“Ah well!” he said at last, wiping away the drops of mirth from his eyes. “I know I am an old fool, and that I allow Margot to have her own way a little too much — but then she is a good soul, a very good soul! and truly she takes care of me as I never could take care of myself. And how well she washes the church linen! Could anything be more spotlessly white and fit for holy service! She is an excellent woman — I assure you, excellent! but regarding this nephew—”
“Ah, that is a serious question!” murmured my father who seemed mischievously determined not to help him out with any solution of his difficulty. “He is coming, you say, to-morrow?”
“He is — he is, without a doubt!” replied poor M. Vaudron, with another forlorn shake of his head. “And as he will probably arrive before noon, there is very little time to prepare Margot for his arrival. You see I would not wish to blame my good sister for the world, but I think — I think she has been a little hasty in this matter; she has given me no chance of refusal, not that I could have refused her; but I might have arranged better, had more time been given me. However, I suppose I must do my utmost for the boy.” Here he broke off and rubbed his nose perplexedly.
“What is he like, this nephew of yours?” I put in suddenly. “Have you any idea?”
“Truly, not much,” he replied thoughtfully, “I never saw him but once, and then he was only three years old, a fine child, if I remember rightly. If one is to believe in his mother’s description of him (but that, of course, cannot be done) he is an intellectual marvel, a positive prodigy of good looks and wisdom combined; there never was such a youth born into this planet before, according to her account, poor dear soul! Ah! good mothers are all alike; God has made their hearts the tenderest in the world!”
My father sighed a little. I knew he was thinking of the dead; of his fair lost love, with whom had perished all mother’s tenderness for me, at any rate. He rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it by, then looked round with a smile at the still perplexed and musing Curé.
“Come, mon cher!” he said cheerfully, “I know what you want as well as possible! You want me to go around with you and help smooth this affair over with your old Margot. Is it not so? Speak truly!”
“Ah, mon ami!” cried poor M. Vaudron, rising from his chair in an ecstasy. “If you would but do me this favour! She will listen to you! she has the profoundest admiration for you, and she will understand reason from your lips! You really will accompany me? ah, what it is to have so excellent a friend! I shall owe you a thousand obligations for this kindness! there will no longer be any difficulty, and I shall be once more at ease! But you are sure it is no trouble?” While he thus spoke, my father had stepped into the hall and put on his coat and hat, and he now stood equipped for walking, his stalwart form and refined, rather melancholy face, offering a great contrast to the round dumpy figure and plump clean-shaven countenance of the good little Curé.
“Allons!” he said mirthfully. “We will start before it grows any later, and take Madame Margot by surprise. She is in love with me, that old Margot of thine! I warn thee, Vaudron, that she has designs upon me! She will need one of thy exordiums after mass next Sunday; for I will so confuse her with compliments on her house-management, and on the excellent way in which she will certainly purpose attending to thy nephew, that she will almost believe herself to be young and marriageable once more!”
He laughed; so did the Curé, and they prepared to leave the house together. I accompanied them to the street-door, and on the threshold my father turned round to me, saying —
“Amuse thyself well, Gaston! Art thou going to see the pretty Pauline this evening?”
The hot colour surged to my brows; but I made a pretence of indifference, and answered in the negative.
“Ah well! One night more or less in the week, will not make much difference to thy feelings, or to hers. See, what a bright moon! Thou canst play Romeo with real scenery; is there no balcony to thy Juliet’s window?”
