Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  I lived on from day to day in my hidden retirement, perfectly contented with my lot, and doing nothing whatever but dreamily wander about the byeways of the city, looking for Pauline. Yet I could not have told any one why I looked for her. I did not want her. Nevertheless, reason or no reason, the impulse of search continued; and every woman of youthful and shrinking appearance I met, came in for my close and eager scrutiny. Once or twice in my lonely walks I saw Héloïse St. Cyr, robed in deepest black and closely veiled, and I guessed by the character of the places in which I encountered her, that she also was seeking for the lost one. She never saw me, — for I always slunk away in swift avoidance of any possible glance of recognition from her beautiful disdainful eyes. And, as I have stated, a fortnight had elapsed, — when, one evening, an irresistible yearning came over me to take a stroll in the direction of Neuilly — to pass the old house of my other days, — to look up at the windows on the chance of seeing merely the shadow of my father’s figure silhouetted by the lamplight on the drawn blind. He thought me far away by this time, and was no doubt surprised and irritated at receiving no letters from me. I wondered if he were solitary? — if he regretted the loss of my companionship? Yielding to my fancy, I started on the well-known route which I had up till now carefully avoided. I stopped now and then to re-invigorate my forces with the Absinthe-fire that I fully believed was the only thing that kept me alive, — but once I had passed all the cafés where the best form of that elixir was obtainable, I continued my road steadily and without interruption along the Champs Elysées.

  It was a fine night; the trees were in full foliage; a few stray birds twittered sleepily among the branches, and under the light of the soft moon, many an amorous couple wandered to and fro, entranced in each other’s society, and telling each other the same old lies of love and perpetual constancy that all wise men laugh at. I walked slowly, — following, as I always followed, the flickering rays of green that trembled on my path, — to-night they took the shape of thin arrows that pointed forward, — ever forward and straight on! Neuilly at last! — and a few minutes more brought me to the house I had so lately known as “home.” All the windows were empty of light save that of the library, — and here the blind was only half down, so that I was able to see my father through it, busily writing. His table was strewn with papers; he looked fatigued and careworn, — and for one brief second my heart smote me. Troublesome conscience was not quite dead; — yonder old man’s fine, placid yet weary face roused in me a struggling passion of regret and remorse. It was a mere flash of pain! — it soon passed, — I pressed my hand heavily over my eyes to still their burning ache, — and turning from the house, I looked down on the dark asphalte pavement at my feet. There were those little flickering green shafts of light pointing ahead as before! — and, careless as to where I went I continued to follow in their spectral lead. So I walked on and on; surrounded as I went by strange sights and sounds to which I had now grown almost accustomed, and which, even at their worst brought me much weird and fantastic delight. To a great extent, my sensations, though purely imaginary, seemed real; nothing could have been more substantial in appearance than the faces and forms that hovered about me, — it was only when I strove to touch them that things vanished. But the odd part of it was that I could feel them touching me; kisses were pressed on my lips, — soft arms embraced me, — the very breath of these phantoms seemed at times to lift and fan my hair. And more real than the faces and forms were the voices I heard; — these never left me alone, — they sang, they talked, they whispered, of things strange and terrible, — things that might have turned the blood cold in the veins of an honest man; — only that I was no longer honest. I knew that! I was neither honest to myself, nor in my feelings towards the world, — but this did not appear to me at all a matter for compunction. Because, after all, there was no one to care particularly what my principles were, — no one except my father, — and he was an old man, — his term of life would soon be ended. Self-respect is the root of honour; and with me self-respect was dead and buried! I had taken to self-indulgence instead. Most men do, if truth were told, though their favourite vice may not be the love of Absinthe. But that nearly every man has some evil propensity to which he secretly panders, — this is a fact of which we may be perfectly sure!

  For my part, I was quite content to listen to the ghastly prattle of the suggestive air-voices about me; and my brain was wondrously quick to conjure up the scenes they told me of, — scenes in graves, where the pain-tranced man, thought to be dead but living, is buried in the haste ordained by the iniquitous French law, and struggles choking in his coffin, while the sexton, fully aware of, yet terrified by his moans, calmly throws the earth over him all the same and levels it down; — of lazar-houses and dissecting-rooms, and all the realistic wonders of obscurity and crime, on which the “cultured” Paris public dwells with rapt and ecstatic interest, — such beauteous things as these were as vivid and sweet to me now as they had once been repulsive. And so I strolled along under the moon-silvered sky, heedless of distance, careless of time, till the more brilliant clustering lights of Paris were left behind me, and I woke up with a start from my sinister musings, to find myself in the quiet little suburb of Suresnes.

