Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  I laughed — she looked so charmingly compassionate. “No, not all the day, but for several hours of it. We are bankers, you know, and the taking charge of other people’s money, mademoiselle, is a very serious business!”

  “Oh, that I can quite imagine! But you must rest sometimes, — you must visit your friends and be gay — is it not so?”

  “Assuredly. But perhaps I do not take my rest precisely like other people, — I read a great deal, and I write also, occasionally.”

  “Books?” she exclaimed, her lovely eyes opening wide with eager interest. “You write books?”

  “I have written one or two,” I admitted modestly. “Oh, do tell me the titles of them!” she entreated. “I shall be so interested! I read every story I can get hold of, especially love-stories, you know! I adore love-stories! I always cry over them, and —— —— —”

  Here our conversation was abruptly broken off. Madame la Comtesse de Charmilles, a dignified grande dame clad in richest black silk, with diamonds gleaming here and there upon her handsome person, sailed up to us from a remote corner of the room where she had no doubt been watching us with the speculative observation of the match-making matron, and said —

  “Pauline, my child, the Marquis de Guiscard desires the honour of taking you in to supper. Monsieur Beauvais will have the amiability to escort your cousin. My niece, Mademoiselle St. Cyr — Monsieur Gaston Beauvais.” And thereupon she presented me to a pale serious-looking girl, who merely acknowledged my formal salute by the slightest perceptible bend of her head, and whom I scarcely glanced at, so great was my chagrin to see the fascinating Pauline carried off on the arm of De Guiscard, a battered beau of sixty, grizzled as a bear, and wrinkled as old parchment. I suppose my vexation was distinctly visible in my face, for Madame de Charmilles smiled a little as she saw me march stiffly past her into the supper-room, without condescending to say a word to my pale partner whom I considered at the moment positively ugly. To my comfort, however, I found Pauline seated next to me at table, and I made amends for my previous disappointment by conversing with her all the time, to the complete vanquishment and discomfiture of old De Guiscard. Not that he really cared, I think, seeing he was so entirely absorbed in eating. We talked of books and pictures. I sought and obtained the permission to send her two of my own literary productions, the two which I myself judged as my best efforts; one a critical study of Alfred de Musset, the other the high-flown sentimental novel before mentioned, which at that time had only just been published. I spoke to her of the great geniuses reigning in the musical world — of the unrivalled Sarasate, of Rubinstein, of Verdi, of the child-pianist, Otto Hegner; then, skimming down from the empyrean of music to the lower level of the histrionic art, I described to her the various qualities of talent displayed by the several actors and actresses who were ranked among the most popular of the passing hour. And so we chatted on, happily engrossed with one another, and forgetful of all else. As for the pale cousin, whose name I afterwards learned was Héloïse, I never gave her a second thought. She sat on the other side of me, and that was all I knew of her then; but afterwards! — No matter! she is dead, quite dead, and I only dream I see her still!

  The hours fled by on golden wings, and before that evening ended — before I pressed her two small white hands in my own at parting, I felt that I loved Pauline de Charmilles — loved her as I should never love any other woman. An overwhelming passion seized me; I was no longer master of my own destiny; Pauline was my fate. What was her fascination? How was it that she, a girl fresh from school, a mere baby in thought, fond of bon-bons and foolish trifles, should suddenly ravish my soul by surprise and enslave and dominate it utterly? I cannot tell; put the question to the physiologists and scientists who explain everything, and they will answer you. She was beautiful — that I can positively affirm, for I have studied every detail of her loveliness as few could have done. And I suppose her beauty allured me. Men never fall in love at first with a woman’s mind; only with her body. They may learn to admire the mind afterwards, if it prove worth admiration, but it is always a secondary thing. This may be called a rough truth, but it is true for all that. Who marries a woman of intellect by choice? No one, and if some unhappy man does it by accident, he generally regrets it. A stupid beauty is the most comfortable sort of housekeeper going, believe me — she will be strict with the children, scold the servants, and make herself look as ornamental as she can till age and fat render ornament superfluous.

