Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  And so the dull minutes rounded into hours, — hours that passed in the usual uneven way, some slow, some rapidly, according to the mood in which they were severally met and disposed of, and the eve of my marriage came. All seemed well. I played my part, — Pauline played hers. I called at the De Charmilles’, and found everything in the bustle of active preparation, — the dining-room was being decorated with flowers, — large garlands and bouquets occupied almost every available space in the entrance-hall, and on my inquiring for my fiancée, I was shown by the smiling excited maid-servant into the morning-room where, after a few minutes, Pauline entered. She looked very pale, but very calm, — and came straight up to me with a strange wistfulness in her deep blue eyes.

  “You have not heard from Silvion?” she said at once, in a low but earnestly inquiring tone.

  “I!” and I shrugged my shoulders as though in amazement at the absurdity of such a question.

  “No, — I suppose he would not write to you,” she murmured sadly. “Then, he must be ill, or dead.” Strange tenacity of woman’s faith! She could not, would not, believe he had deserted her. She resumed, with a curious air of grave formality —

  “It seems you really intend to marry me, Monsieur Beauvais?”

  “It seems so, truly, mademoiselle!” I returned frigidly.

  She looked at me steadfastly.

  “Listen!” she said. “I know why you do it, — for my father’s sake — and for the sake of good M. Vaudron, — to save honour and prevent scandal, — you do it for this, — and I — I do not know whether to thank you or curse you for your pity!” She paused, trembling with the excess of her emotion, then continued— “But — understand me, Gaston — I will never live with you! I will never owe to you so much as a crust of bread! I will go on with this ceremony of marriage, as you seem, for the sake of others, to think it best — but afterwards — afterwards I will go away to die somewhere by myself, where I shall trouble no one, and where not even dear good Héloïse will be able to find me. Disgraced, I will bear the solitude of disgrace, — ruined, I will abide by my ruin!”

  I studied her features with a cold scrutiny that made her cheeks flush and her limbs tremble, though her eyes remained quietly fixed on mine.

  “You have made your plans, I see,” I said. “But I — I also have plans! You say you will go away to ‘die’ — not so! — you mean you will go in search of your lover! Has it ever struck you that he may not want you? Men are like children — when their women-toys are broken, they care for them no longer. So far, things have gone on smoothly in our two families, and by reticence we have fought off scandal, — but I must ask you to remember that if I once bestow my name upon you, you will owe me obedience, — if I make you my wife, the past must be blotted out for ever, and I shall expect from you a wife’s duty.”

  I smiled as I spoke, for I saw her shrink and shiver away from me as though an icy wind had touched her with its breath.

  “How can the past be blotted out for ever,” she faltered, “when—” Here she paused suddenly and drew herself erect. “Gaston Beauvais, when I came to you and told you all that night, I placed my fate in your hands. I asked you to break your engagement with me — and you made excuse and delay — you would not. Nor would you let me speak. You told me you would act for the best, and I trusted everything to you, — I thought you would spare me, — I believed that you would be generous and pitiful. But you have changed, — you have changed so greatly that I scarcely know you — except that I am sure you do not wish me well. There is something cruel in your eyes — something fatal in your smile! Tell me truly — why do you marry me?”

  She regarded me with a touch of fear as she put the question.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle; but you anticipate!” I replied calmly. “I have not married you — yet!”

  “To-morrow—” she began.

  Springing to her side I grasped her suddenly by the arm. I felt a strange fire pricking in my veins, — one of those accesses of heat and fury which were growing frequent with me of late.

  “To-morrow has not come!” I said in low fierce accents. “Wait till it does! What do you take me for, silly child? Do you think you can play with a man’s heart as you have played with mine, and meet with no punishment? Do you think you can wreck a whole life and not be scourged for such wanton cruelty? I have, it is true, screened your name from obloquy up till now, — with yourself alone and me rests the horrible secret of your shame. But wait — wait! — you are not married to me yet — and if you have enough courage for the task, you can still escape me! Proclaim your own infamy to your parents — to your pure and saintly cousin Héloïse to-night, — break their hearts — shake down their high faith in you to the dust of dishonour, — but before doing so, mark you! — it would be as well to ask M. Vaudron for the latest news of his admirable nephew!”

