Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

She obeyed me mechanically, and managed to swallow half the contents of the glass, — then she put it away from her with a faint gesture of aversion.

  “I cannot drink it, Gaston!” she faltered, “it seems to suffocate me!”

  I set it aside, and looked at her, waiting for her next words. But no words came. She fixed her large soft eyes upon me with the wistful entreaty of a hunted fawn, — then suddenly the tears welled up into them and brimmed over, and, covering her face, she broke into piteous and passionate sobbing. Every nerve in my body seemed to be wrenched and tortured by the sound! — I could not bear to see her in such grief, and, kneeling down beside her once more, I put my arms round her and pressed her pretty head against my breast. But I did not kiss her; some strange instinct held me back from that!

  “Do not cry, Pauline! — do not cry!” I implored, rocking her to and fro as if she were a little tired child. “Do not, my darling! — it breaks my heart! Tell me what is the matter, — you are not afraid of me, mon ange, — are you? Hush, hush! To see you in such unhappiness quite distracts me, Pauline! — it unmans me, — do try to be calm! You are quite safe with me, — no one will come near us, — no one knows you are here, — and I will take you home myself as soon as you are more tranquil. There! — now you shall speak to me as long as you like, — you shall tell me everything — everything, except that you do not love me any more!”

  With a faint exclamation and a sudden movement, she loosened my arms from her waist and drew herself apart.

  “Oh, poor Gaston! — but that is just what I must tell you!” she sobbed. “Oh, forgive me — forgive me! I have done you great wrong, — I have deceived you wickedly, — but oh, do not be cruel to me, though I am so cruel to you! Do not be cruel, — I cannot bear it! — it will kill me! I ought to have told you long ago, — but I was a coward, — I was afraid, — I am afraid still! — but I dare not hide the truth from you, — you must know everything. I — I do not love you, Gaston! I have never loved you as you ought to be loved; I never knew the meaning of love till now!”

  Till now! What did these words imply? I gazed at her in dumb blank amazement, — my brain seemed frozen. I could not think, I could not speak, — I only knew, in a sort of dim indistinct way, that she had removed herself from my embrace, and that perhaps — perhaps it was, under the circumstances, embarrassing to her to see me kneeling at her feet in such devout, adoring fashion, when,... when she no longer loved me! She no longer loved me! — I could not realize it; — and still less could I realize that she never had loved me! I got up slowly and stood beside her, resting one arm on the mantelpiece, — my limbs shook and my head swam round stupidly, — and yet, through all my bewilderment, I was still conscious of her misery, — conscious of her tear-spoilt eyes, — her white face and quivering lips, — and of the unutterable despair that made even her youthful features look drawn and old, — and out of very pity for her woe-begone aspect, I tried to master the sudden shock of unexpected wretchedness that overwhelmed my soul. I tried to speak, — my voice seemed gone, — and it was only after one or two efforts that I managed to regain command of language.

  “This is strange news!” I then said, in hoarse unsteady accents. “Very strange news, Pauline! You no longer love me? — You have never loved me? You never knew the meaning of love till now? — Till now! — Pardon me if I do not understand, — I am, no doubt, dull of comprehension, — but such words from your lips sound terrible to me, — unreal, impossible! I must have been dreaming all this while, for — for you have seemed to love me — till now, as you say — till now!”

  She sprang from her chair and confronted me, her hands extended as though in an agony of supplication.

  “Oh, there is my worst sin, Gaston!” she wailed. “There is the treachery to you of which I have been guilty! I have seemed to love you — yes! and it was wicked of me — wicked — wicked — but I have been blind and desperate and mad, — and I could see no way out of the evil I have brought upon myself, — no way but this — to tell you all before it is too late — to throw myself at your feet — so!” — and she flung herself wildly down before me— “to pray to you, as I would pray to God, — to ask you to pardon me, to have mercy upon me, — and, above all other things, to generously break the tie between us, — to break it now — at once! — and to let me feel that at least I am no longer wronging your trust, or injuring your future by my fault of love for one who has grown dearer to me than you could ever be, — dearer than life itself, — dearer than honour, dearer than my own soul’s safety — dearer than God!”