  But a woman of genius, with that strange subtle attraction about her which is yet not actual beauty, she is the person to be avoided if you would have peace; if you would escape reproach; if you would elude the fixed and melancholy watchfulness of a pair of eyes haunting you in the night! Eyes such I see always — always, and shudderingly wonder at! — eyes full of unshed tears — will those tears never fall? — large, soft, serious eyes, like those of Pauline’s pale cousin Héloïse!

  III.

  I MAY as well speak of this woman Héloïse St. Cyr, before I go on any further. I say this woman; I could never call her a girl, though she was young enough — only twenty. But she was so pale and quiet, and so concentrated within the mystic circle of her own thoughts, that she never seemed to me like others of her sex and age. At first I took a strong dislike to her, she had such fair bright hair, and I hated golden-haired women. I suppose this was because writers — poets especially — have sung their praises of golden hair till the world is wearied, — and also because so many females of the demi-monde have dyed their coarse tresses to such hideous straw-tints in order to be in accordance with the prevailing fashion and sentiment. However, the abundant locks of Héloïse were, in their way, of a matchless hue, a singularly pale gold, brightening here and there into flecks of reddish auburn close to the smooth nape of her neck, where they grew in soft small curls like the delicate fluff under a young bird’s wing. I often caught myself staring at these little warm rings of sun-color on the milky whiteness of her skin, when she sat in a window-corner apart from myself and Pauline, reading some great volume of history or poetry, entirely absorbed, and apparently unconscious of our presence. Her uncle told me she was a wonderful scholar, that she had numberless romances in her head, and all the poets in her heart. I remember I thought at the time that he was exaggerating her gifts out of mere affectionate complaisance, for I never quite believed in woman’s real aptitude for learning. I could quite understand a certain surface-brilliancy of attainment in the female mind, but I would never admit that such knowledge went deep enough to last. I was mistaken of course; since then I have realized that a woman’s genius if great and true, equals and often surpasses that of the most gifted man. I used however to look upon Héloïse St. Cyr with a certain condescension, only allowing her, in my opinion, to be about one degree in advance beyond the ordinary feminine intelligence. I had, as I said, a vague dislike to her, which was not lessened when, after reading my novel — the novel I was so proud of having written — she smiled at the woes of my sentimental heroine, and told me very gently that I did not yet understand women. Not understand women! I, a born and bred Parisian of five-and-twenty! Absurd! Now Pauline “adored” my book. She read and reread it many times, and I gave her much more credit for good taste in literature, than the pale woman-student who was forever mooning over Homer and Plato. I could not understand Pauline’s almost passionate reverence for this quiet, sad-eyed cousin of hers — never were two creatures more utterly opposed to each other in character and sentiment. But, strange to say, love for Héloïse seemed the one really serious part of Pauline’s nature, while Héloïse’s affection for her, though not so openly displayed, was evidently strong and deeply rooted. Mademoiselle St. Cyr was poor, so I understood; her parents resided in some obscure town in Normandy, and had hard work to keep a decent roof above their heads, for which reason the Comtesse de Charmilles had undertaken the care of this eldest girl of her brother’s family, promising to do her best for her, and, if possible, to marry her well. But H�
�loïse showed no inclination for marriage; she was dull and distraite in the company of men, and seemed bored by their conversation rather than pleased. Nevertheless, she possessed her own fascination; what it was I never could see, — not then — a fascination sufficient to win the devoted attachment of both her aunt and uncle to whom she became a positive necessity in the household. I soon found out that nothing was done without Héloïse being first consulted, — that in any domestic difficulty or contretemps, everybody washed their hands of trouble and transferred it to Héloïse; that when her uncle, to gratify his extreme love of fresh air and exercise, cantered into the Bois every morning at six o’clock, she rode with him on a spirited mare that the very groom was afraid of; that she put the finishing touches to her aunt’s toilette and tied the last little decorative knot of ribbon in Pauline’s luxuriant hair, and that she was generally useful to every one. This fact of itself made me consider her with a sort of faint contempt; practical-utility persons were never attractive to me, though I reluctantly owned the advisability of their existence. And then I never half believed what I heard about her; her talents and virtues seemed to me to be always over-rated. I never saw her occupied otherwise than with a book. She was for ever reading, — she was, I decided, going to develop herself into a “femme savante,” a character I detested. So I paid her very little attention, and when I did speak to her on any subject it was always with that particularly condescending carelessness which a wise man of five-and-twenty who has written books may bestow on a vastly inferior type of humanity.

