Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Absolution? Wretched soul, there is none — none! Unless you at once confess yourself to the authorities and give yourself up to justice, there is no forgiveness either in earth or heaven for such an evil deed. Who was the man?”

  “My enemy!”

  “You should have pardoned him!”

  “Good father, you are not consistent! According to your own account, God Himself does not pardon till justice is done. I — like Deity — wanted justice! I killed a deceiver, a liar, a seducer, — a priest who robbed me of the woman I loved!”

  A shuddering sigh — half a groan escaped him.

  “A priest! — oh God!”

  “Yes, a priest,” I went on recklessly. “What then? Priests are worse than laymen. Their vocation deprives them of love, — they crave for it because it is forbidden and will have it at all risks. And he, the man I killed — had it, — he won it by a mere look, a mere smile; he had fine eyes and a graceful trick of manner. He was happy for a time at any rate. He was as beautiful as an angel — as gifted as a Marcus Aurelius! — Did you never know any one like him? He had the best of all the world could give him in the love of a woman as fair as the morning. She is dead too now. She drowned herself as soon as she knew he was gone — and that I had killed him! So he keeps her love to the end you see, — and I am baffled of it all. That is why I have come to you — just because I am baffled, — I want you to comfort me — I want a victory somewhere! I want you to tell me that the man I murdered is damned to all eternity, because he had no time to repent of his sins before he died! I want you to tell me that she — the woman, — is damned also, because, she killed herself without God’s permission! Tell me any lies the Church will allow you to tell! Tell me that I am safe because I endure! — because though loaded with sin and vice, I still live on, waiting for God to kill me rather than myself! Tell me all this and I will read all the Penitential Psalms in the café this evening instead of the ‘Petit Journal!’” I paused for lack of breath, — I could see Vaudron start up from his seat in horror as I uttered my reckless tirade — and now, when I gave him time to speak, his voice trembled with righteous indignation.

  “Blasphemer, be silent!” he said— “Wretched, unhappy man — how dare you presume to enter God’s house in such a condition? You are mad or drunk — you affront the Sacrament of Confession by ribald language! — you insult the Church! Pray for true contrition if you can pray — and go! — I will hear no more!”

  “But you shall hear!” I said wildly. “You must hear! I have murdered a man, I tell you! — and the accursed memory of his dying eyes, his dying face, clings to me like a disease in the air! You do not ask me who he was — yet you know him! — you loved him! He was your nephew — Silvion Guidèl!”

  Hardly had the words left my lips when the confessional doors flew open, and Vaudron rushed upon me, — he clutched me by the arm, his fine old face burning with wrath.

  “You murdered him! — you — you!” he gasped, his eyes glittering, his hand uplifted as though he would have struck me down before him.

  I smiled.

  “Even so, good father! I, — simply I! And here I am, — at your mercy — only remember this, — what I have said to you is under the seal of confession!” His upraised arm dropped nerveless at his side — he stared fixedly at me, his breath coming and going rapidly as though he had been running a race. Then, still holding me in a fast grip, he dragged me to the front of the altar where the light shed by the swinging lamps could fall directly upon my features. There, like one in some feverish dream, he scanned me up and down, doubtfully at first, then with gradually dawning, horrified recognition.

  “God have mercy upon me!” he ejaculated tremulously; “It is Gaston Beauvais!”

  “Precisely so, mon cher Vaudron!” I replied composedly. “It is Gaston Beauvais! It is the Gaston Beauvais who was duped and betrayed, — and who has avenged his wrong in the good old Biblical fashion, by killing his betrayer! More than this — it is the Gaston Beauvais who drove Pauline de Charmilles to her self-sought death, by telling her the fate of her lover, — what could you expect! — she was a silly girl always! And now I unburden myself to you that you may know me; and that I also may know if there is any truth in the religion you profess. I think not, — for you, an ordained servant of the Church, have already shown something of unseemly violence! Your grip on my arm is not of the lightest, I assure you! — you have given way to anger, — fie, père Vaudron! Wrath in the sanctuary is not becoming to your order! What! — did you fancy you were a man for once, — instead of a priest?”

