Whereupon she seated herself opposite to me, and began chatting away, just in her old bright fashion, of all sorts of things, — of her parents, — of the extra dainty luxuries ‘Maman’ had recently added to her trousseau; — and with feminine tact, she managed to draw together such an inexhaustible number of brilliant trifles in her conversation, that, charmed by her vivacity, I ceased to remember that she could ever have been sad, even for an hour. But, before I left her, I was made miserable again by a very untoward circumstance. Just when I was about to say good-bye, — for the excess of my work would not allow me to stay with her longer, — I alluded once more to her past depression, and said —
“You are such a bright fairy now, Pauline, that I think you must try and put our friend Guidèl in better spirits when next you see him. He seems in a very melancholy frame of mind! Oddly enough, yesterday, when you were so sad, he was with me, giving utterance to the most lugubrious sentiments. In fact, I thought he was ill” — Pauline was about to fasten a flower in my coat, but here she dropped it, and stooped down on the floor to find it— “so ill,” I continued, “that I was for going home with him to see that he got there all right; but he assured me it was only a maladie de tristesse. I fancy he doesn’t want to be a priest after all” — here Pauline found the fallen blossom she was searching for, and began to pin it in my button-hole with such shaking fingers that I became alarmed. “Why, you are shivering, my darling! Are you cold?”
“A little!” she murmured. “I — I” The sentence died on her lips, and with a helpless swaying movement she fell in a sudden swoon at my feet!
Wild with fright, I caught her up in my arms, and rang the bell furiously, — the Comtesse de Charmilles came hurrying in, and, in obedience to her rapid instructions, I laid my pretty little one down on a sofa, and looked on in rigid anxiety, while her mother bathed her hands and forehead with eau-de-cologne.
“She has fainted like this once before,” said the Comtesse, in a low tone. “Do not he alarmed, Gaston, — she will be all right in a minute or two. Did you ask her what I told you?”
I nodded in the affirmative. I could not take my eyes off the lovely little face that lay so pale and quiet on the sofa-pillows near me.
“And did she say anything?”
“Nothing!” I answered with a sigh. “Nothing, except that she was quite well, and quite happy, and that she had no grief whatever. And she promised that if ever she felt sad again, she would come to me and tell me everything!”
A look of evident relief brightened the mother’s watchful face, and she smiled.
“That is well!” she said gently. “I am glad she promised that! As for this little malaise, I attach no importance to it. Young and over-excitable girls often faint in this foolish little way. There! — she is better now — see! — she is looking at you!”
And indeed the sweet blue eyes, that were heaven’s own light to my soul, had opened, and were fixed wistfully upon me. Eagerly I bent over her couch.
“Is that you, Gaston?” she faintly inquired.
For all answer I kissed her.
“Thank you!” she said, with a pretty plaintiveness.
“Now you will go away, will you not? — and let Maman take care of me. My head aches — but that is nothing.
I shall be quite well again soon!” She smiled, and the warm colour came back to her cheeks. “Au revoir, Gaston! Kiss me once more, — it comforts me to think how good and true and kind you are!”
With what reverential tenderness I pressed my lips to hers, Heaven only knows! — I little imagined it was the last time I should ever touch that sweet mouth with the passionate sign of love’s dearest benediction! She closed her eyes again then, — and the Comtesse told me in a soft undertone, that she would now in all probability fall asleep and slumber away her temporary weakness, — so, making my whispered adieux to the gentle and patiently absorbed mother, I stole on tip-toe from the room, and in another minute or two, had left the house.
