Delphi collected works o.., p.210
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 210
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
During this period I saw a great deal of Silvion Guidèl. He used to call for me at our bank of an afternoon and walk home with me, and as I was rather lonely in the big old house at Neuilly, now that my father was absent, he would give me many an occasional hour of his company, talking on various subjects such as he knew were interesting to my particular turn of mind. He had the most vivid and intellectual comprehension of art, science, and literature, and his conversation had always that brilliancy and point which makes spoken language almost as fascinating as the neatly turned and witty phrases written by some author, whose style is his chief charm. And sometimes, when I was obliged to turn to my work and absorb myself in hard and dry calculations, Guidèl would still remain with me, quite silent, sitting in a chair near the window, his head leaning’ back, and his eyes fixed dreamily on the delicate spring-time leafage of the trees outside. I would often glance up and see him thus, gravely engrossed in his own thoughts, with that serious musing smile on his lips, that was like the smile of some youthful poet who contemplates how to evolve
“Beautiful things made new
For the delight of the sky-children!”
And, worst confession of all, I think, that I have to make, I learnt to love him! I — even I! A peculiar sense of revering tenderness stirred me whenever he, with his beautiful calm face and saintly expression, came into the room where I sat alone, fagged out with the day’s labour, and laying his two hands affectionately on my shoulders, said —
“Still working hard, Beauvais! What a thing it is to be so absolutely conscientious! Rest, mon ami! rest a little, if not for your own sake, then for the sake of your fair fiancêe, who will grieve to see you overwearied!”
I used to feel quite touched by such friendly solicitude on his part, and not only touched, but grateful as well, for the ready manner in which he seemed at once to comprehend and enter into my feelings. I was a sensitive sort of fellow in those days, quick to respond to kindness and equally quick to resent injustice. But it was I who had been unjust in the case of Silvion Guidèl, I thought; I had disliked him at first without any cause, and now I frequently reproached myself for this, and wondered how I could ever have been so unreasonable! Yet, though first impressions are sometimes erroneous, I believe there is a balance in favour of their correctness. If a singular antipathy seizes you for a particular person at first sight, no matter how foolish it may seem, you may be almost sure that there is something in your two natures that is destined to remain in constant opposition. You may conquer it for a time, it may even change, as it did in my case, to profound affection; but, sooner or later, it will spring up again with tenfold strength and deadliness; the reason of your first aversion will be made painfully manifest, and the end of it all will be doubly bitter because of the love that for a brief while sweetened it. I say I loved Silvion Guidèl! and in proportion to the sincerity of that love, I afterwards measured the intensity of my hate!
VIII.
A BRILLIANT May had begun in Paris, the foliage was all in its young beauty of pale-green sprouting leaf, the Champs Elysées were bright with flowers, and the gay city looked its loveliest. My father was still delayed by his affairs in England; but I knew he would not remain away much longer now, as he was good-naturedly anxious to relieve me of some of the more onerous cares of business before the time for my marriage came too close at hand. Héloïse St. Cyr was also expected back daily; her mother had recovered, and she had, therefore, nothing to detain her any longer in Normandy. Pauline told me this news, and I noticed that she did not seem at all over-enthusiastic concerning her cousin’s return. Like a fool, I flattered myself that this was because I had now become the first in her affections, and that, as a perfectly natural consequence, the once-adored Héloïse was bound to occupy a lower and vastly inferior place. I was full of my own joy, my own triumph, and I was blind to anything else but these. True, I did remark on one or two occasions, during my visits to her, that my fiancée was sometimes not quite so brilliant as usual; that there was a certain transparency and ethereal delicacy about her features that was suggestive of hidden suffering; that her deep blue eyes seemed larger than they used to be — larger, darker, and more intense in their wistfulness of expression; that now and then her lips quivered pathetically when I kissed her, and that there were moments when she appeared to be on the verge of tears, But I attributed all these signs of subdued emotion to the nervous excitement a young girl would naturally feel at the swift hourly approach of her marriage-day. I knew she was exceedingly sensitive, and for this reason I rather looked forward to the return of Héloïse, as I felt certain that she, with her womanly tact, quiet ways, and strong tenderness for Pauline would, by her very presence in the house, do much to soothe my little betrothed’s highly-strung and over-wrought condition, and would also take a great deal of the fatigue of preparation for the wedding off her hands. Still, I did not really think very deeply about it any way, and I was rather taken by surprise one afternoon, when, on calling to leave some flowers for Pauline en passant, the servant begged me to enter and wait in the drawing-room for a few minutes, as the Comtesse de Charmilles had expressed a particular wish to see me alone on a matter of importance. I crossed the familiar threshold I remember that day with a strange dull sensation at my heart; and as the doors of the great salon were thrown open for me, a shiver seized me as though it were winter instead of spring. The room looked bare and blank in spite of its rich furniture and adornment. No Pauline came tripping in to greet me, and I stood, hat in hand, leaning against the edge of the grand piano, gazing blankly through the window and wondering foolishly to myself why the gardener, usually so neat, had left a heap of the past winter’s dead leaves in one corner of the outside gravel-path! There they were, an ugly brown pile of them; and every now and then the light May wind fluttered them, blowing two or three off to whirl like dark blots against the clear blue sky. I was still monotonously meditating on this trifle, and comparing those swept-up emblems of decay with the cluster of rich dewy red roses I had just brought for my fiancée, and which I had laid carefully down on a side table near me, when the door was opened softly and closed again with equal care, and the Comtesse de Charmilles approached. She looked worn and anxious, and there was a puzzled pain and sorrow in her eyes that filled me with alarm. I caught my breath.
