowered like a slave under the lash! I crept out of her sight! — I slunk away, followed by the phantom beast of my own hideous degradation, — away — away — out into the chill darkness of the winter night, defeated! Defeated! — defrauded of the last drop in my delirious draught of hatred! — Alone under the cold and starless sky, I heaped wild curses on myself, on God, — on the world! — on life and time and space! — while she — the angel Héloïse, whose love I had once possessed unknowingly, bore home her sacred dead, — home to a maiden funeral-couch of flowers, sanctified by tears and hallowed by prayers, — home, — to receive the last solemn honours due to Innocence and — Frailty!
XXXIV.
WHAT was there to do now? Nothing, — but to drink Absinthe! With the death of Pauline every other definite object in living had ended. I cared for nobody; — while as far as my former place in society was concerned I had apparently left no blank. You cannot imagine what little account the world takes of a man when he ceases to set any value on himself. He might as well never have been born, — or he might be dead, — he is as equally forgotten, and as utterly dismissed.
I attended Pauline’s funeral of course. I found out when it was to take place, — and I watched it from a distance. It was a pretty scene, — a sort of white, fairy burial. For we had a fall of snow in Paris that day, — and the small coffin was covered with a white pall, and all the flowers upon it were white; — and when the big vault was unbarred to admit this dainty burden of death hidden in blossoms, its damp and gloomy walls were all covered with wreaths and garlands, as though it were a bridal chamber. This was the work of Héloïse, no doubt! — sweet saint Héloïse! She looked pale as a ghost and thin as a shadow that afternoon; — she walked by the side of the widowed Comtesse de Charmilles, who appeared very feeble of tread, and was draped in black from head to foot. I gazed at the solemn cortège fro
m an obscure corner in the cemetery, — and smiled as I thought that I — I only had wrought all the misery on this once proud and now broken-down, bereaved family! — I, and — Absinthe! If I had remained the same Gaston Beauvais that I once had been, — if on the night Pauline had made her wild confession of shame to me, I had listened to the voice of mercy in my heart, — if I had never met André Gessonex... imagine! — so much hangs on an “if”! Now and then a kind of remorse stung me, — but it was a mere passing emotion, — and it only troubled me when I thought of or saw Héloïse. She was, as she now is, the one reproach of my life, — the only glimpse of God I have ever known! When Pauline was laid to rest, — when the iron grating of the cold tomb shut grimly down on all that was mortal of the bright foolish child I had first met fresh from her school at Lausanne, — this same sweet, pale Héloïse lost all her self-control for a moment, and with a long sobbing cry fell forward in a swoon among the little frightened attendant acolytes and their flaring candles, — but she recovered speedily. And when she could once more stand upright, she tottered to the door of the mausoleum, and kissed it, — and hung a wreath of white roses upon it, on which the word “Amour!” was written in silver letters. Then she went away weeping, with all the rest of the funeral train — but I — I remained behind! Hidden among the trees I lay quiet, in undiscovered safety, so that when the night came I was still there. The guardians of Père-la-Chaise, patrolled the place as usual and locked the gates — but I was left a prisoner within, which was precisely what I desired. Once alone — all all alone in the darkness of the night, I flung up my arms in delirious ecstasy — this City of the Dead was mine for the time! — mine, all these mouldering corpses in the clay! I was sole ruler of this wide domain of graves! I rushed to the shut-up marble prison of Pauline — I threw myself on the ground before it, — I wept and raved and swore, and called her by every endearing name I could think of! — the awful silence maddened me! I beat at the iron grating with my fists till they bled; “Pauline!” I cried— “Pauline!” No answer! — oh God! — she would never answer any call again! Grovelling in the dust I looked up despairingly — the word “Amour!” with its silvery glisten on Héloïse’s rose-garland, flashed on my eyes like a flame. “Amour” — Love! God or the Devil! It is one or the other; it is the thing that rules the universe, — it is the only Deity we can never abjure! Love! — oh madness! Tell me, women and men, tell me whether love rules your lives most for good, or most for evil? Can we not get at the truth of this? If we can, then we shall know the secret of life’s riddle. For if Love lead us most to evil, then the hidden Force of Creation is a Fiend, — if it lead us most to good, then — then we have a God to deal with! And I fear me much it is a God after all! — I shudder to think it, — but I am afraid — afraid! For if God exists, then they — all the dead creatures I know, whose spirits haunt me, — they are happy, wise, victorious and immortal, — while I — I am lower than the veriest insect that breeds in the mould and is blind to the sun!
I must not dwell on this; — I must not look back to those hours passed outside Pauline’s tomb. For they were horrible! Once, as the night waned, I saw Silvion Guidèl, — he leaned against the pillars of the vault and barred my way with one uplifted hand. I could not fight him — a creature of the mist and air! — but his face was as the face of an angel, and its serene triumph filled me with impotent fury! He had won the day, I felt — Pauline was his — not mine! God had been on his side, and. Death, instead of conquering him, had given him the victory!
