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323
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- ' A DRAMA OF AAA’/S.
BY MARIE CORELLI, & . . . .
Awthor of “ Thelma,” “Vemdetta,” “A Romance of Two
- * * • - Worlds,” Etc.
- NEW YORK : -
THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY.,
- Nos. 73–76 WALKER STREET.


QL-º- 9, v.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
THE unhappy hero of the following drame is presented to
English readers, not as an example of what is exceptionally
tragic and uncommon, but simply as a very ordinary type of a
large and ever-increasing class. Men such as “Gaston Beau-
vais’ are to be met with every day in Paris—and not only in
Paris, but in every part of the Continent where the Curse, which
forms the subject of this story, has any sort of sway. The
morbidness of the modern French mind is well known and
universally admitted, even by the French themselves; the open
atheism, heartlessness, ſlipparicy, and ſlagrant immorality of
the whole modern French School of thought is unquestioned.
If a crime of more than usual cold-blooded atrocity is commit-
ted, it generally dates from Paris, or near it; if a book or a pict-
ure is produced that is Confessedly obscene, the author or art-
ist is, in nine cases out of ten, discovered to be a Frenchman.
The shop-windows and book-stalls of Paris are of themselves T.
sufficient witnesses of the national taste in art and literature
—a national taste for vice and indecent Vulgarity which can
not be too sincerely and compassionately deplored. There are,
no doubt, many causes for the wretchedly low standard of
moral responsibility and fine feeling displayed by the Parisians
of to-day—but I do not hesitate to say that one of those causes
is undoubtedly the reckless absinthe-mania, which pervades
all classes, rich and poor alike. Every one knows that in
Paris the men have certain hours set apart for the indulgence
of this fatal craze as religiously as Mussulmans have their
hours for prayer—and in a very short time the love of the
hideous poison clings so closely to their blood and system that
it becomes an absolute necessity of existence. The effects of
its rapid working on the human brain are beyond all imagina-
tion horrible and incurable, and no romancist can exaggerate
the terrific reality of the evil. If any of my readers are dis-
posed to doubt the possibility of the incidents in my story or
to think the details exaggerated, let such make due inquiries
of any leading member of the French medical faculty as to the
actual meaning of Absinthism, and the measured statement
iy INTRODUCTORY NOTE. ~
of the physician will seem wilder than the wildest tragedy.
Moreover, it is not as if this dreadful frenzy affected a few in-
dividuals merely—it has crept into the brain of France as a
nation, and there breeds perpetual mischief—and from France
it has spread, and is still spreading, over the entire Continent
of Europe. It must also be remembered that in the many
French cafés and restaurants which have recently sprung up.
in London, absinthe is always to be obtained at its customary
low price—French habits, French fashions, French books,
French pictures, are particularly favored by the English, and
who can predict that French drug-drinking shall not also be-
come à la mode in Britain?—particularly at a period when our
medical men are bound to admit that the love of Morphia is
fast becoming almost a mania with hundreds of English
Women! -. -
In the present story I have, as I Say, selected a merely ordi-
nary Parisian type; there are of course infinitely worse exam-
ples who have not even the shadow of a love-disappointment
to excuse them for their self-indulgence. All I ask of my
readers and critics is that they will kindly refrain from setting
down my hero’s opinions on men and things to me personally,
as they were unwise enough to do in the case of a previous
novel of mine entitled “Vendetta!” When an author depicts
a character, he is not of necessity that character himself; it
would have been somewhat unfair to Balzac, for example, to
have endowed him when a living man, with the extraordinary
ideas and outrageous principles of his matchless artistic crea-
tion “Père Goriot.” I have nothing whatever to do with the
wretched “Gaston Beauvais’ beyond the portraiture of him
in his own necessarily lurid colors; while for the description of
the low-class “bal masqué '' in Paris, I am in a great measure
indebted to a very respectable-looking English tourist, who by
his dress was evidently of some religious persuasion, and whom
I overheard talking to a younger man, on board a steamer
going from Thun to Interlaken. It was evidently the worthy
creature’s first trip abroad—he had visited the French capital,
and he detailed to his friend, a very hilarious individual, cer-
tain of his most lively experiences there. I, sitting close by
in a corner unobserved, listened with a good deal of surprise
as well as amusement to his enthusiastic eulogy of the “can-
can * as he had seen it danced in some peculiar haunt of ques-
tionable entertainment, and I took calm note thereof, for
literary use hereafter. The most delicate feelings can hardly
be ruffled by an honest (and pious) Britisher’s raptures—and
as I have included these rapiures in my story, I beg to tender
*
-- *T- - - ~’ -
*-
* - - - - INTRODUCTORY NOTE:- V.
* -
*. ---
my-thanks to the unknown individual who so unconsciously
furnished me with a glowing description of what I have never
seen and never wish to see!
For the rest, my “drama '' is a true phase of the modern
life of Paris; one scene out of the countless tragedies that take
place every day and everywhere in these our present times.
There is no necessity to invent fables nowadays—the fictionist
need never torture his brain for stories either of adventure or
spectral horror... Life itself as it is lived among ourselves in
all countries, is so amazing, Swift, varied, wonderful, terrible,
ghastly, beautiful, dreadful, and, withal, so wildly inconsistent
and changeful, that whosoever desires to write romances has
only to closely and patiently observe men and women as they
are, not as they seem—and then take pen in hand and write—
the TRUTH, N
MARIE CORELLI.
-
CLARENS, LARE LEMAN, SWITZERLAND,
September, 1890.
À MESSIEURS
LES ABSINTHEURS DE PARIS,
cEs FANFARoNs DU vIcE
QUI SONT
\
LA HONTE ET LE DESESPOIR DE LEUR PATRIE.
And the name of the star is called work MVVOOD :
and the third part of the waters became wormwood ; and
many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.
—REVELATION wiii., 11.
! E: We nom de celle é/07/6 áña ºf A BSIN THE : eff la ţroisième
partie des eaua ful changée en absinthe; et clies firent mourir
wn grand nombre d’hommes parce qu’elles étalent devenues
amères.—REVELATION wiii., 11 (.Vouveau Testamént Fran-
£ais).
g =
**
W 0 R M W 0 0 D,
I.
U
SILENCE—silence! it is the hour of the deepest hush of
night; the invisible intangible clouds of sleep brood over the
brilliant city. Sleep! What is it? Forgetfulness? A sweet
unconsciousness of dreamless rest? Ay! it must be so, if I
remember rightly; but I can not be quite sure, for it seems a
century since 1 slept well. But what of that? Does any one
sleep well nowadays, save children and hard-worked diggers of
the soil? We who think—oh, the entanglements and perplexi-
ties of this perpetual Thought!—we have no space or time
wherein to slumber; between the Small hours of midnight and
morning we rest on our pillows for mereform’s sake, and doze
and dream—but we do not sleep.
Stay! let mê consider. What am I doing here so late? why
am I not at home? Why do I stand alone on this bridge gaz-
ing down into the cold sparkling water of the Seine—water
that, to my mind, resembles a glittering glass screen, through
which I see faces peering up at me, white and aghast, with a
frozen wonder? ow they stare, how they smile, all those
drowned women and men! Some are beautiful, all are mourn-
ful. I am not sorry for them, no! but I am sure they must
have died with half their griefs unspoken, to look so wildly
even in death! Is it my fancy, or do they want something of
me? I feel impelled toward them—they draw me downward
by a deadly fascination; 1 must go on, or else—
With a violent effort I tear myself away, and, leaving the
bridge, I wander slowly homeward.
The city sleeps, did I say? Oh, no! Paris is not so clean
of conscience or so pure of heart that its inhabitants should
compose themselves to rest simply because it is midnight.
There are hosts of people about and stirring; rich aristocrats
for instance, whose names are blazoned on the lists of honor,
and la haute noblesse, can be met at every turn, stalking
---
^-
:
---
*º-
12 *- WOIR M WOOD, "
*
abroad like beasts in search of prey; there are the painted and
bedizened outcasts who draw their silken skirts scornfully aside
from any chance of contact with the soiled and ragged gar-
ments worn by the wretched and starving members of the
Same deplorable sisterhood; and every now and again the flash-
ing of lamps in a passing carriage containing some redoubtable
princess of the demi-monde, assures the beholder of the fact
that, however soundly virtue may slumber, vice is awake and
rampant. But what am I that I should talk of vice or virtue?
What business has a wreck cast on the shores of ruin to con-
cern itself with the distant Sailing of the gaudy ships bound
for the same disastrous endſ º
How my brain reels! The hot pavements scorch my tired
feet, and the round white moon looks at me from the sky like
the foolish ghost of herself, in a dream. Street after street I
pass, scarcely conscious of sight or sense; I hardly know
whither I am bound, and it is by mere mechanical instinct
alone that I finally reach my destination. -
Home at last! I recognize the dim and dirty alley—the
tumble-down miserable lodging-house in which, of all the
wretched rooms it holds, the wretchedest is the garret I call
mine. That gaunt Cat is always on the doorstep—always tear-
ing some horrible offal she has found, with claws and teeth—
yet savage as hunger has made her, she is afraid of me, and
bounds stealthily aside and away as I cross the threshold.
Two men, my drunken landlord and his no less drunken
brother, are quarreling furiously in the passage; I shrink past
them unobserved, and make my way up the dark, foul-smell-
ing staircase to my narrow den, where, on entering, I jealous-
ly lock myself in, eager to be alone. Alone, alone—always
alone! I approach the window and fling it wide open; I rest
my arms on the sill and look out drearily at the vast, deep,
star-besprinkled heaven.
They were cruel to me to-night at the café, particularly.
that young curly-haired student. Who is he, and what is he?
I hate him, I know not why! except that he reminds me of
one who is dead. “Do not drink that,” he said, gravely,
touching the glass I held. “It will drive you mad some
day!” Drive me mad! Good, very good! That is what a
great many people have told me— croakers all!? Who is mad,
and who is sane? It is not easy to decide. The world has
various ways of defining insanity in different individuals. The
genius who has grand ideas and imagines he can carry them
out is “mad;” the priest who, like St. Damien, sacrifices
himself for others is “mad,” the hero who, like the English
*
** ---
~&
-- ... wORMWOOD. 13
Gordon, perishes at his post instead of running away to save
his own skin, is “mad,” and only the comfortable tradesman
or financier who amasses millions by systematically cheating
his fellows, is “sane.” Excellent! Let me be mad, then, by
all means! mad with the madness of Absinthe, the wildest,
most luxurious madness in the world! Vice la folie / Vive
7’amow, 1 Vive l’animalism / Vive le Diable ! Live every-
body, and everything that can live without a conscience, for
conscience is at a discount in this age, and honesty can not
keep pace with our modern progress! The times are as we
make them; and we have made ours those of realism; the old
idyllic days of faith and sentiment are past.
Those cold and quiet stars! What innumerable multitudes
of them there are! Why were they created? Through count-
less centuries bewildered mankind has gazed at them and asked
the same question—a question never to be answered—a prob-
lem never to be solved. The mind soon grows fatigued with
pondering. It is better not to think. . Yet one good thing
has lately come out of the subtle and incessant workings of
intellect; and that is that we need not trouble ourselves about
God any more. Nothing in all the vast mechanism of the
universe can actually prove a Deity to be existent; and no
one is called upon to believe in what can not be proved. I am
glad of this, very glad; for if I thought there were a God in
heaven—a Supreme. Justice enthroned in some far-off Sphere
of life unseen yet eternal, I think—I do not know, but I think
—I should be afraid! Afraid of the day, afraid of the night;
afraid of the glassy river, with its thousands of drowned eyes
below; afraid, perchance, of my own, hovering shadow; and
still more darkly, dimly afraid of creatures that might await
me in lands invisible beyond the grave—phantom creatures
- that I have wronged as much and happily more than they in
their time wronged me!
Yet, after all, I am a coward; for why should I fear (iod,
supposing a God should, notwithstanding our denial of Him,
positively exist? If He is the Author of Creation, IIe is an-
swerable for every atom within it, even for me. I have done
§
evil. What then? Am I the only one? If I have sinned
more, I have also suffered more; and plenty of Scientists and
physiologists could be found to prove that my faults are those
of tenuperament and brain-construction, and that I can not
help them if I would. Ah, how consoling are these advanced
doctrines! No criminal ought, in strict justice, to be pun-
ished at all, seeing that it is his inborn nature to commit
Grime, and that he can not alles lial nature even if he triei
14 WORMWOOD. -
Only a canting priest would dare to ask him to try; and, in
France at least, we have done with priestcraft.
Well, we live in a great and wonderful era, and we have
great and wonderful needs—needs which must be supplied!
One of our chief requirements is that we should know every-
thing—even things that used for honor and decency’s sake to
be concealed. Wise and pure and beautiful things we have
had enough of. They belong to the old classic days of Greece
and Rome, the ages of idyl and allegory; and we find them
on the whole rather ennuyant. We have developed different
tastes. We want the ugly truths of life, not the pretty fables.
We like ugly truths. We find them piquant and palatable,
like the hot sauce poured on fish to give it a flavor. For ex-
ample, the story of “ Paul et Virginie ’’ is very charming,
but also very tame and foolish. It suited the literary spirit,
of the time in which it was written; but to us in the present
day there is something far more entrailwaul in a novel which
faithfully describes the love-making of Jeanne the Washer-
woman with Jacques the rag-picker. We prefer their course
amours to Virginie’s tearful sentiment—attlves lemps, du/rcs
"noeurs. I thought of this yesterday, when, strolling aimless-
ly across the Pont Neuf, I glanced at the various titles of the
books for sale on the open-air counters, and saw Tealism repre-
sented to the last dregs of Reality. And then I began to con-
sider what the story of my life would look like when written,
and what people would think of it if they read it. This idea
has haunted me all last night and to-day. I have turned it
over and over again in my mind with a certain Savage amusc-
ment. Dear old world! dear Society! will you believe me if I
tell you what I am? No, I am sure you will not! You will
shudder a little, perhaps; but it is far more likely that you
will scoff and sneer. It is so easy to make light of a fellow-
creature’s downfall. Moreover, your critics will assure you
that the whole narrative is a tissue of absurd improbabilities,
that such and such events never could and never would hap-
pen under any sort of circumstances whatever, and that a
disordered imagination alone has to do with the weaving of a
drama as wild as mine!
But, think what you will, say what you choose, I am re-
solved you shall know me. It is well you should learn what
manner of man is in your midst: a man as pitiless as pestilence,
as fierce as flame; one dangerous, to himself, and still more
dangerous to the community at large; and yet—remember
this, I pray you!—a man who is, after all, only One example
out of a thousand; a thousand?' ay, more than a thousand like
worMwooD. 15
him, who in this very city are possessed by the same seductive
delirium, and are pressing on swiftly to the same predestined
end! - - -
However, my concern is not with others, but solely with
- myself. I care little for the fact that perhaps nearly half-the
population of France is with me in my frenzy; what is France
to me or I to France, now 2 Time was when I loved my
country; when I would have shed every drop of blood in my
body gladly for her defense; but now—now—enſin ' I see the
folly of patriotism; and to speak frankly, 1 would rather drown
like a dog in the Seine than undergo the troublesome fatigues
of war. I was not always so indifferent, I confess; I came to
it by degrees as others have done, and as others are doing who
live as I live. I tell you there are hundreds of men in Paris
to-day who are quite as apathetic on the subject of national
honor or disgrace as I am–who, thanks to the pale-green
draught we drain in our cafés night after night with unabated
| -
Zest and never-satiated craving, have nigh forgotten their
country’s bitter defeat—or if they have not forgotten, have
certainly ceased to care. True, they talk—we all talk—of
taking the Rhine and storming Berlin, just as children babble
of their toy castles and tin Soldiers, but we are not in earnest /
No, no! not we! We are wise in our generation, we ab-
simulheurs ; life is so worthless that we grudge making any
sort of exertion to prolong it, and it is probable that if the
enemy were at our very doors we should scarcely stir a ſinger
to repel attack. Do the Germans know this, I wonder? Very
likely! and, knowing it, bide their time! . But let them come.
Why not? One authority is as good as another, to me, at any
rate—for I have no prejudices and no principles. The whole
wide earth is the same to me—a mere Grave to bury nations in.
Well! I have done many strange things in my day, and
what I choose to do now is perhaps the strangest of all—to
write the history of my life and thought; to strip my soul
naked, as it were, to the wind of the world’s contempt.
World’s contempt! A bagatelle! the world can have no more
contempt for me, than I have contempt for the world!
Dear people of Paris, you want Realism, do you not? Real-
ism in art, realism in literature, realism in everything? You,
Frenchmen and French women'ſ dancing on the edge of your
- 5 S 8–5
own Sepulcher—for the time is coming fast when France will
no more be accounted a nation—you want to look at the loath-
Some worms and unsightly poisonous growths that attend your
own decomposition and decay? You want life denuded of all
poetical adornment that you may see it as it truly is " Well,
16 worMwood.
so you shall, as far as I am concerned! I will hide nothing
from you! I will tear out the very fibers of my being and lay
them on your modern dissecting-table; nay, I will even assist
you in the probing-work of the mental scalpel. Like you, 1
hate all mysticism and sublime ideal things; we need them as
little, or as much, as we need God! . -
Perhaps it is not often that you chance upon a human sub-
ject who is entirely callous? A creature in whose nerves you
can thrust your steel hooks of inquisitorial research without
his uttering so much as a smothered Sob of pain?, a being hard
as flint, impressionless as adamant, and totally impervious to
past, present, or future misery? Yet I am such an one! Per-
chance you may find me a strange, even an interesting study! .
Consider me well! My heart has turned to stone, my brain
to fire; I am conscious of no emotion whatever, Save an all- .
devouring dreadful curiosity—curiosity to know dark things."
forbidden to all but madmen—things that society, afraid of its
own wickedness, hastily covers up and hides from the light of
day, feebly pretending they have no existence; things that
make weak souls shudder and cry and wrestle with their
mythical God in useless prayer—these are the things I love;
the things I drag out from the obscure corners and murky re-
cesses of life, and examine and gloat upon, till I have learned.
from them all they can teach me. But I never know enough;
search as I may into the minutest details of our complex being,
there is always something that escapes me; some link that I
lose; some clew that I fancy might explain much that seems
incomprehensible. ...I suppose others have missed this little
unnamable something also, and that may be the reason why
they have found it necessary to invent a God. But enough! I
am here to confess myself, not as a conscience-stricken peni-
tent confesses to a priest, but as a man may confess himself to
his fellow-men. Let human nature judge me! I am too
proud to make appeal to an unproven Divinity. Already I -
have passed judgment on myself; what can you say for, or
against me, oh, world! that will, alter or strengthen my own
self-wrought condemnation and doom? I have lived fast, what
then? Is it not the way to die quickly? - * . . .
- fr. - •
IT is a familiar business to me, this taking up of the pen
and writing down of thought. Long ago, when I Was quite a
young man, I used to scribble feuilletons and stray articles
for the Paris papers and - głłIn th ſty extra francs ſhereby.
.*- -
wokMwooD. . . . 1?
Once, too, I wrote a novel—very high-flown in style and full
of romantic sentiment. It was about a girl all innocence, and
a man all nobleness, who were interrupted in the progress of
their amours by the usual sort of villain so useful to the
authors of melodrama. I saw the book for sale at a stall near
the Palais Royale the other day, and should probably have
bought it for mere idle curiosity’s sake, but that it cost two
francs, and I could not spare the money. I stood and looked
at it instead, thinking how droll it was that I should ever have
written it! And, little by little, I began to remember what I
had been like at that time—the portrait of myself emerged out
of the nebulous gray mist that always more or less obscures
my vision, and 1 saw my face as it had appeared in youth—
clear-complexioned, dark-eyed, and Smiling—such a face as
may be seen more frequently in Provence or Southern Italy
than in the streets of Paris; a face that many were com-
plaisant enough to call handsome, and that assuredly by none
would have been deemed positively ill-looking. There was a
promising intelligence, I believe, in my physiognomy; a cer-
tain deceptive earnestness and animation that led my over-
sanguine relatives and friends to expect wonders of me—a few
enthusiasts expressing their firm (and foolish) conviction that I
should be a great man Some day. Great! I? I laugh to think
of it. I can see my own features as I write, in a cracked and
blurred mirror opposite; I note the dim and sunken eyes, the
discolored skin, the disheveled hair—a villainous reflection
truly! I might be sixty from my looks—yet I am barely
forty. Hard living? Well, no—not what the practiced boul-
wardier would understand by that term. I do not frequent
places of amusement, I am not the boon-companion of ballet-
dancers and café-chanteuses ; I am too poor for that sort of
revelry, inasmuch as I can seldom afford to dine. Yet I might
have been rich, I might have been respectable, I might even
have been famous—imagine it! for I know I once had a few
glimmerings of the Swift lightning Galled genius in me, and
that my thoughts were not precisely like those of every-day
men and women. But chance was against me, chance or fate;
both terms are synonymous. Let none talk to me of opposing
one’s self to fate; that is simply impossible. Fight as we
may, we can not alter an evil destiny, or reverse a lucky one.
Resist temptation! cry the preachers. Very good! but sup-
pose you can not resist? Suppose you see no object whatever
in making resistance? For example, point out to me if you
can, what use it would be to any one living that I should re-
form my ways? Not a soul would care! I should starve on
18 wormwooD.
just as I starve now, only without any sort of comfort; I should
seek help, work, sympathy, and find none; and I should per-
ish in the end just as surely and as friendlessly as 1 shall per-
ish now. We know how the honest poor are treated in this
best of worlds—pushed to the wall and trampled upon to
make room for the rich to ride by. We also know what the
much-prated-of rewards of virtue are; the grudging thanks
and reluctant praise of a few obscure individuals who make
haste to forget you as soon as you are dead; think you that
such reward is worth the trouble of winning? In the present
advanced condition of things it is really all one whether we
are virtuous or vicious, for who cares very much about moral-
ity in this age? Morality has always seemed to me such an
ambiguous term! I asked my father to define it once, and he
answered me thus: -
“Morality is a full and sensible recognition of the responsi-
bilities of one’s being, and a steadfast obedience to the laws of
God and one’s country.” -
Exactly! but how does this definition work, when by the
merest chance you discover that you have no actual responsi-
bilities, and that it does not matter in the least what becomes
of you? Again, that the laws of God and country are drawn
up, after much violent dispute and petty wrangling, by a few
human individuals nearly, if not quite, as Capricious and un-
reasonable as yourself? What of morality, then? Does it not
resolve itself into a myth, like the Creed the churches live by?
A truce, I say, to such fair-Seeming hypocritical shows of
good, in a world which is evil to its very core! Tet us know
ourselves truly for what we are; let us not deceive our minds
with phantasms of what we can not be. We are mere animals
—we shall never be angels—neither here nor hereafter. As
for me, I have done with romances; love, friendship, ambi-
tion, fame; in past days, it is true, I set Some store by these
airy cheats—these vaporous visions; but now—now they count
to me as naught; I possess a dearer joy, more real, more last-
ing than them all! -
Would you learn what thing it is that holds me, wretched as
I seem, to life? what link binds my frail body and frailer soul
together? and why, with no friends and no fortune, I still con-
trive to beat back death as long as possible? Would you know
the single craving of my blood—the craving that burns in me
more fiercely than hunger in a starving beast of prey—the one
desire, to gratify which I would desperately dare and defy all
men? . Listen, then! A nectar, bitter-sweet—like the last kiss
on the lips of a discarded mistress—is the Secret charm of my
s wornſwood. • * 19
existence; green as the moon’s light on a forest pool it glim-
mers in my glass!—eagerly I quaff it, and, as I drink, I
dream! Not of foolish things. No! Not of dull Saints and
smooth landscapes in heaven and wearisome prudish, maids;
but of glittering bacchantes, nude nymphs in a dance of hell,
flashing torrents and dazzling mountain-peaks, of storm and
terror, of lightning and rain, of horses galloping, of flags fly-
ing, of armies marching, of laste and uproar and confusion
and death! Ay! even at times I have heard the trumpets
blare on the field of battle, and the shout “La revanche 7 la
revanche l’” echoing wildly in my ears; and I have waded deep
in the blood of our enemies, and wrested back from their grasp
Alsace-Lorraine! . . . . - -
Ah, fool that I am! What! raving again? I torture
myself with absurd delusions; did I not but lately say I loved
France no longer? . . . France! Do I not love thee! Not
now! Oh, not now let my words be accepted concerning thee;
not now, but later on, when this heavy weight is lifted from
my heart; when this hot pulsation is still in my brain; when
the bonds of living are cut asunder and I wander released, a
shadow among shades; then, it may be, I shall find tears to
shed: tears of passionate tenderness and wild remorse above
thy grave, poor France, thou beaten and discrowned fair em-
press of nations; thou whom I, and others such as I am,
- might yet help to rescue and reinvest with glory if—if only
... we could be roused—roused to swift action in time, before it
is too late! . . . . -
•
There! the agony is over, and I am calm once more. I do
not often yield to my own fancies; I know their power, how
... they drag at me, and strive to seize and possess me with re-
grets for the past; but they shall not succeed. No wise man
stops to consider his by-gone possibilities. The land of Might-
Haye-Been is, after all, nothing but a blurred prospect; a sort
of dim and distant landscape, where the dull clouds rain per-
petual tears!
Of course the beginning of my history is—love. It is the
beginning of every man and every woman’s history, if they are
only frank enough to admit it. Before that period, life is a
mere series of smooth and small events, monotonously agree-
able or disagreeable, according to our surroundings, a time in
which we learn a few useful things and a great many useless
ones, and are for the most part in a half-awakened pleasing
state of uncertainty and wonder about the world in general.
Love lights upon us suddenly like a flame, and lo! we are
transformed; We are for the first time alive, and conscious of
20 wormwooD. - -
our beating pulses, our warm and hurrying blood; we feel; we
know; we gain a wisdom wider and sweeter than any to be
found in books, and we climb step by step up the height of
ecstasy, till we stand in so lofty an altitude that we seem to
ourselves to dominate both earth and heaven! It is only a
fool’s paradise we stumble into, after all; but, then, every-
thing is more or less foolish in this world; if we wish to avoid
folly we must seek a different planet.
Let me think; where did I see her first? At her mother’s
house, it must have been. Yes! the picture floats back to me
agross a hazy Sea of memories, and suspends itself, mirage-
like, before my half-bewildered gaze. She had just returned
to Paris from her school at Lausanne in Switzerland. The
Swiss wild-roses had left their delicate hues on her cheeks, the
Alpine blue gentians had lost their little hearts in her eyes.
She was dressed that night in quaint Empire fashion—a sim-
ple garb of purest white silk, with a broad sash drawn closely
under the bosom—her rich curls of dark-brown hair were
caught up in high masses and tied with a golden ribbon. A
small party was being held in honor of her home-coming.
Her father, the Comte de Charmilles, a stern old royalist
whose allegiance to the Orleans family was only equaled by his
fanatical devotion to the Church, led her through the rooms,
leaning gracefully on his arm, and formally introduced her, in
his stately old-fashioned way, to all the guests assembled. I
was among the last of these, yet not the least, for my father
and the count had been friends from boyhood, and there was
an especially marked kindness in his voice and manner, when,
päusing at my side, he thus addressed me: - t
– “Monsieur Beauvais, permit me to present to you my
daughter Pauline. Pauline, my child, this is Monsieur Gas-
ton Beauvais, the son of our excellent friend Monsieur Charles
Beauvais, the banker, who has the beautiful house at Neuilly,
and who used to give thee so many marron's glacés when thou
wert a small, dear, greedy baby; dost thou remember?”
A charming Smile parted her lovely lips, and she returned
my profound bow with the prettiest sweeping courtesy imag-
inable.
“Hélas !” she said, playfully, shrugging her shoulders.
“I must confess that the days of the marrons glacés are not
yet past! I am a greedy baby still, am I not, my good papa? .
Can you believe it, Monsieur Išeauvais, those maj'rolls glacés
were the first luxuries I asked for when I came homeſ they
are so good! everything is so good in Paris! My dear, beauti-
ful Paris! I am so glad to be back again! You can not im,
WORMWOOD. º 21
agine how dull it is at Lausannel A. pretty place? Oh, yes!
but so very dull! There are no good bonbons, no délices of
any kind, and the people are so stupid they do not even know
how to make an éclair properlyl Ah, how I used to long for
éclairs / I saw some, one afternoon, in a little shop-window,
and went in to try what they were like; moſt Dieu ! they were
so very bad, they tasted of cheese! Yes, truly! So many things
in Switzerland taste of cheese, I think! Par evample, have
you ever been to Vevey? No? ah! when you do go there, you
will taste cheese in the very air!”
She laughed, and heaved a comical little sigh over the one
serious inconvenience and unforgettable disadvantage of her
past school-life, namely, the lack of delectable éclairs and
marron's glacés, while I, who had been absorbed in a fascinated
study of her eyes, her hair, her pretty figure, her small hand
that every now and then waved a white fan to and fro with a
lazy grace that reminded me of the flashing of a sea-bird’s
pinion, thought to myself what a mere child she was for all the
dignity of her eighteen years, a child as innocent and fresh as
a flower just bursting into bloom, with no knowledge of the
world into which she was entering, and with certainly no idea
of the power of her own "beauty to rouse the passions of men.
I listened to her soft and trifling chatter with far deeper inter-
est than I should probably have felt in the conversation of the
most astute diplomatist or learned philosopher, and as soon as
I saw my opportunity I made haste to offer her my arm, first,
however, as in duty bound, glancing expressively at her father
for permission to do so—permission which he instantly and
smilingly accorded. Old fool! why did he throw us together?
Why did he not place obstacles in the way of our intercourse? .
Because, royalist and devotee as he was, he understood the
practical side of life as well, if not better than any shrewd re-
publican going; he knew that my father was rich, and that I
was his only heir, and he laid his plans accordingly. He was
like all French fathers; yet why should I specify French fa-
thers so particularly? English fathers are the same; all fathers
of all nations nowadays look to the practical-utility advantages
of marriage for their children—and quite right too! One can
not live on air-bubbles of Sentiment.
Pauline de Charmilles was not a shy girl, but by this I do
not mean it to be in the least imagined that she was bold. On
the contrary, she had merely that quick brightness and esprit
which is the happy heritage of so many French women, none
of whom think it necessary to practice or assume the chilly
touch-me-not diffidence and unbecoming constraint which
22 WORMWOOD.
#
makes the young English “mees’ such a tame and tiresome
companion to men of sense and humor. She was soon per-
fectly at her ease with me, and became prettily garrukous and
confidential, telling me stories of her life at Jausanne, describ-
ing the loveliness of the scenery on Lake Leman, and drawing
word-portraits of her teachers and school-mates, with a facile
directness and point that brought them at once before the
mind’s eye as though they were actually present. We sat to-
gether for some time on a window-seat from which we could
command a charming little glimpse of the Bois-de Boulogne,
for M. de Charmilles would not live far away from this, his
favorite promenade in all weathers, and talked of many things,
particularly of life in Paris, and the gayeties that were foretold
for the approaching winter season. Réunions, balls, recep-
tions, operas, theaters, all such festivities as these, this ingenu-
ous worshiper of the “marron glacé '' looked forward to with
singular vivacity, and it was only after she had babbled sweet-
ly about fashion and Society for several minutes that she sud-
denly turned upon me with a marvelously brilliant penetrating
glance of her dark-blue eyes, a glance such as T afterward
found out was common to her, but which then startled me as
much as an unexpected flash of lightning might have done,
and said:
“And you? What are you going to do? How do you
amuse yourself?”
“Mademoiselle, I work!”
“Ah, yes! You are in your father’s business.”
“I am his partner.”
“You have difficult things to think about? You labor all
the day?”
I laughed—she looked so charmingly compassionate.
“’No, not all the day, but for several hours of it. We are
bankers, you know; and the taking charge of other people’s
money, mademoiselle, is a very serious business!”
“Oh, that I can quite imagine! But you must rest some-
times—you must visit your friends and be gay—is it not so?”
“Assuredly! But perhaps I do not take my rest precisely
like other people—I read a great deal, and I write also—occa-
sionally.”
“Books!” she exclaimed, her lovely eyes opening wide with
eager interest. “You write books?”
“I have written one or two,” I admitted, modestly.
“Oh, do tell me the titles of them!” she entreated. “l
shall be so interested! I read every story I can get hold of,
W. “ *** &
\ zºº; ^-
WORMWOOD. 23
especially love stories, you know! I adore love stories! I
always cry over them, and—”
Here our conversation was abruptly broken off. Mme. la
Comtesse de Charmilles, a dignified grande dame clad in
richest black silk, with diamonds gleaming here and there
upon her handsome person, sailed up to us from a remote cor-
ner of the room where she had no doubt been watching us
with the speculative observation of the match - making
matron, and said: -
“Pauline, my child, the Marquis de Guiscard desires the
honor of taking you in to supper. Monsieur Beauvais will
have the amiability to escort your cousin. My niece, Made-
moiselle St. Cyr—Monsieur Gaston Beauvais.” And there-
upon she presented me to a pale, serious-looking girl, who
merely acknowledged my formal salute by the slightest per-
ceptible bend of her head, and whom I scarcely glanced at, so
great was my chagrin to see the fascinating Pauline carried off
on the arm of De Guiscard, a battered beau of sixty, grizzled
as a bear, and wrinkled as old parchment. I suppose my
vexation was distinctly visible in my face, for Mme. de Char-
milles smiled a little as she saw me march stiffly past her into
the supper-room, without condescending to say a word to my
pale partner, whom I considered at the moment positively
ugly. To my comfort, however, I found Pauline seated next
to me at table, and I made amends for my previous disap-
pointment "by conversing with her all the time, to the com-
plete vanquishment and discomfiture of old De Guiscard. Not
that he really cared, I think, seeing he was so entirely ab-
sorbed in eating. We talked of books and pictures. I sought
and obtained the permission to send her two of my own
literary productions, the two which I myself judged as my
best efforts; one a critical study of Alfred de Musset, the other
the high-flown sentimental novel before mentioned, which at
that time had only just been published. I spoke to her of the
great geniuses reigning in the musical world—of the unrivaled
Sarasate, of Rubinstein, of Verdi, of the child-pianist, Otto
Hegner; then, skimming down from the empyrean of music
to the lower level of the histrionic art, I described to her the
various qualities of talent displayed by the several actors and
actresses who were ranked among the most popular of the
passing hour. And so we chatted on, happily engrossed with
each other, and forgetful of all else. As for the pale cousin,
whose name I afterward learned was Heloise, I never gave her
a second thought. She sat on the other side of me, and that
was all I knew of her then; but afterward! No matter! she
{
24 tº WORM WOOD,
is dead, quite dead, and I only dream I See her still! The
hours fled by on golden wings, and before that evening
ended—before I pressed her two small white hands in my
own at parting, I felt that I loved Pauline de Charmilles—
loved her as I should never love any other woman. An over-
whelming passion seized me; I was no longer master of my
own destiny; Pauline was my fate. What was her fascina-
tion? How was it that she, a girl fresh from school, a mere
baby in thought, fond of bonbons and foolish trifles, should
Suddenly ravish my Soul by Surprise and enslave and dominate
it utterly? I can not tell; put the question to the physiolo-
gists and Scientists who explain everything, and they will an-
swer you. She was beautiful—-that I can positively affirm,
for 1 have studied every detail of her loveliness as few could
have done. And I suppose her beauty allured me. Men
never fall in love at first with a woman’s mind; only with her
body. They may learn to admire the mind afterward, if it
prove worth admiration, but it is always a secondary thing.
This may be called a rough truth, but it is true for all that.
Who marries a woman of intellect by choice? No one, and if
some unhappy man does it by accident, he generally regrets
it. A stupid beauty is the most comfortable sort of house-
keeper going, believe me—she will be strict with the children,
scold the servants, and make herself look as ornamental as
she can, till age and fat render ornament superfluous. But a
woman of genius, with that strange subtle attraction about
her which is yet not actual beauty—she is the person to be
avoided if you would have peace; if you would escape reproach;
if you would elude the fixed and melancholy watchfulness of
a pair of eyes haunting you in the night. Eyes such I see
always—always, and shudderingly wonder at!—eyes full of
unshed tears—will those tears never fall?—large, soft, serious
eyes, like those of Pauline’s pale cousin Heloise!
TIT.
I MAY as well speak of this woman Heloise St. Cyr before
I go on any further. I say this woman; I could never call
her a girl, though she was young"enough—only twenty. Iłut
she was so pale and quiet, and so concentrated within the mys- .
tic circle of her own thoughts, that she never seemed to me
like others of her sex and age. At first I took a strong dis-
like to her; she had such fair bright hair, and I hated golden-
haired women. 1 suppose this was because writers—poets espe-
-- \
l
WORMWOOD. 25
cially—have sung their praises of golden hair till the world is
wearied—and also because so many females of the demi-monde
have dyed their coarse tresses to such hideous straw-tints in
order to be in accordance with the prevailing fashion and sen-
timent. However, the abundant locks of Heloise were, in
their way, of a matchless hue; a singularly pale gold, bright-
ening here and there into flecks of reddish auburn gloss to the
smooth nape of her neck, where they grew in Soft Small curls
like the delicate fluff under a young bird’s wing. I often
caught myself staring at these little warm rings of sun-color
on the milky whiteness of her skin, when she sat in a window-
corner apart from myself and Pauline, reading some great
volume of history or poetry, entirely absorbed, and apparent-
ly unconscious of our presence. Her uncle told me she was a
wonderful scholar; that she had numberless romances in her
head, and all the poets in her heart. I remember 1 thought
at the time that he was exaggerating her gifts out of mere
affectionate complaisance, for I never quite believed in wom-
an’s real aptitude for learning. I could quite understand a
certain surface-brilliancy of attainment in the female mind,
but I would never admit that such knowledge went deep
enough to last. I was mistaken, of course; since then I have
realized that a woman’s genius if great and true, equals and
often surpasses that of the most gifted man. I used, however,
to look upon Heloise St. Cyr with a certain condescension,
only allowing her, in my opinion, to be about one degree in
advance beyond the ordinary feminine intelligence. I had,
as I said, a vague dislike to her, which was not lessened when,
after reading my novel—the novel I was so proud of having
written—she smiled at the woes of my sentimental heroine,
and told me very gently that I did not yet understand women.