“Pauline — is she ill?” I faltered, dreading I knew not what.
“She is not well,” began the Co tesse gently, then paused.
My heart beat violently.
“It is something dangerous? You have sent for ax physician? You—” Here my attempted self-control gave way, and I exclaimed, “Let me see her! I must — I will! Madame, I have the right to see her! Why do you hinder me?”
The Comtesse laid her hand on my arm in a pacifying manner, and smiled a little forcedly.
“Be tranquil, Gaston. There is nothing serious the matter. To-day, it is true, she is not well; she has been weeping violently, pauvre enfant! — such tears!” — and the mother’s voice quivered slightly as she spoke— “I have asked her a hundred times the cause of her distress, and she assures me it is nothing — always nothing. But I think there must be some reason; she, who is generally so bright and happy, would scarcely weep so long and piteously without cause, — and this is why I wished to speak to you, mon fils, — to ask you, — is the love between you both as great as ever?”
I stared at her amazed. What a silly woman she was, I thought, to make such an odd and altogether unnecessary inquiry!
“Most assuredly it is, madame!” I replied, with emphatic earnestness. “It is even greater on my part, and of her tenderness I have never had a moment’s occasion to doubt. That she sheds tears at all is of itself distressing news to me, — but nevertheless, it is true that girls will often weep for nothing, especially when they are a little over-strung and unduly excited, as Pauline may be at the present time. She probably reflects, — with a very natural regret, for which I should be the last to blame her, — that very soon she will have to leave her home and your fostering care; — the change from girlhood to marriage is a very serious one, — and being sensitive, she has perhaps thought more deeply about it than we imagine” — here I paused, embarrassed and concerned, for I saw two big drops roll slowly down the mother’s cheeks, and glisten in the folds of her rich silk robe.
“Yes, it may be that,” — she said, in low tremulous accents. “I have thought so myself; — yet every now and then I have had the idea — a very foolish one no doubt, — that perhaps the child is secretly unhappy! But if you assure me that all is well between you, then I must be mistaken. Pardon my anxiety!” and she extended her hand, which I took and kissed respectfully— “we have all had too much to do, I fancy, while our dear Héloïse has been away, and” — here she smiled more readily— “it is possible we are all morbid in consequence! At any rate, next time you are alone with Pauline, will you ask her to confide in you, if indeed there is anything vexing her usually sweet and serene nature? Some mere trifle may have put her out, — a trifle exaggerated by her fancy, which we, knowing of, may be able to set right instantly — and surely that would be well!”
The generally dignified and rather austere looking lady was quite softened into plaintiveness by her eager and tender maternal solicitude, and I admired her for it. Kissing her hand again, I promised to do as she asked.
“But cannot I see Pauline to-day?” I inquired.
“No, Gaston, — it is better not!” she answered.
“The poor little thing is quite worn out with crying, — she is exhausted, and is now upon her bed asleep. I will give her those roses when she wakes, — they are for her, are they not?”
I assented eagerly, and brought them to her, — she took them and bade me “au revoir!”
“To-morrow come and see Pauline,” she said. “I will tell her to expect thee. We will prepare a pretty ‘the à l’Anglaise’ in the little morning-room, — and thou wilt be able to discover the cause of her trouble.”
“If there is any trouble!” I rejoined, half smiling.
“True! If there is! If there is not, then thou must tell her she is a foolish little girl, and frightens us all without reason. À demain!”
Carefully carrying the roses I had brought, she left the room with a kindly nod of farewell, — and I went home to get through some work I was bound to finish before the next morning. I found Silvion Guidèl awaiting me, and I hailed his presence with a sense of relief, for my own thoughts harassed me; and, just to unburden my mind, I told him all about Pauline and her tears. He moved away to the window while I was speaking — we were in my father’s library — and looked out at the trees in front of the house. As he had deliberately turned his back to me, I took his action as a sign of indifference.
“Are you listening?” I asked, with some testiness.
“Listening? With both ears and with the very spirit of attention!” he replied, changing his attitude abruptly and confronting me. “What the devil would you have me do?”
I almost bounced out of my chair, so startled was I at this sort of language from his lips! Meeting my surprised gaze, he laughed aloud, — a ringing laugh which, though clear, seemed to me to have a touch of wildness in it.
