In a Glass Darkly

by Sheridan Le Fanu

  Two or three questions followed, the answers to which seemed to amuse the Marquis very much; but the point of which I could not see, for I knew next to nothing of the Count's peculiarities and adventures.

  "Does my wife love me?" asked he, playfully.

  "As well as you deserve."

  "Whom do I love best in the world?"

  "Self."

  "Oh! That I fancy is pretty much the case with everyone. But, putting myself out of the question, do I love anything on earth better than my wife?"

  "Her diamonds."

  "Oh!" said the Count. The Marquis, I could see, laughed.

  "Is it true," said the Count, changing the conversation peremptorily, "that there has been a battle in Naples?"

  "No; in France."

  "Indeed," said the Count, satirically, with a glance round.

  "And may I inquire between what powers, and on what particular quarrel?"

  "Between the Count and Countess de St Alyre, and about a document they subscribed on the 25th July, 181l."

  The Marquis afterwards told me that this was the date of their marriage settlement.

  The Count stood stock-still for a minute or so; and one could fancy that they saw his face flushing through his mask.

  Nobody, but we two, knew that the inquirer was the Count de St Alyre.

  I thought he was puzzled to find a subject for his next question; and, perhaps, repented having entangled himself in such a colloquy. If so, he was relieved; for the Marquis, touching his arms, whispered.

  "Look to your right, and see who is coming."

  I looked in the direction indicated by the Marquis, and I saw a gaunt figure stalking toward us. It was not a masque. The face was broad, scarred, and white. In a word, it was the ugly face of Colonel Gaillarde, who, in the costume of a corporal of the Imperial Guard, with his left arm so adjusted as to look like a stump, leaving the lower part of the coat-sleeve empty, and pinned up to the breast. There were strips of very real sticking-plaster across his eyebrow and temple, where my stick had left its mark, to score, hereafter, among the more honourable scars of war.

  Chapter XIII — The Oracle Tells Me Wonders

  *

  I FORGOT for a moment how impervious my mask and domino were to the hard stare of the old campaigner, and was preparing for an animated scuffle. It was only for a moment, of course; but the count cautiously drew a little back as the gasconading corporal, in blue uniform, white vest, and white gaiters — for my friend Gaillarde was as loud and swaggering in his assumed character as in his real one of a colonel of dragoons — drew near. He had already twice all but got himself turned out of doors for vaunting the exploits of Napoleon le Grand, in terrific mock-heroics, and had very nearly come to hand-grips with a Prussian hussar. In fact, he would have been involved in several sanguinary rows already, had not his discretion reminded him that the object of his coming there at all, namely, to arrange a meeting with an affluent widow, on whom he believed he had made a tender impression, would not have been promoted by his premature removal from the festive scene of which he was an ornament, in charge of a couple of gendarmes.

  "Money! Gold! Bah! What money can a wounded soldier like your humble servant have amassed, with but his sword-hand left, which, being necessarily occupied, places not a finger at his command with which to scrape together the spoils of a routed enemy?"

  "No gold from him," said the magician. "His scars frank him."

  "Bravo, Monsieur le prophète! Bravissimo! Here lam. Shall I begin, mon sorcier, without further loss of time, to question you?"

  Without waiting for an answer, he commenced, in stentorian tones. After half-a-dozen questions and answers, he asked: "Whom do I pursue at present?"

  "Two persons."

  "Ha! Two? Well, who are they?"

  "An Englishman, whom if you catch, he will kill you; and a French widow, whom if you find, she will spit in your face."

  "Monsieur le magicien calls a spade a spade, and knows that his cloth protects him. No matter! Why do I pursue them?"

  "The widow has inflicted a wound on your heart, and the Englishman a wound on your head. They are each separately too strong for you; take care your pursuit does not unite them."

  "Bah! How could that be?"

  "The Englishman protects ladies. He has got that fact into your head. The widow, if she sees, will marry him. It takes some time, she will reflect, to become a colonel, and the Englishman is unquestionably young."

