Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Then, if it can be done,” said Prince Ivan, “why do you not accomplish it for me?”

  “Because you are being forcibly drawn towards me without any effort on my part,” replied Heliobas, with one of his steady, keen looks. “For what motive I cannot at present determine; but I shall know as soon as you touch the extreme edge of my circle. You are a long way off it yet, but you are coming in spite of yourself, Ivan.”

  The Prince fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and toyed with the fruit on his plate in a nervous manner.

  “If I did not know you to be an absolutely truthful and honourable man, Casimir,” he said, “I should think you were trying to deceive me. But I have seen what you can do, therefore I must believe you. Still I confess I do not follow you in your circle theory.”

  “To begin with,” returned Heliobas, “the Universe is a circle. Everything is circular, from the motion of planets down to the human eye, or the cup of a flower, or a drop of dew. MY ‘circle theory,’ as you call it, applied to human electric force, is very simple; but I have proved it to be mathematically correct. Every human being is provided INTERNALLY and EXTERNALLY with a certain amount of electricity, which is as necessary to existence as the life-blood to the heart or fresh air to the lungs. Internally it is the germ of a soul or spirit, and is placed there to be either cultivated or neglected as suits the WILL of man. It is indestructible; yet, if neglected, it remains always a germ; and, at the death of the body it inhabits, goes elsewhere to seek another chance of development. If, on the contrary, its growth is fostered by a persevering, resolute WILL, it becomes a spiritual creature, glorious and supremely powerful, for which a new, brilliant, and endless existence commences when its clay chrysalis perishes. So much for the INTERNAL electrical force. The EXTERNAL binds us all by fixed laws, with which our wills have nothing whatever to do. (Each one of us walks the earth encompassed by an invisible electric ring — wide or narrow according to our capabilities. Sometimes our rings meet and form one, as in the case of two absolutely sympathetic souls, who labour and love together with perfect faith in each other. Sometimes they clash, and storm ensues, as when a strong antipathy between persons causes them almost to loathe each other’s presence.) All these human electric rings are capable of attraction and repulsion. If a man, during his courtship of a woman, experiences once or twice a sudden instinctive feeling that there is something in her nature not altogether what he expected or desired, let him take warning and break off the attachment; for the electric circles do not combine, and nothing but unhappiness would come from forcing a union. I would say the same thing to a woman. If my advice were followed, how many unhappy marriages would be avoided! But you have tempted me to talk too much, Ivan. I see the ladies wish to adjourn. Shall we go to the smoking-room for a little, and join them in the drawing-room afterwards?”

  We all rose.

  “Well,” said the Prince gaily, as he prepared to follow his host, “I realize one thing which gives me pleasure, Casimir. If in truth I am being attracted towards your electric circle, I hope I shall reach it soon, as I shall then, I suppose, be more en rapport with madame, your sister.”

  Zara’s luminous eyes surveyed him with a sort of queenly pity and forbearance.

  “By the time YOU arrive at that goal, Prince,” she said calmly, “it is most probable that I shall have departed.”

  And with one arm thrown round my waist, she saluted him gravely, and left the room with me beside her.

  “Would you like to see the chapel on your way to the drawing-room?” she asked, as we crossed the hall.

  I gladly accepted this proposition, and Zara took me down a flight of marble steps, which terminated in a handsomely-carved oaken door. Pushing this softly open, she made the sign of the cross and sank on her knees. I did the same, and then looked with reverential wonder at the loveliness and serenity of the place. It was small, but lofty, and the painted dome-shaped roof was supported by eight light marble columns, wreathed with minutely-carved garlands of vine-leaves. The chapel was fitted up in accordance with the rites of the Catholic religion, and before the High Altar and Tabernacle burned seven roseate lamps, which were suspended from the roof by slender gilt chains. A large crucifix, bearing a most sorrowful and pathetic figure of Christ, was hung on one of the side walls; and from a corner altar, shining with soft blue and silver, an exquisite statue of the Madonna and Child was dimly seen from where we knelt. A few minutes passed, and Zara rose. Looking towards the Tabernacle, her lips moved as though murmuring a prayer, and then, taking me by the hand, she led me gently out. The heavy oaken door swung softly behind us as we ascended the chapel steps and re-entered the great hall.