Once out in the open air, however, I became a prey to the most extraordinary and violent anxiety. Everything to my mind looked suddenly overcast with gloom, I knew not why. Certainly the sun had set, and the dusk was deepening, — but the closing-in of the evening shadows did not, as a rule, affect my spirits with such a sense of indefinable dreariness. I walked home mechanically, brooding on Pauline’s fainting-fit, and exaggerating it more and more in my thoughts till it assumed the proportion of an ominous symptom of approaching death. I worked myself up into such a morbid condition of mind, that the very trees, covered with their young green and bursting buds, merely suggested the trees in cemeteries, that were also looking heartlessly gay, because it was Spring, regardless of the dead in the ground below them. And, occupied with my miserable musings, I nearly ran up against; Silvion Guidèl, who was coming in an opposite direction, — he looked like the ghost of a fair Greek God, I thought, — so wan and wild-eyed yet beautiful was he. He caught my hands eagerly.
“Where are you going, Beauvais? You look as if you were stumbling along in a dream!”
I forced a smile. “I dare say I do, — I feel like it! Pauline is very ill, Guidèl! — she fainted at my feet today!”
He turned sharply round as though he suddenly perceived some one he knew, — then hurriedly apologized.
“I thought I saw my old chiffonier,” he said lightly. “A friend and pensioner of mine, to whom for my soul’s sake I give many an odd sou. Mademoiselle de Charmilles fainted, you say? Oh, but that is not a very alarming symptom!”
I considered that he treated the case with undue levity, and told him so rather vexedly. He laughed a little.
“Mon cher, I will not encourage you in your morbid humour any more than you encouraged me last night in mine. You are — like all lovers — inclined to exaggerate every trifling ailment affecting the well-being of the person loved. If I loved, — if I could love, — I suppose I should be the same! But I have the hollow heart of a perpetual celibate, mon ami!” — and he laughed again— “so I can be merry and wise, both together. And out of my mirth — which is great, — and my wisdom — which is even greater! — I would advise you not to dwell with such melancholy profoundness on the slight indisposition of your fair fiancée. To faint is nothing, — many a school-girl faints at early mass, and the teachers think it of very little import.”
But I was too full of my own view of the matter to listen.
“All in one minute” — I persisted morosely— “the dear child fell in a dead swoon, — and I had just been speaking to her about you!”
“About me!” and he bit his lips hard. “Mon Dieu! — what an uninteresting subject of conversation!”
“I had been telling her” — I went on— “that you seemed to be ill last night, — ill and sad; and I had even suggested that she, out of her own brightness, should try to put you in better spirits the next time she saw you, — Really Guidèl, you are horribly brusque to day!”
For he had seized my hand, shaken it, and was actually rushing off!
“A thousand pardons, mon cher!” he said, in quick, rather hoarse accents; “I am bound on an errand of charity — I must fulfil it! — it is getting late, and I have very little time! Au revoir! I will see you later on!”
And away he went, walking at an unusually rapid rate, — and for the moment I was quite hurt at the entire want of sympathy he had shown with regard to Pauline’s illness. But I presently came to the conclusion that of course he could not be expected to feel as I felt about it, — and I resumed the nursing of my own dismal mood in unrelieved despondency till I reached home, where the work I had to do in part distracted me from my sadder thoughts. No one interrupted me. Silvion Guidèl did not come “later on” as he had said, and I saw him no more that night. Towards bed-time I got a telegram from my father, announcing that he would return home on the next day but one. This news was some slight consolation to me, — as, with his arrival, I knew I should be released from many onerous duties at the bank, — and so have more time to spen
d in Pauline’s company. Yet, nevertheless, I remained in the same state of mental dejection, mingled with a certain vague and superstitious morbidness, — for when I went up to my bedroom; and looked out at the skies before shutting the shutters, I saw a dense black rain-cloud creeping up from the western horizon, and I at once took it as an ill omen to my own fortunes. I watched it darkening the heavens slowly and blotting out the stars; and, as I heard the wind beginning to moan softly among the near branches, I murmured to myself almost unconsciously —
“Les âmes dont j’aurais besoin
Et les étoiles sont trop loin!
Je vais mourir seul — dans un coin!”