  I did not mean to offer him this insult, — the bitter jest escaped my lips before I was aware of it. But it made no visible effect on him, — he merely loosened his hold of me and stood a step or two apart, looking at me with strained anguished eyes.

  “You can break your vows, if you like,” I went on carelessly. “Vows of every kind are brittle ware nowadays. You can tell my father I am a murderer, — the murderer of Silvion Guidèl — and so give him fresh cause to congratulate his foresight in having disowned me, — you can tell Héloïse St. Cyr that I goaded her cousin to madness, — you can betray me to the guillotine. All this is in your power, and by doing it y ou will only prove, like many another of your craft, how lightly a Creed weighs in the balance against personal passion,... you will be wise in your generation like the Pharisees of old—”

  “Stop — stop!” he cried hoarsely, flinging up his hands and clasping them above his head. “I cannot bear it — oh God! I cannot bear it! Wretched man, what have I done to you that you should so torture me!”

  I was silent. What had he done? Why — nothing! I watched him coldly, — his countenance was a strange study! He was fighting a mental battle, — a conflict of sworn duty against all the claims and instincts of manhood, — it seemed surprising to me that he should deem it worth his while to engage in such a struggle. A few minutes passed thus, — no one entered the church — we were alone with all the familiar things of religion about us, the lamps above us shedding a blood-like hue on the figure of the Christ crucified. Presently, as though drawn by some compelling instinct he turned towards this Image of his Faith, — a great sigh broke from his lips, — and, tottering feebly forward, he fell upon his knees and hid his face, — I saw tears trickling slowly between his wrinkled fingers. Foolish old man! His simplicity vexed me — he looked like the picture of a praying apostle, with the faint glow from the light above the cross falling in the shape of a halo round his silvery hair!

  And I — I stood irresolute, — half abashed, wholly embarrassed, — inclined to laugh or weep, I knew not which; — when all at once a horrible sensation overwhelmed me, — something snapt asunder in my temples like a suddenly cut wire, — the whole nave of the church grew black as pitch, and I threw out my hands to keep myself from falling. Then came masses of pale green vapour that twisted and twirled, and sent shafts of lambent fire, or lightning as it seemed into the very centre of my brain! — but through it all, though I seemed caught up and devoured by flame, I saw Vaudront devout figure kneeling at the crucifix; and I rushed to it as to some certain rescue.

  “Save me!” I cried desperately. “Have you no pity?” and I clutched at his garment. “Do you not see? — I am going mad! — mad!”

  And I burst into a peal of delirious laughter that woke loud echoes from the vaulted roof and startled my own ears with a sense of horror. But with that laughter, the paroxysm passed, — my brain cleared, and I regained my self-control as by an electric shock that only left my limbs trembling. Père Vaudron meanwhile had risen from his knees and now confronted me, his features pallid with woe and wonder.

  “Pardon me!” I said, and forced a smile. “I am not well! I have nervous delusions, — I suffer from too much dissipation — I am a victim to pleasure! Self-indulgence is an agreeable thing, — but it has its consequences which are not always agreeable. It is nothing — a mere passing ailment! But now, good father, — as you have said your prayers —
(and I hope gained much benefit thereby!) may I ask if you have no word for me? It is the duty of a priest, I believe, if he cannot give absolution, to at least enjoin penance!”

  He met my satirical glance with a stern sorrow in his own eyes — the tears were still wet on his cheeks.

  “The secret of your crime is safe with me!” was all he said, — and turned away.

  I hastened after him.

  “Is that all?” I asked, half banteringly.

  He stopped, and looked fixedly at me once more; — the agony depicted in his face would have touched me had my heart not been harder than adamant.

