Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  He moved away from me to the table where he sat down and wrote a prescription. I noted his appearance drowsily, — his sleek head, his well-fitting clothes, — the clean, pale, business-looking hand that guided the pen.

  “Voyons!” I said, with a laugh, “In all the range of your experience, did you ever know an absintheur give up Absinthe? — even for the sake of ‘duty and conscience’?”

  He made no answer — he merely took up his hat, looked into the crown of it, bowed slightly, and took his departure.

  A couple of weeks later on I was able to rise from my bed and crawl about again, and then it was that I found I was getting very short of money. My illness had cost me dear; — and I soon recognized that I should have to vacate my already poor apartment for one in some still cheaper and lower quarter. And I should have to do something for a living, — something, if it were but to beg for pence, — something even to obtain the necessary coins wherewith to purchase Absinthe. And one day, the weather being warm and sunny, I wandered into the Tuileries gardens and sat there, drowsily pondering on my own fate, — turning over the pros and cons of my miserable existence, and wondering what I should do to enable myself to live on. For worthless as my life was, — worthless as I knew it to be, I did not want to die, — I had not the necessary courage for that.

  All at once like a rainbow of hope in a dark sky, there came to me the thought of Héloïse St. Cyr. Her fair and saintly presence seemed to pass, a holy vision, before my sight, — and in my weak and debilitated state, the tears rushed to my eyes at the mere remembrance of her womanly truth and sweetness. Her voice, with its soft musical cadence seemed to float invitingly towards me, — nay, — I even fancied I heard the melodies of the violin she played so well, echoing faintly through the quiet air. I would go to her, I thought; — would go, while I was crushed and broken down by the effects of my illness, I would tell her all and plead for pity — for pardon; — I would ask her to help me, — to save me from myself as only a good woman, God’s angel on earth, ever can save a wretched man. And if she wished — if she commanded it — I would, — yes! I would actually give up absinthe for her sake, — she should do with me what she would, — my wrecked life should be hers to dominate as she chose!

  I rose up hastily, the tears still in my eyes, — and, leaning on a stick, for I was unable to walk without this support, I made my way with painfully slow steps towards the house of the De Charmilles. For all I knew the Countess and her niece might not be there, — they might have gone south for the winter. Still I felt that I must make an attempt, however futile, to see the only creature in the world who could, just at this juncture in my life, possibly even now be my saviour!

  There were a great many people in the streets; everything looked bright and suggestive of pleasure, — the sunshine was brilliant, and the Champs Elysées were crowded with happy children sporting in the merry-go-rounds, and driving in the pretty goat-carriages, while their nurses and governesses mounted tender guard over their innocent pastimes. I thought I had never seen Paris wear such a beautiful aspect; — a gentle mood was upon me, — I was sorrowful yet not despairing, — and though I was not actually cognizant of any poignant remorse for all the evil I had wrought I was conscious of a faint, yearning desire to atone. The last little spark of my better nature had roused itself into a feeble glow, and it kindled within me a sense of shame, a touch of late — and useless — penitence. I little knew how soon this nobler fire was to be quenched in darkness! — I little guessed what swift vengeance the wild Absinthe-witch can take on any one of her servitors who dares to dream of disputing her inexorable authority I And by-and-by my laggard, faltering movements brought me to the familiar street, — the well-known stately mansion where I had so often been a welcome guest in happier days. The gates stood open, — but there was something strange about the aspect of the place that made me rub my eyes and stare in vaguely stupid wonder, — what dark delusion had seized upon me now? The gates stood open, as I said, — and the circumstance that awoke in me such dull confusion and amazement was, that the portals of the hall-door were also flung wide apart, and the whole entrance was hung with draperies of black festooned with white; heavy draperies that trailed mournfully like drooping banners, down to the ground below. Again I rubbed my eyes violently — I could not believe their testimony — they had so often deceived me. Was this a spectral hallucination? I advanced hesitatingly — I ascended the steps — I approached those dreary black hangings and touched them; — they were real, — and the hall beyond them was dark and solemn, the gleam of a few tall candles sparkling here and there like tapers in a tomb. No one noticed me, though there were many people passing in and out — they were dressed in black and moved softly, — they pressed handkerchiefs to their eyes and wept as they went to and fro; — many of them carried flowers. Gradually the meaning of the sombre scene dawned upon me, — this was what is called in France a “chapelle ardente” — a laying-out of the dead in state, — an opening of the doors to all comers, friends or foes, that they may be enabled to look their last on the face they loved or hated! A “chapelle ardente” — yes! — but for whom? Who was dead? The answer flashed upon me at once, — it was the widowed and unhappy Comtesse de Charmilles who had gone the way of all flesh, — of course! — it must be she! Bereft of husband and child, what more natural than that she should have wearied of life, and longed to join her lost loved ones! — and fresh tears sprang to my eyes as I realized the certainty that this was so. Poor soul! — I remembered her quiet grace and reposeful dignity — her charming manners, — her queenly yet sweet maternal ways — her invariable kindness and gentleness to me when I was her son-in-law in prospective. And now she was no more, — she had sunk down, broken-hearted, to the grave, — and in her death I felt that I too had the most cruel share!