Not understand women! I, a born and bred Parisian of five-
and-tweny! Absurd! Now Pauline “adored ” my book.
She read and reread it many times, and I gave her much
more credit for good taste in literature than the pale woman-
student who was forever mooning over Homer and Plato. I
could not understand Pauline’s almost passionate reverence
for this quiet, sad-eyed cousin of hers—never were two creat-
ures more utterly opposed to each other in character and sen-
timent. But, strange to say, love for Heloise seemed the one
really serious part of Pauline’s nature, while Heloise’s affec-
tion for her, though not so openly displayed, was evidently
strong and deeply rooted. Mlle. St. Cyr was poor, so I un-
derstood; her parents resided in some obscure town in Nor-
mandy, and had hard work to keep a decent roof above their
W .
26 - W ORMWOOT). *
ſ
heads, for which reason the Comtesse de Charmilles had un-
dertaken the care of this eldest girl of her brother's family,
promising to do her best for her, and, if possible, to marry
her well. . But Heloise showed no inclination for marriage;
she was dull and distraite in the company of men, and
seemed bored by their conversation rather than pleased.
Nevertheless, she possessed her own fascination: what it was
I never could see, not then—a fascination sufficient to win the
devoted attachment of both her aunt and uncle, to whom she
became a positive necessity in the household. I soon found
out that nothing was done without Heloise being first con-
sulted—that in any domestic difficulty or contretemps, every-
body washed their hands of trouble and transferred it to
Heloise; that when her uncle, to gratify his extreme love of
fresh air and exercise, Cantered into the Bois every morning at
six o'clock, she rode with him on a spirited mare that the
Very groom was afraid of; that she put the finishing touches
to her aunt’s toilet and tied the last little decorative knot of
ribbon in Pauline’s luxuriant hair, and that she was generally
useful to every one. This fact of itself made me consider her
with a sort of faint contempt; practical-utility persons were
never attractive to me, though I reluctantly owned the ad-
visability of their existence. And then I never half believed
what I heard about her; her talents and virtues seemed to me
to be always overrated. I never saw her occupied otherwise
than with a book. She was forever reading—she was, I de-
cided, going to develop herself into a “femme Savante,” a
character I detested. So I paid her very little attention, and
when I did speak to her on any subject it was always with
that particularly condescending carelessness which a wise man
of five-and-twenty who has written books, may bestow on a
vastly inferior type of humanity.
In a very short time I became a frequent and intimate vis-
itor at the house of the De Charmilles, and my intentions
there were pretty well guessed by all the members of the
family. Nothing to the purport of marriage, however, had
yet been said. I had not even dared to whisper to Pauline
my growing love for her. I was aware of her father’s old-
fashioned sentiments on etiquette, and knew that in strict ac-
cordance with what he deemed honor, I was bound, before
paying any serious addresses to his daughter, to go through
the formality of asking his permission. But I was in no
hurry to do this; it was a sufficient delight to me for the pres-
ent to see my heart’s enchantress occasionally, to bring her
flowers or bonbons, to hear her sing and play—for she was a
sº
worMwooD. 2.
graceful proficient in music—and to make one of the family
party at supper, and argue politics good-humoredly with the
old royalist count, whose contempt for the Republic was be-
yond all bounds, and who was anxious to convert me to his
way of thinking. Often on these occasions my father, an ex-
cellent man, though apt to be rather prosy when he yielded to
his weakness for telling anecdotes, would join us, bringing
with him one of his special friends, the little fat curé of our
parish, whose bomb mots were proverbial; and many a pleas-
ant evening we passed all together, seated round the large
table in the oak-paneled dining-room, from whose walls the
stiffly painted portraits of the ancestral De Charmilles seemed
to frown or Smile upon us, according to the way in which the
lamp-light flickered or fell. And as the days flew on and
Movember began to rustle by in a shroud of dead autumn
leaves, it seemed to my adoring eyes that Pauline grew love-
lier than ever. Her gayety increased; she invested herself
with a thousand new fascinations, a thousand fresh coquetries.
Every dress she wore appeared to become her more perfectly
than the last. She fluttered here and there like a beautiful
butterfly in a garden of roses, and I, who had loved her half
timidly before, now grew mad for her! mad with a passion of
longing that I could hardly restrain—a passion that consumed
me hotly like a fever and would scarcely let me sleep. When-
ever I fell, out of the sheer exhaustion of my thoughts, into a
restless slumber, I saw her in my dreams—a flitting, dancing
Sylph on rainbow-colored clouds—her voice rang in my ears,
her arms would wave and beckon me. “Pauline! Pauline!”
I would cry aloud, and, starting from my pillow, I would rise
and pace my room to and fro, to and fro, like a chafing pris-
oner in a cell till morning dawned. During all this self-tor-
ment which I half enjoyed, it being a more delicious than
painful experience, I might have spoken to the Comte de
Charmilles; but I refrained, determining to wait till after the
feast of Noël. I was sure of his consent. I felt convinced
that he and my father had already spoken together on the
subject, and as for Pauline herself—ah! if looks had elo-
quence, if the secret pressure of a hand, the sudden Smile, the
quick blush, meant anything at all, then surely she loved me!
There were no obstacles in the way of our union, and it was
impossible to invent any; all was smooth sailing, fair skies
above, calm seas below; and we, out of all the people in the
world, should probably be the happiest living. So I thought;
and I made many pleasant plans, never considering for a mo-
ment how foolish it is to make plans beforehand for anything;
* *-Yº
28 WORMWOQT),
but, remember, I was very young, and Tſeloise St. Cyr was
quite right when she said I did not yet understand women.
We lived alone, my father and I, at Neuilly, in a large old
quaint mansion, part of which had been standing at the time
of the famous Reign of Terror. The rooms were full of an-
tique furniture, such as would have been the joy of connois-
seurs, and everything, even to the smallest trifle, was kept in
the exact order in which my mother had left it seventeen years
previously, when she died giving birth to a girl-child who sur-
vived her but a few hours. One of the earliest impressions of
my life is that of the hush of death in the house, the soft
stepping to and fro of the servants, the drawn blinds, the
Smell of incense and burning candles; and I remember how,
with a beating heart, I, as a little fellow, stopped outside the
door of the closed room and whispered, “Maman / petite
naman /* in a voice rendered so weak by fright that 1 myself
could scarcely hear it. And then, how, on a sudden impulse,
I entered the mysteriously darkened chamber and saw a
strange, white, beautiful figure lying on the bed with lilies in
its hair, a figure that held encircled in one arm a tiny waxen
creature that looked as pretty and gentle as the little Jesus in
the church Créche at Christmas-time; and how, after staring
at this sight bewildered for a minute’s space, I became aware
of my father kneeling at the bedside, his strong frame shaken
with such convulsive sobs as were terrible to hear; so terrible,
that I, breaking into childish wailing, fled to his arms for
shelter, and stayed there shuddering, clasped to his heart and
feeling his hot tears raining on my hair. That was a long,
long while ago! It is odd that I should recollect every detail
of that scene so well at this distance of time!
I have said that my father had a special friend with whom
he loved to talk and argue on all the political and philosoph-
ical questions that came up for discussion, namely, M. Vau-
dron, the curé of our parish. He was a good man—perfectly
unaſſected, simple-hearted, and honest. Imagine, an honest
priest! It is a sufficient rarity in France. He was in ear-
nest, too. He believed in Our Lady and his patron Saint with
unflinching fervor and tenacity. It was no use bringing the
heavy batteries of advanced science to storm his little citadel.
He stood firm.
“Talk as you will;” he would say, “there is always some-
thing left that you can not understand. No! neither you nor
Monsieur Rénan, nor any other overwise theorist living, and
for me that Something is Everything. When you can explain
away that little inexplicable—why then, who knows!—I may
WORMWOOD. 29
go as far and even further than any heretic of the age *—here
he would simile and rub his hands complacently—‘‘ but till
then—” An expressive gesture would complete the sentence,
and both my father and I liked and respected him too well to
carry on any ultra-positive views on religion in his presence.
One evening late in November, M. Vaudron called upon us,
as it was often his custom to do, after supper, with an expres-
sion of countenance that betokened some vexation and anx-
iety.
!. To speak truly, I am worried,” he said at last, in answer
to my father’s repeated inquiries as to whether anything was
wrong with him. “And I am full of uncomfortable doubts
and presentiments. I am to have an unexpected addition to
my poor household in the person of my nephew, who is study-
ing to be a priest. You never heard of my nephew? No. I
never thought I should have occasion to speak of him. He is
the only son of my only sister, who married a respectable,
Somewhat wealthy farmer possessing house and lands in Brit-
tany. They settled in that province, and have never left it;
and this boy—I suppose he must be about twenty-two—has
seen no other city larger than the town of Rennes, where he
began and has since carried on his studies. Now, his parents
wish him to see Paris, and continue his probation with me;
this is all very well, but you know how I live, and you can
imagine how my old Margot will look upon such an unexpect-
ed invasion!” *
We Smiled. Margot was the good curé's cook, house-
keeper, and domestic tyrant; a withered little woman, some-
thing like a dried apple, one of those apples that you have to
cut into pretty deeply before you find the sweetness that lurks
at its core. She had a sharp tongue, too, had Margot, and
however much the curé might believe in his priestly power to
exorcise the devil, it was certain he could never exorcise his
old cook’s love of scolding out of her. He was ludicrously
afraid of her wrath, and he surveyed us now as he spoke with
a most whimsical air of timidity and supplication.
“You see, moſt ami,” he continued, addressing my father
who, Smoking comfortably, glanced at him with a keen yet
friendly amusement, “this nephew, whom I do not know,
may be troublesome.”
“Assuredly he may!” agreed my father, solemnly, yet with
a twinkle in his eye. “Young men are proverbially difficult
to manage.”
“They are—they are! I am sure of that!” and the curé
shook his head in a desponding manner. “But still I can not
30 WORMWOOD,
refuse the request of my only sister, the first request she has
ever made of me since her marriage! Besides, if I would re-
fuse, it is too late; the boy is on his way—he will be here to-
morrow, and 1 must break the news somehow to Margot; it
will be difficult—mon Diew 1 it will be very difficult!—but it
must be done!” *
And he heaved such a profound sigh, that 1, who had been
glancing up and down the flimsy columns of the “Petit Jour-
nal,” to avoid interrupting the conversation of my elders,
suddenly gave way to irresistible laughter. My merriment
was contagious; the picture of M. Vaudron trembling like an
aspen leaf before the little waspish Margot, and faltering forth
the news that henceforth, for a time at least, she would have
to wait upon two men instead of one, and proffering his mild
apologies for the same, struck us all with an overwhelming
sense of the ridiculous, even the curé himself, whose laughter
was as loud and long as my father’s or mine. e
“Ah, well!” he said at last, wiping away the drops of
mirth from his eyes. “I know I am an old fool, and that I
allow Margot to have her own way a little too much—but then
she is a good soul, a very good soul! and truly she takes care
of me as I never could take care of myself. And how well she
washes the church linen! Could anything be more spotlessly
white and fit for holy Service! She is an excellent woman—I
assure you, excellent! but regarding this nephew—”
“Ah, that is a serious question!” murmured my father,
who seemed mischievously determined not to help him out
with any solution of his difficulty. “He is coming, you say,
to-morrow?”
“He is—he is, without a doubt!” replied poor M. Wau-
dron, with another forlorn shake of his head. “And as he
will probably arrive before noon, there is very little time to
prepare Margot for his arrival. You see I would not wish to
blame my good sister for the world, but I think—I think she
has been a little hasty in this matter. She has given me no
chance of refusal, not that I could have refused her, but I
might have arranged better, had more time been given me.
However, I suppose I must do my utmost for the boy.”
Here he broke off and rubbed his nose perplexedly.
“What is he like, this nephew of yours?” I put in sudden-
ly. “Have you any idea?”
“Truly, not much,” he replied, thoughtfully. “I never
saw him but once, and then he was only three years old, a fine
child, if l remember rightly. -If one is to believe in his moth-
er’s description of him (but that, of course, can not be done)
WORMWOOD, 31
he is an intellectual marvel; a positive prodigy of good looks
and wisdom combined; there never was such a youth born into
this planet before, according to her account, poor dear soul!
Ah! good mothers are all alike; God has made their hearts
the tenderest in the world!”
My father sighed a little. I knew he was thinking of the
dead; of his fair lost love, with whom had perished all moth-
er’s tenderness for me, at any rate. He rose, knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, and put it by, then looked round with a
smile at the still perplexed and musing curé.
“Come, mon cher l’’ he said, cheerfully. “I know what
you want as well as possible! You want me to go round with
you and help smooth this affair over with your old Margot.
Is it not so? Speak truly!”
“Ah, mon ami l’’ cried poor M. Vaudron, rising from his
chair-in an ecstasy. “If you would but do me this favor!
She will listen to you! she has the profoundest admiration for
you, and she will understand reason from your lips! You
really will accompany me? ah, what it is to have so excellent
a friend! I shall owes you a thousand obligations for this
kindness! there will no longer be any difficulty, and I shall be
once more at ease! But you are sure it is no trouble?”
While he thus spoke, my father had stepped into the hall
and put on his coat and hat, and he now stood equipped for
walking, his stalwart form and refined, rather melancholy
face offering a great contrast to the round, dumpy figure and
lump, clean-Chaven Countenance of the good little curé.
“Allons !” he said, mirthfully. “We will start before it
grows any later, and take Madame Margot by surprise. She
is in love with me, that old Margot of thinel 1 warn thee,
Vaudron, that she has designs upon me! She will need one of
thy exordiums after mass next Sunday; for I will so confuse
her with compliments on her house-management, and on the
excellent way in which she will certainly purpose attending to
thy nephew, that she will almost believe herself to be young
and marriageable once more!”
He laughed—so did the curé, and they prepared to leave
the house together. I accompanied them to the street door,
and on the threshold my father turned round to me, Saying:
“Amuse thyself well, Gaston! Art thou going to see the
pretty Pauline this evening?”
The hot color surged to my brows; but I made a pretense
of indifference, and answered in the negative.
“Ah, well! One night more or less in the week will not
make much difference to thy feelings, or to hers. Soe, what
32 WORMWOOD,
a bright moon! Thou Canst play Romeo with real scenery; is
there no balcony to thy Juliet's window?”
And with this sort of badlinaſe, mingled with laughter, the
two elderly gentlemen descended the steps, and crossing the
road arm in arm were soon lost to sight in an opposite avenue
of trees. I stayed a minute or two at the open door, looking
after them, and puffing slowly at my half-finished cigarette.
They knew—they guessed my love for Pauline; it was prob-
able every one knew or guessed it. I might as well speak
openly and at Once to the Comte de Charmilles; why not to.
morrow? Yes, to-morrow! I resolved I would do so. And
to-morrow then—ah, God!—I should be free to clasp my dar-
ling in my arms unreproved, to tell her how 1 had thought of
her every minute of the day and night; how I adored her;
how I worshiped her; I should be allowed to kiss those soft,
sweet lips, and touch those lovely curls of loose brown hair!
she would be mine, betrothed to me! The very thought made
me tremble with my own eagerness and ecstasy, and, to calm
myself, I went abruptly in-doors, and began to busy my brain
with certain financial Calculations and reports which demanded
the closest attention. And while I was thus engaged, softly
whistling a tune as I worked for pure lightness of heart, the
moon soared high up like a great beacon, flooding the room in
which I sat, with strange ghostly beams of silver and green,
one green ray falling right across the paper on which I was
scribbling, and shining with such a conspicuous brilliancy that
it almost dimmed the brightness of the lighted lamp over my
head. I stopped writing to look at it; it flickered with a
liquid pale radiance like the luster of an emerald, or the color
of absinthe. It moved away after awhile, and I went on with
my work. But I well remember the weird, almost spectral
loveliness of the skies that night, the weather was so calm and
frostily clear. When my father came back in about an hour’s
time, after having been triumphantly successful as an inter-
mediator between the curé and his old Margot, he remarked
to me, as we went upstairs to our bedrooms :
“The unexpected nephew of Monsieur Vaudron will have
fine weather for his journey!”
“Excellent!” I agreed, stifling a yawn, for I was rather
sleepy. “By the way, what is the unexpected nephew’s
name?”
“Silvion Guidel.”
I stopped on the stairs.
“Silvion Guidel! A strange name, surely?” *...
“It sounds strange, yes! but ‘Guidel” is an old Brittany
WORMWOOD, 33
tº
name, so Vaudron tells me; * Silvion” is certainly not so com-
mon as ‘Sylvain,” yet they are very nearly alike.”
, “True!” and I said no more. But I thought several times,
at odd waking moments during the night, of that name—Sil-
vion Guidel—and wondered what sort of being he was that bore
it. He was studying to be a priest, so it was not likely that
I should see much of him. However, a Curious sense of irrita-
tion grew up in me that this fellow from Brittany should be
coming to Paris at all. I disliked him already, even while ad-
mitting to myself that such a dislike was altogether foolish
and unreasonable. And the name, “Silvion Guidel ” haunt-
ed me then, even as it haunts me now; only then it suggested
nothing, Save a faint inexplicable sense of aversion; but now 2
—now it is written before me in letters of fire! it stares at me
from every clear blank space of wall, it writes itself beneath
my feet on the ground, and above me in the heavens; I never
lose the accursed sight of it!—I never shall!—never, never!
until I die!
IV.
THE next day I carried out my previous night’s resolution
to ask the Comte de Charmilles for his daughter’s hand in
marriage. As 1 expected, I was met with entire favor, and
when 1 left the old aristocrat’s library, after about an hour’s
satisfactory conversation, I had his full parental permission to
go straightway to Pauline and tell her of my passion. How
my heart beat, how my pulses galloped, as I stepped swiftly
along the corridor in search of my soul’s idol! She usually
sat with her cousin in a small boudoir fronting on the garden;
and she was generally at home at this early hour of the after-
noon; but for once I could not find her. Where was she, 1
wondered? Perhaps in the large drawing-room, though she
Seldom went there, that apartment being only used occasion-
ally for the reception of visitors. However, I turned in that
direction, and was just crossing the passage, when I was
brought to an abrupt stand-still by the sound of music; such
music as might have been played by Orpheus to charm his lost
bride out of hell. I listened amazed and entranced; it was a
Violin that discoursed such wild melody; some one was playing
it with so much verve and fire and feeling, that it seemed as
though every throbbing note were a burning thing alive, with
wings to carry it to and fro in the air forever. I pushed open
the door of the drawing-room suddenly, and stared at its soli-
tary inmate dumfounded ; why, it was that pale and quiet
34 • WOR MIWOOD, **
Heloise St. Cyr who stood there, her bow lifted, her features
alighted with enthusiasm, her bright hair ruffled, and her large
byes ablaze! What a face! what an attitude! she was actually
beautiful, this woman, and I had never perceived it before!
When she saw me she started; then, in a moment, regained
her self-possession, laid down her bow, and, still holding the
violin, advanced a little.
“You want Pauline?” she asked, slightly smiling, “She .
will be down directly. She is upstairs changing her dress; she
and my aunt have just returned from a drive in the Bois—
they found it very cold.” **
I looked at her, feeling stupid and tongue-tied. I wanted
lo Say Something about her marvelous playing, but at the mo-
ment could find no words. Her eyes met mine steadily, the
faint smile still lurking in their clear depths, and after a brief
pause she spoke again. As
“I was practicing.” And placing the violin against her slim
white throat she ran her fingers dumbly up and down the strings.
“I seldom have the chance of a couple of hours all to myself,
but this afternoon I managed to escape from the drive. My
aunt went to call at the house of Monsieur Vaudron, in order
to leave her card for his nephew, who has just arrived.”
I was considerably surprised at this, and very quickly found
voice to remonstrate.
“Surely Madame la Comtesse has been almost too courteous
in this regard?” I said. “The young man is a perfect stran-
ger, the mere son of a farmer in Brittany—”
“Pardon 1’’ interrupted Heloise. “He is already highly
distinguished for learning and scholarship, and a special letter
of introduction and recommendation concerning him came by
last night’s post for my uncle from the prior of St. Xavier’s
monastery at Rennes. The prior is one of my uncle’s dearest
and oldest friends, thus, you see, it is quite en régle that this
Monsieur Guidel should receive his first welcome from the
house of De Charmilles.”
Again she ran her delicate fingers up and down the strings
of her violin, and again that unreasonable Sense of irritation
which had possessed me during the past night possessed me
now. All things seemed to conspire together to make this
Breton fellow actually one of our intimate circle!
“Will Mademoiselle Pauline be long, do you think?” 1
asked, rather crossly. “I am anxious to see her; I have her
father’s permission to speak to her in private.”
What a curious change passed over her face as I said these
words! She evidently guessed my erland, and there was some-
wormwooD. 35
thing in her expression that was perplexing and difficult to
decipher. She looked startled, sorry, vaguely troubled, and J
wondered why. Presently, laying down her violin, she Gam.
toward me and touched my arm gently, almost pleadingly.
“Do not be in a hurry, Monsieur Beauvais!” she said, very
earnestly. “I think—indeed I am sure—I know what you
are going to say to Pauline! But, give her time to think—
plenty of time! she is so very young, she scarcely knows her
own mind. Oh, do not be angry with me; indeed I speak for
the best! I have lived with my cousin so long—in truth, 1
have seldom been away from her, except when she went to
her finishing school in Switzerland three years ago; but before
that we were both educated at the Convent of the Sacré Coeur
together. I know her nature thoroughly! She is sweet, she
is good, she is a little angel of beauty; but she does not under-
stand what love is, she can not even translate the passing emo-
tions of her own heart. You must be very patient with her!
give her time to be quite sure of herself, for now she is not
sure; she can not be sure!”
Her voice thrilled with quite a plaintive cadence, and her
strange eyes, which I now noticed were a sort of gray-gween
color like the tint of the sea before a storm, filled with tears.
But I was extremely angry; angry with her for speaking to
me at all on the subject of my amour ; it was none of her
business! She had her doubts, this pale, serious, cold woman,
as to the possibility of Pauline’s having any real love for me,
that was evident. Well, she should find out her mistake!
She should soon see how fondly and truly my darling returned
my passion!
“Mademoiselle,” I said, frigidly, “you are exceedingly
good to concern yourself so deeply with the question of your
Cousin’s happiness! I am grateful to you, I-assure you, as
grateful perhaps as even she herself can be; but at present I
think the matter is best left in my hands. You may be quite
certain that I shall urge nothing upon Mademoiselle de Char-
milles that will be in any way distressing to her, my sole desire
being to make her life, so far as I am able, one of perfect
felicity. As for the comprehension of love, I think that comes
instinctively to all women of marriageable age. Surely you
yourself '’—and I spoke in a more bantering tone—“can not
be ignorant of its meaning! If you loved any one, you would
not require much time to think about it?”
“Yes, indeed T should!” she replied, slowly. “I should
need time to commune with my own heart; to ask it if all this
panting passion, this restless fever, would last 2 Whether it
35 WORMWOOD.
**g
were but a fancy of the moment, a dream of the hour, or the
never-to-be-quenched fire of love indeed—love in its perfect
strength and changeless fidelity—love absolutely unselfish,
pure, and deathless! I should need time to know myself and
my lover, and to feel that our two spirits merged into one as
harmoniously as the two notes in this perfect chord!”
And taking up her violin, she drew the bow across the
strings. A sweet and solemn Sound, organ-like in tone, float-
ed through the room with such a penetrating richness that the
very air seemed to pulsate around me in faint yet soothing
echoes. What a strange creature she was, I thought! and a
uick sigh escaped my lips unconsciously.
“I did not know you played the violin, mademoiselle,” I
began, hastily, and with a touch of embarrassments e
“ Vraiment l’’ and she smiled. “But that is not surpris-
ing! You do not know, and it is probable you never will
know anything at all about me! I am a very uninteresting
person; it is not worth any one’s while to study me. Tisten!”
—and she held up her finger as a clear voice rang through the
house Caroling a lively strain from one of the operettas popu-
lar at the time—“there is Pauline; she is coming this way.
One word more, Monsieur Beauvais’’—and she turned swiftly
upon me with an air of almost imperial dignity—“If you are
modest and wise, you will remember what I have said to you;
If yº, are conceited and foolish, you will forget! Aw re-
Qy07 r ſº?
And before I had time to answer her, she had vanished,
taking her violin with her, and leaving me in a state of min-
gled perplexity and vague annoyance. However, as I have
before stated, I never paid much attention to Heloise St. Cyr,
or attached any great importance to her opinions; and on this
occasion I soon dismissed' her from my mind, for in another
minute an ethereal vision clad in soft pink and white drap-
eries, with a curly dark head and a pair of laughing deep-blue
eyes, appeared at the open door of the room, and Pauline her-
self entering, stretched out both her hands in gay greeting.
“Bon jour, Monsieur Gaston / How long have you been
here, making love to Heloise? Ah, méchant / I know how
very bad you are! What? you come to see me—only me?
Oh, yes, that is a very pretty way to excuse yourself! Then
why was Beloise crying as she passed me? You have vexed
her, and I shall not forgive you, for I love her dearly!”
“Crying!” I stammered in amazement. “Mademoiselle
St. Cyr? Why, she was as bright as possible just now; she
has been playing her violin—”
---- * 4 =
`- wormwood. 3?
“Yes; she plays it only when she is sad,” and Pauline nod-
ded her head sagely, “never when she is happy. So that I
know something is not well with her; and who am I to blame
for it? It must be your fault! I shall blame you.”
“Me /* I stared helplessly, then Smiled, for I at once per-
ceived she was only jesting, and I watched her with my heart
beating quick hammer-strokes, as she sunk lazily down in a
cushioned ottoman near the fire, and held out her little hands
to the warmth of the red glow.
“We have been driving in the Bois, mamma and I, and it
was so cold!” she said, with a delicate frissonement of her
pretty figure. “Heloise was wise to remain at home. Only
she missed seeing Monsieur Antinous from Brittany!”
Engrossed as I was with my own thoughts and the contem-
plation of her beauty—for I was wondering how I should begin
my declaration of love—this last sentence of hers impressed
me unpleasantly. --> -----
“Do you mean the nephew of Monsieur Vaudron?” I in-
quired, with, no doubt, a touch of annoyance in my accents
which she, woman-like, was quick to notice.
“Yes, truly! I do mean the nephew of Monsieur Vaudron!”
she replied, a little sparkle of malicious mirth lighting up her
lovely eyes. “He has arrived. Oh, qu’il est beau ! He is a
Savage from Brittany—a forest philosopher—very wise, very
serious, very good! Ah, So good! He is going to be a priest,
you know, and he looks so grave and tranquil that one feels
quite wicked in his presence. Ah, you frown!” and, laugh-
ing, she clapped her hands gayly. “You are jealous—jeal-
ous because I say Monsieur Silvion Guidel is handsome!”
“Jealous!” I exclaimed, with some heat, “I? Why should
I be? I know nothing about the young man—I have not seen
him yet! When I do I will tell you frankly what I think of
him. Meanwhile ”—here I gathered my hesitating courage
together—“Pauline, I want to speak to you; will you be
Serious for a moment and listen to me?”
“Serious?” and a surprised look flitted over her face.
Then, as I fixed my ardent gaze upon her, a deep blush col-
ored her fair cheeks and brow, and she quickly rose from her
chair with a sudden movement of fear or timidity, making as
though she would have fled from the room. But I caught her
hands and held her fast, and all the pent-up longing of my
Soul found utterance in words. Her beauty, her irresistible
sweetness, my deep and deathless love, the happiness we would
enjoy when once united—these were the themes on which I
discoursed with the fiery eloquencé and pleading of a trouba.
- 38 - WORMWOOD,
dour; though, truly, I scarcely knew what I said, so over-
whelming was the released tide of my excitement and ardor.
And she? She trembled a little at first, but soon grew very
quiet, and, still allowing me to hold her hands, looked up
with an innocent vague wonder.
“You really want to marry me, Monsieur Gaston?” she
asked, a faint smile parting her lips. “Soon?”
“Soon?” I echoed, passionately. “Would I might clains
you to-morrow as my bride, Pauline! then should I be the hap.
piest of men! But you have not answered me, mon ange l’’
And now I ventured to put my arm about her and draw her
to my breast, while I adopted the endearing “ thou ’’ of more
familiar speech. “ Dost thou love me, Pauline—even as l
love thee?” tº
She did not answer at once, and a cold dread seized my
heart; was Heloise St. Cyr right after all, and was she not
sure of herself? A meditative expression darkened her eyes
into lovelier hues; she seemed to consider; and I watched her
in an agonized suspense that almost stopped my breath. Then,
with a swift action, as though she threw all reflection to the
winds, she laughed, and nestled her pretty head confidingly
against my shoulder.
“Oui, mon Gaston / I love thee! Thou art good and kind;
papa is pleased with thee, mamma also; we shall be very, very
happy! Oh, quel baiser ſ” for I had in the relief and ecstasy
of the moment pressed my first love-kiss on her sweet mouth.
“Must we always kiss each other now? Is it necessary?”
“Not necessary to thee, perhaps!” I whispered, tenderly,
kissing her again. “But it is to me!”
With an impulsive, half-petulant movement she drew her-
self suddenly away from my embrace; then, apparently re-
gretting the hastiness of this action, she came once more to-
ward me, and, folding her hands in demure fashion on my
arm, looked at me searchingly, as though she sought to read
my very soul.
“Pauvre garçon 1’’ she sighed, softly, “thou dost truly
love me? Very, very dearly?”
More dearly, I assured her, than my own life!
“It is very kind of thee,” she said, with a pretty plaintive-
ness, “for I am very stupid, and every one says thou art such
a clever man! It is good for us to marry, is it not, Gaston?
Thou art sure?” -
“If we love each other—yes, my Pauline! Of course it is
good for us to marry!” I answered, eagerly, a vague fear aris-
ing in my mind lest she should retract or hesitate. She wait-
\ WORMWOOD. 39
N
\
ed with downcast eyes for a minute, and then glanced up at
me radiantly smiling. --
“Then we will marry!” she said. “We will live at Neuilly,
and papa and mamma will visit us, and Heloise will come and
see us, and we shall please everybody! C'est fini / So!”—and
she dropped me a mischievous little courtesy. “Me voici,
Monsieur Gaston / votre jolie petite fiancée—& votre service ſ”
She looked so ravishingly pretty and enchanting that I was
about to snatch her in my arms and kiss her again and yet
again, when the door opened and the discreet Comtesse de
Charmilles entered with a serene and gracious kindliness of
manner that plainly evinced her knowledge and approval of
the situation. She glanced Smilingly from her daughter to
me, and from me back to her daughter, and straightWay Com-
prehended that all was well.
“Bon jour, mom fils l’ she said, gently, laying a slight em-
phasis on the affectionate title, and adopting the tutoyer form
of address without further ceremony. “Thou art very wel-
come! Thou wilt stay and dine this evening? Monsieur de
Charmilles has gone to persuade thy father to join us, and
Monsieur Vaudron is coming also, with his nephew, Monsieur
Silvion Guidel.”
W.
I HAVE forgotten many things. Many circumstances that
I might otherwise have remembered, are now, thanks to the
merciful Elixir I love, effaced from my brain as utterly as
though they had been burned out with fire; but that one night
in my life—the night of my betrothal to Pauline de Charmilles
—remains a fixture in my memory, a sting implanted there to
irritate and torture me when I would fain lose my very sense
of being in the depths of oblivion. It was a marked evening
in many respects; marked, not only by my triumph as Pau-
line’s accepted lover, but also by the astonishing and bewilder-
ing presence of the man, Silvion Guidel. I say astonishing
and bewildering, because that was the first effect his singular
beauty made upon the most prejudiced and casual observer.
It was not that he was in the first flush of youth, and that his
features still had all the fine transparency and glow of boy-
hood upon them; it was not that his eyes, gray-black and fiery,
seemed full of some potent magnetic force which compelled
the beholder’s fascinated gaze; no; it was the expression of
the whole countenance that was so extraordinarily interesting;
an expression such as an inspired painter might strive to con-
t | *
40 WORMWOOD,
A
/
vey into the visage of Some ideal Seraph of patience and wis-
dom supernal. I, like every one else at the house of the De
Charmilles that night, found myself attracted against my will
by the grateful demeanor and refined courtesy of this son of a
Brittany farmer; this mere provincial, whose face and figure
would have done honor to the most brilliant aristocratic as-
semblage. The former instinctive aversion I had felt with
regard to him subsided for the time being, and I listened as
attentively as any one at table, whenever his voice, melodious
as a bell, chimed in with our conversation. I was perfectly
happy myself, for in a few brief words, simple and suited to
the occasion, the Comte de Charmilles had announced to all
i." the news of his daughter’s engagement to me. When
e did so I glanced quickly at Heloise St. Cyr, but though she
looked even paler than usual she gave no sign either of sur-
prise or pleasure. My father had then, in his turn, proposed
the health of the “chers fiancés,” which was drunk with
readiness by all except Silvion Guidel, who never touched
wine. He apologized for this lack of bonne camaraderie, and
was about to raise a glass of water to his lips, in order to join
the toast, when Heloise spoke across the table in Swift, eager
accents.
“Do not drink my cousin’s health in water, Monsieur
Guidell” she said. “It is unlucky, and your wishes may
prove fatal to them both!” -
He smiled, and at Once set down the glass.
“You are superstitious, mademoiselle!” he replied, gently
bending his handsome head toward her. “But I will not try
to combat your feeling. I will content myself with a silent
prayer in my heart for your cousin’s happiness, a prayer
which, though it may not find expression in words, is none the
less sincere.”
His voice was so serious and soft and full of emotion, that
it left an impression of gravity upon us; that vague subdued
sensation that comes across the mind when the little bell rings
at mass, and the people kneel before the Host unveiled. And
then I saw the meditative eyes of Heloise rest upon the Breton
stranger with a curiously searching earnestness in their gray-
green depths, a look that seemed to be silently indicative of a
desire to know more of his character, life, and aims. The din-
ner went on, and we were all conversing more or less merrily
on various desultory matters, when she quite suddenly asked
him the question:
“Are you really going to be a priest, Monsieur Guidel?”
He turned his dark, picturesque face in her direction.
/
*3.3
*
... -- **. WORMWOOD, * 41
*
*~,
... “I hope so, God willing! As my revered uncle will tell
you, I have studied solely for the priesthood.”
“Yes, that may be,” returned Heloise, a faint color creep-
ing through the soft pallor of her cheeks. “But, pardon me!
you seem also to have studied many things not necessary to
religion. For instance—”
“Now, Heloise, petite femme Socrate 1” exclaimed the
Comte de Charmilles, good-naturedly. “What art thou going
to say out of thy stores of wisdom? You must understand,
Monsieur Guidel”—and he turned to the person he addressed
—“my niece is a great student of the classics, and is well
versed in the literature of many nations, so that she often puts
me to shame by her knowledge of the strange and wonderful
works, done by men of genius in this world for the benefit of
the ignorant. Excuse her, therefore, if she trespasses on your
ground of learning; I have often told her that she studies like
a man.”
Silvion Guidel bowed courteously, and looked toward Heloise
with renewed interest.
“I am proud to have the honor of being addressed by one
who has the air of a Corinne, and is no doubt the possessor of
more than Corinne’s admirable qualities!” he said, suavely.
“You were observing, mademoiselle, that I seem to have
studied things not altogether necessary to religion. In what
way do you consider this proved?”
Heloise met his gaze very fixedly.
“I heard you speaking with my uncle some minutes ago of
Science,” she answered. “Of modern science in particular,
and its various wonderful discoveries. Now do you not find
Something in that branch of study which confutes much of
the legendary doctrine of the Church?”
“Much that seems to confute it, yes,” he returned, quietly,
“but which, if pursued far enough, would, I am fully per-
Suaded, strengthen our belief instead of weakening it. I am
not afraid of science, mademoiselle; my faith is firm!”
Here he raised his magnificent eyes with the expression of a
rapt Saint, and again we felt that embarrassed gravity stealing
Over us, as if we were in church instead of at dinner. M.
Vaudron, good-hearted man, was profoundly touched.
“Well said, Silvion, mon garçon /** he said, with tender
Seriousness. “When the good God has once drawn our hearts
to the lové His holy service, it matters little what the learning
or the philosophy of the world can teach us. The-world and
the things of the world are always on the surface, but the
42 --- WORMWOOf).
†, of a servant of the Church is implanted deep in the
Soul!”