  Do you know Suresnes? On a fine summer’s afternoon it is worth while to journey thither, and walk over the bridge, stopping half-way across to look up and down at the quietly flowing river, that on the right-hand parts with a broad shining ribbon-breadth the Bois, and the opposite undulating hills. Down almost to the brink of the water slope a few exquisite lawns and gardens belonging to those white villas one sees glimmering among the rich foliage of the trees; and round by these in a semi-circle sweeps the Seine, onward and out of sight like the silver robe of a queen vanishing into stately distance. To the left is Paris; — a vision of aerial bridge, building and tower, — and at times when the sunset is like fire and the wind is still, — when the bells chime musically forth the hour, and every turret and chimney is bathed in roseate light, one might almost imagine it a fairy city, gleaming aloft mirage-like, for one marvellous moment, only to disappear the next. Once past the bridge you enter the Bois, where the open road leads to Longchamps; but there are many nooky paths and quiet corners down under the tall trees by the edge of the river itself, where one may bask whole hours in happy solitude, — solitude so complete that it is easy to imagine oneself miles away from any city. Often and often I had wandered hither in my boyhood, reading some favourite book or giving myself up to pleasant daydreaming and air-castle-building; yet to-night I gazed upon the familiar scene entirely bewildered and with all the puzzled uncertainty of a stranger ignorant of his whereabouts. Suresnes itself was quiet as a crypt; its principal café was shut up and not a single lamp glimmered in any window of any house that I could see, — the moon beams alone silvered the roofs and doors and transformed the pretty bridge to a sparkling span of light. The tide was high, — it made a musical rushing and gurgling as it ran; I leaned upon the bridge-parapet and listened to its incessant murmur, half soothed, half pained. Then, sauntering slowly, and trying, as I went, to understand something of the hushed and spiritual beauty of the landscape, — for this sort of comprehension was daily becoming more difficult to me, — I moved on towards the Bois. The great leaf-covered trees rustled mysteriously, and mingled their sighs with the liquid warbling of the waters; — there was no living soul to be seen, — this hour of solemn quietude and rest seemed all for me, and for me alone.

  Once across the bridge I paused, looking into the further stretches of the woodland. The air was so very still, that I could hear the distinct fall of the artificial cascade, that, with its adjacent café, is the scene of many a pleasant summer rendezvous; and, for a moment I thought I would walk thus far. Suddenly, with a loud silvern clang, a neighbouring church clock struck the hour — eleven. It sounded more like the Mass-bell than a clock chime, — and my thoughts, which were always in a scattered and desultory condition, began to swarm like bee
s round the various ideas of religion and worship it suggested. I reflected how many a canting hypocrite earned dishonest bread by playing a sanctimonious part before the so-called sacred altars, — altars polluted by such paid service; how, in every church, in every form of creed, men, preaching one thing and openly practising another, offered themselves as “Christian examples” forsooth to their less professing brethren; — how smug priests and comfortable clergymen, measuring Christianity solely as a means whereby to live, profaned the name of Christ by the mere utterance of it in their false and greedy mouths; — and how, in these days, religion was rendered such a ghastly mockery by its very teachers, that it was no wonder if some honest folk preferred to believe in no God at all, rather than accept a God in whom His servants could profess to find such inconsistency and absolute lack of principle.

  All at once my thoughts took flight like a flock of scared birds, as they often did; a sick swimming sensation in my head made me clutch at the near branch of a tree for support, — the whole landscape went round in a green circle, and the stars looked pushed forth from the sky in jets of flame. All was red, green, and white dazzlement before me for a moment, — and to master this uncomfortable faintness which threatened to end in a swoon, I moved unsteadily, feeling my way as though I were blind, down towards the river’s brink. I had an idea that I would rest there awhile on the cool grass till I recovered; and I went towards one of the most sequestered and lonely nooks I could just then confusedly remember; — a tiny plat of velvety greensward shaded about by huge umbrageous elms, where, from the encircling shadows, one could look out on the brighter waters, and inhale the freshness of whatever light wind there was. I went on very feebly, for my senses were in a whirl and seemed on the point of deserting me altogether; I bent aside the branches, and slipped between the closely-set and intertwisted trunks in order to gain as speedily as possible the spot I sought, — when, as though I had received a paralyzing electric shock I stopped, staring ahead of me in doubt, wrath, and wonder; — a rush of strength was hurled into me — a superhuman force that strung up my every nerve and sinew to almost breaking tension, — and I sprang furiously forward, uttering an oath that was half a cry. A man stood near the river’s edge, — a man in the close black garments of a priest; and he turned his face, fair, cold, and pale, fearlessly towards me as I came.

  “You — you!” I whispered hoarsely, for rage choked my voice, “You, here, — Silvion Guidèl!”

  XXII.

  His eyes rested on me quietly, almost indifferently; dense, dark, weary eyes they were that night! — and he sighed.

  “Yes, I am here,” he said slowly. “I have tried to keep away, but in the end I could not. Is she well?” I stared at him, — too maddened by wrath and amazement for the moment to speak. He, never removing his gaze from me, repeated his question anxiously —

  “Tell me, is she well? I have no right to know, perhaps, — you are her husband, — but I — I was her lover, God forgive me! — and again I ask, — is she well?” He was ignorant then of all that had happened! As this fact forced itself on my comprehension, my fury froze into sinister calm.

  “She is dead!” I answered curtly and with a chill smile.

  He gave a slight disdainful gesture, still keeping his eyes upon me.