And with this sort of badinage, mingled with laughter, the two elderly gentlemen descended the steps, and crossing the road arm-in-arm were soon lost to sight in an opposite avenue of trees. I stayed a minute or two at the open door, looking after them, and puffing slowly at my half-finished cigarette. They knew — they guessed, my love for Pauline; it was probable every one knew or guessed it. I might as well speak openly, and at once to the Comte de Charmilles; why not to-morrow? Yes, to-morrow! I resolved I would do so. And to-morrow then, ah, God! — I should be free to clasp my darling in my arms unreproved, to tell her how I had thought of her every minute of the day and night; how I adored her; how I worshipped her; I should be allowed to kiss those soft sweet lips, and touch those lovely curls of loose brown hair! she would be mine, betrothed to me! The very thought made me tremble with my own eagerness and ecstasy, and, to calm myself, I went abruptly indoors, and began to busy my brain with certain financial calculations and reports which demanded the closest attention. And while I was thus engaged, softly whistling a tune as I worked for pure lightness of heart, the moon soared high up like a great beacon, flooding the room in which I sat with strange ghostly beams of silver and green, one green ray falling right across the paper on which I was scribbling, and shining with such a conspicuous brilliancy that it almost dimmed the brightness of the lit lamp over my head. I stopped writing to look at it, it flickered with a liquid pale radiance like the lustre of an emerald, or the colour of absinthe. It moved away after a while, and I went on with my work. But I well remember the weird, almost spectral loveliness of the skies that night, the weather was so calm and frostily clear. When my father came back in about an hour’s time, after having been triumphantly successful as intermediator between the Curé and his old Margot, he remarked to me, as we went upstairs to our bedrooms —
“The unexpected nephew of M. Vaudron will have fine weather for his journey!”
“Excellent!” I agreed, stifling a yawn, for I was rather sleepy. “By the way, what is the unexpected nephew’s name?”
“Silvion Guidèl.”
I stopped on the stairs.
“Silvion Guidèl! A strange name, surely?”
“It sounds strange, yes! but ‘Guidèl’ is an old Brittany name, so Vaudron tells me; ‘Silvion’ is certainly not so common as ‘Sylvain,’ yet they are very nearly alike.”
“True!” and I said no more. But I thought several times, at odd waking moments during the night, of that name — Silvion Guidèl — and wondered what sort of being he was that bore it. He was studying to be a priest, so it was not likely that I should see much of him. However, a curious sense of irritation grew up in me that this fellow from Brittany should be coming to Paris at all. I disliked him already, even while admitting to myself that such a dislike was altogether foolish and unreasonable. And the name, “Silvion Guidèl” haunted me then, even as it haunts me now; only then it suggested nothing, save a faint inexplicable sense of aversion; but now? — now it is written before me in letters of fire! it stares at me from every clear blank space of wall; it writes itself beneath my feet on the ground, and above me in the heavens; I never lose the accursed sight of it! I never shall! never, never! until I die!
IV.
THE next day I carried out my previous night’s resolution to ask the Comte de Charmilles for his daughter’s hand in marriage. As I expected, I was met with entire favour, and when I left the old aristocrat’s library, after about an hour’s satisfactory conversation, I had his full parental permission to go straightway to Pauline and tell her of my passion. How my heart beat, how my pulses galloped, as I stepped swiftly along the corridor in search of my soul’s idol! She usually sat with her cousin in a small boudoir fronting on the garden; and she was generally at home at this early hour of the afternoon; but for once I could not find her. Where was she, I wondered? Perhaps in the large drawing-room, though she seldom went there, that apartment being only used occasionally for the reception of visitors. However I turned in that direction, and
was just crossing the passage, when I was brought to an abrupt stand-still by the sound of music, such music as might have been played by Orpheus to charm his lost bride out of hell. I listened amazed and entranced; it was a violin that discoursed such wild melody; some one was playing it with so much verve and fire and feeling, that it seemed as though every throbbing note were a burning thing alive, with wings to carry it to and fro in the air for ever. I pushed open the door of the drawing-room suddenly, and stared at its solitary inmate dumfoundered; why, it was that pale and quiet Héloïse St. Cyr who stood there, her bow lifted, her features alit with enthusiasm, her bright hair ruffled, and her large eyes ablaze! What a face! what an attitude! she was actually beautiful, this woman, and I had never perceived it before! When she saw me she started; then, in a moment, regained her self-possession, laid down her bow, and, still holding the violin, advanced a little.
