Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  He gave a despairing gesture.

  “Gaston!” he cried. “You kill me!”

  I surveyed him tranquilly.

  “Not so, mon père — I kill myself, — not you! You will live many years yet, in peace and safety and good repute among men, — and you will easily console yourself for the son you have lost in new ties and new surroundings. For you are not a coward, — I am! I am afraid of the very life that throbs within me, — it is too keen and devilish — it is like a sharp sword-blade that eats though its scabbard, — I do my best to blunt its edge! Blame me no more, — think of me no more, — I am not worth a single regret, and I do not seek to be regretted. I loved you once, mon pere, as I told you, — but now, if I saw much of you, — of your independent air, your proud step, you sincere eyes — I dare say, I should hate you! — for I hate all things honest! It is part of my new profession to do so” — and I laughed wildly— “Honesty is a mortal affront to an absintheur! — did you not know that? However, though the offence is great, I will not fight you for it — we will part friends! Adieu!”

  I held out my hand. He looked at it, — did not touch it, — but deliberately put his cane behind his back, and folded his own two hands across it. His face was paler than before and his lips were set. His glance swept over me with unutterable reproach and scorn, — I smiled at his expression of dignified disgust, — and as I smiled, he turned away.

  “Adieu, mon père!” I said again.

  He gave no word or sign in answer, but with a slow, quiet, composed step paced onward, — his head erect, — his shoulders squared, — his whole manner as irreproachable as ever. No one could have thought he carried worse than a bullet-wound in his heart! I knew it — but I did not care. I watched his tall figure disappear through the arching foliage of the trees without regret, — without remorse — indeed with rather a sense of relief than otherwise. He was the best friend I ever had or should have in the world — this I realized plainly enough — but the very remembrance of his virtues bored me! It was tiresome to think of him, — and it was better to lose him, for the infinitely more precious sake of — Absinthe!

  XXVII.

  I PASSED the rest of that day in a strange sort of semi-somnolence, — a state of stupid dull indifferentism as to what next should happen to me. I cannot say that I even thought, — for the powers of thinking in me were curiously inert, almost paralyzed. The interview I had had with my father faded away into a sort of pale and blurred remembrance — it seemed to have taken place years ago instead of hours. That is one of the special charms of the Absinthe-furia; it makes a confused chaos of all impressions, so that it is frequently impossible to distinguish between one event occurring long ago and one that has happened quite recently. True, there are times when certain faces and certain scenes dart out vividly from this semi-obscure neutrality of colour, and take such startling shape and movement as to almost distract the brain they haunt and intimidate, — but these alarms to the seat of reason are not frequent, — at least, not at first. Afterwards — But why should I offer you too close an explanation of these subtle problems of mind-attack and overwhelment? I tell you my own experience; — you can, and I dare say you will, pooh-pooh it as an impossible one, — the mere distraught fancy of an excited imagination, — but, — if you would find out and prove how truly I am dissecting my own heart and soul for your benefit, why take to Absinthe yourself and see! — and describe the result thereafter more coherently than I — if you can!

  All day long, as I have said, I roamed about Paris in a dream, — a dream wherein hazy reflections, dubious wonderments, vague speculations, hovered to and fro without my clearly perceiving their drift or meaning. I laughed a little as I tried to imagine what my father would have said, had he known what had truly become of Silvion Guidèl! If he could have guessed that I had murdered him! What would he have done, I wondered? Probably he would have given me up to the police; — he had a frightfully strained idea of honour, and he would never have been brought to see the justice of my crime as I did! It amused me to think of those stupid Breton folk searching everywhere for their “bien aimé Silvion;” and making every sort of inquiry about him, when all the while he was lying in the common fosse, festering away to nothingness! Yes! — he was nothing now, — he was dead — quite dead, — and yet, I could not disabuse myself of the impression that he was still alive! My nerves were in that sort of condition that at any moment I expected to see him, — it seemed quite likely that he might meet me at any corner of any street. This circumstance and others similar to it, make me at times doubtful as to whether Death is really the conclusion of things the positivists tell us it is. True, the body dies — but there is something in us more than body. And how is it that when we look at the corpse of one whom we knew and loved, we always feel that the actual being who held our affections is no longer there? If not there, then — where? Silvion Guidèl for instance was everywhere, — or so I felt, — instead of being got rid of as I had hoped, he seemed to follow me about in a strange and very persistent way, — so that when he was not actually visible in spectral shape, he was almost palpable in invisibility. This -impression was so pronounced with me, that it is possible, had I been taken unawares and asked some sudden question as to Guidèl’s whereabouts, I should have answered. “He was with me here, just a minute ago!”

  And yet — I had killed him! I knew this, — knew it positively, — and knowing, still vaguely refused to believe it! Everything was misty and indefinite with me, — and the interview I had just had with my father soon became a part of the shadowy chiaroscuro of events uncertain and nameless of which I had no absolutely distinct memory.