  “Wretched man that I am!” I thought, as I leaned feebly against the great staircase, up and down which the visitors were going and returning. “I am accursed! — and only Héloïse can free me of my curse!”

  Mastering my emotion by an effort, I addressed a maid-servant who passed me at the moment.

  “She is dead?” I asked in hushed accents.

  “Alas, yes, monsieur! She is dead!”

  And the girl broke into tears as she spoke, and hurried away.

  I waited another minute or two, — then gathering up my strength, I ascended the stairs slowly with the rest of the silent, tip-toe-treading mourners. The smell of fresh incense, mingling with the heavy perfume of lilies, was wafted towards me as I came nearer and nearer the chamber which was now turned into a high altar for death’s service, — a glimmer of white hangings caught my eyes, — white flowers, — all white! Strange! — white, pure white, was for those who died young! And the pretty phraseology of an old French madrigal passed through my memory involuntarily: —

  “Comme la rose quitte la branche du rosier La jeunesse quitte la vie; Celles qui mourront jeune, On les couvrira de fleurs nouvelles; Et du milieu de ces fleurs Elles s’élèveront vers le ciel, Comme le passe-voie du calice des roses!”

  Another step — another — hush — hush! What beauteous still-faced angel was that, pillowed among pale cyclamens and tranced in frozen sleep?...

  I dashed aside the silken hangings, — like a madman I rushed forward....

  “Héloïse!” I shrieked. “Héloïse!”

  * * * * * *

  Dead — dead! Grovelling on the ground in wild agony, I clutched handfuls of the flowers with which her funeral couch was strewn — I groaned — I sobbed — I raved! — I could have killed myself then in the furious frenzy of my horror and despair!

  “Héloïse!” I cried again and again. “Héloïse! Wake! Speak to me! Curse me! Love me! Oh God, God! you are not dead! — not dead! Héloïse! — Héloïse!”

  The fair face seemed to smile serenely. “I am safe!” was its mute expression. “Safe from evil — safe from sorrow, — safe from love — safe from you! I have escaped your touch, — your look — your
voice — and all the bitterness of ever having known you! And being now grown wise in death I pardon — I pity you! — Leave me to rest in peace!”

  Shaken by tearless sobs of mortal agony, I gazed distractedly upon that maiden image of sweet wisdom and repose; — the loose gold hair, unbound to its full rippling length, caught flickers from the sunlight through the window-pane, — the fringed white eyelids fast closed in eternal sleep were delicately indented as though some angel’s finger-tips had passed them down caressingly, — the waxen-hands were folded meekly across the bosom, where a knot of virgin lilies wept out fragrance in lieu of tears. Dead — dead! Why had Death taken her? — why had God wanted her — God, who has so many saints — why could He not have spared her to the earth which has so few! Dead! — and with her had died my last hope of good, — ray last chance of rescue! And I buried my head again among the odorous funeral flowers and wept as I had never wept before, — as I shall never have sufficient heart or conscience in me to weep again!