  ‘ She spoke with an almost tempestuous intensity of passion, — and I looked at her where she crouched on the ground, — looked at her in a dull, sick wonderment. This child — this playful pretty trifler with time and the things of time, was transformed; — from a mere charming gracefully frivolous girl, she had developed into a wild tragedy queen; and the change had been effected by — what? Love! Love for what, — or whom? Not for me! — not for me — no! — for some one else! Who was that some one else? This question gradually asserted itself in my straying stupefied thoughts as the chief thing to be answered, — the vital poison of the whole bitter draught, — the final stab that was to complete the murder. As I considered it, a new and awful instinct rose up within me, — the thirst for revenge that lurks in the soul of every man and beast — the silently concentrated fury of the tiger that has lain so long in waiting for its prey that its brute patience is wellnigh exhausted, — and involuntarily I clenched my hands and bit my lips hard in the sudden and insatiate eagerness that possessed me, to know the name of my rival! Again I looked down on Pauline’s slight shuddering figure, and became hazily conscious that she ought not to kneel there as a suppliant to me, and, — stooping a little, I held out my hand, which she caught and kissed impulsively. Ah, Heaven! how I trembled at that caressing touch!

  “Rise, Pauline!” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Rise, — do not be afraid! — I — I think I understand, — I shall realize it all better presently. Perhaps you have never quite known how ardently I have loved you, — with what passionate fervour, — with what adoring tenderness! — and what you say to me now is a shock, Pauline! — a cruel blow that will numb and incapacitate my whole life! But one man’s pain does not matter much, does it? — come, rise, I beg of you, and let me strive to get some clearer knowledge of this sad and unexpected change in your feelings. You do not love me, so you tell me, — and you never have loved me. You own to having played the part of loving me, — but now you ask me to break the solemn tie between us, because you love some one else, — have I understood you thus far correctly?”

  She had sunk back again in the chair near the fire, and her pale lips whispered a faint affirmative. I waited a minute, — then I asked —

  “And who, Pauline, — who is that some one else?”

  “Oh, why should you know!” she exclaimed, the tears filling her eyes again. “Why should you even wish to know! It is not needful, — it would only add to your unhappiness! I cannot tell you, Gaston — I will not!”

  I laughed, — a low laugh of exceeding bitterness. The notion of her keeping such a secret from me, amused me in a vague dull way. In my present humour, I felt that I could have ransacked not only earth, but heaven and hell together for that one name which would henceforth be to me the most hateful in the whole world! But I forced myself to be gentle with her; I even tried to persuade myself into the idea that she was perhaps exaggerating a mere transient foolish flirtation into the tragic height of a serious love affair — and I was under the influence of this impression when I spoke again.

  “Listen, Pauline! You must not play with me any longer — if you have played with me, I can endure no more of it! I must know who it is that has usurped my rightful place in your affections. Do not try to conceal it from me, — it will only be doing an injury to yourself and to — him! Is it some one you have met lately? And is your love for him a mere sudden freak of fancy? — because if so, Pauline,
let me tell you, it is not likely to last! And so great and deep is my tenderness for you, dear, that I could even find it in my heart to have patience with this cruel caprice of your woman’s nature — to have patiençe to the extent of waiting till it passes as pass it must, Pauline! — no love of lasting value was ever kindled with such volcanic suddenness as this fickle fancy of yours! Had the famous lovers of Verona not died, they must have quarrelled! Your words, your manner, all Spring from impulse, not conviction, — and I should be wronging you, — yes! actually wronging your better nature, if I were to hastily yield to your strange request and end the engagement between us. Why should I end it? for a wandering fitful freak, that will no doubt die of itself as rapidly as it came into being? No, Pauline! — our contract is too solemn and too binding to be broken for a mere girlish whim!”