  “I do not believe you,” he said. “She could not die, — not yet; she is too young, — too beautiful! Would she were dead! — but I know she is not.”

  “You know she is not!” I retorted. “How do you know? I tell you she is dead! — dead to every one that honoured or loved her! What! — has she not sought you out before this? — she has had ample time.”

  His face grew very white — his look expressed sudden fear and bewilderment.

  “Sought me out!” he stammered hurriedly. “What do you mean? Is she not your wife? — have you not married her?”

  My hands clenched themselves involuntarily till the nails dug into my flesh.

  “Lâche!” I cried, furiously. “Dare you suppose that I would wed your cast-off mistress?”

  With a sudden supple movement he turned upon me, and seizing me by both shoulders held me as in a vice.

  “Do not say that, Gaston Beauvais!” he muttered fiercely, his rich voice trembling with passion. “Do not fling one word of opprobrium at the child whose very innocence was her ruin! Here, as we two stand face to face alone with the night and God as witnesses, do we not know the truth, you and I, as men, that it is we who take dastardly advantage of the passionate impulse of a young girl’s tenderness, and that often her very sin of love looks white virtue compared to our black vice! I — I alone am to blame for my darling’s misery; — you have not married her, you say, — then where is she? As mine was the fault, so shall mine be the reparation, — God knows the bitterness now of my remorse! But do not you presume to judge her, Gaston Beauvais! — you are no more than man, and as such, the condemnation of a woman ill becomes you!”

  He loosened his grasp of me so swiftly that I reeled slightly back from him, — the old magnetic charm of his voice restrained my rage for an instant, and I gazed at him half stupefied. The wonderful spiritual beauty of his face was intensified by the moon’s mellow lustre; his proud, almost defiant attitude would have suggested to any ordinary observer that it was he who was the offended, and I the offender! Had we been playing our life-parts on the theatrical stage, the sympathy of the audience would have assuredly gone with him and away from me, all because he looked handsome, and spoke fearlessly! Such is the world’s villainous inconsistency! He waited, as though to rally his forces; — I waited too, considering how best I could pierce that saintly exterior down to the satyr heart within! A curious nervous trembling seized me; my pulses began to gallop and the blood hummed tumultuously in my ears, but nevertheless I managed still to keep up the outward appearance of perfect composure.

  “Where is she?” he again demanded.

  “On the streets of Paris!” I answered sneeringly.

  “My God!” and he sprang towards me. “Her father—”

  “Is dead and buried! What next? Ask! — I shall not scruple to tell you the result of your work, Silvion Guidèl! It is well that when you perform mass, you should know for whom to pray!”

  And I laughed bitterly. His head drooped on his breast, — his features grew wan and rigid, and a deep sigh shuddered through his frame.

  “Pauline! Pauline!” I heard him mutter under his breath. “Poor little child! — what can I do for thee?”

  At this, the venomous passion of my soul seemed to urge itself into full-voiced utterance.

  “What can you do?” I exclaimed. “Nothing! You are too late! You talk of reparation, — what reparation is possible, now? You had it in your power to make amends, — you could at least have married the girl whose mind you contaminated and whose life you wronged! But no! — you slunk into the refuge of the priesthood like a beaten cur! — you proved yourself a betrayer, deserter, and coward! — and like a sanctimonious fool and hypocrite as you were trusted to my generosity to cover your crime! As well trust a tiger not to tear! What! Did you take me for a church saint? Have I ever played that part? — have I ever pretended to be more than man? I told you once that I would never forgive even the closest friend who dared to deceive me, — do you think my words were mere feigning? Listen! Pauline de Charmilles confessed her shame to me in secret, — I proclaimed it in public! I do not love dishonour, — I set no value on flawed jewels! I rejected her! — mark you that, Silvion Guidèl, holy servant of the church as you are! — I rejected her on the very day appointed for our marriage, in presence of all those fine birds of fashion that came to see us wedded! — ah, it was a rare vengeance, and sweeter to me than any fortune or fame! What now? Is there something unusual in my aspect to so arouse your pious wonder? You stare at me as if you saw a dead man mouldering in his grave!”

  His eyes flashed forth a fierce und unutterable scorn. “I see worse than that!” he answered passionately. “I see — oh God! — I see wha
t I never imagined I should see! — a baser villain than myself!”

  He paused, his breath coming and going rapidly, — then, with a wild gesture he cried out as though suddenly oblivious of my presence —

  “Oh Pauline, Pauline! My little love! — my angel! Lost, ruined, and deserted! — oh Pauline! — Pauline!” The yearning tenderness in his voice set astir a strange new throbbing in my blood, and drawing a stealthy step or two nearer I studied his agonized face as I would have studied some rare or curious picture. He glanced at me where I stood, and a strange smile curved his lips.

  “Why do you not kill me?” he said, with an inviting gesture. “I should be glad to die!”

  I made no immediate answer. Why did I not kill him! It was a foolish question, and it hummed in my ears with foolish persistency. To escape from it I forced myself into a side-issue of the argument.