  "I will cut his cock's-comb for him," he ejaculated with an oath and a grin; and in a softer tone he asked, "Where is she?"

  "Near enough to be offended if you fail."

  "So she ought, by my faith. You are right, Monsieur le prophète! A hundred thousand thanks! Farewell!" And staring about him, and stretching his lank neck as high as he could, he strode away with his scars, and white waistcoat and gaiters, and his bearskin shako.

  I had been trying to see the person who sat in the palanquin. I had only once an opportunity of a tolerably steady peep. What I saw was singular. The oracle was dressed, as I have said, very richly, in the Chinese fashion. He was a figure altogether on a larger scale than the interpreter, who stood outside. The features seemed to me large and heavy, and the head was carried with a downward inclination! the eyes were closed, and the chin rested on the breast of his embroidered pelisse. The face seemed fixed, and the very image of apathy. Its character and pose seemed an exaggerated repetition of the. immobility of the figure who communicated with the noisy outer world. This face looked blood-red; but that was caused, I concluded, by the light entering through the red silk curtains. All this struck me almost at a glance; I had not many seconds in which to make my observation. The ground was now clear, and the Marquis said, "Go forward, my friend."

  I did so. When I reached the magician, as we called the man with the black wand, I glanced over my shoulder to see whether the Count was near.

  No, he was some yards behind; and he and the Marquis, whose curiosity seemed to be by this time satisfied, were now conversing generally upon some subject of course quite different.

  I was relieved, for the sage seemed to blurt out secrets in an unexpected way; and some of mine might not have amused the Count.

  I thought for a moment. I wished to test the prophet. A Church-of-England man was a rara avis in Paris.

  "What is my religion?" I asked.

  "A beautiful heresy," answered the oracle instantly.

  "A heresy? — and pray how is it named?"

  "Love."

  "Oh! Then I suppose I am a polytheist, and love a great many?"

  "One."

  "But, seriously," I asked, intending to turn the course of our colloquy a little out of an embarrassing channel, "have I ever learned any words of devotion by heart?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you repeat them?"

  "Approach."

  I did, and lowered my ear.

  The man with the black wand closed the curtains, and whispered, slowly and distinctly, these words which, I need scarcely tell you, I instantly recognized:

  "I may never see you more; and, oh! I that I could forget you! — go — farewell — for God's sake, go!"

  I started as I heard them. They were, you know, the last words whispered to me by the Countess.

  "Good Heavens! How miraculous! Words heard most assuredly, by no ear on earth but my own and the lady's who uttered them, till now!

  I looked at the impassive face of the spokesman with the wand. There was no trace of meaning, or even of a consciousness that the words he had uttered could possibly interest me.

  "What do I most long for?" I asked, scarcely knowing what I said.

  "Paradise."

  "And what prevents my reaching it?"

  "A black veil."

  Stronger and stronger! The answers seemed to me to indicate the minutest acquaintance with every detail of my little romance, of which not even the Marquis knew anything! And I, the questioner, masked and robed so that my own brother could
not have known me!

  "You said I loved someone. Am I loved in return?" I asked.

  "Try."

  I was speaking lower than before, and stood near the dark man with the beard, to prevent the necessity of his speaking in a loud key.

  "Does anyone love me?" I repeated.

  "Secretly," was the answer.

  "Much or little?" I inquired.

  "Too well."

  "How long will that love last?"

  "Till the rose casts its leaves."

  The rose — another allusion!

  "Then — darkness!" I sighed. "But till then I live in light."

  "The light of violet eyes."

  Love, if not a religion, as the oracle had just pronounced it, is, at least, a superstition. How it exalts the imagination! How it enervates the reason! How credulous it makes us!

  All this which, in the case of another I should have laughed at, most powerfully affected me in my own. It inflamed my ardour, and half crazed my brain, and even influenced my conduct.