“You want Pauline?” she asked, slightly smiling. “She will be down directly. She is upstairs changing her dress, she and my aunt have just returned from a drive in the Bois — they found it very cold.”
I looked at her, feeling stupid and tongue-tied. I wanted to say something about her marvellous playing, but at the moment could find no words. Her eyes met mine steadily, the faint smile still lurking in their clear depths, and after a brief pause she spoke again.
“I was practising!” And placing the violin against her slim white throat, she ran her fingers dumbly up and down the strings. “I seldom have the chance of a couple of hours all to myself, but this afternoon I managed to escape from the drive. My aunt went to call at the house of M. Vaudron, in order to leave her card for his nephew, who has just arrived.”
I was considerably surprised at this, and very quickly found voice to remonstrate.
“Surely Madame la Comtesse has been almost too courteous in this regard?” I said. “The young man is a perfect stranger, the mere son of a farmer in Brittany—”
“Pardon!” interrupted Héloïse. “He is already highly distinguished for learning and scholarship, and a special letter of introduction and recommendation concerning him came by last night’s post for my uncle from the Prior of St. Xavier’s monastery at Rennes. The Prior is one of my uncle’s dearest and oldest friends, thus, you see, it is quite en regle that this Monsieur Guidèl should receive his first welcome from the house of De Charmilles.”
Again she ran her delicate fingers up and down the strings of her violin, and again that unreasonable sense of irritation which had possessed me during the past night possessed me now. All things seemed to conspire together to make this Breton fellow actually one of our intimate circle!
“Will Mademoiselle Pauline be long, do you think?” I asked rather crossly. “I am anxious to see her; I have her father’s permission to speak to her in private.”
What a curious change passed over her face as I said these words! She evidently guessed my errand, and there was something in her expression that was perplexing and difficult to decipher. She looked startled, sorry, vaguely troubled, and I wondered why. Presently, laying down her violin, she came towards me and touched my arm gently, almost pleadingly.
“Do not be in a hurry, Monsieur Beauvais!” she said very earnestly. “I think — indeed I am sure — I know what you are going to say to Pauline! But, give her time to think — plenty of time! she is so very young, she scarcely knows her own mind. Oh, do not be angry with me, indeed I speak for the best! I have lived with my cousin so long, — in truth, I have seldom been away from her, except when she went to her finishing school in Switzerland three years ago; but before that we were both educated at the Convent of the Sacré Cœur together. I know her nature thoroughly! She is sweet, she is good, she is a little angel of beauty; but she does not understand what love is, she cannot even translate the passing emotions of her own heart. You must be very patient with her! give her time to be quite sure of herself, for now she is not sure, she cannot be sure!”
Her voice thrilled with quite a plaintive cadence, and her strange eyes, which I now noticed were a sort of grey-green colour like the tint of the sea before a storm, filled with tears. But I was extremely angry; angry with her for speaking to me at all on the subject of my amour; it was none of her business! She had her doubts, this pale, serious, cold woman as to the possibility of Pauline’s having any real love for me, that was evident. Well, she should find out her mistake! She should soon see how fondly and truly my darling returned my passion!
“Mademoiselle,” I said frigidly, “you are exceedingly good to concern yourself so deeply with the question of your cousin’s happiness! I am grateful to you, I assure you, as grateful perhaps as even she herself can be; but at present I think the matter is best left in my hands. You may be quite certain that I shall urge nothing upon Mademoiselle de Charmilles that will be in any way distressing to her, my sole desire being to make her life, so far as I am able, one of perfect felicity. As for the comprehension of love, I think that comes instinctively to all women of marriageable age. Surely you yourself” — and I spoke in a more bantering tone— “cannot be ignorant of its meaning! If you loved any one, you would not require much time to think about it?”