  In a very short time I became a frequent and intimate visitor at the house of the De Charmilles, and my intentions there were pretty well guessed by all the members of the family. Nothing to the purport of marriage, however, had yet been said. I had not even dared to whisper to Pauline my growing love for her. I was aware of her father’s old-fashioned sentiments on etiquette, and knew that, in strict accordance with what he deemed honour, I was bound, before paying any serious addresses to his daughter, to go through the formality of asking his permission. But I was in no hurry to do this; it was a sufficient delight to me for the present to see my heart’s enchantress occasionally, to bring her flowers or bon-bons, to hear her sing and play — for she was a graceful proficient in music — and to make one of the family party at supper, and argue politics good-humouredly with the old Royalist Count, whose contempt for the Republic was beyond all bounds, and who was anxious to convert me to his way of thinking. Often on these occasions my father, an excellent man, though apt to be rather prosy when he yielded to his weakness for telling anecdotes, would join us, bringing with him one of his special friends, the little fat Curé of our parish, whose bon-mots were proverbial; and many a pleasant evening we passed all together, seated round the large table in the oak-panelled dining-room, from whose walls the stiffly painted portraits of the ancestral De Charmilles seemed to frown or smile upon us, according to the way in which the lamp-light flickered or fell. And as the days flew on and November began to rustle by in a shroud of dead autumn leaves, it seemed to my adoring eyes that Pauline grew lovelier than ever. Her gaiety increased; she invested herself with a thousand new fascinations, a thousand fresh coquetries. Every dress she wore appeared to become her more perfectly than the last. She fluttered here and there like a beautiful butterfly in a garden of roses, and I, who had loved her half-timidly before, now grew mad for her! mad with a passion of longing that I could hardly restrain — a passion that consumed me hotly like a fever and would scarcely let me sleep. Whenever I fell, out of the sheer exhaustion of my thoughts, into a restless slumber, I saw her in my dreams — a flitting, dancing sylph on rainbow-colored clouds — her voice rang in my ears, her arms would wave and beckon me; “Pauline! Pauline!” I would cry aloud, and, starting from my pillow, I would rise and pace my room to and fro, to and fro, like a chafing prisoner in a cell till morning dawned. During all this self-torment which I half enjoyed, it being a more delicious than painful experience, I might have spoken to the Comte de Charmille; but I refrained, determining to wait till after the feast of Noël. I was sure of his consent. I felt convinced that he and my father had already spoken together on the subject, and as for Pauline herself — ah! if looks had eloquence, if the secret pressure of a hand, the sudden smile, the quick blush, meant anything at all, then surely she loved me! There were no obstacles in the way of our union, and it was impossible to invent any; all was smooth sailing, fair skies above, calm seas below; and we, out of all the people in the world, should probably be the happiest living. So I thought, and I made many pleasant plans, never considering for a moment how foolish it is to make plans beforehand for anything; but, remember, I was very young, and Héloïse St. Cyr was quite right when she said I did not yet understand women.

  We lived alone, my father and I, at Neuilly, in a large old quaint mansion, part of which had been standing at the time of the famous Reign of Terror. The rooms were full of antique furniture, such as would have been the joy of connoisseurs, and everything, even to the smallest trifle, was kept in the exact order in which my mother had left it seventeen years previously, when she died giving birth to a girl-child who survived her but a few hours. One of the earliest impressions of my life is that of the hush of death in the house, the soft stepping to and fro of the servants, the drawn blinds, the smell of incense and burning candles; and I remember how, with a beating heart, I, as a little fellow, stopped outside the door of the closed room and whispered, “Maman! petite maman!” in a voice rendered so weak by fright that I myself could scarcely hear it. And then, how, on a sudden impulse, I entered the mysteriously darkened chamber and saw a strange white beautiful figure lying on the bed with lilies in its hair; a figure that held encircled in one arm a tiny waxen creature that looked as pretty and gentle as the little Jésus in the church crèche at Christmas-time, and how, after staring at this sight bewildered for a minute’s space, I became aware of my father kneeling at the bedside, his strong frame shaken with such convulsive sobs as were terrible to hear, so terrible, that I, breaking into childish wailing, fled to his arms for shelter, and stayed there shuddering, clasped to his heart and feeling his hot tears raining on my hair. That was a long, long while ago! It is odd that I should recollect every detail of that scene so well at this distance of time!