  Suddenly a hand touched me gently on the shoulder.

  “Senor!”

  The voice was that of a stranger, — the accent Spanish — and I looked up in sullen wrath, — who was it that dared thus to intrude upon my misery?... A man stood beside me, — a lithe, dark creature with soft brilliant brown eyes, — eyes that just then were swimming in tears; his whole mobile face expressed emotion and sympathy — and in one hand he held — a violin.

  “Senor” — he again murmured gently. “Let me entreat of you to restrain your grief! It alarms the people who come to render their last homage — it unnerves them! See you! — we are alone in this room — the others are afraid to enter. Pray, pray do not give way to such distraction! — she was happy in dying, — her health had declined for some time and she was glad to go, — and her death was beautiful, — it was the quiet falling asleep of innocence!”

  His look, his words, his manner bewildered me.

  “You saw her die?” I muttered confusedly. “You — you—”

  “Hélas! pauvre enfant! she passed away with her hand in mine!” he answered softly, and as he spoke, he took up a cluster of flowers from the couch, and, kissing them, laid them again in their former position.

  I rose to my feet trembling violently, a sombre wrath gaining possession of my soul.

  “And who are you?” I said. “Why are you here?”

  “I am Valdez, the violinist,” he replied, — and then I recollected, — this was the very “maestro” about whose performances Héloïse had used to be so enthusiastic. “I came hither because she sent for me,” he continued. “I travelled all the way from Russia. She wanted me, — it was to give me this, before she died.”

  And he touched the violin he held, — her violin! — her chiefest treasure! — and she had bestowed it upon him!

  A sickening suspicion arose in me and almost choked my utterance. What bond had there been between her — the dead Héloïse — and this man, the musical puppet of a mob’s capricious favor? What if she had not died innocent after all!...

  “Were you her lover?” I demanded breathlessly.

  He drew back amazed, with a gesture of mingled pain and hauteur.

  “Her lover? — I? You can jest in the presence of death, monsieur?... I love art, — not women.”

  I stared at him in dubious anger. The dead girl before us held some secret hidden behind her closed eyes and set, smiling lips, — a secret I feverishly craved to fathom!

  “But she,” I said. “She must have loved you — to have given you that!”

  And I pointed to the violin.

  His dark face lightened into a grave smile, — a new and sudden interest flashed in his eyes. But he was otherwise unmoved.

  “I do not see that at all” — he murmured. “She knew I would value such a gift, — that it would be more precious to me than to any one else in the world, — and that is why she was so anxious I should have it. Still,... she may have loved me, — secretly, as many other women have loved me, — I never thought of that! — yet — it is possible! It was her music I cared for, — she played divinely! — and her violin, this violin — is a treasure beyond price! Ah! what sounds I will invoke from it! I laid it by her side to-day, — I had a fancy that some message from the other world might steal into it from her dead presence, and make its tone more deep, more thrilling, more absolutely perfect and pure!”

  I advanced upon him in rough haste, — something in my eyes must have startled him for he recoiled slightly — but I went close up and laid my burning hands upon his shoulders.

  “Be silent!” I gasped hoarsely. “Is this the place or time to talk your art-jargon? Have you no soul, except for sound? She loved you! — I feel it, — I know it — I am sure of it — she loved you! — yes! — you never knew it I dare say, — men never do know these things! But see what she has done for you! — she has left her spirit with you — there — in that violin you hold! — her graceful fancies, her noble thoughts, her tenderness, her sweetness — you have it all imprisoned there, — all to come forth at your bidding! When you play, she, Héloïse, will speak to you, caress you, teach you, help you, comfort you! — and I — I hate you for it — I hate you! For now I know she never would have pitied me, — never would have loved me again as she loved me once, — for in dying, she had no thought for me — she only thought of you — you, on whom Fortune smiles from day to day! Judge then how I hate you! — how I cannot do otherwise than hate you! — for she has given you all — and left me nothing! Nothing!... my God! — nothing!”