He nodded his head several times with pious sedateness,
then, relapsing into smiles, added, “Not that even I can boast
of such strong faith as my old Margot after all! She has a
favorite Saint, St. Francis of Assisi; she has made a petticoat
for his image which she keeps in her sleeping-chamber, and
whenever she wishes to obtain any special favor she sticks a
pin in the petticoat, with the most absolute belief that the
Saint noticing that pin, will straightway remember what he
has to do for her, without any further reminder!”
We laughed—I say we, but Silvion Guidel did not laugh.
“It is very touching and very beautiful,” he said, “that
quaint faith of the lower classes concerning special interces-
sion. I have never been able to see anything ridiculous in the
superstition which is born of ignorance—as well blame an
innocent child for believing in the pretty fancies taken from
fairy tales, as scoff at the poor peasant for trusting that one or
other of the Saints will have a special care of his vineyard or
field of corn. I love the ignorant!—they are our flock, our
‘little ones,” whom we are to guide and instruct; if all were
wise in the world—”
“There would be no necessity for churches or priests!” I
put in hastily.
My father frowned warningly; and I at once perceived I had
ruffled the devout feelings of the Comte de Charmilles, who,
nevertheless, remembering that I was the excellent match he
had just secured for his daughter, refrained from allowing any
angry observation to escape him. Silvion Guidel, however,
looked straight at me, and as his brilliant eyes flashed on
mine, the aversion I had felt for him before I ever saw him
sprung up afresh in my mind.
“Monsieur is of the new school of France?” he inquired
with the faintest little curl of mockery dividing his delicate
lips. “He possibly entertains—as so many do—the progress-
ive principles of atheist and republican?”
The blood rushed to my face; his manner angered me, and
I should have answered him with a good deal of heat and im-
patience, had I not felt a soft little hand suddenly steal into
mine and press my fingers appealingly. It was Pauline’s
hand; she was a timid creature, and she dreaded any sort of
argument, lest it might lead to high words and general un-
pleasantness. But whatever I might have said was forestalled
by M. Vaudron, who addressed his nephew gently, yet with a
tench of severity too.
WORMWOOD, 43
“Tais-toi-tais-toi, moſt garz l’’ he said, using the old Bre-
ton term of endearment, “ Monsieur Gaston Beauvais is a
young man like thee, and in all probability he is no more cer-
tain of his principles than thou art! It takes a long while to
ripen a man’s sense of right and honor into a fixed guiding-
rule for life. Those who are republicans in the flush of their
impetuous youth may be royalists or imperialists when they
arrive at mature manhood; those who are atheists when they
first commence their career, may become devout servants of
Heaven before they have reached the middle of their course.
Patience for all and prejudice for none!—otherwise we, as fol-
lowers of Christ, lay ourselves open to just blame. You are
boys—both you and Monsieur Gaston; as boys you must be
judged by your elders, till time and experience give you the
right to be considered as men.”
This little homily was evidently very satisfactory to both my
father and the Comte de Charmilles. Silvion Guidel bowed
respectfully, as he always did whenever his uncle spoke to
him, and the conversation again drifted into more or less
desultory channels. When the ladies left the dinner-table for
the drawing-room, Guidel crossed over and took Pauline’s
vacated seat next to mine. :
“I must ask you to pardon me!” he said, softly, under
cover of a discussion on finance which was being carried on by
the other gentlemen. “I feel that I spoke to you rudely and
roughly, and I am quite ashamed. Will you forget it and be
friends?”
He extended his hand. There was a soft caressing grace
about him that was indescribably fascinating—his beautiful
countenance was like that of a pleading angel, his eyes were
bright with warmth and sympathy. I could do no less than
take his proffered hand in my own, and assure him of my
esteem, and though my words were brief and scarcely enthu-
siastic, he seemed quite satisfied.
“How lovely she is!” he then said, in the same confidential
tone, leaning back in his chair and smiling a little. “How
like a fairy dream! It is impossible to imagine a more en-
chanting creature!”
I looked at him, surprised. I had got the very foolish idea
into my head that the devotees of religion never perceived a
woman’s beauty.
“You mean—” I began.
“l mean your lovely fiancée, Mademoiselle de Charmilles!
Ah! you are indeed to be congratulated! She is like some
fair Saint in a sculptured niche where the light falls through
N
#
44 WORMWOOD.
rose-colored windows; her eyes have so pure a radiance in
them!—an innocence such as is seen in the eyes of birds! She
would infuse into the dullest mind gleams of inspired thought;
she is the very model of what we might imagine Our Lady to
have been before the Annunciation!”
“You are more likely to be a poet than a priest!” I said,
amazed and vaguely vexed at his enthusiasm.
He smiled. “Mon ami, religion is poetry—poetry is relig-
ion. The worship of beauty is as holy a service as the worship
of the beauty-creating Divinity. There is a great deal of
harm done to the Church by bigotry—the priesthood are too
fond of sackcloth and ashes, penitence and prayer. They
should look out upon the mirror of the world, and see life re-
flected there in all its varying dark and brilliant colors; then,
raising their thoughts to Heaven, they should appeal for grace
to understand these wonders and explain them to the less en-
lightened multitude. The duty of a priest is, to my thinking,
to preach of happiness and hope, not sorrow and death. If
ever I become an ordained servant of Christ ‘’—here he raised
his eyes devoutly and made almost imperceptibly the sign of
the Cross—“I shall make it my province to preach joy! I
shall speak of the flowers, the birds and trees, of the stars and
their inexhaustible marvels, of the great rivers and greater
oceans, of the blessedness of life, of everything that is fair
and gracious and suggestive of promise!”
“Would you take the beauty of woman as a text, for ex-
ample?” I asked, incredulously.
“Why not?” he answered, calmly. “The beauty of wom-
an is one of the gifts of God to gladden our eyes; it is not to
be rejected or deemed unsacred. I should love to preach, of
beautiful women! they are the reflexes of beautiful souls!”
“Not always!” I said, dryly, and with a slight scorn for
his ignorance. “You have not lived in Paris, Monsieur
Guidel! There are lovely women at the cafés-chantants; and
also at other places not mentionable to the ears of a student
of religion; women delicate as nymphs and dainty as flowers,
who possess not a shred of character, and who have been veri-
table harpies of vice from their earliest years!” *
A sudden interest flashed into his face. I noticed it with
surprise, and he saw that 1 did, for a rich wave of color
rushed up to his brows, and he avoided my gaze. Then an
idea seemed to strike him, and he uttered it directly, with
that faint tinge of mockery that once before had marked his
accents when addressing me.
WORMWOOD, 45
“Ah! you have had a wider experience!” he said, softly,
“ you have met these—these harpies?”
I was indescribably irritated at this. What business had he
to cast even the suspicion of such a slur on my manner of Con-
duct? I controlled my annoyance with difficulty, and replied
curtly:
“You mistake! No gentleman who cares a straw for his
good reputation visits such low and despicable haunts as they
inhabit. What I have told you I know by hearsay.”
“Indeed!” and he sighed gently. “But one should always
prove the truth of things before believing in an ill report.
Virtue is so very easily calumniated!”
I laughed aloud. “Perhaps you would like to meet the
harpies in question?” I said, half jestingly.
He was not offended. He looked at me with the utmost
seriousness.
“I should!” he admitted quite frankly. “If they have
fallen, they can be raised up; our Divine Lord never turned
away in scorn from even a sinful woman!” sº
I uttered an impatient exclamation—but said no more, as
just then the Comte de Charmilles rose from table, my father
and the curé following his example, and we all made our en-
trance into the drawing-room where the ladies awaited us, and
where coffee was already prepared. I took instant advantage
of my newly gained privileges as Pauline’s fiancé to ensconce
myself by her side, and, drawing a chair to where she sat toy-
ing with some delicate embroidery, I conversed with her in
that dulcet sotto voce, which, though very delightful and con-
venient to the lovers concerned, is often peculiarly provoking
to those left out in the cold. Once or twice 1 saw the would-
be priest Guidel glance at us with a singular flashing light in
his eyes, as though he had become suddenly conscious that
there were pleasanter things to be done than the chanting of
masses, droning of “offices * and counting of rosary-beads;
but he was for the most part very reserved and quiet, only
now and then joining in conversation with the Comte de Char-
milles, yet proving himself, whenever he did speak, to be un-
questionably a man of rare intellectual endowment and splen-
did scholarship. I noticed that Heloise St. Cyr watched him
with the deepest interest, and I jestingly called Pauline’s at-
tention to the fact.
“Thy cousin is becoming enamored of the handsome Bre.
ton!” I said. “Who knows but that she may not lead him
altogether aside from his holier intentions!”
\
46 WORMWOOD,
f She looked at me, with a sudden rosy flush of color in her
3,062. -
“Oh, no!” she murmured, hastily, and there was, or so I
then fancied, a touch of petulance in her accents. “That is
impossible! Heloise loves no one; she will love no one but—
but me!”
I smiled, and taking her little hand in mine, studied all its
pretty dimples and rose-tinted finger-tips.
“Not yet, perhaps!” I answered, softly. “But a time for
love will come to her, Pauline, even as to thee!”
“Are you sure it has come for me?” she asked, half timid-
ly, half mischievously. “Are you so vain, Gaston, as to think
that I—I worship you, for instance?”
I raised my eyes to hers, and saw that she was smiling.
“‘Worship is a strong word, my sweetest,” I replied.
“It is for me to worship! not for you! And I do worship the
fairest angel under heaven!”
And I furtively kissed the little hand I held.
“Yes,” she said, with a meditative air. “But, sometimes,
a woman may worship a man, may she not? She may love
him so much, that he may seem to her mind almost more
than God!”
“Assuredly she may!” I rejoined, slowly, and in some sur-
prise, for she had spoken with unusual Seriousness and pas-
sion; “ but, Pauline, such excess of love is rare, moreover, it
is not likely to last; it is too violent and headstrong; it is
always unwise and often dangerous; and the priests would tell
you it is wicked!”
“Yes, I am sure it is wicked!” she acquiesced, sighing a
little. “Dreadfully wicked! and—and, as you say, danger-
ous.” She paused; the pensiveness passed from her bright
face like a passing cloud from a star, and she laughed, a little
low laugh of perfect contentment. “Well, be satisfied, Gas-
ton! I do not worship thee, so I am not wicked! I am thy
very good little fiancée, who is very, very fond of thee, and
happy in thy company, voilà tout !”
And, bending toward me, she took a rose from her bouquet
de corsage, and fastened it in my button-hole, while I, en-
chanted by her sweet manner and coquettish grace, attached
not the least importance to what she had just been saying. I
remembered her words afterward–-afterward, when I learned
the fact that a woman can indeed “worship ’’ a man with
such Idolatrous fervor that she will allow herself to be set
down in the dust of conter p! ", , his sake, ay! and be torn
º
WORMW OOD. 47
and tortured to the very death rather than cease to adore!
Women are strange folk! Some are cruel, some frivolous,
some faithless; but I believe they are nearly all alike in their
immense, their boundless capacity for loving. Find me a
woman who has never loved anything or anybody, and you
will have found the one, the only marvel of the centuries!
VI.
THAT same evening—the evening of Silvion Guidel’s intro-
duction into our midst—Heloise St. Cyr suddenly invested her.
self with the powers of an Arabian Nights’ enchantress, and
transferred us all whither she would, on the magic swing of
her violin-bow. As a general rule, so her aunt told me, she
never would exhibit her rare talent before any listeners that
were not of her own family, so her behavior on this occasion
was altogether exceptional. It was Pauline who asked her to
play, and probably the fact that it was her little cousin’s be-
trothal-night induced her to accede to the eager request.
Any way, she made no difficulty about it, but consented at
once, without the least hesitation. Pauline accompanied her
on the piano, being careful to subdue her part of the perform-
ance to a delicate softness, so that we might hear, to its full
splendor of tone and utmost fineness of silver sound, the mar-
velous music this strange, pale, golden-haired woman flung
out on the air in such wild throbs of passion that our very
hearts beat faster as we listened. While she played, she was
in herself a fit study for an artist; she stood within the arched
embrasure of a window, where the fall of the close-drawn rose
silken curtains provided a lustrous background for her figure;
clad in a plain straight white gown, without a flower to relieve
its classical severity, her rounded arm had a Snowy gleam, like
that of marble, contrasted with the golden-brown hue of her
Amali violin. To and fro, with unerring grace and exquisite
precision, swept that wand-like bow, with the ease and light-
ness of a willow branch waving in the wind, and yet with a
force and nerve-power that were absolutely astonishing in a
woman performer. Grand pleading notes came quivering to
us from the sensitive fiber of the fourth string; delicate har-
monies flew over our heads like fine foam-bells, breaking from
a wave of tune; we caught faint whispers of the sweetest spir-
itual confessions, prayers, and aspirations; we listened to the
airy dancing of winged sylphs on golden floors of melody; we
heard the rustle of the nightingale’s brown wings against cool
48 -- WORáIWOOD,
green leaves, followed by a torrent of “full-throated ” song;
and when the player finally ceased, with a rich chord that
seemed to divide the air like the harmonious roll of a dividing
billow, we broke into a spontaneous round of enthusiastic ap-
plause. I sprung up from where I had been sitting, rapt in a
silent ecstasy of attention, and poured out the praise which,
being unpremeditated and heart-felt, was no mere flattery.
She heard me, and smiled, a strange little wistful smile.
“So you love music, Monsieur Gaston!” she said. “Does
it teach you anything, I wonder?”
“Teach me anything?” I echoed. “Are you proposing
enigmas, mademoiselle?” -
Pauline looked round from the piano with a half-perplexed
expression on her lovely features.
“That is one of Heloise’s funny ideas,” she declared.
“Music teaches her, so she says, all sorts of things, not only
beautiful, but terrible. Now I can see nothing terrible in
music!”
Heloise bent over her swiftly, and kissed her curls.
“No, chérie; because you have never thought of anything
sad. Even so may it always be!”
“Of course sorrow is expressed in music,” said Silvion
Guidel, who, almost unobserved, had joined our little group
near the window, and now stood leaning one arm on the piano,
regarding Pauline as he spoke, “Sorrow and joy alternately;
but when sorrow and joy deepen into darker and more tragic
colors, I doubt whether music can adequately denote absolute
horror, frenzy, or remorse. A tragedy in sound seems to me
almost impossible.”
“Yet language is sound,” replied Heloise; “even as mu-
sic is, and music is often able to go on with a story when lan-
guage breaks off and fails. You would have your mind tuned
to a tragic key, Monsieur Guidel? Well, then, listen! There
is no greater tragedy than the ever-recurring one of love and
death; and this is a sad legend of both. Do not play, Pau-
line, ma douce / I will be an independent soloist this time!”
We all gazed at her in vague admiration as she took up her
violin once more, and began to play a delicate prelude, more
like the rippling of a brook than the sound of a stringed in-
strument. The thread of melody seemed to wander in and
out through tufts of moss and budding violets; and all at
once, while we were still drinking in these dulcet notes, she
ceased abruptly, and still holding the violin in position, recited
alorid in a voice harmonious as music itself:
5 5
ſ:
*- WORMWOOD, © 49
IElle avait de beaux cheveux, blonds “
Comme une moisson d'août, si longs
Qu'ils lui tombaient jusqu'au talons.
Elle await une voix étrange,
Musicale, de fée ou d’ange;
Des yeux verts sous leur noire frange.
Here the bow moved caressingly upward, and a plaintively
wild tune that seemed born of high mountains and dense for-
ests floated softly through the room. And above it, the
player’s voice still rose and fell:
Lui, ne craignait pas de rival,
Quand il traversait mont ou val,
En l'emportant sur son cheval.
Car, pour tous ceux de la contrée
Altière elle s'était montrée-
Jusqu'au jour qu’il l'eut rencontrée.
...”
The music changed to a shuddering minor key, and a sob-
bing wail broke from the strings.
L'amour la prit si fort au coeur,
Que pour un sourire moqueur,
Il lui vint un mal de langueur.
Et dans ses dernières caresses:
“Fais un archet avec mes tresses,
Pour charmer tes autres maitresses!”
Puis, dans un long baiser nerveux
Elle mourut!
And here we distinctly heard the solemn beat of a funeral
march underlying the pathetic minor melody:
* This exquisite poem, entitled “L’Archet,” here quoted in full,
was written by one Charles Cros, a French poet, whose distinctly
great abilities were never encouraged or recognized in his life-time.
Young still and full of promise, he died quite recently in Paris, sur-
rounded by the very saddest circumstances of suffering, poverty, and
neglect. The grass has scarcely had time to grow long or rank enough
Over his grave; when it has, the critics of his country will possibly take
up his book, “Le Coffret de Santal,” and call the attention of France
to his perished genius. At present he is only very slightly remembered
by a set of playful verses, entitled “Le Hareng Saur,” written merely
for the amusement of children; and yet the “Rendez-vous '' exists—a
: almost as beautiful and weird as Keats's “ Belle dame sans
erci,”
50 ** - WORMWOOD.
“Suivant ses voeux
Il fit l’archet de ses cheveux!”
There was a half pause, then all suddenly, clamorous chords
echoed upon our ears like the passionate exclamations of an
almost incoherent despair.
Comme un aveugle qui marmonne,
Sur un violon de Crémone
Il jouait, demandant l'aumöne.
Tous avaient d’enivrants frissons,
A l'écouter. Car dans ces sons
Vivaient lat morte et ses chansons.
Le roi, charmé, fit sa fortune. ~"
Lui, Sut plaire à la reine brune,
Et l'enlever au clair de lune.
Mais, chaque fois qu’il y touchait
Pour plaire à la reine, l'archet
Tristement le lui reprochait!
Oh, the unutterable sadness, the wailing melancholy of that
wandering wild tune! Tears filled Pauline’s eyes; she clasped
her little hands in her lap and looked at her cousin in awe and
wonder; and I saw Guidel’s color come and go with the excess
of emotion the mingled music and poetry aroused in him, for
all his quiet demeanor. Heloise continued:
Au Son du funèbre langage
Ils moururent à mi-voyage.
Et la morte reprit son gage.
Elle reprit ses cheveux, blonds
Comme une moisson d'août, si longs
Qu'ils lui tombaient jusqu'au talons!
A long-drawn sigh of sound, and all was still! So deeply
fascinated were we with this recitation and violin music com-
bined, that we sat silent as though under a spell, till we be-
came gradually conscious that Heloise was surveying us with a
slight smile, and a little more color in her cheeks than usual.
Then we surrounded her with acclamations, Pauline moving
up to her, and hiding her tear-wet eyes in her breast.
“You are a genius, mademoiselle!” said Silvion Guidel,
bowing profoundly to her as he spoke. “Your gifts are
heaven-born and marvelous!” y—e
WORMWOOD, 51
“That is true!—that is true!” declared the good curé,
coughing away a suspicious little huskiness of voice. “It is
astonishing! I have never heard anything like it! It is
enough to make a whole congregation of sinners weep!”
Heloise laughed. “Or else take to sinning afresh!” she
said, with that slight touch of sarcasm which sometimes dis-
tinguished her. “There is nothing in “L’Archet,” mom père,
to incline the refractory to penitence.”
“Perhaps not, perhaps not!” and M. Vaudron rubbed his
nose very hard—‘‘ but it moves the heart, my child; such
poetry and such music move the heart to something, that is
º; And the influence must be good; it can not possibly
e bad!”
“That depends entirely on the temperament of the listener,”
replied Heloise, quietly, as she put back her violin in its case,
despite our entreaties that she would play something else.
The servant had just brought in a tray of wine and biscuits,
and she prepared to dispense these with her ordinary “prac-
tical-utility '' manner, thus waiving aside any further conver-
sation on her own musical talents. The Comte and Comtesse
de Charmilles were accepting with much pleased complacence
my father’s warm and admiring praise of their niece—and
pº the talk became general, exclusive of myself and
auline, whom I kept beside me in a little Corner apart from
the others, so that I might say my lingering good-night to her
with all the tenderness and pride I felt in my new position as ,
her accepted future husband.
“I shall come and see you to-morrow,” I whispered.
“You will be glad, Pauline?”
She smiled. “Oh, yes! you will come every day now, I
suppose?”
‘Would it please you if I did?” I asked.
“Would it please you ?” she inquired, evading the ques-
tion.
Whereupon I launched forth once more into passionate prot-
estations which she listened to, with, as I fancied, the least
little touch of weariness. I stopped short abruptly.
“You are tired, ma chérie I’’ I said, tenderly. “I am
sure you are tired!”
“Yes, I am,” she confessed, smothering a little yawn, and
giving a careless upward stretch of her lovely rounded arms,
much to my secret admiration. “I think my cousin’s music
exhausted me! Do you know ’’—and she turned her sweet
blue eyes upon me with a wistful expression—“it frightened
me! It must be terrible to love like that!”
52 WORMWOOD.
“Like what?” I asked, playfully, rather amused by the
tragic earnestness of her tone.
--- he glanced up quickly, and, seeing that I smiled, gave a
little petulant shrug of her shoulders.
“Like the lady with the ‘cheveua Si longs, qu’ils lui tom-
baient jusqu'au talons !’” she answered. “But you laugh
at me, so it does not matter!”
“It was all a fable, ma mie ſ” I said, coaxingly. “It
should aflect you no more than a fairy-tale!”
“Yet there may be a soupçon of truth even in fables!”
she said, with that sudden seriousness which I had once or
twice before remarked in her. “But tell me, Gaston—re-
member you promised to tell me!—what do you think of Mon-
sieur Silvion Guidel?”
I looked across the room to where he stood, not drinking
wine as the others were doing, but leaning slightly against
i mantel-piece, conversing with the Comtesse de Char-
milles.
“He is very handsome!” I admitted. “Too handsome
for a man—he should have been a woman.”
“And clever?” persisted Pauline. “Do you think he is
Clever?”
“There can be no doubt of that!” I answered, curtly. “I
fancy he will be rather out of his element as a priest.”
“Oh, but he is good!” Said my fiancée, earnestly, opening
her blue eyes very wide.
“So he may be!” I laughed; “but all good men need not
become priests! Par exemple, you would not call me very
bad; but I am not going to be such a fool as to take the vow
of celibacy—I am going to marry you.”
“And you imagine that will be very fortunate?” she said,
with a bright, Saucy Smile.
“The only fortune I desire!” I replied, kissing her hand.
She blushed prettily; then rising, moved away toward where
the rest of the party stood, and joined in their conversation.
1 followed her example, and after a little more chat, the last
good-nights were said, and we—that is, myself and my fa-
ther, the curé and his nephew—took our leave. We all four
walked part of the way home together, the talk between us
turning for the most part on the interesting subject of my
engagement to Pauline; and many were the congratulations
showered upon me by good old Vaudron, who earnestly ex-
pressed the hope that it might be his proud privilege to per-
form for us the Church ceremony of marriage. My father
was in high spirits; such a match was precisely what he had
*g
WORMWOOD, --- 53
always wished for me. He was a rank republican, and, with
the usual republican tendency, had a great weakness for un-
blemished aristocratic lineage, such as the De Charmilles un-
doubtedly possessed. Silvion Guidel was the most silent of us
all—he walked beside me, and seemed so absorbed in his own
reflections that he started as though from a dream, when, at
a particular turning in the road, we stopped to part company.
“I hope I shall see more of you, Monsieur Gaston,” he then
said, suddenly proffering me his slim, delicate-looking hand.
“I have had very few friends of my own age; I trust I may
claim you as one?” gº
“Why, of course, you may!” interposed my father,
cheerily, “though Gaston is not very religious, I fear! Still
he is a genial lad, though I say it that should not; he will
show you some of the fine sights of Paris, and make the time
spin by pleasantly. Come and see us whenever you like;
your uncle knows that my house is as free to him as his own.”
With these and various other friendly expressions, we went
each on our several ways; the curé and his nephew going to
the left, my father and I continuing the road straight onward.
We lighted our cigars and walked for some minutes without
speaking; then my father broke silence.
“A remarkably handsome fellow, that Guidel!” he said.
“Dangerously so, for a priest! It is fortunate that his lady-
penitents will not be able to see him very distinctly through
the confessional-gratings, else who knows what might happen!
He has a wonderful gift of eloquence too; dost thou like him,
Gasºn.
d N o!” I replied, frankly, and at once, “I can not say I
Ol
My father looked surprised.
“But why?”
“Impossible to tell, mon père. He is fascinating, he is
agreeable, he is brilliant; but there is something in him that
I mistrust!”
“Tut-tut!” and my father took my arm good-humoredly.
“Now thou art an engaged man, Gaston, thou must put thy
prejudices in thy pocket! Thou art too much like me in thy
chronic suspicion of all priestcraft. Remember, this beauti-
ful youth is not a priest yet, and I would not mind wagering
that he never will be.”
“If he has been trained for the priesthood, what else is he
fit for?” I asked, rather irritably.
“What else? He is fit for anything, mon choua, 1 A diplo-
mat, a statesman, a writer of astonishing books! He has
54 WORMWOOD, s
genuis; and genius is like the Greek Proteus, it can take all.
manner of forms and be great in any one of them! Ay!”
and my father nodded his head Sagaciously, “Take my –
word for it, Gaston, there is something in this young man
Guidel that is altogether exceptional and remarkable; he is
one of the world’s inspired dreamers, and to my notion he is
more likely to aid in overturning priestcraft than to place
himself in its ranks as a bulwark of defense.”
I murmured something unintelligible by way of reply: my
father’s praise of the Breton stranger was not so very pleasing
to me that I should wish to encourage him in its continuance.
We soon reached our own door, and, bidding each other good-
night, retired at once to rest. But all through my sleep I was
haunted by fragments of the violin music played by Heloise
St. Cyr, and scraps of the verses she had recited. At one
time, between midnight and morning, I dreamed I saw her
standing in my room, robed in a white shroud-like garment;
she fixed her eyes on mine, and, as I looked, her lips parted,
and she said, “ Elle mouruá /?’ and I thought she meant that
Pauline was dead. Struggling to escape from the horror of
this impression, I cried, “No, no! she lives! She is mine!”
and, making a violent effort, I fancied I had awakened, when
lo! the curtain at my window seemed to move slowly and
stealthily back, and the beautiful calm face of Silvion Guidel
stared full at me, pallidly illumined by the moon! Again I
started, and cried out, and this time awoke myself thoroughly.
I sprung out of bed, and dashed back the window-draperies; I
threw open the closed shutters; the night was one of sparkling
frosty splendor; the stars twinkled in their glorious millions
above my head; there was not a sound anywhere, not a living
soul to be seen! I returned to my tossed and tumbled couch,
with a smile at my own absurd visionary fancies, and in my
heart blaming Heloise St. Cyr and her weird violin for having
conjured them up in my usually clear and evenly balanced
brain.
VII.
ON the far horizon of my line of life there shines a waving
ever-diminishing gleam of brightness; I know it to be the hazy
reflection of my by-gone glad days and sweet memories, and
when I shut my eyes close and send my thoughts backward, I
am almost able to count those little dazzling points of sun-
shine sparkling through the gloom that now encompasses my
soul. But though brilliant they were brief—brief as the few
WORMWOOD. 55
stray flashes of lightning that cross the skies on a hot sum-
mer’s evening. My inward vision aches to look at them!—let
them be swallowed up in blackness, I say, and let me never
more remember that once I was happy! For remembrance is
very bitter, and very useless as well; to play out one’s part
bravely in the world, I have said one should have no con- .
science; but it is far more necessary to have no memory! Are
there any poor souls wearing on forlornly toward the grave,
and monotonously performing the daily routine of life without
either heart or zest in living? Let such look back to the time
when the world first opened out before their inexperienced
gaze like a brilliant arena of fair fortune, wherein they fan-
cied they might win the chiefest prize, and then they will
understand the meaning of spiritual torture! Then will the
mind be stretched on a wrenching rack of thought!—then will
the futile tears fill the tired eyes; then will the passionate
craving for death become more and more clamorous—death,
and utter, blessed forgetfulness! Ah! if one could only be
sure that we do forget when we die!—but that is just what 1,
for one, can not count upon. The uncertainty fills me with
horror! I dare not allow myself to dwell upon the idea that
perhaps I may sink drowningly from the dull shores of life
into a tideless ocean of eternal remembrance! I dare not, else
I should indeed be mad, more mad than I am now! For even
now I am haunted by faces I would fain forget; by voices, by
leading eyes, by praying hands; and anon, by stark rigid
orms, dead and white, as marble, with the awful frozen smile
of death’s unutterable secret carved on their stiff set lips!
And yet they are but the phantoms of my own drugged brain;
I Ought to know that by this time! Let me strive to banish
them; let me lose sight of them for a little, while I try to knot
together the broken threads of my torn Past.
During the two or three months immediately following my
betrothal to Pauline de Charmilles, I think I must have been
the proudest, most contented, perfectly light-hearted man in
France. No cloud marred my joy; no bitterness nauseated
my cup of felicity. All things smiled upon me, and in the
Warm expansion of my nature, I had at last even admitted
Silvion Guidel to a share in my affections. Truth to tell,
it was difficult to resist him; his frank friendliness of behavior
toward me made me feel ashamed of my former captiousness
and instinctive dislike of him; and by degrees we became as
close intimates as it was possible for two young men to be who
were following such widely different professions. He was a
great favorite with the De Charmilles, and was frequently in-
56 WORMWOOD.
vited to their house, though l was of course the more constant
visitor; and when, after spending the evening there, we took
our leave, we always walked part of the way home together.
I was partieularly pleased with the extreme deference and
almost fastidious reserve of his manner to Pauline; he seemed
rather to avoid her than otherwise, and to consider the fact of
her engagement to me as a sort of title to command his greater
respect. He was not half so constrained with Heloise St. Cyr;
he talked to her freely, led her into arguments on literature
and music, in which I was often astonished to observe how
brilliantly she shone; lent her rare old books now and then,
and wrote down for her from memory fragments of old Breton
songs and ballads, airs which she afterward rendered on her
violin with surpassing pathos and skill. One touching little
unrhymed ditty, which she recited to her own improvised ac-
companiment, I remember was called ** Le Pauvre Clerc,’
anº ran as follows :
" J'ai perdu mes sabots et déchiré mes pauvres pieds,
A suivre ma douce dans les champs, dans les bois;
La pluie, le grésil, et la glace,
Ne sont point un obstacle à l'amour!
" Ma douce est jeune comme moi,
Elle n'a pas encore vingt ans;
Elle est fraiche et jolie
Ses regards sont pleins de feul
Ses paroles charmantes!
Elle est une prison
Ou j'ai enfermé mon cœur!
" Je ne saurais à quoi la compr*er;
Sera-ce à la petite rose blanche qu'on appelle Rose-Marie?
Petite perle des jeunes filies,
Fleur de lis entre les fleurs;
Elle s'ouvre aujourd'hui, e* elle se fermera demain.
** En vous faisant la cour, ma douce, j'ai ressemblé
Au rossignol perché sur le rameau d'aubépine;
Quand il veut s'endormir, les épines le piquent, alors
Il s'élève à la cime de l'arºbre et se met a chanter!
* Mon étoile est fatale,
Mon état est contre nature,
Je n'ai eu dans ce monde
Que des peines à endurer,
Je suis comme une âme dans les flammes du purgatoire,
Nul chrétien sur la terre qui Ve Veuille du bien !
wormwood. 5?
“Il n'y a personne qui ait eu autant à Souffrir
A votre sujet que moi depuis ma naissance;
Aussi je vous supplie à deux genoux
Et au nom de Dieu d’avoir pitié de Votre clerc."
It was exceedingly simple and yet peculiarly mournful; so
much so, that the first time we heard Heloise's rendering of
it, I saw, somewhat to my concern, big tears welling up in my
pretty Pauline’s eyes and falling one by one on her clasped
Mauds. Guidel was standing near her at the time, and he too
seemed sincerely troubled by her emotion. Bending toward
her, he said, with a faint Smile:
“Are you crying for “le pauvre clerc,” mademoiselle? Sure-
ly he is not worth such tears!”
I smiled also, and took my betrothed’s unresisting hand
tenderly in my own.
“She is very sensitive,” I said, gently. “She is a little
angel-harp that responds sympathetically to everything.”
But here Pauline hastily dried her eyes, pressed my hand,
and went quietly away, and When she came back again, she
was radiant and bright as ever.
The feast of Noël and the gay Jour de l’An had been
marked to Pauline by the very large number of valuable pres-
ents and floral souvenirs she received. All her friends knew -
she was “fiancée,” and countless congratulations and “et.
Tennes * were poured upon her. But she had grown either
slightly blasée or philosophical, for she evinced none of her
former child-like delight at the big baskets and boxes of bon-
bons given to her; even a goodly round hamper of gilded
wicker-work, wreathed with violets and packed close with her
once-adored “marrons glacées '' failed to excite her to any
great enthusiasm. On the morning of the Jour de l’An, I
had sent her a fancifully designed Osier gondola full of roses,
and a necklace of pearls; and of all her gifts this had seemed
to please her most, much to my delight. Silvion Guidel had
contented himself with simply wishing her happiness in his
usual serious and earnest fashion, and for the New Year he
had offered her no token save a large and spotless cluster of
the lilies of St. John. She had shown me these, with rather
a wistful look, so I fancied, and had asked me whether it would
not be well to place them in a vase near the Virgin’s statue in
her own little private oratory? I agreed; I never attacheá
importance to the girlishly romantic notions I knew she had
on the subject of religion; in fact, I thought with her, that
such pure, white, sacred-looking blossoms were much more
fitted for an altar than a drawing-room. And so she put them
(58 WORMWOOD, jºr
there, and I encouraged and approved the act—like a fool!
Those lilies were allowed to occupy the most honored place in
her sleeping-chamber—to send out their odors to mingle with
every breath she drew—to instill their insidious message
through her maiden-dreams!—ah God!—if I had only known!
With the passing of the worst part of winter, just toward
the close of March, Heloise St. Cyr was summoned to see her
mother who was thought to be dangerously ill. The night be-
fore she left for Normandy, I was spending a couple of hours
at the De Charmilles’—there was no visitor that evening there
but myself, and I was now accounted almost one of the fam-
ily. I thought she looked very weary and anxious, but at-
tributed this solely to the bad news she had received from her
native home. I was therefore rather surprised, when, taking
advantage of Pauline’s absence from the room for a few mo-
ments, she came hurriedly up to me and sat down by my side.
“I want to speak to you, Monsieur Gaston,” she said, with
an odd hesitation and fluttered nervousness of manner. “You
can not imagine how unhappy I am at being obliged to leave
Pauline just now!”
“Indeed, I can quite understand it!” I replied, quickly, for
1 entirely sympathized in such a grief, which to me would
have been insupportable. “But let us hope you will not be
absent long.”
“I hope not—I fervently hope not!” she murmured, her
voice trembling a little. “But, Monsieur Gaston, you will
not let Pauline be too much alone? You will visit her every
day, and see her as often as possible?”
I smiled. “You may rely upon that!” I answered. “Do
not be afraid, Heloise!”—for I called her Heloise now, as the
others did—“I am not likely to neglect her!”
“No, of course not!” she said, in the same low nervous
accents. “Yet, she is not quite herself just now, I fancy; a
little morbid perhaps and unstrung. . She often sheds tears
for—for nothing, you know, and I think she gives way to too
much religion. Oh, you laugh!” for I had been unable to re-
sist a smile at this suggestion of my little darling’s excess of
devotion. I knew the reason, I thought!—she was praying
for me! “But I do not think it is natural in one so young,
and 1 would give anything to be able to stay with her, and
watch over her a little, instead of going to Normandy! She
used not to be so overparticular about her religious duties—
and now she never misses early mass; she is up and out-of-
doors while I am yet asleep, and she is quite cross if we try to
keep her away from Benediction. And it is not necessary for
WORMWOOD, 59
her to attend Monsieur Vaudron’s church always ; do you
think so?”
She looked full at me; but I could perceive no under-drift
of meaning in her words. To my mind everything Pauline
did or chose to do was perfection.
“She is fond of good old Vaudron,” I replied; “we are all
fond of him; and if you ask me frankly, I think I would
rather she went to his church than to any other. You arc
overanxious, Heloise—the news of your mother’s illness has
quite unstrung you. Don’t be nervous; Pauline is the idol of
our hearts; we shall all take extra care of her while you are
absent.”
“I hope you will take extra care!” she said, with strange,
almost passionate earnestness. “I pray to God you will!”
Her words impressed me very unpleasantly for the moment;
what an uncomfortable creature she was, I thought, with her
great, flashing gray-green eyes, and pale classic features, on
which the light of a burning inward genius sent a weird un-
earthly glow! Just then Pauline came back, so she broke off
her gonversation with me abruptly, and on the following
morning she had gone
Some few days after her departure I jestingly broached the
subject of this “too much religion ” to my young fiancée.
“So you go to mass every morning, like a good little girl?”
] said, merrily, twisting one of her rich brown curls round my
finger as 1 spoke.
She started. “How did you know that?”
“Heloise told me before she went away. Why, you don’t
mind my knowing it, do you? It is very right of you and very
proper; but doesn’t it make you get up too early?”
“No; I never sleep much after day-break,” she answered,
her face flushing a little.
“Like the daisy, awake at sunrise!” I said, laughingly.
“Well, 1 must reform, and be good too. Shall I meet you at
church to-morrow for instance?”
“If you wish!” she replied, quietly.
She was so very serious about it that I did not like to pursue
the question further; some of her parents’ religious scruples
were no doubt her heritage, I thought, and I had no inclina-
tion to offend them by any undue levity. Religion is becom-
ing to a woman; a beautiful girl praying, is the only idea the
world can give of what God’s angels may be.