  Her eyes dilated with terror, and she repeated the words after me, like a dull child learning some difficult lesson.

  “Ask M. Vaudron for the latest news of his nephew!” — and her very lips turned white as she spoke— “the latest news of Silvion! You know it then?” — and she turned upon me with a gesture of imperial authority— “tell me what it is! How dare you withhold it? Tell me instantly! — for, if he is ill, I must go to him, — if he is dead, I must die!”

  I laughed savagely.

  “He is dead to you, mademoiselle!” I said. “But otherwise, he is alive and well, and at this very moment he is probably at his holy prayers! He has entered the priesthood! — and by that simple act, has escaped both my sword and your embraces!”

  She gave a smothered cry — staggered and seemed about to fall, — I caught her on my arm, and she leaned against me struggling for breath.

  “Silvion, — Silvion a priest!” she gasped. “Oh no! — not after all his promises! — it is not — it cannot be true!”

  “Ask the Curé,” I said. “He no doubt has the news by this time. He is a good man, — not used, like his nephew, to the telling of lies.”

  She put away my supporting arm gently, yet decidedly, and pressing one hand against her heart, looked me full in the eyes.

  “How do you know this?” she asked. “Why should you, of all people in the world, be the first to tell it to me?”

  I read her suspicions, — and returned her glance with one of the utmost scorn.

  “You distrust my word?” I queried ironically. “Well, perhaps you will accept your lover’s own voucher for the information. Here it is, — pray read it for yourself and be satisfied.”

  And drawing from my pocket the letter I had received, I unfolded it and spread it open on the table before her. With a sharp exclamation, she snatched it up and quickly perused its every word, — then — oh strange nature of woman! — she covered it with passionate kisses and tears.

  “Good-bye, Silvion!” she sobbed softly. “Good-bye, my love! — my dearest one! — good-bye!”

  Turning to me, she said, while the drops still rained through her lashes —

  “May I keep this letter?”

  I shrugged my shoulders disdainfully, — her melodramatic sentimentality filled me with abhorrence.

  “Certainly, if you choose!”

  “It is my death-warrant,” she went on quietly, trying to steady her quivering lips, “and it is signed by the dearest hand in the world to me! Oh, I shall die quite bravely now! — there will be nothing to regret, even as there is nothing to hope. But, Gaston, you are very cruel to me! — you are not like your old kind self at all. I am so poor and slight and miserable a thing — I cannot understand how it can be worth your while to judge me so harshly. Never mind — it does not matter — I shall not trouble you long. I have been very wicked, — yes — I know that, — and you, Gaston, you wish me to be punished? Well then, does it not please you to know that my heart is broken? My heart — my heart! — Silvion!”

  And, covering her face with her hands, she suddenly turned and fled from the room. I heard the door close behind her,
— and I thought myself alone. Every nerve in my body pulsated with the suppressed excitement of my mind, and, leaning one hand against my hot brows, I pressed my fingers over my eyes to try and shut out the pale green light that now and then flashed before them, when a touch on my shoulder startled me. I looked up, — Héloïse St. Cyr stood beside me, pale and grave as a sculptured nun, and I stared at her in vague amazement.

  “What is the matter, M. Gaston?” she inquired.

  I forced a laugh.

  “Matter, Héloïse? Truly, — nothing !”

  “Nothing!” she echoed incredulously. “Why, then, was Pauline in tears? She passed me just now without a word, — but I heard her sobbing.”

  I met her questioning gaze unconcernedly.

  “A lover’s quarrel, chère Pallas Athene!” I said lightly. “Have you never heard of such things?”

  A frown darkened the fairness of her classic brows.

  “A quarrel on the eve of marriage?” she queried coldly. “It seems unnatural and unlikely. You are deceiving me, M. Gaston.”

  I smiled.

  “Possibly!” I answered. “But what would you?