“Don’t look so thunderstruck, Beauvais! I said, ‘the devil’! — and why should I not say it? The devil is as important a personage as the Creator in our perpetual Divina Commedia. The world, the flesh, and the devil! Three good things, Beauvais! — three positively existent tempting things! — no chimeras! — three fightable enemies that we have to wrestle with and grapple at the throats of till we get them down under our feet and kill them! — aye, even if we kill ourselves in the struggle! The world, the flesh, and the devil! Mon Dieu! I wonder which is the strongest of the three!”
I could not answer him for a moment, I was so completely taken aback by his strange manner. The soft grey light of the deepening dusk fell on his face, mingling with the warmer glow of the shaded lamp above our heads, — and I saw to my wonder and concern that he looked as if he were undergoing some poignant physical sufferings, — that there were dark lines under his eyes, — and that there was a preternaturally brilliant flush on his cheeks which seemed to me to denote fever.
“Do you know, Guidèl, you are talking very oddly?” I said at last, watching him narrowly. “You are not yourself at all! What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“Ill? Ma foi! — not I! I am well, mon ami, — well, and in astonishingly cheerful spirits! Don’t you see that I am? Don’t you see that I am almost too merry for — for a priest? Listen, Beauvais!” — and, approaching me, he laid his two hands on my shoulders, — such burning hands! — I felt more than ever certain that he must be going to have some feverish malady— “I have a secret! — and I will confide it to you! It is this, — Paris is making a fool of me! I have got the city’s madness into my veins! — I am learning to love light and colour and gay music and song and dance, — and the wildly beautiful eyes of women! — eyes that are blue and passionate and pleading and that make one’s heart ache for unuttered and unutterable joys! You stare at me amazed! — but is there anything so wonderful in the fact that I, young, strong, and full of life, — should all at once feel myself turning renegade to the vocation I have been trained to adopt? Do you know — can you imagine, Beauvais, what it is to be a priest? — to meditate on things that human sight can never see, and human ears never hear, — to shut oneself out utterly from the sweet ways of the less devout existence, — to consecrate one’s entire body and soul to a vast Invisible that never speaks, that never answers, that gives no sign of either refusal or acquiescence to the most passionate prayers, to resign a thousand actual joys for the far-off dream of heaven, — to sternly put away the touch of loving lips, the clasp of loving hands, — to cut all natural affections down at one blow, as a reaper cuts a sheaf of corn, — to become a human tomb for one’s own buried soul, — to die to the world and to live for God! But, — the world is here, Beauvais! — and God is — Where?”
His words touched me most profoundly, — I understood — or I thought I understood — his condition of mind, and I certainly could not deem it unnatural. A man such as he was, not only in the early prime of life, but gifted with rare intellectual ability, far above the ordinary calibre, needs must wake up at one time or another to the fact that the vocation of priest was at its best but a melancholy and limited career. So this was what troubled him! — this was the chagrin that secretly fretted his soul, and gave this touch of wildness to his behaviour! I hastened to sympathize with him; — and, taking his hands from my shoulders, pressed them cordially in my own.
“Mon cher, if these are your real feelings on the subject” —— —— I said earnestly— “why not make a frank confession of them, not only to me, but to everybody concerned? Your uncle for instance, is far too sensible and broad-minded a man to wish to persuade you into the Church against your true inclinations, — and if Paris has, as you say, worked a change in you, depend upon it, it is all for the best! You are destined for greater things than the preaching of old doctrines to people, who, in these days of advanced thought, will, no matter how eloquent you are, never believe half of what you say. Shake off your shackles, Guidèl, and be a free man; — shape your own future! — with such splendid capabilities as yours, it needs must be a fair and prosperous one!”
He looked at me steadily and smiled.
“You are very kind, Beauvais!” he said softly— “as kind and good a fellow as ever I have met! I wish — I wish to God I had your cleanness of conscience!”
I was a little puzzled at this remark. Had he been frequenting low company, and disporting himself with the painted harridans in the common dancing-saloons of Paris? — and was he tormenting himself with scruples born of his strict education and religious discipline? Whatever the reason, it was evident he was very ill at ease. Suddenly, as though making a resolved end of his mental perplexity he exclaimed —
“Bah! what nonsense I have been talking! It is a foolish frenzy that has seized me, Beauvais, — nothing more! I must be a priest! — I look it, so people say; — my mother has set her heart upon it, — my father stakes his eternal welfare on my sanctification! — the prior of St. Xavier’s at Rennes has written of me to the Holy Father as one of the most promising scions of the Church; — all this preparation must not go for naught, mon ami! If I know myself to be a whited sepulchre, what then? There are many like me, — what should I do with a conscience?”
These words pained me infinitely.
“Guidât, you are indeed much changed!” I said, rather reproachfully— “I cannot bear to hear you talk in this reckless fashion! Priest or no priest, be faithful to whatever principles you finally take up. If you can believe in nothing, why then, believe in nothing steadfastly to the end, — if, on the contrary, you elect to fasten your faith to something, then win the respect of every one as our good Père Vaudron does, by clinging to that something till death relaxes your hold of it. No matter what a man does, he should at least be consistent. If you feel you cannot conscientiously fulfil the calling of a priest, you ought to die rather than become one!”