The muorrow came, and I did not go to church as I had in-
tended, having overslept myself. But in the course of the
day, I happened to meet M. Vaudron, and to him I mentioned
^ i
60 WORM WOOD.
Pauline’s regular attendance aſ his early mass. The good
man’s brow clouded, and he looked exceedingly puzzled.
“That is strange!—very strange!” he remarked, musingly.
“I must be getting very short-sighted, or else the dear child
must keep very much in the background of the church, for I
never see her except on Sundays, when she comes with her
father and mother. Early mass, you say? There are sev-
eral: the first one is at six o'clock, when my nephew assists
me as deacon; the next at Seven, when l have the usual at-
tendant to help me officiate, for at that time Silvion goes for
a long walk. He was accustomed to a great deal of exercise in
Brittany, and he does not get enough of it here. It must be
at seven that the pretty One slips in to pray; she would hardly
come earlier. Ah, well; it is easy for my old eyes to miss her
then, for my Sacred duties take up all my attention. She is a
good child—a sweet and virtuous one; thou shouldst be very
roud of her, Gaston!”
“And am I not so?” 1 responded, laughingly. “I should
love her and be proud of her, even—do not be shocked, mon
père ſ—even if she never went to mass at all!”
He shook his head with, much pious severity at this auda-
cious declaration, but could not repress a kindly smile all the
same; then we shook hands cordially and parted.
The next day I did manage to rouse myself in time for the
seven-o’clock mass, and I arrived at the little church in a
pleasurable state of excitement, thinking what a surprise my
appearance would be to Pauline. To my intense disappoint-
ment, however, she was not there! There were very few peo-
ple present, two or three market-women and an old widow in
the deepest mourning, being the most conspicuous members of
the congregation. Immediately after the Elevation of the
Host, 1 slipped out, and, hurrying home, wrote a little note
to my truant betrothed, telling her how I had been to mass
hoping to meet her, and how I had missed her after all. Later
in the day I called to see her, and found her in one of her
radiant laughing moods.
“Pauvre garçon 1’’ she playfully exclaimed, throwing her
arms about me. “What a dreadful thing for thee to have
risen so early, all for nothing! I did not go to church at all;
I stayed in bed, for 1 was sleepy; in fact, I am getting very
lazy again, and once lazy, hēlas !—I shall cease to be re-
ligious!”
She sighed, and assumed a demurely penitent air; I laughed,
and kissed her, and soon, in the charm of her conversation
and the fascination of her company, forgot my little disap-
WORMWOOD. 61
pointment of the morning. When I left her, I was convinced
that her fancy for attending early mass regularly had passed,
like all the passing fancies of a very young imaginative girl,
and 1 thought no more about the matter.
- Just about this time my father was compelled to go to Lon-
don on business connected with certain large financial specula-
tions, in which our firm was concerned, both for ourselves and
others. He calculated on being absent about a fortnight or
three weeks, with the natural and inevitable result, that,
while he was away, all the work of superintending our Paris
banking-house fell entirely on my hands. I was busy from
morning until night; I had indeed so little leisure of my own,
that I could seldom spare more than the Sunday afternoon
and evening for the uninterrupted enjoyment of Pauline’s so-
ciety. I had such rare and brief glimpses of her that I was
quite restless and wretched about it; the more so, as Heloise
St. Cyr’s parting words often recurred to me with uncomfort-
able persistency; but nevertheless, my work had to be done,
and, after all, each time I did visit my beautiful betrothed, I
found her in such blithe, almost wild spirits, and always look-
ing so lovely and brilliant, that I blamed myself for giving
way to any anxiety on her behalf. Besides, we were to be
married at the beginning of June; and it was now close on the
end of April. The Comtesse de Charmilles was pleasantly oc-
cupied with the ordering and preparing of the marriage trous-
seaux, and a few stray wedding-gifts had already arrived. I
was mounting securely upward to the very summit of joy, so
I thought!—I little imagined I was on the brink of ruin!
During this period I saw a great deal of Silvion Guidel. 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 com-
º of art, science, and literature, and his conversation
had always that brilliancy and point which makes spoken lan-
guage 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, Guidel would still
remain with me, quite silent, sitting in a chair near the win-
dow, 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
62 WORMWOOD. -
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 learned to love him! T-even Iſ A peculiar sense of rever-
ing 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 labor, and laying his two
hands affectionately on my shoulders, said:
“Still working hard, Beauvais! What a thing it is to be su
absolutely conscientious! Rest, moſt ami ſ—rest a little, if
not for your own sake, then for the sake of your fair fiancée,
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 Guidel, 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 unreason.
able! Yet, though first impressions are sometimes erroneous,
I believe there is a balance in favor 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 des-
tined to remain in Constant opposition. You may conquer it
for a time; it may even change, as it did in my case, to pro-
found 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 Guidell—and in proportion
to the sincerity of that love, I afterward measured the intensity
of my hate!
VIII.
A BRILLIANT May had begun in Paris; the foliage was alſ
in its young beauty of pale-green sprouting leaf; the Champs
* Reats
W ORMWOOD, 63
Blysées were bright with flowers, and the gay city looked its
loveliest. My father was still delayed by his affairs in Eng-
land; 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. Heloise 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 overenthusiastic 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 con-
sequence, the once-adored Heloise 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 expres-
sion; 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 rea-
son 1 rather looked forward to the return of Heloise, 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 overwrought 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
64 WORMWOOD,
hand, leaning against the edge of the grand piano, gazing
blankly through the window, and wondering foolishly to my-
self 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, blow- .
ing 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 countess, gently, then paused.
My heart beat violently.
“It is something dangerous? You have sent for a physi-
cian? You—” Here my attempted self-control gave way,
and I exclaimed, “Let me see her! I must—I will! Ma-
dame, I have the right to see her! Why do you hinder me?”
The countess laid her hand on my arm in a pacifying man-
ner, and smiled a little forcedly.
“Be tranquil, Gaston. There is nothing serious the mat-
ter. To-day, it is true, she is not well; she has been weeping
violently, pauvre enfant ſ—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, 1
thought, to make such an odd and altogether unnecessary in-
uirvl
ºo:: assuredly it is, madame!” I replied, with emphatic
earnestness. “It is even greater on my part—and of her ten-
derness 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 overstrung and un-
duly excited, as Pauline may be at the present time. She
WORMWOOD. 65
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 sensi-
tive, 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; and yet every now and then 1
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 Heloise 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
. her out—a trifle exaggerated by her fancy, which we,
nowing 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 tendor ma-
ternal solicitude, and I admired her for it. Kissing her hand
again, I promised to do as she asked.
“But can not I see Pauline to-day?” l inquired.
“No, Gaston; it is better not!” she answered. “The
poor little thing is quite worn out with crying; she is ex-
hausted, 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 “aw revoir.”
“To-morrow come and see Pauline,” she said. “I will
tell her to expect thee. We will prepare a pretty “ the d
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 rea-
son. A demain l’’
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
66 WORMWOOD.
morning. I found Silvion Guidel awaiting me, and l hailed
his presence with a sense of relief, for my own thoughts har-
assed 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 de-
liberately 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 thunder-struck, Beauvais. I said, “the devil!’
and why should I not say it? The devil is as important a per-
sonage as the Greator in our perpetual Divina Commedia.
The world, the flesh, and the devil! Three good things,
Beauvais!—three positively existent tempting ſhings!—no
chimeras!—three fightable enemies that we have to wrestle
with and grapple at the throats of till we get them down un-
der our feet and kill them! ay, even if we kill ourselves in the
struggle! The world, the flesh, and the devil! Mon Dieu 1
1 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 gray 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, Guidel, you are talking very oddly?” I
said, at last, watching him narrowly. “You are not your-
self at all! What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“Ill? Ma foº !—not Iſ I am well, mom 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
WORMWOOL). - 6%
madness into my veins! I am learning to love light and color
and gay music and song and dance—and the wildly beautiful
eyes of women!—eyes that are blue and passionate and plead-
ing and that make one’s heart ache for unuttered and unut-
terable 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 one’s self 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 an-
swers, 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 caliber, 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 behavior! 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 in-
clinations; 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 peo-
i. who, in these days of advanced thought, will, no matter
ow eloquent you are, never believe half of what you say.
Shake off your shackles, Guidel, and be a free man; shape
your own future! with such splendid capabilities as yours, it
needs must be a fair and prosperous one!”
68 WORMWOOD.
~& -
He looked at mé 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
1 had your cleanness of conscience!”
I was a little puzzled at this remark. Had he been fre-
quenting 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 re-
solved 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 writ-
ten 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 sepul-
cher, what then? ...There are many like me—what should I do
with a conscience?”
These words pained me infinitely.
“Guidel, you are indeed much changed!” I said, rather
reproachfully. “I can not bear to hear you talk in this reck-
less fashion! Priest or no priest, be faithful to whatever prin-
ciples you finally take up. If you can believe in nothing, why,
then, believe in nothing steadfastly to the end—if, on the con-
trary, you elect to fasten your faith to something, then win the
respect of every one as our good Père Vaudron does, by cling-
ing 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 can not conscientiously fulfill the Galling of a
priest, you ought to die rather than become one!”
“ Tiens !” he murmured—he had thrown himself back in a
chair and closed his eyes—“that is easy!”
His voice had a touch of deep pathos in it, and my heart
ached for him. There could be no doubt that he was suſter-
ing greatly; some acute unhappiness had him on the rack,
and perhaps he did not tell me all, or even half his griefs. I
drew up my own chair to the table, where a large bundle of
financial reports awaited my attention; I was quite accus-
tomed to have him often sitting in the same room with me
while I worked, so that his presence did not disturb me in the
least, and I paid no heed to him for several minutes. All at
once, though my head was bent down over my Writing, I be-
WORMWOOj). 69
came instinctively aware that he was looking intently at me,
and, lifting my gaze to meet his, was exceedingly sorry to see
what a strange expression of positive agony there was in his
beautiful dark eyes—eyes that were formerly so Serene and un-
troubled as to be almost angelic. I laid down my pen and Sur-
veyed him anxiously.
“Silvion, mom ami,” I said, gently; “there is something
else on your mind, more than this feeling about the priesthood.
You have not told me everything!”
He frowned. “What else should there be to tell?” he an-
swered, with a certain quick brusquerie; then in milder accents
he added: “My dear Beauvais, don’t you know a man may
have a thousand infinitesimal worries all mingled together in
such confusion that he may be absolutely unable to dissever
or distinguish them separately? That is my case! I can not
tell you plainly what is the matter with me—for I hardly
know myself.”
“Miserable for nothing, then!” I laughed, scribbling away
again. “Just like my little Pauline! It must be in the air,
this malady!”
- There was a pause, during which the clock seemed to tick
with an almost aggressive loudness. Then Guidel spoke.
“Is she indeed miserable, do you think?” he asked, in ac-
cents so hoarse and tremulous that I scarcely recognized them
as his. “She, that bright child of joy? the little “Sainte
Vièrge as I have sometimes called her? Oh, my God!”
This last exclamation broke from him like a groan of actual
physical torture, and seeing him cover his face with his hands,
I sprung to his side in haste and alarm.
“Guidel, you are ill! I know you are! You must either
stay here the night with me, or let me walk home with you—
you are not fit to be alone!”
He drew away his hands from his eyes, and looked at me
very strangely. &
“You are right, Beauvais! I am not fit to be alone! Only
the straight-minded and pure of heart are fit for solitude—
there being no solitude anywhere! No solitude! for every inch
of space is occupied by some eyed germ of life, and none can
tell how or by whom our most secret deeds are watched and
chronicled! To be alone simply means to be confronted with
* God’s invisible, silent cloud of witnesses—and you say truly,
JBeauvais, I am not fit thus to be alone!” He rose from his
chair and stood up, resting one hand on my arm. “ All the
same,” he continued, forcing a faint smile, “I will not bore
you any longer with my present dismal humor. Do not be-
70 WORMWOOD.
stow another thought on me, mom ami, I am going! No!
positively I can not allow you to come home with me; I am
not ill, Beauvais, I assure you! I am only—miserable. The
malady of misery may be, as you say, ‘in the air!’” He
laughed drearily, and I watched him with increasing concern
and wonder. “Really I do believe there are strange influ-
ences in the air sometimes; like seeds of plants blown by the
wind to places where they may best take root and fructify; so
the unseen yet living organic infusions of hatred—or love—
joy or Sorrow, may be, for all we know, broadcast in the seem-
ingly clear ether, ready to sink Sooner or later into the human
hearts prepared to receive and germinate them. It is a won-
derful universe! and wonderful things come of it!” He
paused again, and then held out his hand. “Forgive my
spleen, Beauvais! Good-night!”
“Good-night!” I answered, feeling somewhat saddened my-
self by his utter dejection. “But I wish you would let me
accompany you part of the way!”
“On the contrary, you will oblige me, mon cher, by stick-
ing to your work, and allowing me to Saunter home in my
own desultory fashion. I want to think out a difficulty, and
I must be by myself to do it.” **.
He walked across the room, I following him, and had near-
ly reached the door when he turned sharply round and con-
fronted me.
“Supposing I had sinned greatly and irretrievably, Beau-
vais, could you forgive me?”
I stared at him, astonished.
“Sinned? You ? Greatly and irretrievably? Nonsense!
One might as well expect sin from the Archangel Raphael!”
He broke into a laugh, forced, harsh, and bitter.
“ Milles remerciments / Upon my word, Beauvais, you
flatter me! lif I am like the Archangel Raphael, then Ra-
phael has deserted heaven for hell quite recently! But you do
not answer my question. Could you forgive me?”
His feverishly brilliant eyes seemed to probe my very soul,
and I hesitated before replying, for, strange to say, the old
inexplicable sense of distrust and aversion rose up in me anew,
and seemed not only to throw a sudden cloud over his beauty,
but also in part to quench my friendly sympathy.
“I do not think I have a malicious nature!” I said at last,
doubtfully, “and I have never borne any one a lasting grudge
that I can remember. I do not profess particularly Christian
principles either, because, like many of my countrymen of to-
day, I rather adhere to the doctrines of a new Universal Re-
**
WORMWOOD. 71
ligioh springing solely out of Human Soul Unity; but I think
I could forgive everything except—” N
“Except what?” he asked, eagerly.
“Deliberate deceit,” I answered, “willful betrayal of trust
—insidious tampering with honor—this sort of thing I do not
fancy I could ever pardon.”
“And suppose I deceived you in a great and important
matter?” persisted Guidel, still looking at me. I met his
gaze fixedly, and spoke out the blunt truth as I then felt it.
“Frankly—I should never forgive you!”
He laughed again, rather boisterously this time, and once
more shook hands.
“Well said, Beauvais! I honor you for the sturdy courage
of your opinions! Never put up with deceit! A spoken lie is
bad enough; but a willfully acted lie is worse! And yet, alas!
what a false world we live in! how full of the most gracefully
performed lying! The pity of it is that when truth is spoken,
no one can be got to believe it. You know the pretty Song
which says:
“‘Mieux que la réalité
Waut un beau mensonge!’
Oddly enough, the least strophe of poetry always reminds me
of that clever Mademoiselle St. Cyr! She returns to Paris
Soon, I suppose?”
“She is expected every day,” I replied, glad of a more
commonplace turn to the conversation. “She may be home
to-morrow.”
“Indeed! I shall be glad to see her again!”
“So shall II” I agreed, emphatically. “Pauline will soon
recover her good spirits in her cousin’s company.”
“No doubt—no doubt!” And he looked preoccupied and
thoughtful; then, with a sudden start, he exclaimed, “My
good Beauvais! I forgot! Your marriage takes place almost
immediately, does it not?” .
“At the beginning of next month,” I answered, Smiling.
He seized me by both hands enthusiastically.
“Ah! Voilà le bonheur qui vient vite ſ” And his eyes
flashed radiance into mine. “I am ashamed, Beauvais!—
positively ashamed to have darkened your threshold with the
shadow of myself in an ill-humor! A thousand pardons! I
will go home and get to bed—with to-morrow’s sun 1 shall
probably rise a wiser and more cheerful man! Think no more
of my peevishness; we all grumble at fate now and then. Au
wevoir, cher ami / and may your dreams be rose-lit with the
glory of love and the face-of–Pauline!”
#2 WORMſ WOOT).
With a bright snºle, more dazzling than usual by contrast
with his previous gloom, he left me—and I watched him from
the street door as he strode swiftly across the road and turned
in the direction of his uncle’s residence. His behavior was
certainly strange for one who was usually the very quintes-
sence of Saintly serenity and studious reserve; I was puzzled
by it, and could not make him out at all. However, after a
little cogitation with myself, I came to the conclusion that
matters were fruly as he had said—that Paris had unsettled
him, and that he was beginning to have serious doubts as to
whether after all it was his true vocation to be a priest. I
myself had doubted it ever since 1 had come to know him in-
timately—he was too fond of Science and philosophy—too
clever, too handsome, and too young to resign all life’s splen-
did opportuities for the service of a narrow and cramping re-
ligion. I could thoroughly understand the difficulty in which
he was placed; and I wished him well out of bondage into the
liberty of the free. That night I was busy at my work up to
the small hours of the morning; and when I did get to bed at
last, my slumber was not very refreshing. I continued my
task of adding up figures throughout my dreams, without ever
arriving at any precise conclusion. I tried in the usual futile,
visionary way to come to some result of all these distressful
and anxious calculations, but in vain—the arithmetical jum-
ble refused to clear itself up in any sort of fashion, and both-
ered me all night long, though now and then it dispersed
itself out of numbers into words, and became a monotonous
refrain of the lines:
“Mieux que la réalité
Waut un beau menSonge!”
IX.
ON the following afternoon, between four and five o’clock,
I went to see Pauline, as I had promised her mother I would
—a promise 1 myself was only too eager to fulfill. Remem-
bering her extreme fondness for flowers, I bought a basket of
lilies of the valley at the establishment of a famous horticul-
turist, noted for his exquisite taste in floral designs—it was
tied with loops of white and palest pink ribbon; and the deli-
cate blossoms loved by Christ of old were softly shaded over
by the fine fronds of the prettiest fern known, the dainty
maidenhair. Armed with this fragrant trophy of love, I en-
tered the little morning-room where the “the d l’Anglaise ’’
WORM WOOD. *. 73
was already prepared, and found Pauline awaiting me, look-
ing a perfect fairy vision of youthful grace, mirth, and loveli-
ness! She sprung forward to greet me; she took the lilies
from my hands and kissed them; she threw her arms round
my neck and thanked me with the same child-like rapture and
enthusiasm that had distinguished her on the night I first met
her, when she had talked so ecstatically about the “marrons
glacés.” I held her in my close embrace, and studied her
features with all a lover’s passionate scrutiny; but I could
discover no traces of tears in her eyes—no touch of pallid
grief upon her rose-flushed cheeks; her smiles were radiant as
a June morning, and I inwardly rejoiced to find her so full of
her old sparkling animation and vivacity. Drawing a com-
fortable chair up to the table, she made me sit down while she
prepared the tea, and I watched her with almost dazzled eyes
of love and admiration, as she flitted about the room like a
Sylph on Wings.
“I was told that you were ill yesterday, Pauline!” I said,
resently. “That you were crying—that you were unhappy.
as that true?”
She looked up laughing.
“Oh, yes, quite true!” she answered, with a droll little
gesture of self-disdain. “So many tears, Gaston! I almost
floated away on an ocean of them! So many dreadful gasps
and ugly sobs! Tiens ! I am sure I have a red nose still—
is it not so?” *
And, kneeling down beside me, she raised her fair face to
mine in mirthful inquiry. Kissing her, I told her she had
never looked lovelier, which was true—whereupon she sprung
up and courtesied demurely.
“I am glad I am pretty still!” she said, then all at once a
darkness crossed her brows like the shadow of a cloud. “How
horrible it would be to grow ugly, Gaston! to get worn and
thin and old, with great black rings like spectacles round the
eyes; to lose all the gloss out of one’s hair, and to be so weary,
So weary, that the feet will hardly bear one along! Ah! I saw
a woman like that the other day; she sat on One of the seats
in the Bois, quite, quite alone, with no one to pity her. Her
º sº despair, despair! always despair! and my heart ached
or her!’” -
“But you must not think about these things, my darling,”
l Said, taking her hand and drawing her toward me. “There
are many such sad sights in Paris and in all large cities; but
$107 must not dwell upon them. And as for getting ugly!” l
74 W ORMWOOT).
laughed; “you need have no fear of that! you are growing
more beautiful every day!” -
“You think so?” she queried, with a coquettish inquisitive-
ness. “That is well. I am pleased, for I wish to be beau-
tiful.”
“You are beautiful!” I reasserted, emphatically.
“Not as beautiful as I should like to be!” she murmured,
musingly. “There are some people—even men—who are
possessed of beauty that can never be matched; that is quite
unique, like the beauty of the sculptured god-heroes, and then
it is indeed wonderful!” She paused; then rousing herself
with a slight start, she went on more gayly: “Come, Gaston,
we will have tea! We will be like the good people in Eng-
land: we will sip hot stuff and talk a little scandal between
the sips. That is the proper way! Now there is your cup
—here is mine. Bien / Whom shall we abuse?”
I laughed—she looked so pretty and mischievous.
“Wait a little,” I said, “ you have not told me yet why
you cried so much yesterday, Pauline? You admit that you
did cry—well! what was the reason?” - -
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Qui sait ! I can not tell! It was pleasant—it did me
OOd!” -
goº. Pleasant to cry?” I queried, amusedly.
“ Very pleasant!” she answered. “Something was in my
heart, you know—something strange, like a bird that wished
to sing and fly far, far away—but it was caged—and so it flut-
tered and fluttered a little and teased me—but when the tears
came it was quite still. And now it remains quite still—I do
not think it will try to sing or to fly any more!” -
There was a quaint- touch of pathos in these words that
moved me uneasily. I put down my as yet untasted cup of
tea, and stretched out my hand. … 2?
“Come here, Pauline!”
She came obediently.
I sat her, like a little child, on my knee, and looked earnest-
ly into her face.
“Tell me, my darling,” I said, with tender seriousness,
“is there anything that is troubling you? Have you some .
unhappiness that you conceal from every one—and, if so,
may / not be your confidant? Surely you can trugt me! You
know how truly and ardently I love you—you know that 1
would do anything in the world for you—you might set me
any task, however difficult, and I would somehow manage to
perform it! My whole life is yours, my dearest! will you not
WORMWOOD. Y5
confide your griefs to me—if you have griefs—and let me not
only share them, but lift the burden of them altogether from
your mind, which ought to be as bright and untroubled as a
midsummer sky!” -
She met my searching gaze openly—her breathing was a lit-
tle quicker than usual, but she gave no other sign of dis-
quietude.
“I have no griefs, Gaston,” she said, in a low, rather
tremulous voice; “none at least that I can give words to. I
think—perhaps—I am a little tired!—and—I have missed
Heloise.” e
“Is that your trouble!” and I smiled. “But what will
you do without Heloise when you are married?”
“I—I do not know,” she faltered, timidly. “I shall have
you then!” I kissed her. “And you are very, very kind to
me, Gaston! and 1 promise you—” -
“What?” I asked, eagerly.
She hesitated a moment, then went on, “I promise you I
will tell you if lºget sad again; yes, I will tell you everything,
and you will be good and gentle with me, and comfort me,
will you not?” -
“Indeed I will, my darling, my angel!” I said, fondly
Caressing her pretty hair. “Who should console you in any
Sorrow if not 12 I shall be quite jealous of Heloise if she is to
have the largest share of your confidence.”
“But she will not have it,” interrupted Pauline, quite sud-
denly. “I could never tell her any—any dreadful trouble!”
I laughed. “Let us hope you will never know what any
“dreadful” trouble is!” I rejoined, earnestly. “But why
could you not tell Heloise?” ~,
She mused a little before replying, then said, speaking slow-
ly and thoughtfully:
“Because, she is so great and grand and far above me in
everything! Ah, you smile as if you did not believe me, Gaston
—but you do not know her! Heloise is divine / her goodness
seems to me quite unearthly! I have caught her sometimes at
her prayers—and it is beautiful to see her face looking as pure
and sweet as an angel’s—and her lovely closed eyelids just like
shut-up shells—and she has such long lashes, Gaston—longer
than mine! She reminds me of a picture that used to hang in one
of the chapels at the Convent of the Sacré Coeur-Santa Filo-
mena it was, crowned with thorns and lilies. And she is so
very good in every way, that I know I should never have cour-
age to tell her if—if I had been wicked!”
9
76 - wormſwooD.
Here she lowered her eyes, and a hot blush wavered across
her face. - -
“But you have not been wicked, child!” I exclaimed, still
somewhat puzzled by her manner. “You could not be
wicked, if you tried!” - * x -
“You think not?” she returned softly, raising her eyes
again to mine, and I observed that she was now as pale as she
had a minute before been flushed. “Dear Gaston! You are
so fond of me—and always kind! I am very, very grateful!”
Nestling down, she laid her head against my breast for a
Second—then springing up again, pushed back her rich curls,
and laughingly remonstrated with me for not drinking my tea.
“It is cold now—I will pour you out some more,” she said,
suiting the action to the word. “Don’t let us talk of dis-
agreeable things, Gaston—of my crying, and all that non-
sense! It was very stupid of me to cry—you must forget it
—for to-day I am quite well alid merry—and—and—oh, do
let us be happy while we can!” - -
Whereupon she seated herself opposite to me, and began
chatting away, just in her old bright fashion, of all sorts of
things—of her parents—of the extra dainty luxuries “Maman ‘’
had recently added to her trousseau; and with feminine tact,
she managed to draw together such an inexhaustible number
of brilliant trifles in her conversation, that, charmed by her
vivacity, I ceased to remember that she could ever have been
sad, even for an hour. But, before I left her, I was made
miserable again by a very untoward circumstance. Just when
I was about to say good-bye—for the excess of my work would
not allow me to stay with her longer—I alluded once more to
her past depression, and said: ...”
“You are such a bright fairy now, Pauline, that I think
you must try and put our friend Guidel in better spirits when
next you see him. He seems in a very melancholy frame of
mind! Oddly enough, yesterday, when you were so sad, he
was with me, giving utterance to the most lugubrious senti-
ments. In fact, I thought he was ill ‘’—Pauline was about to
fasten a flower in my coat, but here she dropped it, and stooped
down on the floor to find it—“So ill,” I continued, “that I
was for going home with him to see that he got there all
right; but he assured me it was only a maladie de twistesse. I
fancy he doesn’t want to be a priest, after all ”—here Pauline
found the fallen blossom she was searching for, and began to
pin it in my button-hole with such shaking fingers that I be-
cane alarmed. “Why, you are shivering, my darling! Are
you cold?”
worMwooD. yy
“A little!” she murmured. “I—1—” The sentence
died on her lips, and with a ºples swaying movement she
fell in a sudden swoon at my feet! *
Wild with fright, I caught her up in my arms, and rang the
bell furiously—the Comtesse de Charmilles came hurrying in,
and, in obedience to her rapid instructions, I laid my pretty
little one down on a sofa, and looked on in rigid anxiety, while
her mother bathed her hands and forehead with eau-de-
Cologne. - ſ'
“She has fainted like this once before,” said the countess,
in a low tone. “Do not be alarmed, Gaston—she will be all
right in a minute or two. Did you ask her what I told you?”
I nodded in the affirmative. I could not take my eyes off
the lovely little face that lay so pale and quiet on the sofa-pil-
lows near me.
“And did she say anything?”
“Nothing!” I answered with a sigh. “Nothing, except
that she was quite well, and quite happy, and that she had no
grief whatever. And she promised that if ever she felt sad
again, she would come to me and tell me everything!”
A look of evident relief brightened the mother’s watchful
face, and she smiled. -
“That is well!” she said, gently. “I am glad she prom-
ised that! As for this little malaise, I attach no importance
to it. Young and overexcitable girls often faint in this foolish
little way. There!—she is better now—see!—she is looking at
you!”
And indeed the sweet blue eyes, that were heaven’s own
light to my soul, had opened, and were fixed wistfully upon
me. Eagerly I bent over her couch.
“Is that you, Gaston?” she faintly inquired.
For all answer I kissed her. -
“Thank you!” she said, with a pretty plaintiveness. “Now
you will go away, will you not?—and let mamma take care of
me. My head aches—but that is nothing. I shall be quite
well again soon!” - She smiled, and the warm color came back
to her cheeks. “Au revoir, Gaston! Kiss me once more—
it comforts me to think how good and true and kind you are!”
With what reverential tenderness I pressed my lips to hers,
Heaven only knows!—I little imagined it was the last time I
should ever touch that sweet mouth with the passionate sign
of love’s dearest benediction! She closed her eyes again, and
the countess told me in a soft under-tone that she would now
in all probability fall asleep and slumber away her temporary
78 - -- wormwood.
weakness; so, making my whispered adieus to the gentle and
patiently absorbed mother, I stole on tiptoe. from the room,
and in another minute or two had left the house. -
Once out in the open air, however, 1 became a prey to the
most extraordinary and violent anxiety. Everything to my
mind looked suddenly overcast with gloom, I knew not why.
Certainly the sun had set, and the dusk was deepening, but
the closing-in of the evening shadows did not, as a rule, affect
my spirits with such a sense of indefinable dreariness. I
Walked home mechanically, brooding on Pauline’s fainting-fit,
and exaggerating it more and more in my thoughts till it as-
sumed the proportion of an ominous symptom of approaching
death. I worked myself up into such a morbid condition of
mind that the very trees, covered with their young green and
bursting buds, merely suggested the trees in Cemeteries, that
were also looking heartlessly gay, because it was spring, re-
gardless of the dead in the ground below them. And, occu-
pied with my miserable musings, I nearly ran up against Sil-
vion Guidel, who was coming in an opposite direction. He
looked like the ghost of a fair lost god, I thought, so wan
and wild-eyed yet beautiful was he. He caught my hands
eagerly. - --
“Where are you going, Beauvais? You look as if you were
stumbling along in a dream!”
I forced a smile. “I dare say I do—I feel like it!. Pauline
is very ill, Guidel!—she fainted at my feet to-day!”
He turned sharply round as though he suddenly perceived
some one he knew—then hurriedly apologized.
“I thought I saw my old chiffonier,” he said, lightly. “A
friend and pensioner of mine, to whom for my soul’s sake I
give many an odd sou. Mademoiselle de Charmilles fainted,
you say? Oh, but that is not a very alarming symptom!”
I considered that he treated the case with undue levity, and
told him so rather vexedly. He laughed a little. -
“Mon cher, I will not encourage you in your morbid humor
any more than you encouraged me last night in mine. You
are—like all lovers—inclined to exaggerate every trifling ail-
ment affecting the well-being of the person loved. If I loved
—if I could love—I suppose I should be the same! But I have
the hollow heart of a perpetual celibate, mon ami l’’—and he
laughed again—“so I can be merry and wise, both together.
And out of my mirth, which is great—and my wisdom,
which is even greater!—I would advise you not to dwell with
such melancholy profoundness on the slight indisposition of
*.
wormwood. 79
your fair fiancée. To faint is nothing—many a school-girl
faints at early mass, and the teachers think it of very little im-
port.”
But I was too full of my own view of the matter to listen.
“All in one minute,” I persisted, morosely, “the dear
child fell in a dead swoon—and I had just been speaking to
her about you !”
“About me!” and he bit his lips hard. “Mon Dieu !—
what an uninteresting subject of conversation!”
“I had been telling her,”—I went on, “that you seemed
to be ill last night—ill and Sad; and I had even suggested that
she, out of her own brightness, should try to put you in better
spirits the next time she saw you— Really, Guidel, you are
horribly brusque to-day!” 3.
For he had seized my hand, shaken it, and was actually
rushing off!
“A thousand pardons, mon cher ſ” he said, in quick, rather
hoarse accents; “I am bound on an errand of charity—I
must fulfill it!—it is getting late, and I have very little timel-
Au revoir / I will see you later on!”
And away he went, walking at an unusually rapid rate—
and for the moment I was quite hurt at the entire want of
sympathy he had shown with regard to Pauline’s illness. But
I presently came to the conclusion that of course he could not
be expected to feel as I felt about it—and I resumed the nurs-
ing of my own dismal mood in unrelieved despondency till I
reached home, where the work I had to do in part distracted
me from my sadder thoughts. No one interrupted me. Sil-
vion Guidel did not come “later on,” as he had said, and I
saw him no more that night. Toward bedtime I got a teles
gram from my father, announcing that he would return home
on the next day but one. This news was some slight consola-
+ion to me—as, with his arrival, I knew I should be released
from many onerous duties at the bank—and so have more
time to spend in Pauline’s company. Yet, nevertheless, I re-
mained in the same state of mental dejection, mingled with a
certain vague and superstitious morbidness—for when I went
up to my bedroom, and looked out at the skies before shut-
ting the shutters, I saw a dense black rain-cloud creeping up
from the western horizon, and I at once took it as an ill-omen
to my own fortunes. I watched it darkening the heavens
slowly and blotting out the stars; and, as I heard the wind be-
ginning to moan softly among the near branches, I murmured
to myself almost unconsciously;
80 . wormwooD.
“Les âmes dont j'aurais besoin
Et les étoiles sont trop loin!
Je vais mourir seul—dans un coin!”
These lines worried me—I could not imagine how they had
managed to fix themselves in my memory. I put them down
to Heloise and her bizarre recitations—but all the same they
made me inexplicably wretched. Shivering with the chill the
approaching storm was already sending through the air, I
closed my window, went to bed, and slept Soundly, peacefully,
and deliciously; I remember it thus particularly because it was
the last time I experienced the blessing of sleep. The last—
the very last time I Say! I have not slept at all since then—
I have only dreamed! -
X.
WITH the morrow’s day-break came a complete change in
the weather—a change that was infinitely dismal and dreary.
The bright sunshine, that had been like God’s best blessing
on the world for the past two weeks, disappeared as though it
had never shone, and rain fell in torrents. A wild wind blew
round and round the city in sweeping gusts, tearing off the
delicate young leaves from their parent bránches, and making
pitiful havoc of all the sweet-scented, gayly Colored spring blos-
soms. It was a miserable morning—but in spite of wind and
rain I started rather earlier than usual for the bank, as, my
father having now signified the next day as the one of his cer-
tain return, I was anxious he should find everything in the
most absolute order on his arrival, and thus be assured of my
value not only as a good son, but also as a thoroughly reliable
partner. We were all up to our ears in work that day—a
great deal of extra business came in, and the hours flew on so
rapidly that it was past six o'clock in the afternoon before I
was released from my office bondage—and, even then, I still
had a good many matters to attend to when I got back to my
own house. I had no leisure to call at the De Charmilles’,
though I longed to know how Pauline was; but I did not fret
myself so greatly about that now as previously, knowing that
by the next noon my father would have arrived, and that I
should then have my time very much more at my own disposal.
The rain still continued pouring fiercely—very few people were
abroad in the streets—and though I took the Omnibus part of
the way home, the few steps that remained between that vehi-
cle and my own door were sufficient to drench me through.
As soon as I got in, I changed my clothes, had my solitary
- wormwood. 81
dinner, and ordered a small wood fire to be lighted in the
library, whither I presently repaired with my papers and ac-
count books, and was soon so busily engrossed that I almost
forgot the angry storm that was raging without, save in the
intervals of work, when I heard the rain beat in gusty clamor
at the windows, and the trees groan as they rustled and swayed
backward and forward in the increasing fury of the gale.
Presently, from the antique time - piece that stood on an
equally antique Secrétaire just behind me, nine o’clock struck
with a loud and brazen clang—and as it ceased I laid down
my pen for a moment and listened to the deepening snarl of
the Savage elements.
“What a night!” I thought. “A night for demons to
stalk abroad, and witches to ride through the air on broom-
sticks! Dieu ! how dull it is! One must smoke to keep the
damp away.”
And I opened my cigar-case. I was just about to strike a
light, when I fancied I heard something like a faint, very
faint attempt to ring the street-door bell. I listened—the
same sound was repeated. It was much too feeble to attract
the attention of the servants below—and as the library win-
dows jutted on the street, and as 1 could, by drawing aside the
curtain a little, generally see whosoever might ascend our steps,
I peeped cautiously out. At first I could perceive nothing,
the night was so wet and dark; but presently I discerned a
slight shadowy figure huddled against the door as though shel-
tering itself from the pitiless rain.
“Some poor starving soul,” I soliloquized, “who perhaps
does not know where to turn in all Paris for bread. I’ll see
who it is.”
And, acting on the impulse that moved me to be charitable
to any unhappy Creature benighted in such a hurricane, I
Grossed the passage softly and opened the door wide. As I did
So, the figure started back in apparent fear—it was a veiled
woman—and through the veil I felt her eyes looking at me.
“What is it?” I asked, as gently as I could. “What do
you want?”
For all answer, two hands were stretched toward me in wild
appeal, and a sobbing voice cried:
‘‘ Gaston!”
“My God! Pauline !” *J
Seized by a mortal terror, and with a convulsive effort as
though I were dragging forth some drowning creature from
the Sea, I caught her in my arms and almost lifted her across
the threshold; how I supported her, whether 1 carried her or
82 WORMWOOD.
led her, l never knew—my senses were all in a whirl, and I
realized nothing distinctly till I had reached the library once
more, and placed her, a shuddering, drooping little creature,
in the arm-chair I had but just vacated near the fire. Then
my dazed brain righted itself, and I flung myself at her feet in
an agony of alarm and suspense.