These lines worried me, — I could not imagine how they had managed to fix themselves in my memory. I put them down to Héloïse and her bizarre recitations, — but all the same they made me inexplicably wretched. Shivering with the chill the approaching storm was already sending through the air, I closed my window, went to bed, and slept soundly, peacefully, and deliciously; — I remember it thus particularly because it was the last time I experienced the blessing of sleep. The last, — the very last time I say! I have not slept at all since then, — I have only dreamed!
X.
WITH the morrow’s daybreak came a complete change in the weather, — a change that was infinitely dismal and dreary. The bright sunshine, that had been like God’s best blessing on the world for the past two weeks, disappeared as though it had never shone, and rain fell in torrents. A wild wind blew round and round the city in sweeping gusts, tearing off the delicate young leaves from their parent branches and making pitiful havoc of all the sweet-scented gaily-coloured spring blossoms. It was a miserable morning, — but in spite of wind and rain I started rather earlier than usual for the bank, as, my father having now signified the next day as the one of his certain return, I was anxious he should find everything in the most absolute order on his arrival, and thus be assured of my value not only as a good son, but also as a thoroughly reliable partner. We were all up to our ears in work that day, — a great deal of extra business came in, and the hours flew on so rapidly that it was past six o’clock in the afternoon before I was released from my office bondage, — and, even then, I still had a good many matters to attend to when I got back to my own house. I had no leisure to call at the De Charmilles’, though I longed to know how Pauline was, — but I did not fret myself so greatly about that now as previously, knowing that by the next noon my father would have arrived, and that I should then have my time very much more at my own disposal. The rain still continued pouring fiercely, — very few people were abroad in the streets, — and though I took the omnibus part of the way home, the few steps that remained between that vehicle and my own door, were sufficient to drench me through. As soon as I got in, I changed my clothes, had my solitary dinner, and ordered a small wood fire to be lit in the library, whither I presently repaired with my papers and account books, and was soon so busily engrossed that I almost forgot the angry storm that was raging without, save in the intervals of work, when I heard the rain beat in gusty clamour at the windows, and the trees groan as they rustled and swayed backwards and forwards in the increasing fury of the gale. Presently, from the antique time-piece, that stood on an equally antique secretaire just behind me, nine o’clock struck with a loud and brazen clang, — and as it ceased I laid down my pen for a moment and listened to the deepening snarl of the savage elements.
“What a night!” I thought. “A night for demons to stalk abroad, and witches to ride through the air on broomsticks! Dieu! how dull it is! One must smoke to keep the damp away.”
And I opened my cigar-case. I was just about to strike a light, when I fancied I heard something like a faint, very faint attempt to ring the street-door bell. I listened, — the same sound was repeated. It was much too feeble to attract the attention of the servants below, — and as the library windows jutted on the street, and as I could, by drawing aside the curtain a little, generally see whosoever might ascend our steps, I peeped cautiously out. At first I could perceive nothing, the night was so wet and dark; but presently I discerned a slight shadowy figure huddled against the door as though sheltering itself from the pitiless rain.
“Some poor starving soul,” I soliloquized, “who perhaps does not know where to turn in all Paris for bread, I’ll see who it is.”
And, acting on the impulse that moved me to be charitable to any unhappy creature benighted in such a hurricane, I crossed the passage softly and opened the door wide. As I did so, the figure started back in apparent fear, — it was a veiled woman, — and through the veil I felt her eyes looking at me.
“What is it?” I asked, as gently as I could. “What do you want?”
For all answer, two hands were stretched towards me in wild appeal, and a sobbing voice cried —
“Gaston!”
“My God! Pauline!”
Seized by a mortal terror, and with a convulsive effort as though I were dragging forth some drowning creature from the sea, I caught her in my arms and almost lifted her across the threshold; how I supported her, whether I carried her or led her, I never knew, — my senses were all in a whirl, and I realized nothing distinctly till I had reached the library once more, and placed her, a shuddering, drooping little creature, in the arm-chair I had but just vacated near the fire. Then my dazed brain righted itself, and I flung myself at her feet in an agony of alarm and suspense.