  “But it must be broken!” she cried, springing to her feet and confronting me with a pale majesty of despair that moved me to vague awe. “It must be broken if I die to break it! Whim! — fancy! — caprice! — Do I look as if I were led by a freak? Can you not — will you not understand me, Gaston? Oh, God! I thought you were more merciful! — I have looked upon you as my only friend; — I knew you were the very soul of generosity — and I have clung to the thought of your tenderness as my only chance of rescue! I cannot — I dare not, tell them at home, — I am even afraid to meet Héloïse! Oh, Gaston! only you can shield me from disgrace, — you can release me if you will, and give me the chance of freedom in which to retrieve my fault! — Gaston, you can! — you can do everything for me! — you can save me by one generous act — break off our engagement and say to all the world that it is by our own mutual desire! Oh, surely you can understand now! — you will not force me to confess all my shame — all my dishonour!”

  Shame! — dishonour! — Those two words, and — Pauline! The air grew suddenly black around me, — black as blackest night, — then bright red rings swam giddily before my eyes, and I caught at something, I know not what, to save myself from falling. A cold dew broke out on my brow and hands, and I struggled for breath in deep panting gasps, conscious of nothing for the moment, except that she was there, and that her wild eyes were fixed in wide affright upon me. Presently I heard her voice as in a dream, cry out wailingly —

  “Gaston! Gaston! Do not look like that! Oh, God, forgive me! what have I done! — what have I done!”

  Slowly the black mists cleared from my sight, — and I seemed to reel uncertainly back to a sense of being.

  “What have you done?” I muttered hoarsely. “What have you done, Pauline? — Why nothing! — but this, — you have fallen from virtue to vileness! — and — you have killed me — that is all! That is what you have done — that, at last, I understand — at last!”

  She broke into a piteous sobbing, — but her tears had ceased to move me. I sprang to her side, — I seized her arm.

  “Now — now — quick!” I said, the furious passion in my voice jarring it to rough discord— “quick! — I can wait no longer! The name — the name of your seducer!”

  She raised her eyes full of speechless alarm, — her lips moved, but no sound issued from them. There was a suffocating tightness in my throat, — my heart leaped to and fro in my breast like a savage bird in a cage, — the wrath that possessed me was so strong and terrible that it made me for the moment a veritable madman.

  “Oh speak!” I cried, my grasp tightening on her arm. “Frail, false, fallen woman, speak! — or I shall murder you! The name! — the name!”

  Half swooning with the excess of her terror, she vainly strove to disengage herself from my hold, — her head drooped on her bosom — her eyes closed in the very languor of fear, — and her answering whisper stole on my strained sense of hearing like the last sigh of the dying —

  “Silvion Guidèl!”

  Silvion Guidèl! — God! I burst into wild laughter, and flung her from me with a gesture of fierce disdain. Silvion Guidèl! — the saint! — the angel! — the would-be priest! — the man with the face divine! Silvion Guidèl! Detestable hypocrite! — accursed liar! — smiling devil! Priest or no priest, he should cross swords with me, and thereby probe a great mystery presently! — not a church-mystery, but a God-mystery — the mystery of death! He should die, I swore, if I in fair fight could kill him! Silvion Guidèl! — my friend! — the “good” fellow I had actually revered! — he — he had made of Pauline the wrecked thing she was! — Ah, Heaven! A wild impulse seized me to rush out of the house and find him wherever he might be, — to drag him from the very church altar if he dared to pollute such a place by his traitorous presence, — and make him then and there answer with his life for the evil he had done! My face must have expressed my raging thoughts, — for suddenly a vision crossed my dazed and aching sight — the figure of Pauline grown stately, terrible, imperial, as any ruined queen.

  “You shall not harm him!” she said in low thrilling tones of suppressed passion and fear. “You shall not touch a hair of his head to do him wrong! I will prevent you! — I! I would give my life to shield him from a moment’s pain! — and you dare — you dare to think of injuring him! Oh yes! I read you through and through; — you have reason, I know, to be cruel — and you may kill me if you like, — but not him! Have I not told you that I love him? — Love him? — I adore him! I have sacrificed everything for his sake, — and could I sacrifice more than every thing I would do it! — I would burn in hell for ever, could I be sure that he was safe and happy in heaven!”