  “You are a Catholic, are you not?” then said Zara to me.

  “Yes,” I answered; “but—”

  “But you have doubts sometimes, you would say! Of course. One always doubts when one sees the dissensions, the hypocrisies, the false pretences and wickedness of many professing Christians. But Christ and His religion are living facts, in spite of the suicide of souls He would gladly save. You must ask Casimir some day about these things; he will clear up all the knotty points for you. Here we are at the drawing-room door.”

  It was the same room into which I had first been shown. Zara seated herself, and made me occupy a low chair beside her.

  “Tell me,” she said, “can you not come here and stay with me while you are under Casimir’s treatment?”

  I thought of Madame Denise and her Pension.

  “I wish I could,” I said; “but I fear my friends would want to know where I am staying, and explanations would have to be given, which I do not feel disposed to enter upon.”

  “Why,” went on Zara quietly, “you have only to say that you are being attended by a Dr. Casimir who wishes to have you under his own supervision, and that you are therefore staying in his house under the chaperonage of his sister.”

  I laughed at the idea of Zara playing the chaperon, and told her she was far too young and beautiful to enact that character.

  “Do you know how old I am?” she asked, with a slight smile.

  I guessed seventeen, or at any rate not more than twenty.

  “I am thirty-eight,” said Zara.

  Thirty-eight! Impossible! I would not believe it. I could not. I laughed scornfully at such an absurdity, looking at her as she sat there a perfect model of youthful grace and loveliness, with her lustrous eyes and rose-tinted complexion.

  “You may doubt me if you choose,” she said, still smiling; “but I have told you the truth. I am thirty-eight years of age according to the world’s counting. What I am, measured by another standard of time, matters not just now. You see I look young, and, what is more, I am young. I enjoy my youth. I hear that women of society at thirty-eight are often faded and blase — what a pity it is that they do not understand the first laws of self-preservation! But to resume what I was saying, you know now that I am quite old enough in the eyes of the world to chaperon you or anybody. You had better arrange to stay here. Casimir asked me to settle the matter with, you.”

  As she spoke, Heliobas and Prince Ivan entered. The latter looked flushed and excited — Heliobas was calm and stately as usual. He addressed himself to me at once.

  “I have ordered my carriage, mademoiselle, to take you back this evening to the Avenue du Midi. If you will do as Zara tells you, and explain to your friends the necessity there is for your being under the personal supervision of your doctor, you will find everything will arrange itself very naturally. And the sooner you come here the better — in fact, Zara will expect you here to-morrow early in the afternoon. I may rely upon you?”

  He spoke with a certain air of command, evidently expecting no resistance on my part. Indeed, why should I resist? Already I loved Zara, and wished to be more in her company; and then, most probably, my complete restoration to health would be more successfully and quickly accomplished if I were actually in the house of the man who had promised to cure me. Therefore I replied:
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br />   “I will do as you wish, monsieur. Having placed myself in your hands, I must obey. In this particular case,” I added, looking at Zara, “obedience is very agreeable to me.”

  Heliobas smiled and seemed satisfied. He then took a small goblet from a side-table and left the room. Returning, however, almost immediately with the cup filled to the brim, he said, handing it to me:

  “Drink this — it is your dose for to-night; and then you will go home, and straight to bed.”

  I drank it off at once. It was delicious in flavour — like very fine Chianti.

  “Have you no soothing draught for me?” said Prince Ivan, who had been turning over a volume of photographs in a sullenly abstracted sort of way.

  “No,” replied Heliobas, with a keen glance at him; “the draught fitted for your present condition might soothe you too thoroughly.”

  The Prince looked at Zara, but she was mute. She had taken a piece of silk embroidery from a workbasket near her, and was busily employed with it. Heliobas advanced and laid his hand on the young man’s arm.

  “Sing to us, Ivan,” he said, in a kind tone. “Sing us one of your wild Russian airs — Zara loves them, and this young lady would like to hear your voice before she goes.”

  The Prince hesitated, and then, with another glance at Zara’s bent head, went to the piano. He had a brilliant touch, and accompanied himself with great taste and delicacy; but his voice was truly magnificent — a baritone of deep and mellow quality, sonorous, and at the same time tender. He sang a French rendering of a Slavonic love-song, which, as nearly as I can translate it into English, ran as follows:

  “As the billows fling shells on the shore,

  As the sun poureth light on the sea,

  As a lark on the wing scatters song to the spring,

  So rushes my love to thee.