“Pauline, Pauline!” I whispered, “what is this?—why
have you come here? In such a storm of rain and wind too!
see!”—and I took up the end of her dress and wrung it in my
hands—“you are wet through! My darling, you frighten
me! Are you ill?—has any one been unkind to you?”
She lifted her head and tremblingly put back the close veil
she wore—and I uttered a stified cry at the pale misery im-
printed on her fair, fair young face.
“No one has been unkind,” she said, in a faint, plaintive
voice, like the voice of one weakened by long physical suffer-
ing; “and—I am not ill! I want to speak to you, Gaston!
I promised you that if I was very sad and troubled, I would
tell you everything—and you said you would be gentle with .
me and would comfort me—you remember? Well, now I
have come!—to tell you something that must be told—and to-
night is my only chance—for they have gone—papa and mam-
ma—to the theater, and I am all alone. They wanted me to
go with them, but I begged them to leave me at home—I felt
that I must see you quite by yourself—and tell you—yes!—
tell you everything!” -
A long shivering sigh escaped her lips; and frozen to the
very soul by a dim fear that I could not analyze, I rose from
my kneeling position at her side, and stood stiffly upright. At
first my only thought was for her. A young girl coming alone
to the house of her lover at night in a city like Paris, exposed
herself, consciously or unconsciously, to the direst slander, and
it was with this idea that I was chiefly occupied as I looked at
her crouching form in the chair beside me. I hastily consid-
ered the only possible risk she at present incurred—namely,
that of being seen by our servants and made the subject of
their idle gossip, and I determined to circumvent this at any
rate.
“Pauline, my little one,” I said, gravely, “whatever it is
you wish to tell me, could you not have waited till I came to
see you in the usual way? You ought not to have flown hither
so recklessly, little bird! you expose yourself to scandal. ’’
“Scandal!” she echoed, looking at me with a feverish light
in her blue eyes, “It can not say more evil of me than I
WORMWOOD. 83
rº
deserve!—and I could not wait!—I have waited already far
too long!”
A great heaviness fell on my heart at these words—my very
lips grew cold, and a tremor ran through me. But, neverthe-
less, I resolved to carry out the notion 1 had preconceived of
keeping this nocturnal flight of hers a profound Secret.
“Stay here,” I said, as calmly as I could for the shaking
dread that possessed me. “Try to get warm—I will bring
you some wine. Take that wet cloak off and be quite quiet—
I will return immediately.” g
. She looked after me with a sort of beseeching wonderment
as I left her—but I dared not meet her eyes—there was an ex-
pression in them that terrified me! I went, as in a dream, to
the dining-room; got some wine and a glass, carefully turned
out the lights, and then proceeded to the head of the basement
stairs and called our man-Servant.
** Dunois!”
“Owi, m'sieu /’’
“Tell them all down there that they can go to bed—you
can do the same. I shall want nothing more to-night. I
have locked the street-door, and the lamps are out in the din-
ing-room. My father will be home to-morrow—so you will all
have to be up early—call me about seven. Do you hear?”
“Owi, my’sieu P”
“Good-night °
Dunois responded, and I listened breathlessly while he re-
peated my orders to the other servants. I waited yet a few
minutes and presently heard them preparing to ascend their
own private stairway to the top of the house, where they each
had their several rooms. They were hard workers, and were
always glad of extra rest; they would soon be sound asleep,
thank Heaven!—they need know nothing. Satisfied that so
far all was safe, I stepped noiselessly back to the library, and,
entering, closed and locked the door. Pauline was sitting ex-
actly in the same position, her wet cloak still clinging round
her, her veil flung back, her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed
on the red embers of the fire. Approaching, I, without a
word, loosened her cloak and took it off, and methodically
hung it on the back of two chairs to dry—I removed the little
rain-soaked hat from her tumbled curls, and pouring out a
glass of wine, held it to her lips with a firm hand enough,
though God knows my heart was beating as though it would
burst its fleshly prison.
“Drink this, Pauline,” I said, authoritatively. “Come,
*
84 WORMIWOOD. - -
you must drink it—you are as cold as ice. When you have
taken it, I will listen to—to whatever you wish to say.”
She obeyed me mechanically, and managed to swallow half
the contents of the glass—then she put it away from her with
a faint gesture of aversion.
“l can not drink it, Gaston!” she faltered—“it seems to
suffocate me!”
I set it aside, and looked at her, waiting for her next words.
But no words came. She fixed her large soft eyes upon me
with the wistful entreaty of a hunted fawn—then suddenly the
tears welled up into them and brimmed over, and, covering
her face, she broke into piteous and passionate sobbing. Every
nerve in my body seemed to be wrenched and tortured by the
sound! I could not bear to see her in such grief, and, kneel-
ing down beside her once more, I put my arms round her and
pressed her pretty head against my breast. But I did not kiss
her; some strange instinct held me back from that I
“Do not cry, Pauline!—do not cry!” I implored, rocking
her to and fro as if she were a little tired child. “Do not,
my darling!—it breaks my heart! Tell me what is the matter
—you are not afraid of me, moſt ange—are you? Hush, hush!
To see you in such unhappiness quite distracts me, Pauline!—
it unmans me—do try to be calm! You are quite Safe with
me—no one will come near us—no one knows you are here—
and I will take you home myself as soon as you are more tran-
quil. There!—now you shall speak to me as long as you like
—you shall tell me everything—everything, except that you
do not love me any more!”
With a faint exclamation and a sudden movement she
loosened my arms from her waist and drew herself apart.
“Oh, poor Gaston!—but that is just what I must tell you!”
she sobbed. “Oh, forgive me—forgive me! I have done you
great wrong—I have deceived you wickedly—but oh, do not
be cruel to me, though I am so cruel to you! Do not be cruel
—I can not bear it!—it will kill me! I ought to have told
you long ago—but I was a coward—I was afraid—I am afraid
still!—but I dare not hide the truth from you—you must
know everything. I—I do not love, you, Gaston! I have
never loved you as you ought to be loved; I never knew the
meaning of love till now!”
Till now / What did these words imply? I gazed at her in
dumb blank amazement—my brain seemed frozen. I could
not think, I could not speak—I Only knew, in a sort of dim
indistinct way, that she had removed herself from my em-
brace, and that perhaps—perhaps it was, under the circum-
worxiwooD. 85
gtances, embarrassing to her to see me kneeling at her feet in
, such devout, adoring fashion, when . . . when she no longer
loved me / She no longer loved me! I could not realize it;
and still less could I realize that she never had loved me! I
got up slowly and stood beside her, resting one arm on the
mantel-piece—my limbs shook and my head swam round
stupidly—and yet, through all my bewilderment, I was still
conscious of her misery—Conscious of her tear-spoiled eyes—
her white face and quivering lips—and of the unutterable de-
spair that made even her youthful features look drawn and
old—and out of very pity for her woe-begone aspect, I tried to
master the sudden shock of unexpected wretchedness that
overwhelmed my soul. I tried to speak—my voice seemed
gone—and it was only after one or two efforts that I managed
to regain command of language.
“This is strange news!” I then said, in hoarse, unsteady
accents. “Very strange news, Pauline! You no longer love
me? You have never loved me? You never knew the mean-
ing of love till now? Till now ! Pardon me if I do not
understand—I am, no doubt, full of comprehension—but such
words from your lips sound terrible to me—unreal, impossible!
I must have been dreaming all this while, for—for you have
seemed to love me—till now, as you say—till now !”
She sprung from her chair and confronted me, her hands
extended as though in an agony of supplication.
“Oh, there is my worst sin, Gaston!” she wailed. “There
is the treachery to you of which I have been guilty! I have
seemed to love you—yes! and it was wicked of me—wicked—
wicked!—but I have been blind and desperate and mad—and
I could see no way out of the evil I have brought upon myself
—no way but this—to tell you all before it is too late—to
throw myself at your feet—sol”—and she flung herself wildly
down before me—“to pray to you, as 1 would pray to God—
to ask you to pardon me, to have mercy upon me—and, above
all other things, to generously break the tie between us—to
break it now—at once!—and to let me feel that at least I am
no longer wronging your trust, or injuring your future by my
fault of love for one who has grown dearer to me than you
could ever be—dearer than life itself—dearer than honor—
dearer than my own soul’s safety—dearer than God!”
She spoke with an almost tempestuous intensity of passion,
and I looked at her where she crouched on the ground—looked
at her in a dull, sick wonderment. This child—this playful
pretty trifler with time and the things of time, was trans-
formed; from a mere charming gracefully frivolous girl, she
86 WORMWOOD.
had developed into a wild tragedy queen; and the change had
been effected by—what? Love! Love for what—for whom?
, Not for me! not for me—no! for some one else! Who was
that Some one else? This question gradually asserted itself in .
my straying stupefied thoughts as the chief thing to be an-
Swered—the vital poison of the whole bitter draught—the final
stab that was to complete the murder. As I considered it, a
new and awful instinct rose up within me—the thirst for re-
venge that lurks in the Soul of every man and beast—the
silently concentrated fury of the tiger that has lain so long in
waiting for its prey that its brute patience is well-nigh ex- -
hausted; and involuntarily I clinched my hands and bit my
lips hard in the sudden and insatiate eagerness that possessed
me, to know the name of my rival! Again I looked down on
Pauline’s slight shuddering figure, and became hazily con-
Scious that she ought not to kneel there as a suppliant to me,
and—stooping a little, I held out my hand, which she caught
and kissed impulsively. Ah, Heaven! how I trembled at that
caressing touch!
“Rise, Pauline!” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Rise—do not be afraid!—I—I think I understand; I shall
realize it all better presently. Perhaps you have never quite
known how ardently 1 have loved you—with what passionate
fervor—with what adoring tenderness! and what you say to
me now is a shock, Pauline!—a cruel blow that will numb and
incapacitate Iny whole life! But one man’s pain does not
matter much, does it? Come, rise, I beg of you, and let me
strive to get some clearer knowledge of this sad and unex-
..pected change in your feelings. You do not love me, so you
tell me—and you never have loved me. You own to having
played the part of loving me; but now you ask me to break
the solemn tie between us, because you love some one else—
have I understood you thus far correctly?”
She had sunk back again in the chair near the fire, and her
pale lips whispered a faint affirmative. I waited a minute, then
I asked:
“And who, Pauline, who is that some one else?”
“Oh, why should you know?” she exclaimed, the tears fill-
ing her eyes again. “Why should you even wish to know!
It is not needful; it would only add to your unhappiness! I
can not tell you, Gaston! I will not!”
I laughed—a low laugh of exceeding bitterness. The
notion of her keeping such a secret from me amused me in a
vague, dull way. In my present- humor I felt that I could
... worxfwooD. 8?
have ransacked not only earth, but heaven and hell together
for that one name which would henceforth be to me the most
hateful in the whole world! But I forced myself to be gentle
with her; I even tried to persuade myself into the idea that
she was perhaps exaggerating a mere transient foolish flirta-
tion into the tragic height of a serious love affair—and I was
under the influence of this impression when 1 spoke again.
“Listen, Pauline! You must not play with me any longer
—if you have played with me, I can endure no more of it! I
ſmust know who it is that has usurped my rightful place in
your affections! Do not try to conceal it from me; it will
only be doing an injury to yourself and to—him / Is it some
one you have met lately? And is your love for him a mere
sudden freak of fancy? because if so, Pauline, let me tell you,
it is not likely to last! And so great and deep is my tender-
ness for you, dear, that I could even find it in my heart to
have patience with this cruel caprice of your woman’s nature
—to have patience to the extent of waiting till it passes, as
pass it must, Pauline! no love of lasting value was ever kin-
dled with such volcanic suddenness as this fickle fantasy of
yours! Pſad the famous lovers of Verona not died, they must
have quarreled! Your words, your manner, all spring from
impulse, not conviction; and 1 should be wronging you—yes!
actually wronging your better nature, if I were to hastily
yield to your strange request and end the engagement between
us. Why should l end it for a wandering, fitful fancy of
yours, that will no doubt die of itself as rapidly as it came into
being? No, Pauline! our contract is too solemn and too bind-
ing to be broken for a mere girlish whim!”
“But it must be broken!” she cried, springing to her feet
and confronting me with a pale majesty of despair that moved
me to vague awe. “It must be broken if I die to break it!
Whim!—fancy!—caprice! Do I look as if I were led by a
freak? Can you not—will you not understand me, Gaston?
Oh, God! I thought you were more merciful! I have looked
upon you as my only friend; I knew you were the very soul
of generosity—and I have clung to the thought of your ten-
derness as my only chance of rescue! I can not—I dare not,
tell them at home—l am even afraid to meet Heloise! Oh,
Gaston! Only you can shield me from disgrace—you can re-
lease me if you will, and give me the chance of freedom in
which to retrieve my fault! Gaston, you can! you can do
everything for me! you can save me by one generous act—
break off our engagement and say to all the world that it is by
our own mutual desire! Oh, Surely you can understand now!
88 - WOR1 MWOOiD,
}. will not force me to confess all my shame—all my dis-,
OHOl'ſ - - - -
"Shame 1–dish.07.07 / Those two words, and—Pauline! The
air grew suddenly black around me—black as blackest night;
then bright red rings swam giddily before my eyes, and I
caught at something, I know not what, to save myself from
falling. A cold dew broke out on my brow and hands, and I
struggled for breath in deep panting gasps, conscious of noth-
ing for the moment, except that she was there, and that her
wild eyes were fixed in wide affright upon me. Presently I
heard her voice as in a dream cry out wailingly:
“Gaston! Gaston! Do not look like that! Oh, God, for-
give me! what have I done? what have I done?”
Slowly the black mists cleared from my sight, and I seemed
to reel uncertainly back to a sense of being.
“What have you done?” I muttered, hoarsely. “What
have you done, Pauline? Why—nothing! but this—you
have fallen from virtue to wileness! and—you have killed me !
—-that is all! That is what you have done—that, at last, I
understand—at last!”
She broke into a piteous sobbing, but her tears had ceased
to move me. I sprung to her side—I seized her arm.
“Now—now—quick!” I said, the furious passion in my
voice jarring it to rough discord—“ quick! I can wait no
longer! The name—the name of your seducer!” .
She raised her eyes full of speechless alarm — her lips
moved, but no sound issued from them. There was a suffo-
cating tightness in my throat–my heart leaped to and fro in
my breast like a Savage bird in a cage—the wrath that pos-
sessed me was so strong and terrible that it made me for the
moment a veritable madman.
“Oh, speak!” I cried, my grasp tightening on her arm.
“Frail, false, fallen woman, speak! or I shall murder you!
The name! the name!” -
Half swooning with the excess of her terror, she vainly
strove to disengage herself from my hold—her head drooped
on her bosom—her eyes closed in the very languor of fear—
and her answering whisper stole on my strained sense of hear-
ing like the last sigh of the dying:
‘‘ Silvio'ſ Guidel !”
Silvion Guidel! God! I burst into wild laughter, and
flung her from me with a gesture of fierce disdain. Silvion
Guidell the saint! the angel! the would-be priest! the man
with the face divine! Silvion Guidel! Detestable hypocrite!
accursed liar! Smiling devil! Priest or no priest, he should
---- ºr
WORMWOOD. - 89
cross swords with me, and thereby probe a great mystery pres-
ently!—not a church-mystery, but a God-mystery—the mys-
tery of death! He should die, I swore, if I in fair fight could
kill him! Silvion Guidel! my friend! the “good ‘’ fellow I
had actually revered! he-he had made of Pauline the wrecked
thing she was! . Ah, Heaven!. A wild impulse seized me to
rush out of the house and find him wherever hē might be—to
drag him from the very church altar if he dared to pollute
such a place by his traitorous presence, and make him then
and there answer with his life for the evil he had done! My
face must have expressed my raging thoughts—for suddenly a
vision crossed my dazed and aching sight—the figure of Pau-
line grown stately, terrible, imperial, as any ruined queen. .
“You shall not harm him!” she said in low, thrilling tones
of suppressed passion and fear. “You shall not touch a hair
of his head to do him wrong! I will prevent you! I' I
would give my life to shield him from a moment’s pain! and
you dare—you dare to think of injuring him! Oh, yes! I
read you through and through; you have reason, I know, to be
cruel—and you may kill me if you like—but not him! Have 1
not told you that I love him? Love him? I adore him! I
have sacrificed everything for his sake—and could I sacrifice
more than everything I would do it! I would burn in hell
forever, could I be sure that he was safe and happy in
heaven!”
She looked at me straightly—her eyes full of a mournful
exaltation—her breath coming and going rapidly between her
parted lips. I met her glance with an amazed scorn--and
hurled the bitter truth like pellets of ice upon the amorous
heat of her impetuous avowal.
“Oh, spare me your protestations!” I cried, “and spare
yourself some shred of shame! Do not boast of your iniquity
as though it were virtue! do not blazen forth your criminal
passion as though it were a glory! Heaven and hell, of which
you talk so lightly, may be positive and awful facts after all,
and not mere names to swear by! and to one or the other of
them your lover shall go, be assured!—and that speedily. He
shall die for his treachery! he shall die, I say! if the sword of
honor can rid the world of so perfidious and dastardly a liar!”
X1.
As I uttered these words sternly and resolvedly, a change
passed over her face; she seemed for the moment to grow rigid
90 WORMWOOD.
with the sudden excess of her fear. Then she threw herself
Once more on her knees at my feet. *
“Gaston, Gaston! have a little mercy!” she implored.
“Think of my deep—my utter humiliation! Is it so much
that I ask of you after all? to break an engagement with a
wretched, sinful girl who has proved herself unworthy of you?
Oh, for God’s sake, set me free! and we will go away from
Paris, I and Silvion—far, far away to some distant land
where we shall be forgotten—where the memory of us
need trouble you no more! Listen, Gaston! Silvion trusts
to your noble nature and generous heart, even as I have
done; he believes that you will have pity upon us both! We
loved each other from the first; could we help that love, Gas-
ton? could we help it? I told you I never knew what love
was till now, and that is true! I was so young! I never
thought I should know such desperate joy, such terrible
misery, such madness, such recklessness, such despair! It
Seems that I have fallen into some great resistless river that
carries me along with it against my will, I know not where!
I have deceived you, I know, and I pray your pardon for
that deceit—but oh, be pitiful, Gaston! be pitiful! it can not
hurt you to be generous! If you ever loved me, Gaston, try
to forgive me now!”
I looked down upon her in silence. There was a dull ach-
ing in my brows—a cold chill at my heart. She seemed re-
moved from me by immeasurable distance; she, the once inno-
cent child—the pretty, graceful girl, all sweetness and purity
—what was she now? Nothing but the toy of Silvion Gui-
del! No more! She had entered the melancholy ranks of the
ruined sisterhood—even she, Pauline de Charmilles, only
daughter of one of the proudest aristocrats in France! I
shuddered — and an involuntary groan escaped my lips.
Clasping her hands, she raised them to me in fresh entreaty.
“You will be gentle, Gaston! you will have mercy?”
The tension of my nerves relaxed; the scalding moisture of
unfalling tears blinded my eyes, and I gave vent to a long and
bitter sigh.
“Give me time, Pauline!” I answered, huskily. “Give
me time! you ask much of me; and I have never—like your
lower—played the part of Saint or angel. I am nothing but a
man, with all a man’s passions roused to their deadliest sense
of wrong; do not expect from me more than man’s strength is
capable of ! And I have loved you!—my God! how I have
loved you!—far, far more deeply than you ever guessed! Pau-
line, Pauline! my love was honorably set upon you! I would
122
WORMWOOj). 91
not have wronged you by so much as one unruly thought!
You were to me more sacred than the Virgin’s statue in her
golden nook at incense-time; you were my God’s light on
earth—my lily of Heaven—my queen—my life—my eternity
—my all! Pauline, Pauline!”—and my voice trembled more
and more as she hid her face in her hands and wept convul-
sively. “Alas! you can not realize what you have done—not
yet! You can not in the blindness of your passion see how the
world will slowly close upon you like a dark prison wherein
to expiate in tears and pain your sin; you do not yet compre-
hend how the kindly faces you have known from childhood
will turn from you in grief and scorn—how friends will shrink
from and avoid you—and how desolate your days will be—too
desolate, Pauline, for even your betrayer’s love to cheer! For
love that begins in crime ends in destruction—its evil recoils
on the heads of those that have yielded to its insidious tempt-
ing—and thinking of this, Pauline, I can pity you!—pity you
more—ay, a thousand times more than I should pity you if
you were dead! I would rather you had died, unhappy child,
than lived to be dishonored l’’
She made no reply, but still covered her face, and still wept
on—and, steadying my nerves, I bent down and raised her by
gentle force from the ground. The clock struck eleven as I
did so; she had been two hours with me; it was full time she
should return as quickly as possible to her home. Acting
promptly on this idea, I gave her her hat and cloak.
“Put these on,” I said.
She removed her hands from her eyes—such woful eyes!—
all swollen and red with weeping, and tremblingly obeyed me
—her breast heaving with the sobs she could not restrain.
“Now come with me—softly!” And I took her ice-cold
hand in mine and led her out of the room and across the dark-
ened passage, where, stopping a moment to hastily don my
overcoat and hat, I cautiously opened the street-door without
making the least noise. The strong wind blew gusts of rain
in our faces, and I strove to shelter the shivering girl as best
I could with my own body, as I closed the door again behind
us as quietly as I had opened it. Then I turned to her with
formal courtesy.
“You must walk a little way, I am afraid; it will not be
wise to call a carriage up to this very house—your departure
might be noticed.”
She came down the steps at once like a blind creature,
seeming scarcely to feel her way, and as I observed her feeble-
ness, and the tottering, swaying movement of her limbs, my
92 WORM WOOj).
own wretchedness was suddenly submerged in an overwhelm-
ing wave of intense compassion for her fate. Involuntarily I
stretched out my hand to save her from stumbling, and, in
the very extremity of my anguish, I cried:
“Oh, Pauline! oh, poor little pretty Pauline!”
At this she looked up wildly—and with a low, shuddering
wail fled to my arms and clung there like a scared bird, pant-
ing for breath. I held her to my heart for one despairing
minute—then, remembering all, I strove for fresh mastery
over my feelings, and, putting her gently yet firmly away
from my embrace, I supported her with one arm as we walked
Some little distance along the flooded pavement in the full
opposing force of the wind. As soon as I saw a disengaged
close carriage, I hailed its driver, and, assisting Pauline into
the vehicle, I took my own place beside her. We were soon
borne along rapidly in the direction of the Comte de Char-
milles’ residence; and then my trembling, half-weeping Com-
panion seemed to awake to new fears.
“What are you going to do, Gaston?” she asked, in a nerv-
ous whisper.
“Nothing!”
“Nothing?” she echoed, her white face gleaming like the
face of a ghost in the yellow glare of the carriage lamps.
“Nothing—except to see you home in Safety; and after-
ward to return home myself.”
“But—Silvion!” she faltered.
“Do not be alarmed, mademoiselle!” I said, my wrath
rousing itself anew at the bare mention of his name. “I
shall not seek him to-night, at any rate. It is too late to
arrange the scores between us!”
“Gaston!” she murmured, sobbingly. “I have asked you
to have mercy!”
“And I have said that you must give me time,” I re-
sponded. “I must think out what will be best for me to do.
Meanwhile—for the immediate present—your secret is safe
with me; I shall tell no one of your—your—” l could not
finish the sentence—the word “dishonor * choked me in the
utterance.
“But you will break off our engagement, will you not?”
she implored, anxiously. “You will tell them all that we
have changed our minds?—that we can not be married?”
I regarded her fixedly.
“I do not know that I shall put it in that way,” I an-
swered. “To justify my own conduct in breaking off our
WTORM WOOD. 93
marriage, I shall of course find it necessary to tell your father
the cause of the rupture.”
She shuddered back into the corner of the carriage.
“Oh, it will kill him!” she moaned. “It will kill him, I
am sure!”
“One murder more or less scarcely matters in such a whole-
sale slaughter of true tenderness,” I said, coldly. “You
have chosen your own fate, Pauline—and you must abide by
it. Will your lover marry you, do you think, when you are
free?”
She looked up quickly, her eyes lightened by a sudden hope.
“Yes; he will—he must! He has sworn it!”
“Then bid him fulfill his oath at once,” I rejoined. “Bid
him set you right as far as he can in the eyes of the world be-
fore it is too late. If this is done, your difficulty is almost
dispensed with; you need trouble yourself no more about me
or my life’s ruin! The fact of a private marriage having been
consummated between you and Monsieur Guidel will put an
end to all discussion so far as I anr concerned.”.
A weary, puzzled expression crossed her features, and I
smiled bitterly. I knew—l felt instinctively that he—after
the fashion of all traitor-seducers of women—would not be in
very eager haste to marry his victim!
Just then we turned into the broad, beautiful avenue where
the Comte de Charmilles had his stately, but now (alas! had
he but known it!) ruined home.
“Listen!” I said, bending toward her and emphasizing my
words impressively. “I will release you from your engage-
ment to me if Silvion Guidel consents to wed you immediate-
ly, without a day’s delay! Failing this, I must, as I told you,
have time to consider as to what will be the wisest and best
course of action for all in this terrible affair.’’
The carriage stopped; we descended—and I paid and dis-
missed the driver. Murmuring feebly that she would go
through the garden and enter the house by the large French
window of the morning-room through which she had secretly
made her exit, Pauline wrapped her mantle closely round her,
and there in the storm and rain, raised her sorrowful blue eyes
Once more to mine in passionate appeal.
“Pity me, Gaston!” she said. “Pity me! Think of my
shame and misery! and think, oh, think, Gaston, that you
can save me if you will! God make you kind to me!”
3.nd, with a faint, sobbing sigh, she waved her hand feebly
in farewell, and entering the great armorial gates, glided round
94 worMwooD.
among the trees of the garden, and, like a flitting phantom,
disappeared.
Left alone, I stood on the pavement like one in a dazed
dream. The icy rain beat upon me, the wild gale tore at me;
but I was not clearly conscious of either sleet or wind. Once
I stared up at the black sky where the Scurrying clouds were
chasing each other in mountainous heaps of rapid and dark
confusion, and in that one glance the lightning-truth seemed
to flash upon me with more deadly vividness than ever—the
truth that for me the world was at an end! Life, and the joys
and hopes and ambitions that make life desirable, all these
were over—there was nothing left for me to do but to drag on
in sick and dull monotony the mechanical business of the daily
routine of waking, eating, drinking, sleeping—a mere preser-
vation of existence when existence had forever lost its charml
I was roused from my stupefied condition by the noise of
wheels, and, looking up, saw the Comte de Charmilles’ car-
riage coming—he and his wife were returning from the the-
ater—and in case they should perceive me outside their house,
where I still lingered, I strode swiftly away, neither knowing
nor caring in which direction I bent my steps. Presently I
found myself on the familiar route of the Champs Elysées—
the trees there were tossing their branches wildly and groaning
at the pitiless destruction wreaked upon their tender spring
frondage by the cruel blast—and, weary in body and mind, I
sat down on one of the more sheltered seats, utterly regardless
of the fact that I was wet through and shivering, and tried to
come to some sort of understanding with myself concerning
the disaster that had befallen me. And as I thought, one by
one, of the various dreams of ecstasy, bright moments and
love-enraptured days that had lately been mine, I am not
ashamed to say that I shed tears. A man may weep when he
is alone surely! and I wept for the bitterest loss the human
soul can ever know—the loss of love, and the loss of good
faith in the honor of men and women. The slow drops that
blinded my sight were hot as fire—they burned my eyes as
they welled forth, and my throat ached with the pain of them
—but in a certain measure they helped to clear and calm my
brain; the storm of wrath and sorrow in my mind quieted
itself by degrees, and I was able to realize not only the extent
of my own cureless grief, but also that of the unhappy girl
whom over and over again I had sworn I would die to serve!
Poor, poor Pauline! How ill she looked—how pale—how
sad! Poor little child!—for she was not much more than a
child; and thinking of her youth, he impulsiveness, and her
~ WORMWOOD, 95
unutterable misery, my heart softened more and more toward
her. She loved Silvion Guidel—Silvion Guidel loved her; they
were both young, both beautiful—and they had not been
strong enough to resist the insidious attraction of each other’s
fairness. They had sinned—they had fallen—they were
ashamed—they repented—they sought my pardon—and 1–
should I withhold it?—or should l, like a brave man, make
light of my own wrong, my own suffering, and heap coals of
fire upon their heads by my free forgiveness—my magnanimous
aid to help them out of the evil plight into which they had
willfully wandered? I asked myself this question many times.
I now understood the strange demeanor of Guidel on that
night when he had asked me whether I could forgive him if he
had sinned greatly! His conscience had tormented him all
through—he had surely suffered as well as sinned!
Pressing one hand hard over my eyes, and choking back
those foolish tears of mine, 1 strove manfully to consider the
whole wretched story from the most merciful point of view
possible to my nature. I had been brought up under my fa-
ther’s vigilant care, on lines of broad thought, strict honor,
and practical, not theoretical, philosophy—his chief idea of
living nobly being this—to do good always when good could
be done, and when not, at any rate to refrain from doing evil.
If I believed in these precepts at all, now, surely, was the
time to act upon them. I could never win back Pauline’s
love—that had been stolen, or else had gone of its own free
will to my rival; but I had it in my power to make her happy
and respected once more. How? Nothing was easier. In
the first place I would go to the good Père Vaudron, and tell
him all the truth, in confidence; I would ask him to see that
the civic rite of marriage was performed at once between his
nephew and Pauline secretly; I would aid the wedded lovers
with money, should they require it, to leave Paris immediate-
ly, and when once their departure was safely assured, I would
break the whole thing to the Comte de Charmilles and ac-
cept whatever wrath he chose to display on my own devoted
head. Thus, I should win Pauline’s eternal gratitude; her
parents would in time become reconciled to their change of a
son-in-law, and all would be well. I–only I would be the last-
ing sufferer! But should not a true man be ready and willing
to Sacrifice himself if by so doing he can render the one
woman he loves in all the world happy? Still, on the other
hand, there was the more natural plan of vengeance——one
word to Pauline’s father, and she would be shamed and dis.
graced beyond recall; I could then challenge Silvion Guidel

96 WORMIWOQD. }
"--,
and do my best to kill him, in which effort I should most
probably succeed, and so bring misery on poor old Vaudron
and his simple folk in Brittany; I could do all this, and yet,
after all was done, I myself should be as wretched as ever. I
thought and thought—I pondered till my brows ached; the
good and the evil side of my nature fought desperately to-
gether, while my consciousness, like a separate watchful per-
son apart, seemed totally unable to decide which would win.
It was a sore contest! the struggle of the elements around me
was not more fierce than the struggle in my own tormented
soul; but through all the plaintive voice of Pauline—Pauline
whom I still loved, alas!—rang in my ears with that last sob-
bing cry: “Pity me, Gaston! God make you kind to me!”
till gradually, very gradually, I won the mastery over my
darker passions—won it with a sense of warm triumph such
as none can understand save him who has been tempted and
has steadily overcome temptation. I resolved that I would
save Pauline from the consequences of her rash blind error—
and so, at any rate, be at peace with the Eternal Witness of
Heaven and my own conscience! This I decided, finally and ,
fixedly—determining to pursue my plan for the re-establish-
ment of the honor and Safety of the woman who trusted me,
the very first thing the next day—and I would say nothing to
any one, not even to my father—till my work of forgiveness
and help was carried out and completed beyond recall!
Here let me pause. Do you understand, you, whosoever
you are, that read these pages—do you thoroughly understand
my meaning? If not, let me impress it upon you plainly,
once and for all—for I would not have the dullest wits mis-
judge me at this turning-point of time! I had absolutely
made up my mind—mark you!—to do my best for her who
had played me false! Absolutely and unflinchingly. For I
loved her in spite of her treachery!—l cared to be remembered
in her prayers!—l who, in the hot fervor of my adoration for
her beauty, had declared that I would die for her, was now
willing to carry out that vow—to die spiritually—to crush all
my own clamorous affections and desires for her sake, that all
might be well with her in days present and to come! Remem-
ber, I was willing—and not only willing, but ready! Not be-
**ase I seek pity from you, do I ask it—world’s pity is a weak
tning that none but cowards need. I only want justice—ay!
Aſ it be but the mere glimmering justice of your slowest,
sleepiest comprehension—give me enough of it to grasp this
one fact—namely, that on the night of the bitterest suffering
of my life—the night on which I learned my own betrayal, I
WORMWOOD. 97
~ * -*
~ *- **
had prepared myself to forgive the unhappy child who had
wronged me—as freely, as entirely, as 1 then hoped, before
God, to be, in my turn, forgiven!
tº-
XII.
I Do not know how long I sat on that seat in the Champs
Jºlysées, with the tempestuous rain beating down upon me—
the desperate conflict I had had with my own worser self had
rendered me insensible to the flight of time. So numbed was
• I with outward cold and inward misery—so utterly blind to all
external surroundings, that I was as startled as though a pis-
tol-shot had been fired close to me when a hand fell on my
shoulder, and a harsh, half-laughing voice exclaimed:
“Gaston Beauvais, by all the gods and goddesses! Gaston
Beauvais, drenched as a caught ratin a relentless housekeeper’s
pail! What the devil are you doing here at this time of night,
mon beau riche 3 You, with limitless francs at your com-
mand, and good luck, showering its honey-dew persistently on
your selected fortunate head—what may be your object in thus
fraternizing with the elements, and striving to match them
groan for groan, Scowl for Scowl? By my faith!—I can hardly
believe that this soaked and dripping bundle of good clothes
spoiled is actually yourself!” *
I looked up, forced a smile, and held out my hand. I recog-
nized the speaker—indeed, he was too remarkable a character
in his way to be for an instant mistaken. All Paris knew
Andre Gessonex—a poor wretch of an artist, who painted pict-
ures that were too extraordinary and risqué for any respect-
able householder to buy, and who eked out a bare living by
his décolleté sketches, in black and white, of all the noted
dänseuses and burlesque actresses in the city. His bizarre fig-
ure, clad in its threadbare and nondescript garb, was familiar
to every frequenter of the boulevards—and, in truth, it was
eccentric enough to attract the most casual stranger’s atten-
tion. His pinched and shrunken legs were covered with the
narrowest possible trousers, which by frequent turning up to
make the best of the worn ends, had now become so short for
him that they left almost a quarter of a yard of flaring red
sock exposed to view—his thin jacket, the only one he had for
both winter and summer, was buttoned tightly across his chest
- to conceal the lack of the long-ago-pawned waistcoat--a collar
-with very large, unstarched soiled ends flapped round his skinny
throat, relieved by a brilliant strip of red flannel Which served
*--- ***
*
* 98 wormwood. - - -
$º
as tie–he kept his hair long in strict adherence to true artistic
tradition, and on these bushy, half-gray, always disordered
locks he wore a very battered hat of the “brigand ” shape,
which had been many times inked over to hide its antique
rustiness, and which he took the greatest pains to set airily on
One side, to suggest, as he once explained, indifference to the
-world, and gay carelessness as to the world’s opinions. Un-
lucky devil!—I had always pitied him—from my heart—and
many a twenty-franc piece of mine had found its way into his
pocket. A cruel fate had bestowed on him genius without
common sense, and the prefectly natural result of such an
- endowment was that he starved. He was full of good and
even fine ideas—there were times when he seemed to sparkle,
all over with felicity of wit and poetry of expression—many
men liked him, and not only liked him, but strove to assist
him substantially, without ever succeeding in their charitable
endeavors. For Andre was one of Creation’s incurables—
neither money nor advice ever benefited him one iota. Give ,
him the Commission to paint a picture—and he would produce
a Titanesque canvas, too big for anything but a Cathedral, and
On that canvas he would depict the airiest nude personages dis-
porting themselves in such a frankly indelicate manner, that
the intending purchaser withdrew his patronage in shuddering
haste and alarm, and ſled without leaving so much as the odor
of a franc behind. Thus the poor fellow was always unfortu-
nate, and when taken to task and told that his ill-luck was
entirely his own fault, he would assume an air of the most
naïve bewilderment.
“You amaze me!” he would say. “You really amaze me!
I am not to blame if these people who want to buy pictures
have no taste! I can not paint T)utch interiors—the carrot
waiting to be peeled on the table—the fat old woman cutting
onions for the pot-au-few—the centenarian gentleman with a
perpetual cold in his head, who bends over a brazier to warm
his aged nose, while a dog and two kittens gazed up confiding-
ly at his wrinkled hands—this is not in my line! I can only
produce grand art!—classical subjects—Danāe in her brazen
tower—Theseus and Ariadne—the amours of Cybele with Atys
—or the triumphs of Venus; I can not descend to the level of
ordinary vulgar minds! Let me be poor—let me starve—but
let me keep my artistic conscience! A grateful posterity may
recognize what this frivolous age condemns!” *
Such was the man who now stood before me like a gaunt
specter in the rain, his dull peering eyes brightening into a
faint interest as he fixed them on mine. His face betokened
** ** -
a-à."
º - * . WORMWOOD. * 99
the liveliest surprise and curiosity at meeting me out there at
night and in such weather, and I could not at Once master my
voice sufficiently to answer him. He waited one or two min-
utes, and then clapped me again on the shoulder.
“Have you lost your speech, Beauvais, or your strength,
or your courage; or what? You look alarmingly ill!—will
you take my arm?”