“Yes, indeed I should!” she replied slowly. “I should need time to commune with my own heart, to ask it if all this panting passion, this restless fever, would last? Whether it were but a fancy of the moment, a dream of the hour, or the never-to-be-quenched fire of love indeed — love in its perfect strength and changeless fidelity — love absolutely unselfish, pure, and deathless! I should need time to know myself and my lover, and to feel that our two spirits merged into one as harmoniously as the two notes in this perfect chord!”
And taking up her violin, she drew the bow across the strings. A sweet and solemn sound, organ-like in tone, floated through the room with such a penetrating richness that the very air seemed to pulsate around me in faint yet soothing echoes. What a strange creature she was, I thought! and a quick sigh escaped my lips unconsciously.
“I did not know you played the violin, Mademoiselle,” I began hastily, and with a touch of embarrassment.
“Vraiment!” and she smiled. “But that is not surprising! You do not know, and it is probable you never will know anything at all about me! I am a very uninteresting person; it is not worth anyone’s while to study me. Listen!” — and she held up her finger as a clear voice rang through the house carolling a lively strain from one of the operettas popular at the time— “there is Pauline; she is coming this way. One word more, M. Beauvais” — and she turned swiftly upon me with an air of almost imperial dignity— “If you are modest and wise, you will remember what I have said to you; if you are conceited and foolish, you will forget! Au revoir!”
And before I had time to answer her, she had vanished, taking her violin with her, and leaving me in a state of mingled perplexity and vague annoyance. However, as I have before stated, I never paid much attention to Héloïse St. Cyr, or attached any great importance to her opinions; and on this occasion I soon dismissed her from my mind, for in another minute an ethereal vision clad in soft pink and white draperies, with a curly dark head and a pair of laughing deep blue eyes, appeared at the open door of the room, and Pauline herself entering, stretched out both her hands in gay greeting.
“Bon jour, Monsieur Gaston! How long have you been here, making love to Héloïse? Ah, méchant! I know how very bad you are! What? you come to see me — only me? Oh yes, that is a very pretty way to excuse yourself! Then why was Héloïse crying as she passed me? You have vexed her, and I shall not forgive you, for I love her dearly!”
“Crying!” I stammered in amazement. “Mademoiselle St. Cyr? Why, she was as bright as possible just now; she has been playing her violin—”
“Yes; she plays it only when she is sad,” and Pauline nodded her head sagely, “never when she is happy. So that I know something is not well with her; and who am I to blame for it? It must be your fault! I shall blame you.”
“Me!” I stared helplessly,
then smiled, for I at once perceived she was only jesting, and I watched her with my heart beating quick hammer-strokes, as she sank lazily down in a cushioned ottoman near the fire, and held out her little hands to the warmth of the red glow.
“We have been driving in the Bois, mamma and I, and it was so cold!” she said, with a delicate frissonement of her pretty figure. “Héloïse was wise to remain at home. Only she missed seeing Monsieur Antinous from Brittany!”
Engrossed as I was with my own thoughts and the contemplation of her beauty — for I was wondering how I should begin my declaration of love — this last sentence of hers impressed me unpleasantly.
“Do you mean the nephew of M. Vaudron?” I inquired, with, no doubt, a touch of annoyance in my accents which she, woman-like, was quick to notice.
“Yes, truly! I do mean the nephew of M. Vaudron!” she replied, a little sparkle of malicious mirth lighting up her lovely eyes. “He has arrived. Oh qu’ il est beau! He is a savage from Brittany — a forest philosopher — very wise, very serious, very good! Ah, so good! He is going to be a priest, you know, and he looks so grave and tranquil that one feels quite wicked in his presence. Ah, you frown!” and, laughing, she clasped her hands gaily. “You are jealous — jealous because I say M. Silvion Guidèl is handsome!”
“Jealous!” I exclaimed, with some heat, “I? Why should I be? I know nothing about the young man — I have not seen him yet! When I do I will tell you frankly what I think of him. Meanwhile” — here I gathered my hesitating courage together— “Pauline, I want to speak to you; will you be serious for a moment and listen to me?”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 206