  “As the ivy clings close to the tower,

  As the dew lieth deep in a flower,

  As the shadow to light, as the day unto night,

  So clings my wild soul to thee!

  “As the moon glitters coldly alone,

  Above earth on her cloud-woven throne,

  As the rocky-bound cave repulses a wave,

  So thy anger repulseth me.

  “As the bitter black frost of a night

  Slays the roses with pitiless might,

  As a sharp dagger-thrust hurls a king to the dust,

  So thy cruelty murdereth me.

  “Yet in spite of thy queenly disdain,

  Thou art seared by my passion and pain;

  Thou shalt hear me repeat, till I die for it, sweet!

  ‘I love thee! I dare to love THEE!’”

  He ended abruptly and with passion, and rose from the piano directly.

  I was enthusiastic in my admiration of the song and of the splendid voice which had given it utterance, and the Prince seemed almost grateful for the praise accorded him both by Heliobas and myself.

  The page entered to announce that “the carriage was waiting for mademoiselle,” and I prepared to leave. Zara kissed me affectionately, and whispering, “Come early to-morrow,” made a graceful salute to Prince Ivan, and left the room immediately.

  Heliobas then offered me his arm to take me to the carriage. Prince Ivan accompanied us. As the hall door opened in its usual noiseless manner, I perceived an elegant light brougham drawn by a pair of black horses, who were giving the coachman a great deal of trouble by the fretting and spirited manner in which they pawed the stones and pranced. Before descending the steps I shook hands with Heliobas, and thanked him for the pleasant evening I had passed.

  “We will try to make all your time with us pass as pleasantly,” he returned. “Good-night! What, Ivan,” as he perceived the Prince attiring himself in his great-coat and hat, “are you also going?”

  “Yes, I am off,” he replied, with a kind of forced gaiety; “I am bad company for anyone to-night, and I won’t inflict myself upon you, Casimir. Au revoir! I will put mademoiselle into the carriage if she will permit me.”

  We went down the steps together, Heliobas watching us from the open door. As the Prince assisted me into the brougham, he whispered:

  “Are you one of them!”

  I looked at him in bewilderment.

  “One of them!” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” he muttered impatiently, as he made a pretence of covering me with the fur rugs inside the carriage: “if you are not now, you will be, or Zara would not have kissed you. If you ever have the chance ask her to think of me at my best. Good-night.”

  I was touched and a little sorry for him. I held out my hand in silence. He pressed it hard, and calling to the coachman, “36, Avenue du Midi,” stood on the pavement bareheaded, looking singularly pale and grave in the starlight, as the carriage rolled swiftly away, and the door of the Hotel Mars closed.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  A SYMPHONY IN THE AIR.

  Within a very short time I became a temporary resident in the house of Heliobas, and felt myself to be perfectly at home there. I had explained to Madame Denise the cause of my leaving her comfortable Pension, and she had fully approved of my being under a physician’s personal care in order to ensure rapid recovery; but when she heard the name of that physician, which I gave (in accordance with Zara’s instructions) as Dr. Casimir, she held up her fat hands in dismay.

  “Oh, mademoiselle,” she exclaimed, “have you not dread of that terrible man? Is it not he that is reported to be a cruel mesmerist who sacrifices everybody — yes, even his own sister, to his medical experiments? Ah, mon Dieu! it makes me to shudder!”

  And she shuddered directly, as a proof of her veracity. I was amused. I saw in her an example of the common multitude, who are more ready to believe in vulgar spirit-rapping and mesmerism than to accept an established scientific fact.

  “Do you know Dr. Casimir and his sister?” I asked her.

  “I have seen them, mademoiselle; perhaps once — twice — three times! It is true madame is lovely as an angel; but they say” — here she lowered her voice mysteriously— “that she is wedded to a devil! It is true, mademoiselle — all people say so. And Suzanne Michot — a very respectable young person, mademoiselle, from Auteuil — she was employed at one time as under-housemaid at Dr. Casimir’s, and she had things to say — ah, to make the blood like ice!”

  “What did she say?” I asked with a half smile.

