“How old should you think it was, George?”
“All of a century,” he answered. “That water is a preservative,—lime in it. Oh!—you mean?—Not more than a month; a very little baby!”
There was another silence at this, broken by a cry from the workmen. They had removed the floor and the side walls of the old porch, so that the sunshine poured down to the dark stones of the cellar bottom. And there, in the strangling grasp of the roots of the great wistaria, lay the bones of a woman, from whose neck still hung a tiny scarlet cross on a thin chain of gold.
I. “Wistaria” is an alternate spelling of “wisteria,” a flowering vine common to the eastern United States.
II. Spirea is a climbing, flowering bush; Syringa vulgaris, or common lilac, is a small tree.
III. A sedative. Bromide compounds were later withdrawn from the market because of high toxicity.
IV. A watch or clock that chimes at specific intervals.
V. A company that produced cheap watches and eventually became the Timex Group.
VI. A lightweight linen garment.
British writer Marie Corelli (1855–1924) was the most popular author of her day, outselling contemporaries like Rudyard Kipling and Arthur Conan Doyle. Although she was never a critical darling, her admirers included Oscar Wilde; her books were so popular with readers that she even appeared on postcards. Her first novel, A Romance of Two Worlds (1886) was an instant success, establishing her as a writer who was interested in occult themes. Corelli lived for 40 years with a female companion, Bertha Vyver, to whom she dedicated several books. This romantic and eerie tale first appeared in her collection Cameos (1896).
The Lady with the Carnations by Marie Corelli
It was in the Louvre that I first saw her—or rather her picture. GreuzeI painted her—so I was told; but the name of the artist scarcely affected me—I was absorbed in the woman herself, who looked at me from the dumb canvas with that still smile on her face, and that burning cluster of carnations clasped to her breast. I felt that I knew her. Moreover, there was a strange attraction in her eyes that held mine fascinated. It was as though she said “Stay till I have told thee all!” A faint blush tinged her cheek—one loose tress of fair hair fell caressingly on her half-uncovered bosom. And, surely, was I dreaming?—or did I smell the odour of carnations on the air? I started from my reverie—a slight tremor shook my nerves. I turned to go. An artist carrying a large easel and painting materials just then approached, and placing himself opposite the picture, began to copy it. I watched him at work for a few moments—his strokes were firm, and his eye accurate; but I knew, without waiting to observe his further progress, that there was an indefinable something in that pictured face that he with all his skill would never be able to delineate as Greuze had done—if Greuze indeed were the painter, of which I did not then, and do not now, feel sure. I walked slowly away. On the threshold of the room I looked back. Yes! there it was—that fleeting, strange, appealing expression that seemed mutely to call to me; that half-wild yet sweet smile that had a world of unuttered pathos in it. A kind of misgiving troubled me—a presentiment of evil that I could not understand—and, vexed with myself for my own foolish imaginings, I hastened down the broad staircase that led from the picture-galleries, and began to make my way out through that noble hall of ancient sculpture in which stands the defiantly beautiful Apollo BelvedereII and the world-famous Artemis.III The sun shone brilliantly; numbers of people were passing and repassing. Suddenly my heart gave a violent throb, and I stopped short in my walk, amazed and incredulous. Who was that seated on the bench close to the Artemis, reading? Who, if not “the Lady with the Carnations,” clad in white, her head slightly bent, and her hand clasping a bunch of her own symbolic flowers! Nervously I approached her. As my steps echoed on the marble pavement she looked up; her grey-green eyes met mine in that slow wistful smile that was so indescribably sad. Confused as my thoughts were, I observed her pallor, and the ethereal delicacy of her face and form—she had no hat on, and her neck and shoulders were uncovered. Struck by this peculiarity, I wondered if the other people who were passing through the hall noticed her dèshabille. I looked around me enquiringly—not one passer-by turned a glance in our direction! Yet surely the lady’s costume was strange enough to attract attention? A chill of horror quivered through me—was I the only one who saw her sitting there? This idea was so alarming that I uttered an involuntary exclamation; the next moment the seat before me was empty, the strange lady had gone, and nothing remained of her but—the strong sweet odour of the carnations she had carried! With a sort of sickness at my heart I hurried out of the Louvre, and was glad when I found myself in the bright Paris streets filled with eager, pressing people, all bent on their different errands of business or pleasure. I entered a carriage and was driven rapidly to the Grand Hotel,IV where I was staying with a party of friends. I refrained from speaking of the curious sensations that had overcome me—I did not even mention the picture that had exercised so weird an influence upon me. The brilliancy of the life we led, the constant change and activity of our movements, soon dispersed the nervous emotion I had undergone; and though sometimes the remembrance of it returned to me, I avoided dwelling on the subject. Ten or twelve days passed, and one night we all went to the Théâtre FrançaisV—it was the first evening of my life that I ever was in the strange position of being witness to a play without either knowing its name or understanding its meaning. I could only realise one thing—namely, that “the Lady with the Carnations” sat in the box opposite to me, regarding me fixedly. She was alone; her costume was unchanged. I addressed one of our party in a low voice—
“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 steadfast, 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 Brittan
y. Some English friends of mine, Mr. and Mrs. Fairleigh, had taken up their abode in a quaint old rambling chateau near QuimperléVI 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 chateau 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,”VII 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 chateau 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 chateau 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!”VIII
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!”IX
One evening we all returned to the chateau 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!’ ”X
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-DieuXI 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.
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