“Pauline, Pauline!” I whispered, “what is this? — why have you come here? In such a storm of rain and wind too! See!” — and I took up the end of her dress and wrung it in my hands— “you are wet through! My darling, you frighten me! — Are you ill? — has any one been unkind to you?”
She lifted her head and tremblingly put back the close veil she wore, — and I uttered a stifled cry at the pale misery imprinted on her fair, fair young face.
“No one has been unkind,” she said, in a faint plaintive voice, like the voice of one weakened by long physical suffering; “and — I am not ill! I want to speak to you, Gaston! — I promised you that if I was very sad and troubled, I would tell you everything, — and you said you would be gentle with me and would comfort me, — you remember? Weil, now I have come! — to tell you something that must be told, — and to-night is my only chance, — for they have gone, — papa and mamma — to the theatre, and I am all alone. They wanted me to go with them, but I begged them to leave me at home, — I felt that I must see you quite by yourself, — and tell you, — yes! — tell you everything!”
A long shivering sigh escaped her lips; and frozen to the very soul by a dim fear that I could not analyze, I rose from my kneeling position at her side, and stood stiffly upright. At first my only thought was for her. A young girl coming alone to the house of her lover at night in a city like Paris, exposed herself, consciously or unconsciously, to the direst slander, and it was with this idea that I was chiefly occupied as I looked at her crouching form in the chair beside me. I hastily considered the only possible risk she at present incurred, — namely, that of being seen by our servants and made the subject of their idle gossip, and I determined to circumvent this at any rate.
“Pauline, my little one,” I said gravely, “whatever it is you wish to tell me, could you not have waited till I came to see you in the usual way? You ought not to have flown hither so recklessly, little bird! you expose yourself to scandal.”
“Scandal!” she echoed, looking at me with a feverish light in her blue eyes. “It cannot say more evil of me than I deserve! — and I could not wait! — I have waited already far too long!”
A great heaviness fell on my heart at these words, — my very lips grew cold, and a tremor ran through me. But, nevertheless, I resolved to carry out the notion I had preconceived of keeping this nocturnal flight of hers a profound secret.
“Stay here,” I said, as calmly as I could for the shaking dread that possessed me. “Try to get warm, — I will bring you some wine. Take that wet cloak off and be quite quiet, — I
will return immediately.”
She looked after me with a sort of beseeching wonderment as I left her, but I dared not meet her eyes — there was an expression in them that terrified me! I went, as in a dream, to the dining-room; got some wine and a glass, — carefully turned out the lights, and then proceeded to the head of the basement stairs and called our man-servant.
“Dunois!”
“Oui, m’sieu!”
“Tell them all down there that they can go to bed, — you can do the same. I shall want nothing more tonight. I have locked the street-door, and the lamps are out in the dining-room. My father will be home to-morrow, — so you will all have to be up early — call me about seven. Do you hear?”
“Oui, m’sieu!”
“Good night!”
Dunois responded, — and I listened breathlessly while he repeated my orders to the other servants. I waited yet a few minutes and presently heard them preparing to ascend their own private stairway to the top of the house, where they each had their several rooms. They were hard workers, and were always glad of extra rest; — they would soon be sound asleep, thank Heaven! — they need know nothing. Satisfied that so far, all was safe, I stepped noiselessly back to the library, and, entering, closed and locked the door. Pauline was sitting exactly in the same position, — her wet cloak still clinging round her, — her veil flung back, her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the red embers of the fire. Approaching, I, without a word, loosened her cloak and took it off, and methodically hung it on the back of two chairs to dry, — I removed the little rain-soaked hat from her tumbled curls, and pouring out a glass of wine, held it to her lips with a firm hand enough, though God knows my heart was beating as though it would burst its fleshly prison.
“Drink this, Pauline,” I said authoritatively. “Come, you must drink it, — you are as cold as ice. When you have taken it, I will listen to — to whatever you wish to say.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 212