  The spokesman of this wonderful trick — if trick it were — now waved me backward with his wand, and as I withdrew, my eyes still fixed upon the group, and this time encircled with an aura of mystery in my fancy; backing toward the ring of spectators, I saw him raise his hand suddenly, with a gesture of command, as a signal to the usher who carried the golden wand in front.

  The usher struck his wand on the ground, and, in a shrill voice, proclaimed: "The great Confu is silent for an hour."

  Instantly the bearers pulled down a sort of blind of bamboo, which descended with a sharp clatter, and secured it at the bottom; and then the man in the tall fez, with the black beard and wand, began a sort of dervish dance. In this the men with the gold wands joined, and finally, in an outer ring, the bearers, the palanquin being the centre of the circles described by these solemn dancers, whose pace, little by little, quickened, whose gestures grew sudden, strange, frantic, as the motion became swifter and swifter, until at length the whirl became so rapid that the dancers seemed to fly by with the speed of a mill-wheel, and amid a general clapping of hands, and universal wonder, these strange performers mingled with the crowd, and the exhibition, for the time at least, ended.

  The Marquis d'Harmonville was standing not far away, looking on the ground, as one could judge by his attitude and musing. I approached, and he said:

  "The Count has just gone away to look for his wife. It is a pity she was not here to consult the prophet; it would have been amusing, I daresay, to see how the Count bore it. Suppose we follow him. I have asked him to introduce you."

  With a beating heart, I accompanied the Marquis d'Harmonville.

  Chapter XIV — Mademoiselle De La Vallière

  *

  WE wandered through the salons, the Marquis and I. It was no easy matter to find a friend in rooms so crowded.

  "Stay here," said the Marquis, "I have thought of a way of finding him. Besides, his jealousy may have warned him that there is no particular advantage to be gained by presenting you to his wife; I had better go and reason with him, as you seem to wish an introduction so very much."

  This occurred in the room that is now called the "Salon d'Apollon." The paintings remained in my memory, and my adventure of that evening was destined to occur there.

  I sat down upon a sofa, and looked about me. Three or four persons beside myself were seated on this roomy piece of gilded furniture. They were chatting all very gaily; all — except the person who sat next me, and she was a lady. Hardly two feet interposed between us. The lady sat apparently in a reverie. Nothing could be more graceful. She wore the costume perpetuated in Collignan's full-length portrait of Mademoiselle de la Valière. It is, as you know, not only rich, but elegant. Her hair was powdered, but one could perceive that it was naturally a dark brown. One pretty little foot appeared, and could anything be more exquisite than her hand?

  It was extremely provoking that this lady wore her mask, and did not, as many did, hold it for a time in her hand.

  I was convinced that she was pretty. Availing myself of the privilege of a masquerade, a microcosm in which it is impossible, except by voice and allusion, to distinguish friend from foe, I spoke:

  "It is not easy, Mademoiselle, to deceive me," I began.

  "So much the better for Monsieur," answered the mask, quietly.

  "I mean," I said, determined to tell my fib, "that beauty is a gift more difficult to conceal than Mademoiselle supposes."

  "Yet Monsieur has succeeded very well," she said in the same sweet and careless tones.

  "I see the costume of this, the beautiful Mademoiselle de la Valière, upon a form that surpasses her own; I raise my eyes, and I behold a mask, and yet I recognize the lady; beauty is like that precious stone in the 'Arabian Nights,' which emits, no matter how concealed, a light that betrays it."

  "I know the story," said the young lady. "The light betrayed it, not in the sun but in darkness. Is there so little light in these rooms, Monsieur, that a poor glowworm can show so brightly? I thought we were in a luminous atmosphere, wherever a certain Countess moved?"

  Here was an awkward speech! How was I to answer? This lady might be, as they say some ladies are, a lover of mischief, or an intimate of the Countess de St Alyre. Cautiously, therefore, I inquired,

  "What Countess?"

  "If you know me, you must know that she is my dearest friend. Is she not beautiful?"

  "How can I answer, there are so many countesses."