  She looked at me straightly, — her eyes full of a mournful exaltation, — her breath coming and going rapidly between her parted lips. I met her glance with an amazed scorn, — and hurled the bitter truth like pellets of ice upon the amorous heat of her impetuous avowal.

  “Oh, spare me your protestations!” I cried, “and spare yourself some shred of shame! Do not boast of your iniquity as though it were virtue! — do not blazon forth your criminal passion as though it were a glory! Heaven and Hell of which you talk so lightly, may be positive and awful facts after all, and not mere names to swear by! — and to one or the other of them your lover shall go, be assured! — and that speedily! He shall die for his treachery! — he shall die, I say! — if the sword of honour can rid the world of so perfidious and dastardly a liar!”

  XI.

  As I uttered these words sternly and resolvedly, a change passed over her face, — she seemed for the moment to grow rigid with the sudden excess of her fear. Then she threw herself once more on her knees at my feet.

  “Gaston, Gaston! — have a little mercy!” she implored. “Think of my deep, — my utter humiliation! Is it so much that I ask of you after all? — to break an engagement with a wretched sinful girl who has proved herself unworthy of you? Oh, for God’s sake set me free! — and we will go away from paris, I and Silvion — far, far away to some distant land where we shall be forgotten, — where the memory of us need trouble you no more! Listen, Gaston! Silvion trusts to your noble nature and generous heart, even as I have done — he believes that you will have pity upon us both! We loved each other from the first, — could we help that love, Gaston? — could we help it? I told you I never knew what love was till now, and that is true! — I was so young! — I never thought I should know such desperate joy, such terrible misery, such madness, such recklessness, such despair! It seems that I have fallen into some great resistless river that carries me along with it against my will, I know not where! — I have deceived you, I know, and I pray your pardon for that deceit — but oh, be pitiful, Gaston! — be pitiful! — it cannot hurt you to be generous! If you ever loved me, Gaston, try to forgive me now!”

  I looked down upon her in silence. There was a dull aching in my brows, — a cold chill at my heart, She seemed removed from me by immeasurable distance; — she, the once innocent child — the pretty graceful girl, all sweetness and purity, — what was she now? Nothing but — the toy of Silvion Guidèl! No more! — she had entered the melancholy ranks of the ruined sisterhood, — even
she, Pauline de Charmilles, only daughter of one of the proudest aristocrats in France! I shuddered, — and an involuntary groan escaped my lips. Clasping her hands, she raised them to me in fresh entreaty.

  “You will be gentle, Gaston! — you will have mercy?”

  The tension of my nerves relaxed, — the scalding moisture of unfailing tears blinded my eyes — and I gave vent to a long and bitter sigh.

  “Give me time, Pauline!” I answered huskily. “Give me time! you ask much of me, — and I have never — like your lover — played the part of saint or angel. I am nothing but a man, with all a man’s passions roused to their deadliest sense of wrong, — do not expect from me more than man’s strength is capable of! And I have loved you! — my God! — how I have loved you! — far far more deeply than you ever guessed! Pauline, Pauline! — my love was honourably set upon you! — I would not have wronged you by so much as one unruly thought! You were to me more sacred than the Virgin’s statue in her golden nook at incensetime; you were my God’s light on earth, — my lily of heaven, — my queen — my life — my eternity — my all! Pauline, Pauline!” — and my voice trembled more and more as she hid her face in her hands and wept convulsively. “Alas, you cannot realize what you have done — not yet! You cannot in the blindness of your passion see how the world will slowly close upon you like a dark prison wherein to expiate in tears and pain your sin, — you do not yet comprehend how the kindly faces you have known from childhood will turn from you in grief and scorn, — how friends will shrink from and avoid you, — and how desolate your days will be, — too desolate, Pauline, for even your betrayer’s love to cheer! For love that begins in crime ends in destruction, — its evil recoils on the heads of those that have yielded to its insidious tempting, — and thinking of this, Pauline, I can pity you! pity you more, aye, a thousand times more than I should pity you if you were dead! I would rather you had died, unhappy child, than lived to be dishonoured!”