  I stared into many shops that afternoon, and went into some of them, asking the prices of things I had no intention of buying. I took a sort of fantastic pleasure in turning over various costly trifles of feminine adornment, such as bracelets, necklets, dangling chatelaines, and useless fripperies of all possible design, — things that catch the eye and charm the soul of almost every simpering daughter of Eve that clicks her high Louis Quinze heels along the asphalte of our Lutetian pavements and avenues. Why was it, I mused, that Pauline de Charmilles had not been quite like the rest of her sex in such matters? I had given her costly gifts in abundance, — but she had preferred the fire of Silvion’s passionate glance; and his kiss had outweighed in her mind any trinket of flawless pearl or glistening diamond! Strange! — Yet she was the child who laughed up in my eyes the first night I met her, and had talked in foolish school-girl fashion of her favorite “marrons glacés”! Heavens! — what odd material women are made of! Then, one would have thought a box of bon-bons sufficient to give her supremest delight, — a string of gems would surely have sent her into an ecstasy! — and yet this dimpling, babyish, frivolous, prattling feminine thing had dared the fatal plunge into the ocean of passion, — and there, — sinking, struggling, dying, — lost, — with fevered pulses and parched lips, — still clung to the frail spar of her own self-centred hope and drifted, — content to perish so, thirsting, starving under the cruel stars of human destiny that make too much love a curse to lovers, — yes! — actually content to perish so, — proud, thankful, even boastful to perish so, because such death was for Love’s sweet-bitter sake! It was remarkable to find such a phase of character in a creature as young as Pauline; or so I thought, — and I wondered dimly whether I had loved her as much a she had loved Guidèl. No sooner did I begin to meditate on this subject than I felt that cold and creeping thrill of brain-horror which I know now, — (for it comes often and I fight as well as I can against it) to be the hint, — the far fore-warning of madness, — wild, shrieking, untameable madness such as makes the strongest keepers of maniac-men recoil and cower! I tell you, doubt it as you will, that my love for Pauline de Charmilles — the silly child who tortured and betrayed me, — was immeasurably greater than I myself had deemed it, — and I dare not even now dwell too long on its remembrance! I loved her as men love who are not ashamed of loving, — ev
ery soft curl of hair on her head was precious to me, — once! — and as I thought upon it, it drove me into a paroxysm of impotent ferocity to recall what I had lost, — how I had been tricked and fooled and mocked and robbed of all life’s dearest joys! At one time, as I wandered aimlessly about the streets, I had a vague idea of setting myself steadily to track out the lost girl by some practical detective method, — of finding her, probably in a state of dire poverty and need, — and of forcing her still to be mine, — but this like all other plans or suggestions of plans, lacked clearness or certainty in my brain, and I merely played with it in my fancy as a thing that possibly might and still more possibly might not be done ere long.

  I ate very little food all that day, and when the evening came I was conscious of a heavy depression and sense of great loneliness. This feeling was of course getting more and more common with me, — it is the deadly stupor of the absintheur which frequently precedes some startling phase of nightmare fantasy. I had a craving, similar to that of the previous night for the rush of crowds, for light and noise, — so I made my way to the Boulevard Montmartre. Here throngs of people swept forward and backward like the ebb and flow of an ocean-tide, — it was fine weather, and the little tables in front of the cafés were pushed far out, some almost to the edge of the curbstone, — while the perpetual shriek and chatter of the Boulevard monkeys, male and female, surged through the quiet air with incessant reverberations of shrill discord. Here and there one chanced on the provincial British paterfamilias new to Paris, with his coffee in front of him, his meek fat-faced partner beside him, and his olive-branches spreading around, — and it is always to a certain extent amusing to watch the various expressions of wonder, offence, severity and general superiority which pass over the good stupid features of such men when they first find themselves in a crowd of Parisian idlers, — men who are so aggressively respectable in their own estimation that they imagine all the rest of the world, especially the Continental world, must be scoundrels. Once, however, by chance I saw a British “papa,” the happy father of ten, coming out of a place of amusement in Paris where certes he had no business to be, — but I afterwards heard that he was a very good man, and always went regularly to church o’ Sundays when he was at home! I suppose he made it all right with his conscience in that way. It is a droll circumstance, by the bye, — that steady going-to-church of the English folk in order to keep up appearances in their respective neighbourhoods. They know they can learn nothing there, — they know that their vicars or curates will only tell them the old platitudes of religion such as all the world has grown weary of hearing — they know that nothing new, nothing large, nothing grand can be expected from these narrowminded expounders of a doctrine which is not of God nor of Christ, nor of anything save convenience and self-interest, and yet they attend their dull services and sermons regularly and soberly without any more unbecoming behaviour than an occasional yawn or brief nap in the corner of their pews. Droll and inexplicable are the ways of England! — and yet withal, they are better than the ways of France when everything is said and done. I used to hate England in common with all Frenchmen worthy the name, — but now I am not so sure. I saw an English woman the other day, — young and fair, with serious sweet eyes, — she walked in the Champs Elyseés by the side of an elderly man, her father doubtless, — and she seemed gravely, not frivolously, pleased with what she saw. But she had that exquisite composure, that serene quietude and grace, — that fine untouchable delicacy about her air and manner which our women of France have little or nothing of, — an air which made me, the absintheur, slink back as she passed, — slink and crouch in hiding till she, the breathing incarnation of sweet and stainless womanhood, had taken her beauty out of sight, — beauty which was to me a stinging silent reproach, reminding me of the dignity of life, — a dignity which I had trampled in the dust and lost for ever!