  Everyone who knows me, knows who my best beloved friend is. You don't know me?"

  "That is cruel. I can scarcely believe I am mistaken."

  "With whom were you walking, just now?" she asked.

  "A gentleman, a friend," I answered.

  "I saw him, of course, a friend; but I think I know him, and should like to be certain. Is he not a certain Marquis?"

  Here was another question that was extremely awkward.

  "There are so many people here, and one may walk, at one time with one, and at another with a different one, that — "

  "That an unscrupulous person has no difficulty in evading a simple question like mine. Know then, once for all, that nothing disgusts a person of spirit so much as suspicion. You, Monsieur, are a gentleman of discretion. I shall respect you accordingly."

  "Mademoiselle would despise me, were I to violate a confidence."

  "But you don't deceive me. You imitate your friend's diplomacy. I hate diplomacy. It means fraud and cowardice. Don't you think I know him? The gentleman with the cross of white ribbon on his breast? I know the Marquis d'Harmonville perfectly. You see to what good purpose your ingenuity has been expended."

  "To that conjecture I can answer neither yes nor no."

  "You need not. But what was your motive in mortifying a lady?"

  "It is the last thing on earth I should do."

  "You affected to know me, and you don't; through caprice, or listlessness, or curiosity, you wished to converse, not with a lady, but with a costume. You admired, and you pretend to mistake me for another. But who is quite perfect? Is truth any longer to be found on earth?"

  "Mademoiselle has formed a mistaken opinion of me."

  "And you also of me; you find me less foolish than you supposed. I know perfectly whom you intend amusing with compliments and melancholy declamation, and whom, with that amiable purpose, you have been seeking."

  "Tell me whom you mean," I entreated. "Upon one condition."

  "What is that?"

  "That you will confess if I name the lady."

  "You describe my object unfairly," I objected. "I can't admit that I proposed speaking to any lady in the tone you describe."

  "Well, I shan't insist on that; only if I name the lady, you will promise to admit that I am right."

  "Must I promise?"

  "Certainly not, there is no compulsion; but your promise is the only condition on which I will speak to you again."

  I hesitated for a moment; but how could she possibly tell
? The Countess would scarcely have admitted this little romance to anyone; and the mask in the La Vallière costume could not possibly know who the masked domino beside her was.

  "I consent," I said, "I promise."

  "You must promise on the honour of a gentleman."

  "Well, I do; on the honour of a gentleman."

  "Then this lady is the Countess de St Alyre."

  I was unspeakably surprised; I was disconcerted; but I remembered my promise, and said:

  "The Countess de St Alyre is, unquestionably the lady to whom I hoped for an introduction to-night; but I beg to assure you, also on the honour of a gentleman, that she has not the faintest imaginable suspicion that I was seeking such an honour, nor, in all probability, does she remember that such a person as I exists. I had the honour to render her and the Count a trifling service, too trifling, I fear, to have earned more than an hour's recollection."

  "The world is not so ungrateful as you suppose; or if it be, there are, nevertheless, a few hearts that redeem it. I can answer for the Countess de St Alyre, she never forgets a kindness. She does not show all she feels; for she is unhappy, and cannot."

  "Unhappy! I feared, indeed, that might be. But for all the rest that you are good enough to suppose, it is but a flattering dream."

  "I told you that I am the Countess's friend, and being so I must know something of her character; also, there are confidences between us, and I may know more than you think of those trifling services of which you suppose the recollection is so transitory."

  I was becoming more and more interested. I was as wicked as other young men, and the heinousness of such a pursuit was as nothing, now that self-love and all the passions that mingle in such a romance were roused. The image of the beautiful Countess had now again quite superseded the pretty counterpart of La Vallièe, who was before me. I would have given a great deal to hear, in solemn earnest, that she did remember the champion who, for her sake, had thrown himself before the sabre of an enraged dragoon, with only a cudgel in his hand, and conquered.

  "You say the Countess is unhappy," said I. "What causes her unhappiness?"