  And with a savage cry I flung him from me and rushed from the room, not daring to look again on the white angel-face of that dead woman who smiled with such triumphant sweetness, with such indifferent coldness, on my desperate despair! I saw people make terrified way for me as I ran, — I heard some one exclaim that I was mad with grief! — but I paid no heed, — whether I was recognized or not I neither knew nor cared! Out into the street I plunged, as it were, into the thick of the passers-by... could I not lose myself, I wildly thought! — could I not obliterate myself from sight and sense and speech and action? — was there not some deep wide open grave into which I could fall swooningly and there be covered in before I had time to suffer or struggle? Oh, for a sudden death without pain! — oh! for a swift cessation to this scorching bitterness in my blood — this heavy aching of my heart! Sick to the very dregs of misery, I raved for days in feverish agony, — agony that was blind, desperate, hopeless, helpless, cureless! What spectres stood beside me then! — what horrid voices shouted in my ears! — how strange and loathly the half-formed creatures that followed me and mouthed at me, gibbering in uncouth speech scarcely intelligible! — how the murdered man Silvion came and looked at me as at some foul thing! — how Pauline, fair and pale, with a dying sweetness in her smile drifted by me, finely fairy-like as a fleecy cloud in summer-time! — and, ah God! how the soft large eyes of Héloïse beamed piteous wonder and reproach upon me like bland stars shining solemnly on a criminal in his cell! Those eyes — those eyes! — they tortured me, — their mildness chilled me! — their pure and unimpassioned lustre shamed me! — they were angels’ eyes, and their holy innocence scared and shook me to the soul! Oh, that horrible time! — oh those dreary, wild dark days and nights of utter loss and blank wretchedness! — that frightful space of torment in which every nerve in my body seemed torn and wrenched by devils! — how I was able to live through it, I cannot tell!

  And when, like all other things, it wore itself out at last, — when I grew calm, with the dreadful calmness of sheer stupefaction and exhaustion, — then — then I realized it all, and my Absinthe-witch gave me a clue to the whole mystery! There was a God! — yes! actually a God — a great, terrific, cruel, unforgiving, awful Being, and He in all His omnipotence had set Himself against me! He whose proud Will evolved the growing Universe, — He had arrayed His mighty forces of Heaven and Hell against one miserable atom of earth! — and the Titanic wheels of Life, Time and Eternity were
all whirled into motion to grind me, a worm, down to destruction! One would think it a waste of power on God’s part! — but He would seem to be most particular in trifles. Note how carefully he tints the rose, from deepest crimson to tenderest pink! — how recklessly He drops the avalanche on a village full of harmless souls asleep! What infinite pains he has bestowed on the burnish and hue of the peacock’s plume; — all to make of a useless bird with a harsh voice, a perfect marvel of colour and brilliancy! — and what a deaf ear he turns to the shriek of the murderer’s victim! Who will account for these things in Nature’s plan? It is useless for any good pious folks to tell me that my miseries are my own fault. What have I done, I pray you, save drink Absinthe? I have poisoned my brain and blood! — well — but how ridiculously small the seed from which such grim results have sprung! I am not to blame if the Creator has done His work badly, — if He has made the brain so delicate and the spirit so volatile that its quality and comprehension vanish at the touch of — Wormwood. Nothing but wormwood, — it is a plant as well as a metaphor, — and God made it! God gives us plenty of it in our lives, as well as in our liquor! — and the preachers tell us bitterness is very wholesome! Everything is God’s work — even evil, — and when, with the aid of my life’s elixir, I grasped this fact thoroughly, I saw it was no use offering any more resistance to fate. For I was left without the smallest vestige of hope, — the little spark of penitence in me had been revived too late, — and throughout the whole drama, no one had thought of me! Silvion Guidèl had died thinking of Pauline, — Pauline had drowned, with the name of her lover on her lips, — and Héloïse, even Héloïse, had bestowed her last word, her last looks, not on me, but on a comparative stranger — a mere musical virtuoso! God’s meaning was made plain! I was left to my own devices, — it was shown me distinctly that my life was without interest to any one but myself. I accepted the hint. As it was decreed so it must be, — and I did as André Gessonex had done before me, — killed the last vestige of my flickering conscience in me with a final blow, — and became — what I am!