  I have said that my father had a special friend with whom he loved to talk and argue on all the political and philosophical questions that came up for discussion, namely, Monsieur Vaudron, the Curé of our parish. He was a good man — perfectly unaffected, simple-hearted, and honest. Imagine, an honest priest! It is a sufficient rarity in France. He was in earnest, too. He believed in Our Lady and his patron saint with unflinching fervour and tenacity. It was no use bringing the heavy batteries of advanced science to storm his little citadel. He stood firm.

  “Talk as you will,” he would say, “there is always something left that you cannot understand. No! neither you nor M. Rénan, nor any other overwise theorist living, and for me that Something is Everything. When you can explain away that little inexplicable — why then, who knows! — I may go as far and even further than any heretic of the age” — here he would smile and rub his hands complacently— “but till then—”

  An expressive gesture would complete the sentence, and both my father and I liked and respected him too well to carry on any ultra-positive views on religion in his presence.

  One evening late in November, M. Vaudron called upon us, as it was often his custom to do, after supper, with an expression of countenance that betokened some vexation and anxiety.

  “To speak truly, I am worried,” he said at last, in answer to my father’s repeated inquiries as to whether anything was wrong with him. “And I am full of uncomfortable doubts and presentiments. I am to have an unexpected addition to my poor household in the person of my nephew, who is studying to be a priest. You never heard of my nephew? No. I never thought I should have occasion to speak of him. He is the only son of my only sister, who married a respectabl
e, somewhat wealthy farmer possessing house and lands in Brittany. They settled in that province, and have never left it; and this boy — I suppose he must be about twenty-two — has seen no other city larger than the town of Rennes, where he began and has since carried on his studies. Now, his parents wish him to see Paris, and continue his probation with me; this is all very well, but you know how I live, and you can imagine how my old Margot will look upon such an unexpected invasion!”

  We smiled. Margot was the good Curé’s cook, housekeeper, and domestic tyrant; a withered little woman, something like a dried apple, one of those apples that you have to cut into pretty deeply before you find the sweetness that lurks at its core. She had a sharp tongue, too, had Margot, and however much the Curé might believe in his priestly power to exorcise the devil, it was certain he could never exorcise his old cook’s love of scolding out of her. He was ludicrously afraid of her wrath, and he surveyed us now as he spoke with a most whimsical air of timidity and supplication.

  “You see, mon ami,” he continued, addressing my father who, smoking comfortably, glanced at him with a keen yet friendly amusement, “this nephew, whom I do not know, may be troublesome.”

  “Assuredly he may!” agreed my father solemnly, yet with a twinkle in his eye. “Young men are proverbially difficult to manage.”

  “They are — they are! I am sure of that!” and the Curé shook his head in a desponding manner. “But still I cannot refuse the request of my only sister, the first request she has ever made of me since her marriage! Besides, if I would refuse, it is too late, the boy is on his way — he will be here to-morrow, and I must break the news somehow to Margot, it will difficult — mon Dieu! it will be very difficult — but it must be done!”

  And he heaved such a profound sigh, that I, who had been glancing up and down the flimsy columns of the “Petit Journal,” to avoid interrupting the conversation of my elders, suddenly gave way to irresistible laughter. My merriment was contagious; the picture of M. Vaudron trembling like an aspen-leaf before the little waspish Margot and faltering forth the news that henceforth, for a time at least, she would have be wait upon two men instead of one, and proffering his mild apologies for the same, struck us all with an overwhelming sense of the ridiculous, even the Curé himself, whose laughter was as loud and long as my father’s or mine.