There was a friendly solicitude about him that touched me
—another time I might have hesitated to be seen with such an
incongruous figure as he was—he, whose mock-tragic manner
and jaunty style of walk had been mimicked and hooted at by
all the little gamins of Paris—but the hour was late, and I felt
so utterly wretched, so thrown out, as it were, from all sym-
pathy, so destitute of all hope, that I was glad of even this
forlorn starveling’s Gompany, and I, therefore, took his
proffered arm—an arm the very bone of which I could feel
sharply protruding through the thin worn sleeve.
“I am rather out of my usual line!” I then said, striving
to make light of my condition. “Sitting out in the rain on
a dreary might like this is certainly not amusing. But—when
one is in trouble—”
“Trouble! Ah!” exclaimed Gessonex, lifting his disen-
gaged hand, clinching it, and shaking it at the frowning sky
with a defiant air. “Trouble is the fishing-net of the amiable
Deity up yonder, whom none of us can see, and whom few of
us want to know! Down it drops, that big black net, out of
the clouds, quite unexpectedly, and we are all dragged into it,
struggling and sprawling for dear life, just like the helpless
fish we ourselves delight to catch and kill and cook and de-
vour! We are all little gods down here, each in our own way
—and the great One above (if there is one!) can only be an
enlarged pattern of our personalities—for according to the
Bible, “He made us in His own image!’ And so you are
caught, mon amº. 2 That is bad!—but let me not forget to
mention that there are a few large holes in the net through
which those that have gold about them can easily slip and
escape scot-free!”
Poor Gessonex! He, like all hungry folk, imagined money
to be a cure for every evil.
“My good fellow,” I said, gently, “there are some griefs
that can follow and persecute to the very death even Croesus
among his bags of bullion. I begin to think poverty is one of
the least of human misfortunes.”
“Absolutely you are right!” declared Gessonex, with an air
of triumph. “It is a sort of thing you so soon get accustom68.
* *
* *s
100 WORMWOOD. • .*
to! It sits upon one easily, like an old coat! You cease to
desire a dinner if you never have it!—it is quite extraordinary
how the appetite suits itself to circumstances, and puts up .
with a cigar at twenty centimes instead of a filet for one frang!
—the filet is actually not missed! And what a number of re-
markable cases we have had shown to us lately in the field of
science, of men existing for a long period of time, without any
nourishment Save water! I have been deeply interested in that
subject—I believe in the system thoroughly—I have tried it
(for my own amusement of course!) Yes! I have tried it for
several days together! I find it answers very well!—it is apt
to make One feel quite light upon one’s feet—almost ačrial in
fact, and ready to fly, as if one were disembodied!—most
Curious and charming!” *
My heart Smote me—the man was starving and my purse
was full. I pressed his meager arm more closely, and for the
time forgot my own Sorrows in consideration for his needs.
“Let us go and sup somewhere,” I said, hastily. “Any
place near at hand will do. A basin of hot soup will take off
the chill of this downpour—I am positively wet through!”
“You are, mom ami—that is a lamentable fact!” replied
Gessonex, affably—“ and—apart from the condition of those
excellent clothes of yours, which are ruined, I regret to ob-
serve—you will most likely wake up to-morrow with a violent
cold. And a cold is not becoming—it spoils the face of even
a pretty woman. So that if you really believe the hot soup
will be beneficial to you—(as far as I am concerned, I find the
cold water nourishment singularly agreeable!) why, I will
escort you to a very decent restaurant, where you can procure
a really superb bouillon—Superb, I assure you!—l have often
inhaled the odor of it en passant l’’
And, quickening his steps unconsciously, out of the mere
natural impulse of the hungry Graving he could not quite re-
press, he walked with me out of the Champs Elysées and
across the Place de la Concorde—thence over one of the bridges
spanning the Seine, and so on, till we reach a dingy little
building in a side street, over which, in faded paint, was in-
scribed “GRAND CAFE BONHOMME, RESTAURANT POUR TouT
LE MONDE.” The glass doors were shut and draped with red
eurtains, through which the interior lights flung a comfortable
glow on the sloppy road-way; and GessOnex pointed to this
with the most fervent admiration.
“What a charm there is about the color red!” he ex-
claimed, enthusiastically. “It is so suggestive of warmth and
w
‘... ſºilliancy! It is positively fascinating!—and in my great pict-
wormwoop. 101
ure of Apollo chasing Daphne I should be almost tempted to
use folds of red drapery were it not for the strict necessity of .
keeping the figures nude. But the idea of a garmented god
fills me with horror!—as well paint Adam and Eve decorously
adorned with fig-leaves before the fall!—that is what a con-
temporary of mine has just done—ha, ha! Fig-leaves before
the fall! Excellent!—ah, very amusing!”
Opening the café doors he beckoned me to follow. I did so
half mechanically, my only idea for the moment being that
he, Gessonex, should get a good meal for once—I knew that I
myself would not be able to taste anything. There were only
two or three people in the place; a solitary waiter, whom I
had perceived combing his hair carefully in the background,
came forward to receive instructions, and cleared a table for
us in a rather retired corner where we at once sat down. I
then ordered soup, and whatever else was ready to be had hot
and Savory, while Andre gingerly lifted his brigand hat and
placed it on a convenient nail above him, using so much pre-
caution in this action, that I suppose he feared it might come
to pieces in his hands. Then, running his fingers through his
matted locks, he rested his elbows comfortably on the table,
and Surveyed me smilingly.
“Mom cher Beauvais,” he said, ‘‘I feel as if there were a
mystical new bond between us! I always liked you, as you know
—but you were removed from me by an immense gulf of
difference—this difference being that you were never in
trouble, and I, as you must be aware, always was and always
am / But do not imagine that it is pleasant to me to see you
wriggling fish-like on the bon Dieu’s disagreeably sharp hook
of Calamity—all contraºre, it infinitely distresses me—but still,
if anything can make men brothers, it is surely a joint part-
nership in woe! All the same, Beauvais’’—and he lowered
his voice a little—“I am sincerely sorry to find you so cast
down!”
I made a mute sign of gratitude—he was looking at me in-
tently, stroking his peaked beard the while.
“Nothing financially wrong?” he hinted, delicately, after a
all Se.
“My good Andre! Nothing!” \
“I am glad of that!” he rejoined, sedately, “for naturally
I could be no sort of Seryice to you in any question of cash.
A money difficulty always appeals to me in vain! But for any
private vexation of a purely emotional and yet excessively irri.
tating nature, I think I know a cure!”
I forced a smile. “Indeed!”
*- # -- * T -->
~ 102 -- worMwoop. ** - ~
He nodded gravely, and his eyes dilated with a certain
peculiar bright limpidness that I and others had often noticed
in them whenever the “mad painter,” as he was sometimes
called, was about to be more than usually eloquent.
“For the heart’s wide wounds which bleed internally; for
the grief of a lost love which can never be regained,” he said,
slowly and dreamily; “for the sting of remorse, and the teas.
ing persecutions of conscience—for all these, and more than
these, I can find a remedy! For the poison of memory I can
provide an antidote—a blessed balm that soothes the wronged
spirit into total forgetfulness of its injury, and opens before
the mind a fresh and wondrous field of vision, where are
found glories that the world knows nothing of, and for the en-
joyment of which a man might be well content to starve and
suffer, and sacrifice everything—even love!”
His harsh voice had grown musical—a faint Smile rested on
his thin pale lips—and I gazed at him in vague surprise and
curiosity.
“What are you poetizing about now, Gessonex” I asked,
half banteringly. “What magic Elixir Vitae thus excites your
enthusiasm?”
He made no answer, as just then the Supper arrived, and,
rousing himself quickly as from a reverie, his eyes lost their
preternatural light, and all his interest became centered in the
food before him. Poor fellow! how daintily he eat, feigning
reluctance, yet lingering over every morsel. How he rated
the waiter for not bringing him a damask Serviette; how
haughtily he complained of the wine being corked; and how
thoroughly he enjoyed playing the part of a fastidious epicure
and fine gentleman. My share in the repast was a mere pre-
tense, and he perceived this, though he refrained from any
comment upon my behavior while the meal was yet in prog-
ress. But as soon as it was ended, and he was smoking the
cigarette l had offered him, he leaned across the table and ad-
dressed me once more in a low, confidential tone.
“Beauvais, you have eaten nothing!”
I sighed impatiently. “Mon cher, I have no appetite.”
“Yet you are wet through—you shiver?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Soit I’’
“You will not even smoke?”
“To oblige you, I will ‘’—and I-opened my case of cigar-
ettes and lighted one forthwith, hoping by this complaisance
to satisfy his anxiety on my behalf. But he rose suddenly,
saying no word to me, and crossing over to where the waiter
stood, talked with him very earnestly and emphatically for a
sº - wormwood. 103
minute or two. Then he returned leisurely to his seat op-
posite me, and I looked at him inquiringly.
“What have you been ordering? A cognacº”
& 4 No. 5 5 *
** What then?”
“Oh, nothing! only—absinthe.”
“Absinthel” I echoed. “Do you like that stuff?”
His eyes opened wide, and flashed a strangely piercing
glance at me.
“Like it! I love it! And you?”
“I have never tasted it.”
“Never tasted it!” exclaimed Gessonex, amazedly. “Mom
Dieu 1 You, a born and bred Parisian, have never tasted ab-
sintheſ” .
I smiled at his excitement.
“Never. I have seen others drinking it often—but 1 have
not liked the look of it somehow. A repulsive color to me—
that medicinal green.” *
He laughed a trifle nervously, and his hand trembled. But
he gave no immediate reply, for at that moment the waiter
placed a flacon of the drink in question on the table, together
‘with the usual supply of water and tumblers. Carefully pre-
paring and stirring the opaline mixture, Gessonex filled the
glasses to the brim, and pushed one across to me. I made a
faint sign of rejection. He laughed again, in apparent amuse-
- ment at my hesitation.
“By Venus and Cupid, and all the dear old heathen deities
who are such remarkably convenient myths to take one's oath
upon,” he said, “I hope you will not compel me to consider
you a fool, Beauvais. What an idea that is of yours—“medici-
nal green 'l Think of melted emeralds instead! There, be-
side you, you have the most marvelous cordial in all the World;
drink and you will find you sorrows transmuted—yourself
transformed. Even if no better result be obtained than escap-
ing from the chill you have incurred in this night’s heavy
drenching, that is surely something. Life without absinthel—
I can not imagine it! For me it would be impossible. I
should hang, drown, or shoot myself into infinitude, out of
sheer rage at the continued cruelty and injustice of the world;
but with this divine nectar of Olympus I can defy misfortune
and laugh at poverty, as though these were the merest baga-
telles 1 Come!—to your health, mon brave / Drink with me!”
He raised his glass, glimmering pallidly in the light; his
words, his manner fascinated me, and a Gurious thrill ran
through my veins. There was something spectral in his ex-
104 - wormwood. .*- V
/
pression too, as though the skeleton of the man had become
suddenly visible beneath its fleshly covering—as though Death
had for a moment peered through the veil of Life. I fixed
my eyes doubtingly on the pale-green liquid whose praises he
thus sung. Had it indeed such a potent charm? Would it still
the dull aching at my heart—the throbbing in my temples—
the sick weariness and contempt of living that had laid hold
upon me like a fever since I knew Pauline was no longer my
own? Would it give me a brief respite from the inner fret of
tormenting thought? It might!—and, slowly lifting the glass
to my lips, I tasted it. It was very bitter and nauseous—and
I made a wry face of disgust as I set it down. The watchful
Gessonex touched my arm.
“Again!” he whispered, eagerly, with a strange Smile.
“Once again! It is like vengeance—bitter at first, but sweet
at last! Mon cher, if you were not—as I see you are—a prey
to affliction, I would not offer you the knowledge of this sure
consolation—for he that is not sad needs no comfort. But
supposing—I only guess, of course--supposing your mind to be
chafed with the ever-present memory of some wrong, some in-
jury, some treachery, even some love-betrayal, why then, I
fail to see why you should continue to suffer when the remedy
for all such suffering is here !” And he sipped the contents
of his own glass with an air of almost inspired ecstasy.
I looked at him fixedly. An odd tingling sensation was in
my blood, as though it had been suddenly touched by an in- .
Ward fire.
“You mean to tell me,” I said, incredulously, “that ab-
sinthe—which I have heard spoken of as the curse of Paris—is
a cure for all human ills? That it will not only ward off
physical cold from the body, but keep out haunting trouble
from the mind? Mom ami, you rave; such a thing is not pos-
sible. If it could quench mad passion, if it could kill love, if
it could make my heart a stone instead of a tortured, palpitat-
ing sentient substance—there—forgive me! I am talking at
random of I know not what; I have been cruelly betrayed,
Gessonex; and I wish to God I could forget my betrayal!”
My words had broken from me involuntarily, and he heard
them with an attentive expression of amiable half-melancholy
solicitude. But in reply he pointed to the glass beside me.
“Drink!” he said. -
Drink! Well, why not? I could see no earthly reason
for hesitating over such a trifle; I would taste the nauseous
fluid again, I thought, if only to satisfy my companion—and
I did so at once. Heavens! it was now delicious to my palate
**
N * wormwoop. 105

—exquisitely fine and delicate as balm; and in my pleasurable
amāzement I swallowed half the tumblerful readily, conscious
of a ºnew and indescribably delightful sense of restorative
warmth and comfort pervading my whole system. I felt that
Gessonex observed me intently, and, meeting his gaze, I
smiled. f
- “You are quite right, Andre,” I told him. “Thé second
trial is the test of flavor. It is excellent.”
And without taking any more thought as to what I was
doing, I finished the entire draught, relighted my cigarette,
which had gone out, and began to Smoke contentedly, while
Gessonex refilled my glass.
“Now you will soon be a man again!” he exclaimed, joy-
ously. “To the devil with all the botherations of life, say Il
You are too well off in this world’s goods, mon cher, to allow
yourself to be seriously worried about anything; and I am
truly glad I have persuaded you to try my favorite remedy for
the kicks of fortune—because I like you. Moreover, to speak
frankly, I owe you several excellent dinners—the one of to-
night being particularly welcome, in spite of what I said in
favor of the cold water nourishment—and the only good I can
possibly do you in return for your many acts of friendship is
to introduce you to the ‘Fairy with the Green Eyes'—as this
exquisite nectar has been poetically termed. It is a charming
fairy—one wave of the opal wand, and sorrow is conveniently
guillotined!”
* I let him run on uninterruptedly, I myself was too drowsily
comfortable to speak. I watched the smoke of my cigarette
curling up to the ceiling in little dusky wreaths; they seemed
to take phosphorescent gleams of color as they twisted round
and round and melted away. A magical period of sudden
and complete repose had been granted to me—I had ceased to
think of Pauline—of Silvion Guidel—or of any one incident
of my life or surroundings—all my interest was centered in
those rising and disappearing Smoky rings. I drank two more
tumblerfuls of absinthe with increasing satisfaction and avid-
ity—previous to tasting it I had been faint and cold and shiv-
ering—now I was thoroughly warm, agreeably languid, and a
trifle sleepy. I heard Gessonex talking to me now and then—
there were moments when he seemed to become eloquently
energetic in his denunciation of something or somebody—but
by and by his voice sounded far off, like a voice in a dream,
and I paid very little heed to him, only nodding occasionally
whenever he appeared to expect an answer. I was in that
hazy condition of mind common to certain phases of intoxica-
**

10& - WORMWOOD. . . . .
tion, when the drunkard is apt to think he is thinking, though
really no distinctly comprehensible thought is possible #6 his
befogged and stupefied brain. Yet I understood well enough
what Gessonex said about love; he got on that subject; Heaven.
knows how, and launched against it an arrowy, shower of
Cynicism. /
“What a fool a man is,” he exclaimed, “to ſet himself bs
made a slave for life, all for the sake of a pretty face that in
time is bound to grow old and ugly. Love, is only a hot im-
pulse of the blood, and like any other fever can be cooled and
kept down easily if one tries. It is a starving sort of ailment-
too—one does not get fat on it. Love emaciates both soul
- and body—but hate, on the contrary, feeds! I must confess
that, for my own part, I have no sympathy with a lover, but
1 adore a good hater. To hate well is the most manly of at-
tributes—for there is so much in the world that merits hatred
—so little that is worthy of love! As for women—bah! We
begin our lives by believing them to be angels—but we soon
find out what painted, bedizened, falsely smiling courtesans
they all are at heart—at least all I have ever met. Pardieu º
I swear to you, Beauvais, I have never known a good woman!”
“ Hélas !” I sighed, gently, and smiled. “Pauvre Gesso-
nex!”
“And you?” he demanded, eagerly.
A vision of a pure, pale, proud face, set like a classic cameo,
in a frame of golden hair, and lightened into life by the steady
brilliancy of two Galm, star-Splendid eyes, flashed suddenly
across my mind almost against my will, and I replied, half
dreamily:
“One woman I know both fair and wise, and also—I think
—good.” -
§ You think I’’ laughed Gessonex, with a touch of wildness
in his manner. “You only think—you do not fear ! Yes—
I say fear ! Fear her, mom ami, if she is truly good; for as
sure as death the time will come when she will shame you.
There is no man pure enough to look upon the face of an in-
nocent woman, and not know himself to be at heart a villain!”
I smiled again. What foolish fancies the fellow had, to be
sure! He rambled on more or less incoherently, while I sunk
deeper and deeper into a maze of indolent reverie. I was
roused at last, however, by the respectful appeals of the tired
garçon, who mildly suggested that we should now take our
leave, as it was past midnight, and they were desirous of clos-
ing the café. I got up sleepily, paid the reckoning, tipped our
yawning attendant handsomely, and walked, or rather reeled
- *
*
:*: wormwooD. 107
S. -** *
...” *
out of the place arm in arm with my companion, who, as soon
as he found himself in the open street exposed once more to
the furious rain which poured down as incessantly as ever, fell
to rating the elements in the most abusive terms.
“Sacré diable !” he exclaimed. “What abomiuable
weather! Entirely unsuited to the constitution of a gentle-
man. Only rats, cats, and toads should be abroad on such a
night—and yet I—I, Andre Gessonex, the only painter in
R’rance with any genius, am actually compelled to walk home.
What vile injustice! You, mon cher Beauvais, are more fortu-
nate; God or the gods will permit you to drive. The fiacre
is at your service for one franc, twenty centimes; the voiture
de place for two francs fifty. Which will you choose? though
the hour is so late that it is possible the brave cocher may not
be forthcoming even when called.”
And he swaggered jauntily to the edge of the curbstone and
looked up and down the nearly deserted street, I watching him
curiously the while. An odd calmness possessed me; some
previously active motion in my brain seemed suddenly
stopped, and I was vaguely interested in trifles. For in-
stance, there was a little pool in a hollow of the pavement at
my feet, and I found myself dreamily Counting the big rain-
drops that plashed into it with the force of small falling peb-
bles; then, a certain change in the face of Gessonox excited
my listless attention; his eyes were-so feverishly brilliant that
for the moment their luster gave him a sort of haggard dare-
devil beauty, which though wild and starved and faded, was
yet strangely picturesque. I studied him coldly for a little
space, then moyed close up to him and slipped a twenty-franc
piece into his hand. His fingers closed on it instantly.
“Drive home yourself, moſt cher, if you can get a car-
riage,” I said. “As for me, I shall walk.”
“Let the rich man trudge while the beggar rides!” laughed
Gessonex, pocketing his gold coin without remark; he would
have considered any expression of gratitude in the worst pos-
sible taste. “That is exactly what all the disappointed folk
here below expect to do after death, Beauvais—to ride in
coaches-and-six round heaven and look down at their enemies
walking the brimstone miles in hell. What a truly Christian
hope, is it not? And so you will positively invite another
drenching? Bien / so then will I; I can change my clothes
when I get home.” &
Unfortunate devil! he had no clothes to change; I knew
that well enough. His road lay in an entirely different direc
tion from mine, so I bade him good-night.
103 *~ wormwood.
“You are a different man now, Beauvais, are you mot?”
he said, as he shook hands. “The ‘green fairy has cured
you of your mind’s distemper?”
“Was my mind distempered?” I queried, indifferently,
wondering as I spoke why the lately incessant pulsation in my
brain was now so stunned and still. “I forget! but I sup-
pose it was. Anyhow, whatever was the matter with me, I
am now quite myself again.”
Be laughed wildly. it
“Good! I am glad of that. As for me, I am never my-
self; I am always somebody else. Droll, is it not? The fact
is *—and he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper—“I
have had a singular experience in my life—altogether rare
and remarkable. I have killed myself and attended my own
funeral. Yes, truly. Candles, priests, black draperies, well-
fed long-tailed horses—toute la barague—no sparing of ex-
pense, you understand. My corpse was in an open shell—I
have a curious objection to shut-up coffins—open to the night
it lay, with the stars staring down upon it; it had a young
face then, and one might easily believe that it had also had
fine eyes. I chose white violets for the wreath just over the
heart—they are charming flowers, full of delicately suggestive
odor, do you not find?—and the long procession to the grave
was followed by the weeping crowds of Paris. “Dead!” they
cried. ‘Our Gessonex! the Raphael of France!” Oh, it was
a rare sight, mom ami! Never was there such grief in a land
before; I wept myself for sympathy with my lamenting coun-
"trymen. I drew aside till all the flowers had been thrown into
the open grave, for I was the Sexton, you must remember. I
waited till the Cemetery was deserted and in darkness, and
then I made haste to bury myself, piling the earth over my
dead youth close and fast, leveling it well, and treading it
down. The Raphael of France! There he lay, I thought;
and there he might remain, So far as I was concerned; he was
only a genius, and as such was no earthly use to anybody.
Good-bye and good riddance, I said, as I hurried away from
that grave-yard and became from henceforth somebody else.
And do you know I infinitely prefer to be somebody else? it is
so much less troublesome.”
These strange, incoherent sentences coursed off his lips with
impetuous rapidity; his voice had a strained, piteous pathos
in it mingled with scorn, and the intense light in his eyes
deepened to a sort of fiery fury from which I involuntarily re-
coiled. The appellation of “mad ‘’’ painter never seemed so
entirely suited to him as now. But, mad or not mad, he was
~~~
~.
wormwood. 109
quick enough to perceive the instinctive shrinking movement
I made, and laughing again, he again shook my hand cor-
dially, lifted his battered hat with an assumption of excessive
gentility, and breaking into the most high-flown expressions
of French courtesy, bade me once more farewell. I watched
him walking along in his customary half-jaunty, half-tragic
style till he had disappeared round a corner like a fantastic
specter vanishing in a nightmare, and then—then, as though
a flash of blinding fire had crossed my sight, it suddenly be-
came clear to my mind what he had dome for me ! As I real-
ized it I could have shouted aloud in the semi-delirium of few-
erish intoxication that burned my brain. That subtle flavor
clinging to my palate; that insidious fluid creeping drop by
drop through my veins; I knew what it was at last—the first
infiltration of another life, the slow but sure transfusion of a
strange and deadly bitterness into my blood, which once ab-
sorbed, must and would cling to me forever. Absintheur !
I had heard the name used, sometimes contemptuously, some-
times compassionately; it meant—Oh, so much! and, like
charity, Govered such a multitude of sins! On what a fine
hair’s-breadth of chance or opportunity one’s destiny hangs
after all! To think of that miserable Andre Gessonex bein
an instrument of Fate seemed absurd! a starved vaurien an
reprobate—a mere crazed fool! and yet—yet—my casual
meeting with him had been foredoomed—it had given the
devil time to do good work, to consume virtue in a breath and
conjure up vice from the dead ashes, to turn a feeling heart
to stone, and to make of a man a fiend! * *
XIII.
I WENT home that night, not to sleep but to dream—to
dream, with eyes wide open and senses acutely conscious. I
knew I was in my own room and on my own bed; I could
almost count the little gradations of light in the pale glow
flung by the flickering night-lamp against the wall and ceil-
ing; I could hear the muffled “ tick-tick ’’ of the clock in my
father’s chamber next to mine; but though these every-day
impressions were distinct and fully recognizable, I was still
away from them all—far, far away in a shadowy land \of
strange surprises and miraculous events—a land where beauty
and terror, ecstasy and horror, divided the time between them.
I was a prey to the most singular physical sensations; that
curious, numbed stillness in my brain, which I had previously
110 WORMWOOD. _- ~
felt without being able to analyze, had given place to a busy,
swift, palpitating motion like the beat of a rapid pendulum,
and by degrees, as this something swung to and fro, its vibra-
tions seemed to enter into and possess every part of my body.
My heart bounded to the same quick time, my nerves throbbed,
my blood hurled itself, so to speak, through my veins like a
fierce torrent, and I lay staring at the white ceiling above me,
and vaguely wondering at all the sights I saw, and the scenes
in which I, like a sort of disembodied personality, took active
part without stirring. Here, for instance, was a field of scar-
let poppies; I walked knee-deep among them, inhaling the
strong opium-odor of their fragile leaves; they blazed vividly
against the sky, and nodded drowsily to and fro in the lan-
guid wind. And between their brilliant clusters lay the dead!
—bodies of men with ghastly wounds in their hearts, and frag-
ments of Swords and guns in their stiffening hands, while
round about them were strewn torn flags and broken spears.
A battle has been lately fought, I mused, as I passed; this is
what some folks call the “field of honor,” and Might has got
the victory over Right, as it ever does and as it ever will.
And the poppies wave, and the birds sing, and the men who
have given their lives for truth and loyalty’s sake lie here to
fester in the earth, forgotten; and so the world wags on from
day to day and hour to hour, and yet people prate of a God of .
Justice! . . . What next in the moving panorama of vision?
what next? The sound of a sweet Song sung at midnight—
and lo! the moon is there, full, round, and warm; grand, gray
towers and palaces rise about me on all sides, and out on that
yellow-glittering water rests one solitary gondola, black as a
floating hearse, yet holding light. She, that fair siren in
white robes, with bosom bare to the amorous moon-rays—She,
with her wicked, laughing eyes and jewel-wreathed tresses—is
she not a beautiful wanton enough for at least one hour's joy?
Hark! she sings, and the tremulous richness of her silver-
toned mandolin quivers in accord with her voice across the
bright dividing wavel e *
“Que mon dernier souffle, emporté
Dans les parfums du vent d’été
Soit un soupir de volupté!
Qu'il vole, papillon charmé
Par l’attrait des roses de mai
Sur les lèvres du bien-aimé!”
I listen in dumb, rapt ecstasy, when all at once the moon
vanishes, a loud clap of thunder reverberates through earth
*
\.
-- **
wormwood. 111
*
and heaven; the lightning glitters aloft, and I am alone in
darkness and in storm. Alone—yet not alone—for there,
gliding before me in aérial phantom-shape, I see Pauline! her
thin garments wet, her dark locks dank and dripping, her
blue eyes fixed and lusterless; but yet she Smiles. A strange,
sad smile! she waves her hand and passes; I strive to follow,
but some imperative force holds me back; I can only look
after her and wonder why those drops of moisture cling so
heavily to her gown and hair! She disappears—good! Now
I am at peace again; I can watch to my heart’s content those
little leaping flames that sparkle round me in lambent wreaths
of exquisitely brilliant green—I can think / . . .
No sooner did this idea of thought force itself upon me than
- it became an urgent and paramount necessity, and I strove to
steady that whirling, buzzing wheel in my brain, and compass
it to some fixed end, but it was like a perpetually shaken
kaleidoscope, always forming itself into a new pattern before
I had time to resolve the first. Though this was odd and in
a manner confusing, it did not distress me at all; I patiently
endeavored to set my wits in order with that peculiar pleasure
many persons find in arranging a scientific puzzle, and by de-
grees I arrived at a clear understanding with myself and
gained a full comprehension of my own intentions. And now
my intelligent perception became as exact and methodical as
it had been before erratic and confused; I found I had ac-
quired new force, new logic, new views of principle, and I was
able to turn over quite quietly in my mind Pauline de Char-
milles’ dishonor. Yes; dishonor was the word—there was no
other—and for her sin she had not the shadow of an excuse.
And Silvion Guidel was a liar and traitor; he justly merited
the punishment due to such canaille. What a fool I had been
to entertain for a moment the idea of forgiveness! what a piece
of wretched effeminacy it would be on my part, to actually
#. up with my own betrayal and aid to make my betrayers
appy. Such an act might suit the rôle of a Saint; but it
would not suit me. I was no saint, I was a deeply wronged
man, and was I to have no redress for my wrong?
The more I dwelt upon this sense of deadly injury, the more
my inward resentment asserted itself and gathered strength,
and I laughed aloud as I remembered what a soft-hearted
weakling. I had been before—before I had learned the wisdom
of absinthé ! Oh, wonderful elixir! it had given me courage,
ferocity, stern resolve, relentless justice! and the silly plan I
had previously devised for the benefit of the two miserable
trifiers who had made so light of my love and honor, was now
*s
112 * WORMWOOE).
completely altered and—reversed / Glorious absinthel What -
is it the poet sings?
“Avec l'absinthe, avec ce feu
On peut se divertir un peu
Jouer son rôle en quelque dräme!”
True enough! “Jouer son rôle en quelque dräme!” Why
not? All things are possible to absinthe—it can accomplish
more marvelous deeds than its drinkers wot of. It can quench
pity, freeze kindness, kill all gentle emotions, and rouse in a
man the spirit of a beast of prey! The furious passions of a
Savage, Commingled with the ecstasies of a visionary wake to-
gether at its touch, and he who drains it deeply and often be-
comes a brute-poet, a god-centaur, a thing for angels to won-
der at, and devils to rejoice in; and such an one am Il Who
is there living that can make me regret a single evil deed I
have committed, or prove to me at all satisfactorily that my
deeds are evil? No one! Whosoever has absinthe for his
friend and boon companion has made an end of conscience,
and for this blessing at least should thank the dreadful un-
seen gods! And, while we are about it, let us not forget to
thank the fine progressive Science of to-day! For we have
learned beyond a doubt, have we not? that we are merely
physical organizations of being, that we have nothing purely
spiritual or God-born in us, and thus, this Conscience that is
so much talked about, is nothing after all but a particular bal-
ance or condition of the gray, pulpy brain-matter. Moreover,
it is in our own power to alter that balance! to reverse that
condition! and this once done, shall we not be more at peace?
Enowing the times to be evil, why should we weary ourselves
with striving after imaginary good? The mind that evolves
high thought and plans of lofty action, is deemed more or less
crazed; it is fevered, exalted, foolishly imaginative—so say the
wiseacres of the world, who with bitter words and chill satire
make a jest of their best poets and martyrize their noblest
men. Come, then, oh, ye great dreamers of the better life!
come, sweet singers of divine things in rhythm! come, ye
passionate musicians who strive to break open the gates of
heaven with purest. Sound! come, teachers, thinkers, and be-
lievers all! reset the wrong and silly balance of your brains;
Teverse the inner dial of your lives, as I have done! steep your
fine feelings in the pale-green fire that inflames the soul, and
make of yourselves absintheurs—the languid yet ferocious
hºuſe. of Paris, whose ferocity, born of poison, yet leaves them
slaves!
WORMWOOD.T 113
The night of wakeful vision past, I arose from my bed, I -
reeled back as it were out of a devil’s shadow-land, and faced
God’s morning unafraid. It was the day of my father’s ex-
pected return from England, and I surveyed myself curiously
in the mirror to see if there was anything noticeably strange
or unsettled in my looks. No! my own reflection showed me
nothing but a rather pale countenance and preternaturally
brilliant eyes. I dressed with more than usually punctilious
care, and while I took my early coffee wrote the following
lines to Silvion Guidel:
“I know all. To your treachery there can be but one
answer. I give you to-day to make your preparations; to-
morrow, at whatever time and place I shall choose, of which I
will inform you through my Seconds, you will meet me—un-
less, as is possible, you are coward as well as liar.
‘‘ GASTON BEAUWAIS.'”
I sealed this, and with it in my hand Sallied forth to the
house of the curé, M. Vaudron. The day was chill and
cloudy, but the rain had entirely ceased, and the lately bols-
terous wind had sunk to a mere cold breeze. I walked lei-
surely; my mind was so thoroughly made up as to my course
of action, that I felt no more excitement about the matter.
The only thing that amused me now and then, and forced a
laugh from me as I went, was the remembrance of that absurd
idea I had indulged in on the previous night—namely, that of
actually pardoning the vile injury done to me, and exerting
myself to make the injuring parties happy. That would be
playing Christianity with a vengeance! What a ridiculous
notion it now seemed ! and yet I had felt so earnestly about it
then that I had even shed tears to think of Pauline’s wretch-
edness.
Well, it was a weakness, and it was past; and I arrived at
M. Vaudron’s abode in a perfectly placid and vindictively
settled humor. The good curé owned one of those small
houses with gardens which, in Paris or near it, are getting
rarer every year—a cottage-like habitation, with a moss-green
paling set entirely round it, and two neatly trimmed flower-
beds adorning the grass-plat in front. I knocked at the door,
and old Margot opened it. Her sharp, beady black eyes sur-
veyed me with complete astonishment at first—she was evi-
dently cross about something or other, for her Smile was not
encouraging.
“E” bien, Monsieur Beauvais!” she observed, setting her
arms akimbo, “What can one do for you at this early hour
** ---.
114 `- WORMWOOD.
in the morning? Not eight o’clock yet, and Monsieur Wau-
dron is at mass-service, and his breakfast is not yet prepared,
and what should he do with visitors before noon?”
All this breathlessly, and with much pettish impatience.
“Tut, Margot! You must not look upon-mé as a visitor,”
I said, quietly. “My errand is soon done. This ’’—and I
held out my sealed-up challenge—“ is for Monsieur Silvion
Guidel, voilà tout ſ”
“For Monsieur Guidel!” she exclaimed, with a toss of her
head and a quivering of her nostrils, which always betokened
rising temper. “Bien / best send it after him, then. He is
not here any longer; he is gone!” *-
“Gone!” I echoed, stupidly. “Gone!” *r.
“Gone! Yes! and why should he not go, if you please?”
she inquired, testily. “I have had enough of him. He is as
difficult to please as an English milord, and he has no more
heart than a bad onion. I have been as kind to him as his
own mother could have been; and yet, away he went last
night without a thank-you for my trouble! He left ten francs
on my table—bah!—what is ten francs when One wants a kind
word! And Monsieur Vaudron is grieving for the loss of his
company like a cat for a drowned kitten!”
I was so confounded by this unexpected turn to affairs, that
for a moment I knew not what to Say. *..
“Where has he gone?” I asked, presently, in a faint, un-
steady voice.
“Back to Brittany, of course!” shrilled Margot, irritably.
“Where else should such a pretty babe be wanted? His fa-
ther has met with a dangerous accident—a horse kicked him,
I believe; anyhow, he is thought to be dying, and the precious
Silvion was telegraphed for in haste. And, as 1 tell you, he
left last night, without a word or a look or a ‘Dieu vous
bénisse ’ to me !—me—who have worked for him and waited
upon him like a slave ſ—ah! the wicked ingratitude of th
young to the old!” ſº
I looked at her in vague surprise; she was always more or
less touchy, but there was evidently something deeper than
mere touchiness in her present humor.
“Margot, you are cross!” I said, endeavoring to Smile.
“Yes, I am cross!” and she stamped her foot viciously;
then all at once tears welled up in her hard old eyes. “I am
cross and sorry both together, voilà / He was a beau garçon;
it was pleasant to see him Smile, and he had pretty ways, both
for his uncle and for me—that is, when he remembered me,
which truly was not often. But then it was enough, so long
~-3 --- 2-2 *- ---
arº. . . . . . . . wormwooD. 115
as he was in the house, v0yez-vous 2–and though he would do
strange things, such as taking those long walks in the Bois by
himself, for no earthly reason that I could see, still One could
lòok at him now and then, and think of the days when one
was young. Bah!” and she stamped her foot again, and
rubbed away her tears with her coarse apron; “I am an old
fool, and he is, I dare say, a thriftless vaurieſ, in spite of all
his prayers and fasting!”.'
I laughed rather bitterly.
“Parblew / Did he pray? did he fast?” I inquired, with a
touch of sarcastic amusement. Af
Margot flared round upon me quite indignantly.
“Did he pray? did he fast? Why, what else was ne made
for?” she snapped out. “He was always praying, and he
eat enough for a bird—no more! He would kneel before his
crucifix so long that I used to fancy I heard the rustle of the
Blessed Virgin’s robes about the house; for if his petitions
would not bring her to take care of us all, then I Wonder what
would 3 And once—ah, truly! where would he have been if I
had not looked after him!—I found him in a faint in the
church itself; he had been walking in the Bois as usual, and
had come back to pray without touching a morsel of food;
but what else could you expect? He was a great big-innocent!
the holy Saints were the Šame.”
I shrugged my shoulders disdainfully.
“Do you know, Margot, that there are several ways of
fighting the devil out of a man?” I said; “and starvation is
one. Yet even then, it sometimes happens that the devil still
gets the upper hand! Can you tell me whether Monsieur
Guidel is coming back to Paris?”
“No, I can not!” she retorted, Snappishly. “It is certain
that he is gone, and that I have work to do, and that if you
want more news of him, you had better speak to Monsieur le
Curé. I have no time to stand talking here any longer!”
“Bien / Bon jour, Margot!” and I raised my hat to her
playfully.
“Bon jour, Monsieur Gaston!” she returned, tartly; “and
try not to be jealous of young men whom God has made bet-
ter-looking than yourself.”