  “Well,” and Madame Denise came close to me and looked confidential, “Suzanne — I assure you a most respectable girl — said that one evening she was crossing the passage near Madame Casimir’s boudoir, and she saw a light like fire coming through the curtains of the portiere. And she stopped to listen, and she heard a strange music like the sound of harps. She ventured to go nearer — Suzanne is a brave girl, mademoiselle, and most virtuous — and to raise the curtain the smallest portion just to permit the glance of an eye. And — imagine what she saw.”

  “Well!” I exclaimed impatiently. “WHAT did she see?”

  “Ah, mademoiselle, you will not believe me — but Suzanne Michot has respectable parents, and would not tell a lie — well, Suzanne saw her mistress, Madame Casimir, standing up near her couch with both arms extended as to embrace the air. Round her there was — believe it or not, mademoiselle, as you please — a ring of light like a red fire, which seemed to grow larger and redder always. All suddenly, madame grew pale and more pale, and then fell on her couch as one dead, and all the red fire went out. Suzanne had fear, and she tried to call out — but now see what happened to Suzanne! She was PUSHED from the spot, mademoiselle, pushed along as though by some strong personage; yet she saw no one till she reached her own door, and in her room she fainted from alarm. The very next morning Dr. Casimir dismissed her, with her full wages and a handsome present besides; but he LOOKED at her, Suzanne said, in a manner to make her tremble from head to foot. Now, mademoiselle, judge yourself whether it is fit for one who is suffering with nerves to go to so strange a hou
se!”

  I laughed. Her story had not the least effect upon me. In fact, I made up my mind that the so respectable and virtuous Suzanne Michot had been drinking some of her master’s wine. I said:

  “Your words only make me more desirous to go, Madame Denise. Besides, Dr. Casimir has already done me a great deal of good. You must have heard things of him that are not altogether bad, surely?”

  The little woman reflected seriously, and then said, as with some reluctance:

  “It is certainly true, mademoiselle, that in the quarter of the poor he is much beloved. Jean Duclos — he is a chiffonnier — had his one child dying of typhoid fever, and he was watching it struggling for breath; it was at the point to die. Monsieur le Comte Casimir, or Dr. Casimir — for he is called both — came in all suddenly, and in half an hour had saved the little one’s life. I do not deny that he may have some good in him, and that he understands medicine; but there is something wrong—” And Madame Denise shook her head forlornly a great number of times.

  None of her statements deterred me from my intention, and I was delighted when I found myself fairly installed at the Hotel Mars. Zara gave me a beautiful room next to her own; she had taken pains to fit it up herself with everything that was in accordance with my particular tastes, such as a choice selection of books; music, including many of the fascinating scores of Schubert and Wagner; writing materials; and a pretty, full-toned pianette. My window looked out on a small courtyard, which had been covered over with glass and transformed into a conservatory. I could enter it by going down a few steps, and could have the satisfaction of gathering roses and lilies of the valley, while outside the east wind blew and the cold snowflakes fell over Paris. I wrote to Mrs. Everard from my retreat, and I also informed the Challoners where they could find me if they wanted me. These duties done, I gave myself up to enjoyment. Zara and I became inseparables; we worked together, read together, and together every morning gave those finishing-touches to the ordering and arrangement of the household which are essentially feminine, and which not the wisest philosopher in all the world has been, or ever will be, able to accomplish successfully. We grew to love each other dearly, with that ungrudging, sympathizing, confiding friendship that is very rarely found between two women. In the meantime my cure went on rapidly. Every night on retiring to rest Heliobas prepared a medicinal dose for me, of the qualities of which I was absolutely ignorant, but which I took trustingly from his hand. Every morning a different little phial of liquid was placed in the bathroom for me to empty into the water of my daily bath, and every hour I grew better, brighter, and stronger. The natural vivacity of my temperament returned to me; I suffered no pain, no anxiety, no depression, and I slept as soundly as a child, unvisited by a single dream. The mere fact of my being alive became a joy to me; I felt grateful for everything — for my eyesight, my speech, my hearing, my touch — because all my senses seemed to be sharpened and invigorated and braced up to the keenest delight. This happy condition of my system did not come suddenly — sudden cures mean sudden relapses; it was a gradual, steady, ever-increasing, reliable recovery.