  Yes! — it was merry enough on the bright Boulevards that evening, — there were many people, — numbers of strangers and visitors to Paris among them. I strolled leisurely to the café I knew best, where my absinthe-witch brewed her emerald potion with more than common strength and flavour, — and I had not sat there so very long, meditatively stirring round and round the pale-green liquor in my glass when I saw André Gessonex approaching. I remembered then that I had told him to meet me some evening at this very place on the Boulevard Montmartre, though I had scarcely expected to see him quite so soon. He looked tidier than usual, — he had evidently made an attempt to appear more gentlemanly than ever, — even his disordered hair had been somewhat arranged with a view to neatness. He saw me at once, and came jauntily up, — lifting his hat with the usual flourish. He glanced at my tumbler.

  “The old cordial!” he said with a laugh. “What a blessed remedy for all the ills of life it is, to be sure! Almost as excellent as death, — only not quite so certain in its effects. Have you been here long?”

  “Not long,” I responded, setting a chair for him beside my own. “Shall I order your portion of the nectar?”

  “Ah! — do so!” — and he stroked his pointed beard absently, while he stared at me with an unseeing, vague yet smiling regard— “I am going to purchase a ‘Journal pour Rire’ it has a cartoon that, — but perhaps you have seen it?”

  I had seen it — a pictured political skit, — but its obscenity had disgusted even me. I say ‘even’ me, — because now I was not easily shocked or repelled. But this particular thing was so gratuitously indecent that, though I was accustomed to see Parisians enjoy both pictorial and literary garbage with the zest of vultures tearing carrion, I was somewhat surprised at their tolerating so marked an instance of absolute grossness without wit. It astonished me too to hear Gessonex speak of it, — I should not have thought it in his line. However I assented briefly to his query.

  “It is clever” — he went on, still thoughtfully stroking his beard— “and it is a reflex of the age we live in. Its sale to-day will bring in much more money than I ask for one of my pictures. And that is another reflex of the age! I admire the cartoon, — and I envy the artist who designed it!”

  I burst out laughing.

  “You! You envy the foul-minded wretch who polluted his pencil with such a thing as that?”

  “Assuredly!” and Gessonex smiled, — a peculiar faraway sort of smile. “He dines, and I do not — he sleeps, and I do not, — he has a full purse, — mine is empty! — and strangest anomaly of all, because he pays his way he is considered respectable, — while I, not being able to pay my way, am judged as quite the reverse! Foul-minded? Polluted? Tut, mon cher! there is no foulmindedness nowadays except lack of cash, — and the only pollution possible to the modern artist’s pencil is to use it on work that does not pay!”

  With these words he turned from me and went towards the little kiosque at the corner close by where the journals of the day were sold by the usual sort of painted and betrinketed female whom one generally sees presiding over these street-stalls of the cheap press, — and I watched him curiously, not knowing why I did so. He was always affected in his walk, — but on this particular evening his swaggering gait seemed to be intensified. I saw him take the “Journal pour Rire” in his hand, — and I heard him give a loud harsh guffaw of laughter at the wretched cartoon it contained, — laughter in which the woman, who sold it to him, joined heartily with the ready appreciation nearly all low-class Frenchwomen exhibit for the questionable and indelicate, — and I turned away my eyes from him vaguely vexed at his manner, — I had always deemed him above mere brute coarseness. It was to me a new phase of his character, and ill became him, — moreover it seemed put on like a mask or other disfiguring disguise. I looked away from him, as I say, — when, all at once, — the sharp report of a pistol shot hissed through the air, — there was a flash of flame — a puff of smoke, — then came a fearful scream from the woman at the kiosque, followed by a sudden rush of people, — and I sprang up just in time to see Gessonex reel forward and fall heavily to the ground! In less
than a minute a crowd had gathered round him, but I forced my way through the pressing throng till I reached his side, — and then, — then I very quickly realized what had happened! Absinthe had done its work well this time! — and no divine intervention had stopped the suicide of the body any more than it had stopped the suicide of the soul! The powers of heaven are always very indifferent about these matters, — and Gessonex had taken all laws both human and superhuman into his own hands for the nonce, — he had shot himself! He had coolly and deliberately sent a bullet whizzing through his brain, — his fingers still convulsively grasped the weapon with which he had done the deed — his mouth was streaming with blood — and the “Journal pour Hire,” with its detestable cartoon, lay near him, spotted and stained with the same deadly crimson hue. A ghastly sight! — a horrible end! — and yet — there was something indescribably beautiful in the expression of the wide-open, fastglazing eyes! Mastering my sick fear and trembling I bent over him, — a young surgeon who had happened to be passing by at the time was bending over him too, and gently wiping away the blood from his lips, — and to this man I addressed a hurried word.