. And, with a bang, she shut the door upon me. , 1 laughed,
and Sauntered slowly away. Idiotic old woman! She too,
withered and wan and uncomely, had also felt the influence of
Silvion Guidel’s accursed beauty—so much so as to be actually
fretting over his careless omission to say good-bye to her. And
She became rude to me directly she saw that I was inclined to
116 WORMWOOD,
*-
*. -
depreciate his value. What dolts women were, I thought!
Caught by a charming simile, a pair of fine eyes, and a grace-
ful form—caught and infatuated to folly, and worse than folly,
all for a man’s outward bearing! Positively, when one comes
to think of it, with all our intellectual progress, we are little
better than the beasts in love. Physical perfection generally
enchains us far more than mental, as the tiger paces round
his mate, attracted by her sinuous form, her velvety skin and
fiery eyes, so we court and Ogle the woman whose body seems
to us the fairest—so women, in their turn, cast amorous eyes
at him whose strength seems the best comparison to , their
weakness. Of course there are exceptions to the rule; but so
rarely do they occur that they are chronicled among the
world’s “römances,” not realities. And we want realities
nowadays, do we not? no foolish glozing over of true and
ugly facts? Well, one very true and very ugly fact is para-
mount in human history—namely, that this merely physical
attraction between man and woman is of the briefest continu-
ance, and nearly always turns to absolute loathing. We are
punished when we admire one another’s perishable beauty to
the exclusion of all mental or intelligent considerations—
punished in a thousand frightful ways—ways which have truly
a savor of hell. It is, perhaps, unjust that the punishment
should fall so heavily, but fall it does, without question—un-
less—unless one is an absintheur ! Then, neither crime nor
punishment matters one iota to the Soul that has thus been
rendered brutishly impervious to both.
I had plenty of food for reflection as I walked away from
the curé's house; and to give myself time to think quietly, I
entered the Bois which was close by, and roamed up and down
there for more than an hour. Silvion Guidel had left Paris;
did Pauline know of this, I wondered? I tore up the chal-
lenge I had written him, and flung the little bits of paper far
and wide into the air—should I follow him to his home in
Brittany? I was not at all inclined for the trouble of the
journey. Old Margot's allusion to those long walks he used
to take had opened my eyes to the manner in which he and
Pauline must have arranged their clandestine interviews; the
nervous presentiments of Heloise St. Cyr had evidently been
only too well founded. Pauline, under pretense of attending
mass at M. Vaudron’s church, had really gone to meet her
lover; while he, after assisting his uncle at the first celebra-
tion, had hastened off to keep the tryst at whatever part of
the Bois they had secretely appointed—and so the amour had
been cleverly carried on in the early morning hours, without
worMwoop. 11?
awakening any suspicion of wrong in those whose simple belief
in woman’s virtue and man’s honor had been thus deliberately
outfaged. Other meetings elsewhere too, might easily have
been arranged; liars have a thousand cunning ways of keep-
ing up their lies! What dupes we had all been—what unsus-
pecting, blind, good-natured, trusting fools—for I felt certain
that even Heloise, though she might have had her private
fears of Pauline’s impulsiveness and Guidel’s attractiveness,
never imagined her idolized cousin would have fallen so far as
she had fallen now. I meditated on the whole position for
awhile, and finally returned home—the result of my solitary
reverie framing itself into the following letter:
“MADEMOISELLE PAULINE DE CHARMILLES,--I hear this
morning that Monsieur Silvion Guidel has left Paris. Has
he made his departure known to you, or signified in any way
his future intentions? If not, I presume that his return to
Brittany will be for good, in which case I may possibly (I do
not say certainly) endeavor to forget our painful interview of .
last night. To make the best of the terrible position you are
in, and also for the Sake of those to whom your honor is dear,
you will do well, at any rate for the present, to keep silence—
and allow the arrangements for our marriage to proceed unin-
terruptedly. As time progresses, some new course of action
may suggest itself to me; but, till either definite news is heard
from Monsieur Guidel, or I can see my way to an alteration
of the contract settled and agreed upon by our respective
families, you will serve every one concerned best by allowing
things to remain as they are. Accept my respectful Saluta-
tions.
“GASTON BEAUVAIs.”
I wrote this—but why? Did I really intend to “endeavor to
forget ’’ her crime? Certainly not. What then did I mean? what
did I propose to do? I can not tell you. I had, or seemed to have,
an ulterior motive lurking in the background of my thoughts;
but what that motive was I could not explain even to myself.
Some force outside of me apparently controlled my movements
—I was a passive slave to some unseen but imperative master
of my will. There is such a thing as hypnotism, remember—
the influence of one mind acting upon and commanding the
other even at a distance. But there is something stronger
even than hypnotism, and that is absinthe. The suggestions
IT offers are resistless and implacable; no opposing effort will
break ITS bonds. And IT had placed an idea—a diabolical
conception of revenge somewhere in my brain—but whatever
- * - -
- - *~ ** * -
$18 --- wormwooD, . " N - . . "
the plan was it did not declare itself in bold form as yet—it
was a fiery nebula of disconnected fancies from which I could
obtain no settled fact. But I was satisfied that I meant some-
thing—something that would, I supposed, evolve itself into
action in due time—and for that time I was languidly content
to wait. -- -
XIV.
ABOUT a couple of hours after I had written my letter, 1
called at the De Charmilles’ house, and delivered it in person to
- Pauline’s own maid. I bade this girl tell her mistress that I
waited for an answer; and presently the answer came—a lit-
tle blotted blurred note closely sealed. ---
*
“I can not, I will not believe he has gone!” it ran, “with-
out a word to me; it would be too cruel. What shall I do? I
am desolate and helpless. But I trust you, Gaston; and, as
you wish it, I will say nothing, though to keep silence breaks
my heart—nothing—until you give me leave to speak.
* ** PAULINE.”
This was all, but it satisfied me. I read it, standing on the
doorstep with the femme de chambre watching me somewhat
curiously. Smiling unconcernedly, I inquired:
“How is mademoiselle this morning?”
“Not very well, monsieur. She has a severe headache and
has not slept.”
I feigned a proper anxiety.
“I am exceedingly sorry. Pray convey to her the expres-
sion of my deep solicitude. By the way, have you any news
of Mademoiselle Heloise?’”
“Oh, Gui, monsieur ! She returns to-morrow afternoon.”
With this information I retired, and straightway proceeded
to the Gare du Nord to meet my father. He arrived, punctual
to time, and greeted me with the utmost affection.
“Gloire à la France 1” he exclaimed, as he alighted on the
platform and clasped me by both hands. “What a joy it is
to be out of gloomy England! It is the month of May as we
all know; and yet I have only seen the sun three times since I
Heft Paris! But thou art pale, mom fils 2 Thou hast worked
too hard?”
“Not at all,” I assured him.
“The little Pauline bas been crue!?”
I laughed.
“Cruel! She is an angel of sweetness, mon père l—too
—-a -º
“r.
N WORMWOOD.
*x
kind, too virtuous, and too true for such a worthless fellow
as Il”
My father gave me a quick puzzled glance.
“You speak with a strange harshness in your voice, Gas-
ton,” he said, anxiously. “Is there anything wrong?”
I tried to be as much like my old Self as possible, and took
his arm affectionately. -
“Nothing, mon père ſ—nothing. All is well. I have lost
a friend, that is all; the admirable Silvion Guidel has gone
back to Brittany.” *
“ Tiens ! What a pity!” and my father looked quite con-
cerned about it. “He had become thy favorite comrade too.
When did he go?” .
“Last night only, and quite suddenly;” and I detailed the
news of the morning as received from Margot.
My father shook his head vexedly. º
“Ah, well! Then he will have to be a priest after all, I
suppose. Quel dommage / Such a brilliant young man should
have chosen a different career. I had hoped Paris would have
changed him.” •
“You are as fascinated with him as everybody else!” I said,
laughing somewhat nervously. My father laughed too.
“Well! He is a fascinating boy!” he admitted. “I am
z already quite sorry for the ladies, old and young, who may
need to have recourse to his spiritual counsels.” -
“By my faith, so am Il” I rejoined, emphatically, in a
half SOtto v0ce, which my father, just then busy with his lug-
gage, did not hear.
• All that day was one of comparatively empty leisure; but,
though 1 had both chance and opportunity, I did not venture
to visit Pauline. Old Vaudron came disconsolately in at din-
ner-time, the forlorn expression of his countenance betokening
how greatly he missed his nephew, though he brightened up a
little in my father’s company. I watched him, thinking of
the Secret 1 held, yet saying nothing.
“Who would have thought,” he dismally complained,
“ that the boy Silvion could have become so dear to me—and
to Margot also-she is inconsolable. What a warning it is
against Setting too much store by the ties of earthly affection.
It is altogether very unfortunate; for now I suppose his parents
will hardly bear him out of their sight for months. You see,
mom am? "-and his kind old eyes moistened as he spoke—
“he is such a beautiful and gentle soul that one considers him
more an angel than a human being; he is unlike everybody
else. Yet, all the same, I think Paris scarcely agreed with


wormwoop.
him. There was an odd restlessness about his manner of late
-and a certain bitterness of speech that did not well become
his nature; and once indeed we had together a very melancholy
discussion which, if I had not handled it with the nicest care,
might have led to his indulgence in a deadly sin.”
“Impossible!” I ejaculated with a slight smile. “Sin and
Silvion Guidel are leagues apart!” --
“True, very true,” responded the gentle, unsuspecting old
man. “And I thank God for it! Yet, without carnal errors,
there are spiritual transgressions which must be avoided—and
one of these Silvion was inclined to fall a prey to—namely,
despair. Despair of God’s mercy!—ah! this is terrible pre-
sumption, and we find it so designated in the Holy Roman
Missal. He put strange and awful questions to me at that
time, such as this: “Whether I believed God really cared how
we lived or what good or evil we committed.” Such a fright-
ful idea! a positive tempting of Divine justiceſ it quite alarmed
me, I assure you.” -
“And you answered—what?” I queried, vaguely inter-
ested. * *
“Why, mon cher garçon, I answered as my faith and duty
taught me,” he replied, with mild austerity. “I told him
that God certainly did care, or else He would not have placed
in the inner consciousness of every human being such a dis-
tinct comprehension betwixt right and wrong.” f w
“But—pardon me—it is not always distinct,” I interposed;
“it is frequently very doubtful and uncertain. If it were
more plainly defined, right action would perhaps be easier.”
“Not so, mon p’t it,” declared Vaudron, gently. “Be-
cause the unfortunate fact is that, though men have this dis-
tinct feeling of the difference between right and wrong, they
invariably choose the wrong—the reason being that Right is
the hardest road—Wrong the easiest.”
“Then one would argue Wrong to be natural, and Right
wn natural,” I said, “and also that it is useless to oppose
Nature.” -
The curé's eyes opened wide at this remark, and my father
shook his head at me Smilingly.
“Do not thou be a sophist, Gaston,” he said, kindly.
“One can argue any and every way; but Right is God’s com-
pass to the end of all worlds.” * -
I made no reply; I thought I had begun to know the mean-
ing of this “God’s compass;” it was nothing but the Small,
delicately poised balance of the brain which could, by man’s
own wish and will, be as easily set wrong as right. -
t


a .
* -º- * * * * s
- * > º
S.,
*
wormwoop. 121
After dinner I left the two elderly gentlemen over their
- wine and slipped out, for a sudden craving possessed me—a
craving, the unwholesome nature of which I perfectly under-
stood, though I had neither strength nor desire to resist it.
The action of absinthe can no more be opposed than the action
of morphia. Once absorbed into the blood, a clamorous and
constant irritation is kept up throughout the system—an irrita-
tion which can only be assuaged and pacified by fresh draughts
of the ambrosial poison. This was the sort of nervous rest-
lessness that shook me now; and, as it was a fine night, I made
my way down to the Boulevard Montmartre, when I entered
one of the best and most brilliant cafés, and at once ordered
the elixir that my very soul seemed athirst for. What a sense
of tingling expectation quivered in my veins as I prepared the
greenish-opal mixture, whose magical influence pushed wide
ajar the gates of dream-land. With what a lingering ecstasy I
Sipped to the uttermost dregs two full glasses of it—enough,
let me tell you, to unsteady a far more slow and stolid brain
than mine. The sensations which followed were both physic-
ally and mentally keener than on the previous evening; and
when I at last left the café and walked home at about mid-
night, my way was encompassed with the strangest enchant-
ments. For example, there was no moon, and clouds were
still hanging in the skies heavily enough to obscure all the
stars; yet, as I Sauntered leisurely up the Champs Elysées a
bright green planet suddenly swung into dusky Space and
showered its luster full upon my path. Its dazzling beams
completely surrounded me, and made the wet leaves of the
trees overhead shine like jewels; and 1 tranquilly watched the
burning halo spreading about me in the fashion of a wide
Watery rim, knowing all the time that it was but an image of
my fancy. Elixir Vitae! the secret so ardently sought for by
philosophers and alchemists. 1 had found it—even I–I was
as a god in the power I had obtained to create and enjoy the
Greations of my own fertile brain—for truly this is all that
even high Omnipotence can do—namely, to command worlds
to be born by the action of His thought, and again to bid them
die by an effort of His will. The huge Creative Force of all
time and all space can be no more than an endless and bound-
lessly immense Imagination. And one spark of this Imagina-
tion is perhaps the only divine thing we have in our mortal
composition—though, of course, like Reason, it can easily be
perverted to false and criminal ends. But we of Paris care
nothing as to whether our thoughts run in wholesome or mor-
bid channels so long as self-indulgence, is satiated. My
133 wormwood.
>
ear
--- thoughts, for instance, were poisoned; but I was satisfied with
their poisonous tendency. And I was in nowise disconcerted
or dismayed when, on reaching home and ascending the steps,
I found the door draped with solemn black, as if for a funeral,
i. saw Written across it in pale yet lustrous emerald scintil-
tions: **
‘‘ LA MORT HABITE ICII’’
Quietly I put out my hand and made as though I would
touch these seemingly substantial sable hangings—they rolled
away like rolling Smoke—the dismal inscription vanished, and
. was clear again. Entering, I found my father sitting up
Ol' Iſle, • ---
“Thou art late, Gaston,” he said, as I came toward him,
yet smiling good-naturedly as he spoke. “Thou hast been at
the De Charmilles’?” ---
“Not to-night,” I answered, carelessly. “I have only
Walked to the boulevards and back.”
“ ſ?'aiment / A new sort of amusement for thee, is it not?
Thou art not likely to become a boulwardier 9’ And he
clapped me kindly on the shoulder as we ascended the stairs
together to our respective bedrooms. “But no! Thou hast
worked too well and conscientiously to have such a suggestion.
made to thee even in jest. I am well pleased with thee, mon
fils—I know how difficult thy duties have been during my ab-
sence, and how admirably thou hast fulfilled them.”
I received his praise passively without remark, and he con-
tinued: --- - -º-
“For the next week take holiday, Gaston, and for the week
after that again. Then comes thy marriage; and I will strive
to do without thee for a full two months. Where wilt thou
spend thy lune-de-miel ?”
“Where? In paradise, of course,” I answered, with a .
forced smile.
My father laughed, brushed his bearded lips against my
cheek, an old French custom of his whenever he felt particu-
larly affectionate, and we parted for the night. What a sound
sleep that good man would have, I thought, as I watched him
turn into his room, and saluted him respectfully in response
to his last cheerful nod and glance. He would not see what
, I saw when I entered my own chamber. I’auline was there,
asleep; she lay on my couch, her head resting on my pillows,
her lips parted in a sweet drowsy Smile, while over her whole
fair form fell a shimmering veil of green, like mist hanging
above the lakes and mountains in a halcyon midsummer noon.
t
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wº-ºº--
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- Nº. -> “, - . . .” ... i -- - * •.
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t WORMWOOT),
Ak, gentle soul! image of child-like innocence and love! there
she was, reflected on the mirror of my brain as purely and
faithfully as she had been cherished in my thoughts for many
and many a day! I stood silently looking on for a space at ~
the beautiful phantom of my lost idol—looking as gravely, as
sadly and as regretfully as I would have looked at the dead.
Then, extending my hands slowly as a wizard might do, I at-
tempted to touch that delicate recumbent figure—and lo! it
melted into naught; my bed was once more Smooth, bare, and
empty—empty of even the specter of delight. I threw myself
down upon it, fatigued in body and mind, yet not unpleasantly
So; closing my aching eyes, I wandered away into a cloudy
realm of Confused phantasmal pageant and fantastic vision,
and, dreaming, fancied that I slept.
XV.
THAT same week Heloise St. Cyr returned from Normandy,
and, two days after her arrival in Paris, my father and I were
invited to dine with the De Charmilles, our good friend the
curé being also of the party. I was vaguely amused at the
whole affair, it went off so well, and there were two such ad-
mirable actors at table, namely, myself and Pauline. Trust a
woman to eclipse every one in the art of feigning. She, Pau-
line, was a mere brilliant Scintillation of dazzling mirth and
coquetterie from the beginning of the dinner to its end. It
was only pretense, I knew, but who would have thought she
could have pretended so well! Now and then I was smitten
with a sudden amaze at her; but observing her narrowly, I
noticed the feverish flush on her cheeks, the almost delirious
brilliancy of her eyes, the unnatural scarlet of her lips—and I
realized that however unconcerned she might appear in out-
ward bearing, she was inwardly enduring agonies of mental
torture such as few could imagine. This conviction filled me
with a certain morbid satisfaction, though I often found my
attention wandering from her to her cousin Heloise, whose
stay in Normandy certainly seemed to have freshened and in-
tensified her beauty. For she was beautiful; I, who had for-
merly been loath to admit this, acknowledged it at last. There
was more color in her face, and she possessed a tranquil,
almost imperial stateliness of manner that was singularly at-
tractive. My gaze dwelt upon her with a sort of fascination,
and occasionally I caught her pure serious eyes regarding mes
with an anxious wistfulness and wonder. The Comte and
Comtesse de Charmilles were evidently delighted to have their .

124 wormwood.
fair niece once more under their roof; and as for Pauline,
why, she very cleverly affected to be glad—she could do no
less and no more. Of course the conversation turned fre-
quently upon Silvion Guidel and his sudden departure; and
M. Vaudron told us he had received a telegram announcing
his nephew’s safe arrival at his home in Brittany, but no fur-
ther news than this.
-“He will never come back to Paris again, I am sure!” said
Pauline, laughing quite hilariously. “He has gone for good.”
“I am afraid he has, my child,” returned the old curé, re-
gretfully. “But perhaps it is better so. Paris is not the
place for men of Serious purpose; and he has seen it—he knows
what it is like—that is quite enough for him.”
Pauline gave not the faintest sign of interest in these re-
marks; she had been daintily dividing a large bunch of grapes
with the grape-scissors, and she now held out a cluster of the
fruit to me, Smiling. As I accepted it, I looked her full and
steadily in the eyes; but she did not blush or tremble. What
mummers we both were, I thought! and what a part we had
chosen to play. Why did we not blurt out the truth of the
wº like honest folk and take the consequences? Why?
ell, why does not every sinner make a clean breast of his
secret evil thoughts and misdeeds, and, blazoning them to the
world, abide calmly by the result? It would be noble, it would
be stern-principled—but afterward? When we had all frank-
ly admitted ourselves to be more or less liars and knaves not
worth a hand-shake or a thank you, what then? Nothing but
this—society would be at an end, and we might as well pull
down our cities and return in howling nudity to the forests of
primeval barbarism. Besides, we in France always like to
feign a little virtue, however much we may feel prone to vice;
we are fond of alluding melodramatically to “métre mére *
and “le tombeau de métre père,” in fact, we generally manage
to draw in our dead ancestors to support us in our feverish
hours of strong mental excitement or high-pressure morality.
And, as regarded Pauline and her wretched Secret, she was in
'my hands—I had the ruling of the game--I and my “green-
eyed fairy '' whose magical advice I now followed unhesitat-
ingly; and I did not choose to speak—yet. I waited, and the
misèrable child Pauline also waited—on my will.
There are some few uncomfortable people in the world,
however, who can not be altogether deceived, and Heloise St.
Cyr was one of these. She always took things very tranquilly
and with a sort of even Socratic philosophy; but she would
probe to the bottom of them somehow. And she was very
WORMWOOD, 125
difficult to deal with, as I found, when, after dinner, I entered
*the drawing-room as usual with the other gentlemen. It was
a warm and beautiful evening; the windows stood wide open,
the garden was gay with flowers, and across the small lawn in
front strolled Pauline, Caroling softly to herself the refrain of
a song. Heloise, in one of those straight simple white gowns
she was so fond of wearing, stood within the window embrasure
looking out, but turned quickly round as soon as she was aware
of my entrance.
“Monsieur Gaston,” she said, hurriedly, in a half whisper;
“tell me! what is wrong with Pauline?”
I met her eyes with a studiod expression of complete amaze-
ment.
“Wrong with Pauline?” I echoed. “Why, nothing. Hear
how she sings—like a lark in full sunshine. See how merry
she is; how well she looks.”
“Her merriment is forced,” declared Heloise, emphatically.
“And she is not well. Oh, can not you, who love her, see
that she is unhappy?. She is changed, quite changed, even to
me; she turns everything I say to a jest even when jesting is
entirely out of place; she is restless, irritable; she will hardly
remain quiet for an hour. She used to be so fond of me—
and now—why, she did not seem to be at all glad to see me
come back, and she avoids my eyes so strangely. Oh, Mon-
sieur Gaston, did you think of the warning I gave you before
I left—or did it slip your memory? I)id I not ask you to see
that the child was not left too much alone?”
What a strange hardness there was at my heart! her anxious
words, her eager looks excited no more emotion in me than
this—that with each moment I grew increasingly conscious of
her exceeding physical grace and beauty.
“I always remember everything you say, Heloise,” I an-
swered, steadfastly regarding her with, as I know, a look of
Open admiration, and watching with a half Smile the rich
blood mounting to her cheeks, while an amazed embarrass-
ment gathered in her eyes. “But I never quite comprehend-
ed why you should so greatly concern yourself about the mat-
ter. Pauſine can surely be trusted. Do you not think so?”
“I do think so,” she responded, swiftly. Brave girl! true
friend! “But it is hardly fair to expect the discretion of age
and experience from one who is almost a child, and such a
beautiful child too. Pauline is all impulse; she is sensitive,
Wayward sometimes; she takes sudden fancies and sudden dis-
Iikes; and, as I told you once before, she hardly understands
herself—". d W.
A-
126 WORMWOOD.
Here she broke off and caught her breath, while her arge
eyes dwelt on me in a vague fear. “Why do you look at me
so strangely, Monsieur Gaston?” she faltered, nervously.
“What is it?”- ---
I laughed coldly. “What is it? Why, nothing, ma chère
Heloise; what should there be? It is you who seem to have
vague ideas of something which you do not express—and it is
I who should ask “What is it?’” 4.
She still breathed quickly, and suddenly laid her hand on
my arm.
“You too are changed,” she said. “Tell me truly—do
you still love Pauline?”
“Can you doubt it?” and I smiled. “I love her—madly!”
And I spoke the truth. The passion I felt for the little frail
thing whom I could see from where I stood, flitting about the
garden among the flowers, was indeed mad—no Sane mind
would have ever indulged in such a tumult of mingled desire
and hatred as burned in mine.
“I am going to her,” I added, more tranquilly, seeing that
Heloise seemed alarmed as well as uneasy, “I shall ask her
for one of those roses she is gathering as a gage d’amour.” I
moved away, then paused a moment. “Your trip to Nor-
mandy has done you good, Heloise. You are looking ador-
able.”
What a lightning glance she gave me! it swept over me like
the death-flash of a storm. I stopped, rooted to the ground,
as it were, by the sudden spiritual dazzlement of her beauty;
why did my heart-throbs send such Glamorous vibrations
through my frame?—what force was there in the air that held
us twain, man and woman, spell-bound for a moment, gazing .
at each other wildly as though on the brink of some strange
destiny? In that one brief space of time all life seemed wait-
ing in suspense—and had I yielded to the fiery impulse that
possessed me then, I should have clasped that fair angelic
woman in my arms and called her love, Salvation, hope, res-
cue—I should have told her all—given her my very soul to
keep, and so I might have missed perdition. But it was a
mere passing madness; I could not account for it then, and
can hardly account for it now; but whatever shock it was that
thus by magnetic impulse shook our nerves, it moved us both
with strong and singular agitation, for Heloise fled from my
sight as though pursued by some avenging spirit; and I, after
a couple of minutes’ pause, recovered my composure, and
steppieg out into the garden there joined Pauline, She looked
2- . * WORMWOOD. 127
* --
up at me as I approached; her face wore an expression of ex-
treme weariness.
“How long is this to last, Gaston?” she murmured.
“How long must I play this terrible part of seeming to be
what I am not? I am so tired of it. Oh, God!—so tired!”
I walked silently by her side round among the shadows of
some tall trees to a spot where we were out of the observation
of any one who might be looking from the house-windows.
“Have you heard from your lover?” I then asked, coldly.
Her head drooped. “No.”
“Do you think it likely that you will hear?”
She sighed. “I believe in him,” she said. “If my belief
is vain, then God help me!”
1 studied her fair and delicate features scrutinizingly. She
was lovely—lovelier in her grief than in her joy, I thought—a
broken angel in a ruined shrine. But her beauty left me cold
as ice, impervious as adamant; absinthe had numbed the ten-
derer fancies of my brain, and in obedience to its promptings
I answered her. &
“That is what all criminals say, when confronted with the
disastrous consequences of crime—“God help me!’ But God’s
assistance is not always to be relied upon, it frequently fails
us in cases of the direst necessity. The beggar says, “God
help me!’ yet continues to beg on; the suffering cry, “God
help us,” and still they starve and weep, the dying man in his
agony exclaims, ‘God help me!’ and his torments are not
softened a whit—and you, poor little thing, are like the rest
of us, trusting to a divine rescue that is frequeritly too late in
coming, if indeed it ever comes at all.”
She gave a languid gesture of hopelessness,
“Then God is cruel,” she said, wearily. “And yet—He
made these.”
And she held out the roses she had lately plucked and made
a posy of; but as she did so the fairest bud suddenly crumbled
and fell in a shower of pale-pink leaves upon the ground.
“Yes; He made them—made them to perish! for which
strange and unaccountable end. He has seemingly made all
things, even you and me,” I responded, taking her cold, pas-
sive hand in mine. “As the rose leaves fall, so beauty dies—
so hope passes—so fidelity proves naught! Silvion Guidel has
deserted you, Pauline!”
She shivered, but made no reply.
“What will you do?” I went on, mercilessly. “What
way is there left for you to escape dishonor? How will you
aver shame from those parents whose pride is centered in
-º-wºrs
128 wormwood.
V,
you? Think! As yef they know nothing, but when they do
know, what then?” -
Her blue eyes fixed themselves unseeingly upon the roses in
her hands; her lips moved, and she murmured, faintly:
‘‘I can die!”
I was silent. ..a
She could die—this little fair thing for whom life had
scarcely begun—Certainly, she could die. We all have that
universal remedy. And there was no power on earth that
could prevent her, if she chose,” from deliberately shutting
out the world forever from her sight, and finding peace in
death’s acceptable darkness. Yes; she could die—even shel
“Pauline, Pauline! what a fate!” I said at last. “How
terrible to realize it! to think that you—you for whom noth-
ing seemed too good, too happy, or too bright, should be at
this pass of dire misfortune—and all through the black, base
treachery of a liar, a traitor—a dishonorable, cowardly vil-
lain—”
“Stop!” she exclaimed, in a low, 'fierce voice that startled
me. “You shall not blame him in my hearing. 1 have told
you I can die; but I shall die loving him—adoring him—to
the end!”
Oh, the love of a desperately loving woman! Can anything
under the sun equal its strength, its tamelessness, its marvel-
ous tenacity! This fragile girl—wronged, deserted, ruined—
still clung to the memory of her betrayer with such constancy
that she, not having yet seen full nineteen years of existence,
could calmly contemplate death for his sake! Ah, God! why
could she not have loved me thus tenderly? I looked at her,
and she met my gaze with an almost queenly challenge of
mingled sorrow and pride.
“You are brave, Pauline,” I said, quietly, “brave to
recklessness, brave to the extremest limits of unreasoning de-
spair! But pray compose yourself and listen to me. I am
more cautious—perhaps more practical in the foreseeing of
events than you can be. Of course it is well-nigh impossible
to calculate the social result of our unhappy position toward
each other should we decide to make the whole affair public;
but, in the meanwhile, I want you to understand that your
secret is safe in my hands, the honor of the De Charmilles is
not yet given over to the dogs of scandal!” I. paused, and a
tremor ran through her frame; she knew, as I knew, that her
~ sin was one that her father, proud of his lineage and ancestral
glories, would never forgive and never forget, “You gave
me credit once for generosity,” I continued, “ and the most
*. -** ** WORM WOOD, * 129
generous thing I could do would be to still take you as my
wife, and shield your name from blemish under cover of mine.
For your parents' sake this would be best and kindest; but for
me, not so well. I doubt much whether I could ever reconcile
myself to such a course of action. It is therefore sincerely to
be hoped that Monsieur Silvion Guidel will find it consistent
with his honor ’’—and I laid a sarcastic emphasis on this word
—“to write and inform you of his intentions before the day
appointed for your marriage with me comes much closer at
hand. As you must be aware, there is only a space of about
ten days between then and now.”
She looked up at me in anguished entreaty.
“And must I still keep silence?” she asked.
“Really, mademoiselle, that is entirely as you please!” I
returned, composedly. “I shall not speak—as yet; but if you
choose to make full confession to your parents, or to your cous-
in, that is a different matter. No doubt such frankness on
your part would greatly simplify the whole disastrous affair,
but this must be left to your own discretion.”
And I smiled slightly. I knew she was of far too shrinking
and nervous a temperament to brave her father’s fierce wrath,
Sher mother’s despair, and the wondering horror and reproach
of all her friends and relatives, so long as there remained the
least chance of escape from such a terrible exposé. If Silvion
wrote to her—if Silvion sent for her—she would of course fly
to join him, and leave everything to be discovered when she
had gone; but if, on the contrary, he kept silence and made
no sign, why, there was nothing to be done but to wait—to
wait, as I before said, on my will. I offered her my arm to
escort her back to the house; she accepted it mechanically, and
together we returned to the drawing-room. Heloise was
there, reading aloud from a newspaper an account of the tri-
umphs of a celebrated violinist whose name had recently be-
come a sort of musical watchword to the ardent and aspiring;
and her eyes sparkled with animation as, looking up from the
journal, she told us she had been invited to meet this same
brilliant “star ’’ at a neighbor’s house the next evening. Her
aunt smiled at her enthusiasm, and the Comte de Charmilles
remarked:
“Thou shouldst ask him to try thy violin, Heloise; it is
not every demoiselle who possesses a real undoubted Stradi-
varius.'
“Is it a Stradiº” I asked, with some interest, fixing my
eyes on Heloise, who for once avoided my direct gaze as she
replied: 5
Y3) WoRM wooD.
“Yes. It is an heir-loom, and has been in my mother’s
family for more than a hundred years, but no one among us
ever played it till I suddenly took a fancy to try my skill upon
it. There is rather a sad legend attached to it too.” tºr
“Ah, now we shall have you at your best, Mademoiselle
Heloise!” said my father, smiling. “You will, of course,
tell us this legend?” &
“If you wish.” And Heloise, moving to the further end
of the room, opened her violin-case and took out the instru-
ment. “But you must look at it carefully first. Through
the F holes you will see the sign-manual of Stradivarius, and
also something else. There are several other words—can you
- make them out?”
We gathered round her, and each in turn examined the in-
terior of the violin, and finally managed to decipher the fol- - -
lowing:
“Je meurs parceque j'aime l'amour plus que ma vie—
Parle, violon, quand je suis mort, dema reine Marie.”
|Beneath these lines was a monogram of two letters intwined
in a wreath of laurel, and as we handed back the instrument
to its fair owner, our eyes inquired the meaning of the motto.
“This Strad belonged, so the story goes,” said Heloise, soft-
ly, “to one who in his time was considered the greatest vio-
linist in the world. His name no one knows; his monogram
is there, but can not, as you see, be distinctly deciphered.
The legend, however, is, that he loved a great lady of the
Court of France, and that she showed him many favors for a
little while, till suddenly, out of some cruel and unaccounta-
ble caprice, she deserted him, and would never receive him or
even look upon his face again, Maddened by despair he slew
himself, and these lines inscribed inside the violin are written
in his own blood. It is supposed that he took the instrument
apart to write the device within it, as, according to one ac-
count, it is said to have been found seemingly broken by the
side of his dead body. If this be true, then skilled hands must
have put it together again, for here it is, as you See, intact,
and with a strange pathos in its tone, or so I fancy--a pathos
that it would be difficult to equal. Listen!” -
And she drew the bow across the G string slowly, while we
involuntarily held our breath. It was such a weird, wild, full,
and solemn sound—something like the long grave Organ-note
drawn forth by the wind from the close-knit branches of old
trees. “Parle, violon, quand je suis moſt 1” Such had been
the last prayer of its long-ago dead master; and truly its elo-
quence had not ceased to be convincing. The “reine Marie ’’


worMwooD. 131
had been careless of love and Capricious, as beautiful women.
so often are, but still the passionate tones of her lover’s in-
strument bore faithful witness to her beauty’s conquering
charm. We were all in expectation that Heloise would play
something; but in this we were doomed to disappointment, for
she quietly put the violin back in its case and locked it, in
spite of her aunt’s affectionate entreaty that she would favor
us with one little morceau.
“I am not in the humor, aunt,” she said, simply, and there
was a weary look in her eyes, “ and I should not play well.
Besides’’—and she smiled a little—“you must remember
that there is a grand maestro just now in Paris, and the very
consciousness of his presence in this city seems actually to
paralyze my efforts!”
. A vague irritation stirred me that she should attach so much
importance to the arrival of a mere professional “star’’ in
the art of violin-playing.
“Do you know the man?” I asked, abruptly.
“Not personally,” she replied. “As I told you, I am to
meet him to-morrow evening. But I have heard him play—
that is enough.”
I shrugged my shoulders, -
“You are enthusiastic, Heloise!” I remarked, satirically.
“I thought you were a veritable Pallas Athene—always calm,
always cold!” *
She looked at me with a strange deepening brilliancy in her
eyes. -
“Cold!” she faltered, “I?”
I was near her as she spoke and our glances met. Once
more that curious, magnetic thrill ran through me—once
more that inexplicable shock seemed to agitate us both. But
it passed as it had passed before; and just then M. Vaudron
came up to us º some ordinary remark that scattered our
thoughts into all sorts of different and commonplace direc-
tions. The evening ended, to all appearances, as Satisfactorily
as it had begun; our elders evidently had no shadow of sus-
picion that anything was wrong, and when I parted from Pau-
line, it was with a carefully studied assumption of that lover-
like reluctance to say farewell which once had been too real to
need feigning. Heloise, as she murmured “Good-night!”
#". me her hand; I held it a moment in my own, then kissed
it with grave courtesy. What could have possessed me then,
I wonder, that I should have felt such a keen sense of delight
as I saw the color rush over her fair, pale cheeks like a sudden
glow of Sunset on alabaster? I suppose it must have been the
º:2 - WORMWOOD.
consciousness of the growing devil within me—the devil that
had already begun to preach away conscience and make a gibe . s
of principle, and that in a short time was destined to become
So strong that whatever there was of true manhood in me
would be utterly exterminated by its insidious power. The
devil born of Absintheſ the fair, brave fiend, whose fidelity to
the soul it seizes upon, like that of its twin-sister Morphia,
never releases till death. Every hour of every day its hold on
my brain grew closer, firmer, and more absolute, till I ceased
to feel even so much as a passing throb of compunction; and
with my eyes open to the abyss of darkness before me, volun-
tarily drifted slowly yet steadily down /
XVI.
TIME went on, and yet no sign from Silvion Guidel. One
letter only, from his mother to the curé, thanking him for all
the care and kindness he had shown to “métre cher eſ bien-
aimé Saint Silvion,” and stating that this same “saint ’’ was
in excellent health and progressing admirably with his relig-
ious studies, was all the news we received. Now and then I
thought I would go to Brittany, and seek him out and fight
him to the death there; but, after a little cogitation, I always
dismissed the idea. It was better, I decided, to wait on. For
Pauline had written to him twice, and I naturally imagined
that his answer to the desperate appeals of the girl he had be-
trayed would be a swift and unexpected return to Paris—un-
less, indeed, he should prove himself to be altogether a man
beneath even a beggar’s contempt. Meantime all the arrange-
ments for my marriage with Pauline went smoothly on, with-
out any interference from either of the principal parties con-
cerned. It was settled that the civic registration should take
place first, in the grand drawing-room of the Comte de Char-
milles, before a large and brilliant assemblage of friends and
guests; the religious ceremony was to follow afterward in the
pretty little church of which M. Vaudron was the presiding
genius. The invitations had all been sent out—one going to
Silvion Guidel in due course; and I, languidly amused
thereat, wondered how he would take it. As for me, I was
now quite resolved on my own plan of action. My drugged
brain had evolved it in the wanderings of many dreamful
nights, and though the plot was devilish, to me, in my con-
dition, it seemed just. Why should not the wicked be pun-
ished for their wickedness? Holy Writ supports the theory,
for did not David, “a man after God’s own heart,” pray that

WORMWOOD, J.
his enemies might be consumed as with fire, and utterly de-
stroyed? Dear, good, gentle, Christian friends! you who love
your Bibles and read them with diligent attention, I beg you
will study the inspired pages thereof again and yet again, be-
fore you dare to utterly abhor me, who am your fellow-mor-
tal. Consider the pious joy with which you yourselves look
forward to seeing those particular persons whom you specially
abhor, roasting in hell for all eternity, while you, Sweet, clean
souls, walk placidly the golden pavement of Serenest heaven!