  “All!” he exclaimed passionately. “Is it not the ‘all’ you need? You tell me you murdered the unhappy Silvion, — you, — Gaston Beauvais, of all men in the world! — and why have you told me? Simply to weigh me down to the grave with the awful burden of that hidden knowledge! You have no regret or remorse, — you speak of what you have done with the most horrible cynicism, — and to talk of penance to you would be to outrage its very name! For God’s sake leave me! — leave me to the wretchedness of my lonely old age, — leave me, while I have strength to let you go unharmed — I am but human! — your presence sickens me — I have no force to bear — more—”

  His voice failed him, — he made a slight gesture of dismissal.

  “And I — do you not think I am miserable?” I said angrily. “What a set of egotists you are — you and my father, and the whole baraque! Fine Christians truly! — always pitying yourselves! Have you no pity for me?”

  The old curé drew himself up, the dignity and pathos of his grief making his homely figure for the moment majestic.

  “I pity you, God knows!” he said solemnly. “I pity you more than the lowest pitiable thing that breathes! A man with the curse of Cain upon his soul, — a man without a heart, without a conscience, without peace in this world or hope in the next; — as Christ lives, I pity you! But do not expect more of me than pity! I am a poor frail old man, — lacking in all the virtues of the saints — and I cannot — Heaven help me! I cannot forgive you!” — and his voice shook as, waving me back, with one hand, he walked feebly to the door of the sacristy— “I cannot! — Christ have mercy upon me! — I cannot! I have no strength for that, — the poor child Pauline — the wretched Silvion! — no, no! I cannot forgive! — not yet! God must teach me to do that — God must help me, — of my own accord I cannot!”

  On a sudden impulse I flung myself on my knees before him.

  “Père Vaudron!” I cried. “Remember! — You knew me as a child — you loved me as a boy — you are my father’s friend! Think — I am a wreck — a lost soul! — will you let me go without a word of comfort?”

  He stood inert — his face pale as death, his lips quivering. The struggle within him was very bitter — his breath came hard and fast, — he too had loved that accursedly beautiful Silvion! After a pause, he raised his shaking hand and pointed to the crucifix.

  “There — there!” he muttered brokenly— “Go there — and — pray! As a man I dare say nothing to you — as a priest I say, God help you!”

  Poor old man! His Christian heroism was sorely tried! He drew his garment from my touch, — the sacristy-door opened and shut, — he was gone.

  I sprang to my feet and looked about me. I was alone in the church, — alone and face to face with the crucifix, — the great, gaunt, bleeding Figure with the down-dropped Head and thorny crown. “Go there — and pray! “What — I? — I an absintheur? Kneel at a crucifix? — Never? It could do me no good, I knew, — whatever miracle it might work on others!

  Poor old Vaudron! I had made him miserable — poor, simple, silly, feeble soul! “God help you!” he had said — not “God, pardon you!” He knew the Eternal Code of Justice better than to use the word “pardon.” I should scarcely have thought he had so much firmness in him — so much stanch manhood. It was not in human nature to easily forgive such a criminal as I, — and he, in spite of his vocation, had been true to human nature. I honoured him for it. Human Nature is a grand thing! Sometimes noble, sometimes mean, — sometimes dignified, sometimes abject, — what an amazing phase of Creation it is! — and though so human, how full (at odd intervals) of the Divine! The crucifix is its Symbol, — for Man at his best is an Ideal, — and when he reaches this point of perfection, the rest of his race hang him up on a cross like a criminal in the sight of the centuries, to mock at, to worship now and then, and to sneer at still more frequently, for says the world— “Look at this fool! He professed to be able to live a nobler life than we, and see where we have nailed him!”

  And I passed the dead Christ with an indifferent shrug and smile as I stumbled out of the quiet church into the chill air of the night, and thought how little the Christian creed had done for me. It had (perhaps) persuaded Vaudron to “pity” me, and to say, “God help” me, — but what cared I for pity or a vaguely divine assistance? I had better material wherewith to deal! — and, humming the fragment of a tune, I sauntered drowsily down to the Boulevards, and there, as a suitable wind-up to my “religious” evening, got dead drunk, — on Absinthe!

  XXXV.