One day, weeks after Pauline’s burial, I was very ill. I could not move at all — the power of my limbs was gone. Such a strange weakness and sick fever beset me that I did nothing but weep for sheer helplessness. It was a sort of temporary paralysis — it passed away after a while, but it left me terrified and unstrung. When I got better, a droll idea entered my brain. I would go to confession! I, who hated priests, would see what they could tell me for once, — I would find out whether Religion, or what was called religion, had any mystical saving grace for an absintheur! I was abjectly miserable at the time, — a fit of the most intolerable depression had laid hold upon me. Moreover, I had been foolishly hurt by chancing to see my father walking along with his new partner, — the man he had adopted in my place, — a fine, handsome, pleasant, dashing-looking fellow, — and he, — my father, — had seemed perfectly happy! — Yes, perfectly happy! He had not seen me, — probably he would not have known me if he bad, — he leaned upon the arm of his new “son” — and laughed with him at some jest or other; — he had forgotten me! — or if he had not actually forgotten, he was determined to appear as though he had. I thought him cruel, — callous; — I blamed fate, and everything and everybody except myself who had wrought my own undoing. That is the way with many of us, — we get wilfully and deliberately into mischief, — then we look about to see on which one of our fellow-creatures we can lay the fault!
“Open confession is good for the soul!” says some moralist or other. I determined to try it — for a change! And my confessor should be good old Père Vaudron! — I wondered I had never thought of him before. He might have been some comfort to me, — for he was an honest Christian, and therefore he would not be likely to turn away from any penitent, however fallen and degraded.
But was I penitent? Of course not! I was miserable I tell you; — and I wanted the relief of unburdening myself to some one who would not repeat what I said. I was not sorry for anything — I was only tired, and made nervous by the spectral beast that followed me, as well as by other curious and frightful hallucinations. Fiery wheels in the air, — great, glittering birds of prey swooping down with talons outstretched to clutch at me, — whirlpools of green in the ground into which it seemed I must fall headlong as I walked — these were common delusions; — but I began to dread madness as I had never dreaded it before, — and the more I considered the matter, the more determined I became to speak to Père Vaudron, who had known me from boyhood; — it might do me good, — there were miracles in the Church, — who could tell!
And so one evening I made my way up to the little well-remembered chapel, — the place where, if all had gone smoothly, I should have been married to Pauline, — the altar where “le beau Silvion” had “assisted” his too-confiding uncle at early mass. Everything was very quiet, — there were flowers about, — and the sacred lamps of vigil were burning clearly. A woman was sweeping out the chancel, — I recognized her at once, — it was old Margot. She did not know me; she looked up as I entered, but finding (no doubt) my appearance the reverse of prepossessing, she resumed her task with increased vigour. Save for her and myself, the church was empty. After waiting a little I went up and spoke to her.
“Does M. the curé hear confessions this evening?”
She stared at me and crossed herself, — then pointed to the sacristy bell.
“Sonnez, s’il vous plait!”
She was always curt and cross, this old Margot! — I tried her again.
“It is not the usual hour, perhaps?”
She made no reply; — so, smiling a little at her acerbity I did as she bade me and rang the bell she indicated. A small boy appeared, — an acolyte.
“Does the reverend father attend the confessional this evening?”
“Yes. He will be in the church almost immediately.”
I retired and sat down to wait. I was beginning to feel very much amused. This was the finest jest I had ever played with myself, — I was actually pretending to have a conscience! Meanwhile old Margot took her departure with her broom and all her cleansing paraphernalia — and left me alone in the church. She banged the big door behind her noisily, — and the deep silence that followed its hollow reverberation oppressed me uncomfortably. There was a large crucifix near me, and the figure of Christ upon it looked tortured and gruesome; what a foolish fond enthusiast He was, I thought, to perish for such a delusive idea as the higher spiritualization of Man! We shall never become spiritual; we are of the earth earthy —
our desires are base, — our passions contemptible; but as we have been created so we shall remain, selon moi; — others may hold a different opinion if they choose.
A slow step sounded on the marble floor, and I hastily bent my head as penitents do, looking between my clasped fingers at good old Vaudron as he came through the sacristy and paced gently towards the confessional. Heavens! how changed he was! — how he stooped! — and his hair was snow-white, — his face too, once so florid and merry, was wrinkled, careworn, and pale. He had suffered, even he, this poor old man, — and his suffering was also my work! God! what a fiendish power one human being has to ruin many others! I waited till he was seated in the usual niche — then I made my way to the penitent’s corner. As I knelt I heard him mutter the usual Latin formula, — he deemed me also at my prayers, but I said nothing. I kept silence so long, that at last he sighed impatiently, and putting his lips close to the curtained grating said mildly —
“I am waiting, my son! Take courage!”
My sense of amusement increased. I could have laughed aloud, it was such a comedy.
“Mon père,” I murmured, controlling myself with an effort, “my confession will he strange and terrible, — are you prepared for something quite unusual?”
I felt that he was startled, — but in his quiet accents there was only just the faintest touch of sternness as he replied —
“I am prepared. Commend yourself to God — to Him you speak as well as to me, — therefore be truthful and conceal nothing, as only by true confession can you hope for mercy!”
“The jargon of the Church as usual!” I said contemptuously. “Spare me unnecessary platitudes, good father! My sins are not those of every day, — and everyday comfort will not do for me. And so to begin at once, — I have murdered a man! This and no less is my crime! — can you give me absolution?”
I heard a sudden agitated movement inside the confessional. Through the small holes of the grating I could see him clasp his hands as though in terror or prayer. Then he spoke.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 238