  I fancy we were born into the world, all of us, for the singular purpose of deceiving each other!”

  Her eyes filled with a vague fear and surprise.

  “What do you mean?” she faltered nervously.

  “Do not ask me, Héloïse!” And, advancing a step or two, I caught her shrinking hand, and held it prisoned in my fevered clasp. “I cannot tell you what I mean! I do not know myself. There are certain phases of feeling and passion — are there not? — which storm the soul at times, — we are shaken, but we cannot explain the shock even to our innermost consciences! Do not speak to me — do not look at me! —

  Your eyes would draw out the secret of a madman’s misery! Ask your own heart if there are not strange and complex emotions within it, as in mine, which have never been uttered, and never will be uttered! If we could only speak frankly, we men and women, at certain moments when the better part of us is paramount, — my God! — if we could only dare to be ourselves, who knows! the world might be happier!”

  With this incoherent outburst, the drift of which I myself scarcely understood, I hurriedly kissed the hand I held, released it, and left her. How she looked, I know not, — something clamorous and wild in my blood warned me against another chance meeting of her eyes with mine. I should have caught her to my breast and frightened her with the passion of my embrace, — and yet — did I love her? I cannot tell, — I think not. It was only the indefinable attraction of her personality that overpowered my senses, — when I was once away from her and outside in the open air, my emotion passed, just as a faintness that has been brought on by the powerful perfume of tropical lilies will pass in the reviving breath of a cool wind. I walked rapidly homeward, thinking as I went of the morrow, and wondering what it would bring forth. Either Pauline de Charmilles would be mine, or she would not. It all seemed to rest on the mere turn of a hair. For in my condition of brain nothing in the whole world appeared decided, because the eventuality of death was always present. I calmly considered and balanced the probability that Pauline, now knowing the pusillanimous part her lover had chosen to play, might kill herself. It is the common way out of a love-difficulty with many Frenchwomen. Or — I might die! That would be droll! and unexpected too, — for I felt life’s blood beating very strong in me, and I had now something to live for. I considered with a good deal of self-congratulation, the admirable cunning with which I had managed to keep the secret of my growing absinthe-mania from my father and every one connected with me. True, some stray remarks had been made once or twice on a change in my looks, but this was chiefly set down to overwork. And my father had occasionally remonstrated with me against a quick, querulous impatience of temper which I frequently displayed, and which was new to my disposition, — but with his usual good-nature, he had found plenty of excuses for me in the contemplation of all the business I had successfully got through during his absence in England. The alteration in me was really almost imperceptible to unsuspecting outsiders; only I myself knew how complete and permanent it was.

  That night, — the night before my wedding-day, I drank deeply and long of my favourite nectar, — glass after glass I prepared, and drained each one off with insatiable and ever-increasing appetite, — I drank till the solid walls of my own room, when at last I found myself there, appeared to me like transparent glass shot through with emerald flame. Surrounded on all sides by phantoms, — beautiful, hideous, angelic, devilish, — I reeled to my couch in a sort of waking swoon, conscious of strange sounds everywhere, like the clanging of brazen bells and the silver fanfarronade of the trumpets of war, — conscious too of a singular double sensation, — namely, as though Myself were divided into two persons, who opposed each other in a deadly combat, in which neither could possibly obtain even the merest shadow-victory! It was a night of both horror and ecstasy, — the beginning of many more such nights, — and though I was hurried to and fro like a leaf on a storm-wind, among crowding ghosts, open tombs, smiling seraphs, and leering demons, I was perfectly content with the spectral march of my own brain-pageantry. And I quite forgot — as I always wish to forget — that there are fools in the world for whom heart-freezing Absinthe has no charms, and who therefore still prate like children and idiots, of God and Conscience!

  XVII.