  THE time that immediately followed that night is a blur to me; — I have no recollection at all of anything that happened. For I was very ill. During the space of a whole month I lay in my bed, a prey to violent fever and delirium. So I was told afterwards; — I knew nothing. The people at my lodgings got alarmed and sent for a doctor, — he was a good fellow in his way, and took an amiably scientific interest in me. When I recovered my senses he told me what I knew very well before, — namely that all my sufferings were due to excessive indulgence in Absinthe.

  “You must give it up,” he said decisively, “at once, — and for ever. It is a detestable habit, — a horrible craze of the Parisians, who are positively deteriorating in blood and brain by reason of their passion for this poison. What the next generation will be, I dread to think! I know it is a difficult business to break off anything to which the system has grown accustomed, — but you are still a young man and you cannot be too strongly warned against the danger of continuing in your present course of life. Moral force is necessary, — and you must exert it. I have a large medical practice, and cases like yours are alarmingly common, and as much on the increase as morphinomania amongst women, — but I tell you frankly no medicine can do good, where the patient refuses to employ his own power of resistance. I must ask you therefore, for your own sake, to bring all your will to bear on the effort to overcome this fatal habit of yours, as a matter of duty and conscience.”

  Duty and conscience! I smiled, — and, turning on my pillows, stared at him curiously. He was a quiet, self-possessed man of middle age, rather good-looking, with a calm voice and a reserved manner.

  “Duty and conscience!” I murmured languidly. “How well they sound — those good little words! And so, doctor, you consider me in a bad condition?”

  He surveyed me with a cold, professional air.

  “I certainly do,” he answered. “If it were not for the fact that you have the recuperative forces of youth in you, I should be inclined to pronounce you as incurable. Were I to analyze your state—”

  “Do so, I beg of you!” I interrupted him eagerly. “Analyze me by all means! — I am fond of science!”

  He looked at me dubiously and felt my pulse, watch in hand.

  “Science is in its infancy,” he said meditatively, “especially medical science. But some few facts it has entirely mastered. And so, speaking without any reserve, I must inform you that if you persist in drinking absinthe you will become a hopeless maniac. Your illness has been a sort of God-send, — it has forced you to live a month under my care without tasting a drop of that infernal liquid. And a certain benefit has been the result, so that, in a way, you are prepared to be cured. But your brain-cells are still heavily charged with the poison, and a violent irritation has been set up in the nerve-tissues. Your blood is contaminated — and its flow from the heart to the bra
in is irregular, — sometimes violently interrupted; — a state of things which naturally produces giddiness, swooning, and fits of delirium which resemble strong epilepsy. Such a condition might make you subject to hallucinations of an unpleasant kind—”

  “Just so!” I interposed lazily. “And with all your skill, doctor, you have not got rid of that brute down there!”

  He started, — and gazed inquiringly in the direction to which I pointed, where plain and tangible to my eyes, the tawny spectral leopard lay on my bed, not below it, its great yellow forepaws resting close to my feet.

  “What brute?” he demanded, bringing his calm glance to bear upon me once more, and again pressing his cool, firm fingers on my throbbing pulse.

  I explained in a few words, the hateful delusion that had troubled me so long. His brows knitted, and he seemed perplexed.

  “No cure for me?” I asked indifferently, noting the expression of his face.

  “I do not know — I cannot tell,” he answered hurriedly. “Such persistently marked spectra is generally the symptom of existing disease, — I had hoped otherwise — but—”

  “You had hoped it was merely temporary,” I said. “Ah, I understand! But if disease has actually begun, what is the remedy?”

  He hesitated.

  “Come — speak!” And I raised myself on my pillows impatiently. “You need not be afraid to give an opinion!”

  “There is no remedy,” he replied reluctantly. “Disease of the brain is incurable, — it can only be retarded. Care, good food, quiet, and total abstinence from any sort of spirituous poison, — this régime, can avert, and probably check any fresh symptoms, — in some cases a normal condition can be attained which very nearly approaches complete cure. More than this would be impossible to human skill...”

  “Thanks!” I murmured, lying back on my bed again. “You are very good! I will think over what you say; though to tell you the truth, it seems to me quite as agreeable to be mad as sane in this monotonous world!”