  MY marriage-morning! — it broke out of the east with the sweetest forget-me-not radiance of blue over all the tranquil sky. I rose early — I was aware of a violent throbbing in my temples, — and now and then I was seized with a remarkable sensation, as though some great force were, so to speak, being hurled through me, compelling me to do strange deeds without clearly recognizing their nature. I took a long walk before breakfast, but though the air and motion did me some amount of good, I nevertheless found myself totally unable to resist certain impulses that came over me, — as, for instance to laugh aloud when I thought of that white half-naked witch who had been my chief companion in the flying phantasmagoria of the past wild night. How swiftly she had led me into the forgotten abodes of the dead, and how her mere look and sign had sufficed to lift the covers of old coffins and expose to view the mouldering skeletons within! — the eyeless skulls that, for all their lack of vision, had yet seemed to stare upon us while we mocked their helpless desolation! Oh, she was a blithe brave phantom, that Absinthe-witch of mine! — and one thing she had done had pleased me right well. We had flown through the dark, she and I, on green outspread wings, and, finding on our way a church-door standing open, we had entered in. There we had seen silver lamps steadily burning, — there we had heard the organ pealing forth strange psalmody, and there we had discovered a priest kneeling on the altar-steps with wondrous Raffaelle-like face upturned to the shining Host above him. “Silvion Guidèl!” we had shrieked loudly in his ears, my elfin comrade and I— “Die, Silvion Guidèl!” And “Die, Silvion Guidèl!” was echoed back to us in a thunder of many voices, — while, as the chorus smote the air, lo! the Host vanished from sight, — the altar crumbled into dust, — there was no more sign of salvation, hope, or rescue for that criminal there who dared to kneel and pray, — there was nothing — nothing but the yawning blackness of an open grave! How my fair witch laughed as she pointed to that dull deep hole in the ground! — how I kissed her on the ripe red lips for the appropriateness of her deathful suggestion! — how I toyed with her fiery-gold hair! — and how we fled off again, more swiftly than the wind, through scenes wilder yet not so haunting to the memory! My glorious Absinthe-fairy! — she was nearly always with me now, — in different shapes, arrayed in different hues, but always recognizable as a part of me. Her whispers buzzed continually in my brain and I never failed to listen; — and on this particular morning — the morning of my intended marriage, — she was as close to me as my very blood: — she clung to me, and I made no effort as I had no desire to shake her off.

  Ten o’clock was the hour
fixed for the civic ceremony, in order that ample time might be given to allow the religious one to take place before noon. Just as we were about to start for the scene of the nuptials, my father, who had been watching me attentively, suddenly said —

  “Gaston, art thou well?”

  I looked full at him and laughed.

  “Perfectly well, mon père! Why ask such a question?”

  “Your eyes look feverish,” he answered, “and I have noticed that your hand shakes. If you were not my son, I should say you had been drinking!”

  I bit my lips vexedly, — then forced a smile.

  “Merci! But cannot you allow for a little unusual excitement on one’s wedding-day?”

  His countenance cleared, and he laid one hand affectionately on my shoulder.

  “Of course! Still — to be quite honest with you, Gaston, I must say I have lately observed an alteration in your looks and manner that does not bode well for your health. However, no doubt a change of air will do you good. A month in Switzerland is a cure for almost any ailing man.”

  Switzerland! I laughed again. It had been settled for us by our friends that we were to pass our honeymoon, my bride and I, by the shores of the blue romantic lakes that Byron loved and sang of. I had never seen the splendour of the snow-mountains, — I have never yet seen them, and it is very certain now that I never shall!

  I avoided any further converse with my father, and was glad that so little time was left us for the chance of a tête-à-tête. Punctual to the hour appointed, we drove to the De Charmilles’ residence and found the outside of the house lined and blocked with carriages; — the guests were arriving in shoals. We entered the grand drawing-room; it was exquisitely adorned with palms and flowers, and for one dazed moment I saw nothing but a whirl of bright faces and magnificent bouquets tied with floating ends of white and coloured ribbon. People seized my hand and shook it warmly; — I heard myself congratulated, and managed to enunciate a few formal replies. Presently I came face to face with the bridesmaids, — all clad in palest pink, — all ready for the church ceremony, which to them, as women, was of course the most interesting part of the performance, — and in the centre of this group stood Héloïse St. Cyr, looking strangely pale and grave.