It is possible, nay, more than probable, that you will be dis-
appointed in these sublime anticipations; still, you can nurse
the generous hope while here below, only do not turn round
and condemn me, because I also, in the spirit of David, desired
to see my enemies “confounded and put to shame * in this
life. Had I no patience, you may piously ask, to wait till after
death? No! Because “after death '' is a shadowy circum-
stance; one can not be certain what will happen, and the pres-
ent wise age does well to seize its opportunities for good or for
evil while it can, here and 7.070 /
In the short interval that had yet to elapse before the day
of my intended nuptials, a curious change worked itself in me
—a change of which I was palpably, physically conscious. I
can only explain it by saying that my brain seemed dead. A
stony weight lay behind my temples, cold and hard and heavy-
I shall perhaps make myself understood better if I analyze my
sensations thus: namely, that when my brain was in its former
normal condition before the absinthe-furia had penetrated to
its every cell, it was like a group of sensitive fibers or cords
which, when touched by memory, sentiment, affection, or any
feeling whatsoever, would instantly respond in quick pulsations
of eager and easy comprehension. Now, it seemed as if all
those fibers had snapped in some strange way, leaving in their
place a steel reflector of images—a hard bright substance on
which emotion simply flashed and passed without producing
any actual responsive vibration. Yet certain plans of action
seemed to be part of this steel pressure—plans which, though
they appeared in a manner precise, still lacked entire consecu-
tiveness, and not the least remarkable phase of my transfor-
mation was this—that good, or what moralists call good, pre-
sented itself to me as not only distinctly unnatural, but wholly
absurd. In brief, the best and clearest expression I can give
to my condition of mind for the benefit of those medical ex-
perts who have perhaps not thoroughly comprehended the swift
and marvelous influence of the green nectar of Paris on the
human nerves and blood is, that my former ideas and habits

4. WORMWOOD,
of life were completely and absolutely reversed. We are fold
that the composition of the brain is a certain gray matter in
which countless shifting molecules work the wheels of thought
and sensation; in the healthy subject they work harmoniously
and in order, but—and this is to be remembered-—a touch will
Set them wrong, a severe blow on the outside case or skull
may, and often does, upset their delicate balance; what think
you then of a Creeping fire, which, by insidious degrees, quick-
ens them into hot, confused inasses, and almost changes their
very nature? Ay—this is so—and neither gods nor angels
can prevent it. Give me the fairest youth that ever gladdened
a mother’s heart, let him be hero, Saint, poet, whatever you
will, let me make of him an absintheur ſ and from hero he
shall change to coward, from Saint to libertine, from poet to
brute! You doubt me? Come then to Paris, study our pres-
ent absinthe-drinking generation—absintheurs, and children
of absintheurs, and then, why then give glory to the English
Darwin. For he was a wise man in his time, though in his
ability to look back, he perhaps lost the power to foresee. He
traced, or thought he could trace man’s ascent from the mon-
key, but he could not calculate man’s descent to the monkey
again. He did not study the Parisians closely enough for
that. If he had, he would most assuredly have added a vol-
ume of prophecies for the future to his famous pedigree of the
ast.
p Curious and significant too, among my other sensations,
was the dull aversion I had taken to the always fair, though
now sorrowful face of Pauline. The girl in her secret wretch-
edness annoyed me, there were moments when I hated her,
and again, there were times when I loved her. Loved her—
yes! but not in a way that good women would care to be loved.
Moreover, Heloise St. Cyr had come to possess an almost
weird fascination for me. Yet I saw very little of her, for a
new interest had suddenly entered her life, the great violinist
whom she had been so eager to meet, had heard her play, and
had been so enchanted, either with her, or the valuable Stradi-
varius she owned, that he had volunteered, for art’s sake, to
give her a lesson every day during the brief time he remained
in Paris. After some little hesitation, and an anxious consul-
tation with her aunt as to the propriety of this arrangement,
the offer was accepted, and she was straightway drawn into an
artistic and musical circle which was considerably divided from
ours. I never had a chance of either seeing or hearing the
brilliant violin-maestro whose triumphs were in every one’s
mouth, I only knew that he was not old, that some people


: \, . WORMWOOT). 135
considered him handsome, and that he was entirely devoted to
his art, but no more personal news than this could I obtain
concerning him. Heloise, too, was singularly reticent on the
subject, only her wonderful gray-green eyes used to shine with
a strange fire whenever he was mentioned, and this vaguely
vexed me. However, I was not given much opportunity to
brood on the matter, as the famous “star ” very soon took
his departure, and beyond the fact that Heloise played more
divinely than ever, I almost forgot, in the rush of more press-
ing events, that he had crossed the even tenor of her exist-
€I) Cé.
Three days before my intended marriage—only three days
—I received to my utter amazement, a letter from Silvion
Guidel. It began abruptly, thus:
“I understand that you know everything, therefore you
will realize that no explanation can make me more of a villain
than I acknowledge myself to be. I can not marry. I was
ordained a priest of Holy Church yesterday. Circumstances
have molded my fate in opposition to my will, and I can only
throw myself upon your mercy and ask you not to visit my
crime on the head of the poor child I have wronged. I can
not write to her—I dare not; I am weak-natured and afraid
of woman’s grief. The only way left to me for the atone-
ment of the evil I have done is through a life of hard peni-
tence and prayer. This I have chosen, entreating you all to
pardon me and to think of me as one dead.
‘‘SILVION GUIDE.L.”
A fierce oath broke from me as I crushed this epistle in my
hand. Specious villain—canting hypocrite. Ordained a
priest—sheltered in the pale of the Church—vowed to per-
... petual celibacy, and what was worse still, exempt from the
call of a duel. If I could have seen him at that moment be-
fore me, I would have sprung at him like a wild beast, thrown
him on the ground, and trampled upon his fair false face till
not a vestige of its beauty was left. For some minutes I gave
way to this impotent mad fury, then, gradually recollecting
myself, smoothed out the crumpled letter and read it through
again. The coils of fate round the unfortunate Pauline had
grown more and more entangled, for now, supposing the whole
truth were told, she would be in a worse predicament than ever,
since, unless her lover chose to leave the priesthood as rapidly
as he had entered it, marriage was impossible. True enough,
her only rescue lay with me—true, that if I chose to accept
, ki
136 worxiwooD. § Ż
Silvion Guidel’s cast-off light-o'-love as my wife, no one need
be any the wiser save only myself and the unhappy girl whose
miserable secret was in my hands. But I resented the posi-
tion which appeared thus forced upon me, and in this 1 think
I was no worse than any other man might have been under
similar circumstances. Combined, however, with my natural
resentment, there was another and more cruel feeling—an in-
satiate longing to make Pauline understand thoroughly the
heinous enormity of her sin. For at present she seemed to
me to have merely the stagey sentiment of the French melo-
dramatic heroine, who, after disgracing herself, dishonoring
her parents, and dealing wholesale misery all round, scruples
not to boast of her “amour º’ as a wonderful virtue recom-
mendable to the special intercession of Heaven. It was in this
particular phase of her character that she had grown hateful
to me—while her physical beauty remained what it always had
been in my eyes—exquisitely captivating to the Senses and re-
sistlessly adorable. Yet with all my busy brooding on the one
subject, I can not say I ever came to any definitely settled
plan. What I did do in the long run was the wild suggestion
of a moment, worked out by one hot flash from the burning
glance of the “green fairy ‘’in whose intoxicating embrace I
had drowsed my soul away for many nights and days. I con-
sidered deeply as to whether l should show the letter I had re-
ceived from Silvion Guidel to Pauline or not? Better wait, I
thought, and see how the tide of events turned; there was yet
time; let her cling to her false hope a little longer—that frail
sheet-anchor would all too soon be torn from her feeble hold.
And so the dull minutes rounded into hours—hours that
passed in the usual uneven way, some slow, some rapidly, ac-
cording to the mood in which they were severally met and dis-
Josed of, and the eve of my marriage Came. All seemed well.
} played my part—Pauline played hers. I called at the De
Charmilles’, and found everything in the bustle of active
preparation; the dining-room was being decorated with flowers;
large garlands and bouquets occupied almost every available
space in the entrance hall, and on my inquiring for my fiancée,
I was shown by the smiling, excited maid-servant into the
morning-room where, after a few minutes, Pauline entered.
She looked very pale, but very calm, and came straight up to
me with a strange wistfulness in her deep-blue eyes.
“You have not heard from Silvion?” she said, at once, in
a low but earnestly inquiring tone.
“I?” and I shrugged my shoulders as though in amaze-
ment at the absurdity of such a question.
…*
\
- wormwood. 13%
2.
” she mur-
“No; I suppose he would not write to you,”
mured, sadly. “Then he must be ill, or dead.”
Strange tenacity of woman’s faith! She could not, would
not, believe he had deserted her. She resumed, with a curious
air of grave formality:
...; seems you really intend to marry me, Monsieur Beau-
Vais???
“It seems so, truly, mademoiselle!” I returned, frigidly.
She looked at me steadfastly.
“Listen!” she said. “I know why you do it—for my fa-
ther’s sake, and for the sake of good Monsieur Vaudron; to
Save honor and prevent scandal—you do it for this; and I–1
do not know whether to thank you or curse you for your
pity!” She paused, trembling with the excess of her emotion,
then continued: “But—understand me, Gaston—I will never
live with you. I will never owe to you so much as a crust of
bread. I will go on with this ceremony of marriage, as you
seem, for the sake of others, to think it best--but afterward
—afterward I will go away to die somewhere by myself, where
I shall trouble no one, and where not even dear, good Heloise
will be able to find me. Disgraced, I will bear the solitude of
disgrace—ruined, I will abide by my ruin!”
1 studied her features with a cold scrutiny that made her
cheeks flush and her limbs tremble, though her eyes remained
quietly fixed on mine.
“You have made your plans, I See,” I said. “But 1–1
also have plans! You say you will go away to “die ’—not so!
you mean you will go in search of your lover. Has it ever
struck you that he may not want you? Men are like children
—when their women-toys are broken, they care for them no
longer. So far, things have gone on smoothly in our two
families, and by reticence we have fought off scandal; but I
must ask you to remember that if I once bestow my name
upon you, you will owe me obedience—if I make you my wife,
the past must be blotted out forever, and I shall expect from
you a wife’s duty.”
I smiled as I spoke, for I saw her shrink and shiver away
* as though an icy wind had touched her with its
reath.
“How can the past be blotted out forever,” she faltered,
“when—” Here she paused suddenly and drew herself erect.
“Gaston Beauvais, when I came to you and told you all that
night, I placed my fate in your hands. I asked you to break
your engagement with me, and you made excuse and delay—
you would not. Nor would you let me speak. You told me
138 WORMWOOj).
&
you would act for the best, and 1 trusted everything to you—
I thought you would spare me—I believ'd that you would be
generous and pitiful. But you have changed—you have
changed so greatly that I scarcely know you—except that I
am sure you do not wish me well. There is something cruel
in your eyes, something fatal in your smile. Tell me truly,
why do you marry me?”
She regarded me with a touch of fear as she put the ques-
tion. - *
“Pardon, mademoiselle; but you anticipate,” I replied,
calmly. “I have not married you—yet.”
“To-morrow—” she began.
Springing to her side I grasped her suddenly by the arm. I
felt a strange fire pricking in my veins—one of those accesses
of heat and fury which were growing frequent with me of
late.
“To-morrow has not come!” I said, in low, fierce accents.
“Wait till it does! What do you take me for, silly child?
J)0 you think you can play with a man’s heart as you have
played with mine and meet with no punishment? Do you
think you can wreck a whole life and not be scourged for such
wanton cruelty? I have, it is true, screened your name from
obloquy up till now—with yourself alone and me rests the hor-
rible secret of your shame. But wait—wait! you are not mar-
ried to me yet—and if you have enough courage for the task,
you can still escape me. Proclaim your own infamy to your
parents—to your pure and Saintly cousin Heloise, to-night;
break their hearts; shake down their high faith in you to the
dust of dishonor; but before doing so, mark you—it would be
as well to ask Monsieur Vaudron for the latest news of his
admirable nephew.”
Her eyes dilated with terror, and she repeated the words
after me, like a dull child learning some difficult lesson.
“Ask Monsieur Vaudron for the latest news of his nephew!”
and her very lips turned white as she spoke. “The latest
news of Silvion! You know it then?” and she turned upon
me with a gesture of imperial authority. “Tell me what it
is! How dare you withhold it? Tell me instantly! for if he
is ill I must go to him—if he is dead I must die!” &
I laughed Savagely. * ,”
“He is dead to you, mademoiselle!” I said. “But other-
wise, he is alive and well, and at this very moment he is proba-
bly at his holy prayers. He has entered the priesthood; and
by that simple act has escaped both my sword and your em-
bra ces!”
*
* * = .
+ WORMWOOD, 139
*
*º-
She gave a smothered cry, staggered, and seemed about to
fall; I caught her on my arm, and she leaned against me
struggling for breath.
“Silvion! Silvion a priest!” she gasped. “Oh, no! not
after all his promises! It is not—it can not be true!”
“Ask the curé,” I said. “He no doubt has the news by
this time. He is a good man—not used, like his nephew, to
the telling of lies.”
She put away my supporting arm gently, yet decidedly, and
pressing one hand against her heart, looked me full in the
eyes.
“How do you know this?” she asked. “Why should you,
of all people in the world, be the first to tell it to me?”
I read her suspicions, and returned her glance with one of
the utmost scorn.
“You distrust my word?” I queried, ironically. “Well,
perhaps you will accept your lover’s own voucher for the in-
ºfton. Here it is—pray read it for yourself and be satis-
fied.” -
And drawing from my pocket the letter I had received, I
unfolded it and spread it open on the table before her. With
a sharp exclamation she snatched it up and quickly perused
its every word; then—oh, strange nature of woman!—she cow-
ered it with passionate kisses and tears.
“Good-bye, Silvion!” she sobbed, softly. “Good-bye, my
love! my dearest one! good-bye!”
Turning to me, she said, while the drops still rained through
her lashes: *
“May I keep this letter?”
I shrugged my shoulders disdainfully; her melodramatic
Sentimentality filled me with abhorrence.
“Certainly, if you choose.”
“It is my death-warrant,” she went on quietly, trying to
steady her quivering lips, “ and it is signed by the dearest
hand in the world to me. Oh, I shall die quite bravely now!
there will be nothing to regret, even as there is nothing to
hope. But, Gaston, you are very cruel to me; you are not
like your old kind self at all. I am so poor and slight and
miserable a thing—I can not understand how it can be worth
your While to judge me so harshly. Never mind—it does not
matter—l shall, not trouble you long. I have been very
wicked-yes—I know that—and you, Gaston, you wish me to
be punished? Well, then, does it not please you to know that
my heart is broken? My heart—my heart—Silvion!”
And, covering her face with her hands, she suddenly
--sº
140 WORMWOOD.
*~.
#urned and fled from the room. I heard the door close behind
her, and I thought myself alone. Every nerve in my body
F." with the suppressed excitement of my mind, and,
eaning one hand against my hot brows, I pressed my fingers
over my eyes to try and shut out the pale-green light that
now and then flashed before them, when a touch on my shoul-
der startled me. I looked up—Heloise St. Cyr stood beside
Ine, pale and grave as a Sculptured nun, and I stared at her
in vague amazement.
“What is the matter, Monsieur Gaston?” she inquired.
I forced a laugh.
“Matter, Heloise? Truly—nothing!”
“Nothing?” she echoed, incredulously. “Why, then, was
Pauline in tears? She passed me just now without a word;
but I heard her sobbing.”
I met her questioning gaze unconcernedly.
“A lover’s quarrel, chère Pallas Athene!” I said, lightly.
“Have you never heard of such things?”
A frown darkened the fairness of her classic brows.
“A quarrel on the eve of marriage?” she queried, coldly.
“It seems unnatural and unlikely. You are deceiving me,
Monsieur Gaston.”
I smiled.
“Possibly,” I answered. “But what would you? I fancy
we were born into the world—all of us—for the singular pur-
pose of deceiving each other.”
Her eyes filled with a vague fear and surprise.
“What do you mean?” she faltered, nervously.
“T)o not ask me, Heloise.” And, advancing a step or
two, I caught her shrinking hand and held it prisoned in my
fevered clasp. “I can not tell you what I mean. I do not
know, myself. There are certain phases of feeling and pas-
sion, are there not, which storm the soul at times? We are
shaken, but we can not explain the shock even to our inner-
most consciences. Do not speak to me, do not look at-me.
Your eyes would draw out the Secret of a madinan’s misery.
Ask your own heart if there are not strange and complex emo-
tions within it, as in mine, which have never been uttered,
and never will be uttered. If we could only speak frankly—
we men and women—at certain moments when the better part
of us is paramount—my God!—if we could only dare to be
ourselves, who knows, the world might be happier.”
With this incoherent outburst, the drift of which I myself
scarcely understood, I hurriedly kissed the hand I held, re-
leased it, and left her. How Sho looked, I know not; some-
WORMWOOD. 141
thing clamorous and wild in my blood warned me against
another chance meeting of her eyes with mine. I should have
caught her to my breast and frightened her with the passion
of my embrace—and yet—did I love her? I can not tell—I
think not. It was only the indefinable attraction of her per-
sonality that overpowered my senses; when I was once away
from her and outside in the open air, my emotion passed, just
as a faintness that has been brought on by the powerful per-
fume of tropical lilies will pass in the reviving breath of a cool
wind. I walked rapidly homeward, thinking as I went of the
morrow, and wondering what it would bring forth. Either
Pauline de Charmilles would be mine, or she would not. It
all seemed to rest on the mere turn of a hair. For in my con-
dition of brain nothing in the whole world appeared decided,
because the eventuality of death was always present. I calmly
considered and balanced the probability that Pauline, now
knowing the pusillanimous part her lover had chosen to play,
might kill herself. It is the common way out of a love diffi-
culty with many French women. Or—I might die! That
would be droll! and unexpected too; for I felt life’s blood
beating very strong in me, and I had now something to live
for. I considered with a good deal of self-congratulation, the
admirable cunning with which I had managed to keep the
secret of my growing absinthe-mania from my father and
every one connected with me. True, some stray remarks had
been made Once or twice on a certain change in my looks, but
this was chiefly set down to overwork. And my father had
occasionally remonstrated with me against a quick, querulous
impatience of temper which I frequently displayed, and which
was new to my disposition; but with his usual good nature,
he had found plenty of excuses for me in the contemplation of
all the business I had successfully got through during his ab-
sence in England. The alteration in me was really almost
imperceptible to unsuspecting outsiders; only I myself knew
how complete and permanent it was.
That night——the night before my wedding-day, I drank
deeply and long of my favorite nectar; glass after glass I pre-
pared, and drained each one off with insatiable and ever-in-
creasing appetite; I drank till the solid walls of my own room,
when at last I found myself there, appeared to me like trans-
parent glass shot through with emerald flame. Surrounded
on all sides by phantoms—beautiful, hideous, angelic, devilish
– I reeled to my couch in a sort of waking swoon, conscious
of strange Sounds everywhere, like the clanging of brazen
bells, and the silver fanfarronade of the trumpets of war—
142 ** WORMWOOD,
conscious too of a singular double Sensation—namely, as
though myself were divided into two persons, who opposed
each other in a deadly combat, in which neither could possibly
obtain even the merest shadow-victory! It was a night of both
horror and ecstasy—the beginning of many more such nights
—and though I was hurried to and fro like a leaf on a storm-
wind, among crowding ghosts, open tombs, Smiling Seraphs,
and leering demons, 1 was perfectly content with the spectral
march of my own brain-pageantry. And I quite forgot—as
always wish to forget—that there are fools in the world for
whom heart-freezing absinthe has no charms, and who there-
fore still prate, like children and idiots, of God and Conscience!
XVII.
MY marriage-morning! it broke out of the east with the
sweetest forget-me-not radiance of blue over all the tranquil
sky. I rose early; I was aware of a violent throbbing in my
temples; and now and then I was seized with a remarkable
sensation, as though some great force Were, so to speak, being
hurled through me, compelling me to do strange deeds with-
out clearly recognizing their nature. I took a long walk be-
fore breakfast, but though the air and motion did me some
amount of good, 1 nevertheless found myself totally unable to
resist certain impulses that came over me—as, for instance, to
laugh aloud when I thought of that white half-naked witch
who had been my chief Companion in the flying phantasma-
goria of the past wild night. How swiftly she had led me into
the forgotten abodes of the dead, and how her mere look and
sign had sufficed to lift the covers of old coffins and expose to
view the moldering skeletons within! the eyeless skulls that,
for all their lack of vision, had yet seemed to stare upon us
while we mocked their helpless desolation! Oh, she was a
blithe, brave phantom, that absinthe-witch of mine! and one
thing she had done had pleased me right well. We had flown
through the dark, she and I, on green outspread wings, and
finding on our way a church door standing open, we had en-
tered in. There we had seen silver lamps steadily burning;
there we had heard the organ pealing forth strange psalmody,
and there we had discovered a priest kneeling on the altar
steps with wondrous Raphael-like face upturned to the shin-
ing Host above him. “Silvion Guidel!” we had shrieked
loudly in his ears, my clfin-coºl, aſle and I: “Die, Silvion
Guidel!” And “Die, Silvion (; tıidel!” was echoed back to
us in a thunder of many 9, .3, while, as the chorus Smoto
WöRM WOOD. 143
the air, lo! the Host vanished from sight; the altar crumbled
into dust; there was no more sign of Salvation, hope, or
rescue for that criminal there who dared to kneel and pray—
there was nothing—nothing but the yawning blackness of an
open grave! How my fair witch laughed as she pointed to
that dull, deep hole in the ground! how I kissed her on the
ripe, red lips for the appropriateness of her deathful sugges-
tion! how I toyed with her fiery-gold hair! and how we fied off
again, more swiftly than the wind, through scenes wilder, yet
not so haunting to the memory! My glorious absinthe-fairy!
she was nearly always with me now—in different shapes,
arrayed in different hues, but always recognizable as a part of
ne. Her whispers buzzed continually in my brain, and I
never failed to listen; and on this particular morning—the
morning of my intended marriage—she was as close to me as
my very blood; she clung to me, and I made no effort, as I
had no desire, to shake her off.
Ten o’clock was the hour fixed for the civic ceremony, in
order that ample time might be given to allow the religious
one to take place before noon. Just as we were about to start
for the scene of the nuptials, my father, who had been watch,
ing me attentively, suddenly said:
“Gaston, art thou well?”
I looked full at him and laughed.
“Perfectly well, mon père / Why ask such a question?”
“Your eyes look feverish,” he answered, “and I haws,
noticed that your hand shakes. If you were not my son, ſ
should say you had been drinking!”
I bit my lips vexedly, then forced a smile.
“Merci / But can not you allow for a little unusual ex-
citement on one’s wedding-day?”
His countenance cleared, and he laid one hand affcctionate-
ly on my shoulder.
“Of course. Still, to be quite honest with you, Gaston, I
must Say I have lately observed an alteration in your looks and
manner that does not bode well for your health. However,
no doubt a change of air will do you good. A month in Swit-
zerland is a cure for almost any ailing man.”
Switzerland! I laughed again. It had been settled for us
by our friends that we were to pass our honey-moon, my bride
and I, by the shores of the blue romantic lakes that Byron
loved and sung of. I had never seen the splendor of the
snow-mountains—I have never yet seen them, and it is very
k
certain now that I never shall! . . ."
* * , a
I avoided any further converse with my father, and was glad ". .
144 WORMWOOD,
---
ºrgive you, but I will not
******
that so little time was left us for the chance of a fête-à-fée.
Punctual to the hour appointed, we drove to the De Char-
milles’ residence and found the outside of the house lined and
blocked with carriages; the guests were arriving in shoals.
We entered the grand drawing-room; it was exquisitely
adorned with palms and flowers, and for one dazed moment I
saw nothing but a whirl of bright faces, and magnificent bou-
quets tied with floating ends of white and colored ribbon.
People seized my hand and shook it warmly; I heard myself
Congratulated, and managed to enunciate a few formal replies.
Presently I came face to face with the bride-maids—all clad
in palest pink—all ready for the church ceremony, which to
them, as women, was of course the most interesting part of
the performance; and in the center of this group stood Heloise
St. Cyr, looking strangely pale and grave. Whether it was
the pink color of her robe, or the brilliant tint of the superb
roses she carried, I could not then decide, but certain it was
that I had never seen her so wan and wistful-eyed, and as I
gravely saluted her, I wondered whether she knew anything—
whether Pauline, in a sudden fit of desperate courage, had told
her all? An odd, fierce merriment began to take hold of me;
I smiled as I pressed her extended gloved hand.
“You are looking lovely as usual, Heloise,” I said, in a
low tone; for, indeed, her fair and spiritual beauty exercised
over me a spell of mingled fear and fascination; “but are you
not somewhat fatigued?”
Her eyes rested steadily on mine.
“No,” she replied, calmly; “I am only a little anxious
about Pauline. To me, she seems very ill.”
I feigned the deepest concern.
“Indeed! I trust—”
She swept out of the group of bride-maids and beckoned me
to follow her apart. I did so.
“Something terrible has happened—I am sure of it!” she
said, with passionate emphasis. “You spoke so strangely
yesterday, and she has wept all night. Oh, why—why will
you not tell me what it is? The child is afraid of you!”
“Pauline afraid of me!” I exclaimed, raising my eyebrows
in simulated amazement. “Really, Heloise, I can not under-
stand—” --~~
She made a movement of impatience and laid her bouquet
of flowers lightly against her lips. . *
“Hush! we can not speak now; it is too late. But—if you
pººjtate any wrong or cruelty to Pauline—well! God may
ſº sy
12 >
*
*
WORMWOOD, 145
Her eyes flashed a positive menace; she looked empress-like
in that moment of wrath, and my admiring glance must have
told her as much, for the color crimsoned her cheeks to a
deeper hue than that of the red roses in her hand. But that
she resented my look was evident; for she turned from me
with a gesture of dislike and disdain, and as I noted her proud
step and mien, a sudden ferocity possessed me. A curse, I
thought, on all such haughty, beautiful women who dare to
wound with a glance and slay with a smile! Let them learn
to suffer as they make men suffer! iſothing less will bring
down their wantonness or impress upon their arrogant natures
the value of humility! I walked with a firm step up to the
table where the civic authorities were already seated with their
books and pens, and gayly shook hands with all I personally
knew. M. Vaudron was of course not present; his part of the
business was to be transacted at the church, where no doubt
he was even now waiting. The Comtesse de Charmilles stood
near me; there were tears in her eyes, and she, like her niece
Heloise, looked pale and anxious, while in her Smile, as she
saluted me affectionately, there was something almost appeal-
ing. The count himself had left the room; naturally, all
present knew his errand. There was a hush of expectation—
the bright eyes of the lovely and fashionable women assembled
were turned eagerly toward the door; it opened, and Pauline
entered, in full bridal attire, leaning on her father’s arm.
White as a snow-flake—impassive as marble—she seemed to be
walking in her sleep, her eyes fixed on vacancy—she looked
neither to the right nor to the left; she returned none of the
gay greetings of her friends, who recoiled from her in evident
amazement at her strange demeanor; once or twice only a
thin, shadowy Smile parted her lips, and she bowed mechanic-
ally as though the action were the result of a carefully learned
lesson. On she came; and I heard whispered observations on
her deadly paleness; but I was too busy with my own rising
frenzy to heed aught else. I was enraged! what business had
she, this fair, frail, helpless-looking girl, to come to me as
though she were a white fawn being led up to have its tender
throat slit! how dared she pose before me like a statue of grief
with that look of quencheless, unutterable despair frozen on
her face! ay! how dared she, knowing herself so vile, thus
mutely invite compassion! One of those irresistible sudden
rushes of demoniacal impulse stronger than myself seized me;
I felt the blood surging in my ears and burning at my finger-
tips—I was in the grasp of a force more potent than fire to de-
stroy, and without actually realizing quite what I meant to do
---
146 WORMWOOD.
*†
or to say, I waited; waited, till the stately Comte de Char-
milles—proud parent!—reached me where I stood—waited, till
he, by a gracefully courteous gesture, appeared to dumbly
present me with my bride! Then the clamorous devil in me
broke loose and had its way—then, yielding to its subtle sug.
gestion, I tasted my revenge!—them, I had the satisfaction of
seeing the haughty old aristocrat blench and tremble like a
leaf in the wind, as he met my coldly Scornful gaze and the
mockery of my Smile! Drawing myself stiffly erect just as he
came within an arm’s-length of me, I made a distinct and
decided movement of rejection—then, raising my voice so that
it might be heard by all present, I said, slowly and with
studied politeness: \
“Monsieur le Comte de Charmilles, I am sincerely sorry to
give you pain! but truth is truth, and must sometimes be told,
no matter how disagreeable! In the presence therefore of
these our relatives, friends, and guests, permit me to return
your daughter to your paternal care! I, Gaston Beauvais, re-
fuse to marry her!”
For one moment there was a horrified stillness—the old
count turned a ghastly white and seemed paralyzed—Pauline
moved not at all. Then my father’s clear voice rang through
the hushed room sharply.
“Gaston, art thou mad?”
I looked at him calmly. .*
“Au contraire, I am quite Sane, I assure you, non père /
I repeat—I utterly decline the honor of Mademoiselle Pauline
de Charmilles’ hand in marriage. That is all!”
Another dead silence. Not a person in the room stirred,
and all eyes were fixed upon me. Every one seemed stricken
with alarm and amazement, save Pauline herself, who, like a
veiled image, might have been carved in Stone for any sign of
life she gave. Suddenly one of the civio authorities turned
round from the table on which the books of registration lay
prepared. He was an old man of punctilious and severe man-
ner, and he regarded me sternly as he said:
“Upon what grounds does Monsieur Gaston Beauvais pro-
pose to break his plighted word to Mademoiselle de Char-
milles? He should state his reasons as publicly as he has
chosen to state his withdrawal!”
I looked at the count. His face was flushed and he breathed
heavily; I saw him nervously press his passive daughter’s arm
closer to his side. *
“Yes! on what grounds?” he demanded, thickly and hur.
WORMWOOD. 147
riedly. “Truly it is a question that needs answering! on
what grounds?” .
I felt rather than saw the instinctive movement of the whole
brilliant assemblage of guests toward me—every one was bend-
ing forward to listen; I caught a glimpse of the pale, horrified
face of Heloise St. Cyr, and just then, Pauline raised her sor-
rowful blue eyes and fixed them upon me with a world of silent
reproach in their grief-darkened depths. But what Cared I
for her looks? I was mad, and I reveled in my madness!
What mattered anything to me save the clutch of the fiend at
my throat—the devil that compelled me to fling away every
thought of gentleness, every merciful and chivalrous impulse
to the winds of hell!
“On what grounds?” I echoed, bitterly. “Simply—dis-
honor!—shame! Is this not enough? Must I speak still more
plainly? Then take all the truth at once! I can not accept
as my wife the cast-off mistress of Silvion Guidel!”
XVIII.
THE blow had fallen at last, and with crushing effect.
“Oh, vile accusation!” cried the count, shaking his daugh-
ter from his arm. “Pauline! Speak! Is this true?”
Unsupported she stood, and feebly raised her hands, clasp-
ing them together as though in prayer; a strange, wild Smile
crossed her pale lips; such a smile as is sometimes seen on the
faces of the dying; but in her eyes—beautiful, passionate,
dark-blue eyes—the fatal confession of her misery was writ-
ten. No one looking upon her then could have doubted her.
guilt for an instant. In a single upward, despairing glance
she admitted everything; her lips moved, but not a sound
issued from them; then, all silently, as Snow slips in a feathery
weight from the bending branch of a tree, she fell prone, like
a broken flower. A tremulous murmur of compassion rippled
through the room; but nevertheless, every one hung back
from that insensible form—ay, every one!—for the Comtesse
de Charmilles had swooned in her chair, and it was more
comme il faut to minister to her, the blameless wife and re-
spectable matron, than to the wretched child whose disgrace
had been thus publicly proclaimed ! Every One hung back,
did I say? No-not every one; for while 1 stood gazing at the
scene, Savagely satisfied at the havoc I had wrought, IIeloise
St. Cyr sprung forward like an enraged pythoness, her whole
form quivering with Wrath and sorrow, and flinging herself on
hor knees beside her unconscious cousin, she lifted her partially
148 WORMWOOD.
from the ground, and held her to her breast with passionate
tenderness.
- “Láche l’” she cried, flashing her indignant eyes full upon
me, while the scornful word from her lips whippº me as with
a scourge. “Coward! Cruel, vile coward! Shame upon
you!—shame! Oh, what a fine boast of honor you can make
now, to think you have cast down this poor little life in the
dust and blighted it forever! A woman’s life too!—a life that
is powerless to do more than suffer the wrongs inflicted upon
it "by the wanton wickedness of men! Pauline! Pauline!
Look at me, darling! Look at Heloise, who loves thee—who
will never forsake thee—pauvre, pauvre petite / Leave her to
me!” she exclaimed, almost fiercely, as one of the younger
bride-maids, trembling and tearful, timidly came forward to
volunteer her assistance. “Leave her—desert her, as every
one will, now she is broken-hearted; it is the way of the world!
Why do you you wait here, Gaston Beauvais?” and her con-
temptuous glance fell so witheringly upon me that for the mo-
ment I was awed, and the hot frenzy of my brain seemed to
grow suddenly stilled. “You have done your premeditated
work—go! You have had vengeance for your wrong—enjoy
it! Had you been a true man you would have wreaked your
wrath on the chief actor in this tragedy—the murderer, not S
the victim!” She paused, white and breathless; then, seem-
ing to summon all her forces together, she continued, passion-
ately: “May your wickedness recoil on your own head! may
the ruin you have brought on others come down with tenfold
violence upon yourself! oh! may God punish you! He must
—He will—if Heaven holds any justice!” She paused again,
panting excitedly, and one of the lady guests here touched her
on the shoulder.
“Heloise! Heloise! Be calm—be calm!”
“Calm!'” she echoed, with a wild gesture. “How can I
be calm when Pauline may be dead! Dead!—and he—he has
killed her! Oh, Pauline, Pauline! my little darling! my
pretty one! Pauline!” And, breaking into Sobs and tears,
she kissed her cousin’s cold hands and death-like face again
and again.
Now to me, all this disorder and excitement presented itself
merely as a curious scene—quite stagey, in fact, like a “set ’’
from a romantic opera; I could have laughed aloud, after the
fashion of the murderess Gabrielle Bompard, when she was
shown the graphic police illustrations of her own crime—and
even as it was, I Smiled. I noticed several people looking at
me in amazed disgust; but what did I care for that? The
WORMWOOD, 149
*. -
merest soupçon of truth always disgusts Society. Meanwhile,
the assemblage had broken up in entire confusion—every one
was departing silently and almost as if by stealth. The civic
authorities had taken solemn and sympathizing leave of the
Comte de Charmilles, who sat rigidly erect in an arm-chair,
making no response whatever to anything that was said to
him; some one had been dispatched with a message to the
curé, M. Vaudron, to inform him that the ceremony was
broken off; the countess had been assisted to her apartment;
servants were now lifting the insensible figure of Pauline from
the ground, and amid it all, I stood quietly looking on, vague-
ly amused at the whole performance. It entertained me in a
sort of dim fashion to observe that I was now generally avoided
by those who had previously been eager to claim acquaintance
with me; the departing guests made me no Salutation, and I
appeared to be held in sudden and singular abhorrence. What
a droll world, I thought! Always prating about morality, and
yet when a man makes a bold stand for morality and publicly
deulares he will not marry a woman who is the victim of an
esclandre, he is looked upon as a heartless wretch and cruel
barbarian! Such a thing should be done quite quietly and
privately, whispers society. Indeed! Why? How are the
interests of “morality " to be served by hushing such matters
up among the exalted few? I was still musing on this, and
on human inconsistency generally, when my father touched
me on the arm. y *
“Come away from this house of affliction,” he said, sternly.
“Come away! Your presence here now is nothing but an
insult!”
How fierce the fine old man looked, to be sure! It occurred
to me as being rather odd that he should seem so indignant;
but I followed him mechanically. We were just about to leave
the house, when a servant ran after us with a card which she
put into my hands, departing instantly again without a word.
A challenge, I thought, derisively! Who was there in all that
fashionable crowd of men that would care to draw a sword in
- Pauline’s honor? No one, truly; for the card simply bore
the name of the Comte de Charmilles, with the following
words written across it in pencil: “I request that Monsieur
Gaston Beauvais will call upon me to-morrow before noon.”
I thrust it in my pocket, and walked after my father who had
preceded me, and who was now waiting impatiently for me
outside the great porte-cochère of the count’s residence, keep-
ing his head carefully turned away from the gaze of the vari-
ous owners of the departing carriages, in order that he might

150 WORMWOOD.
Aº
~sº
not be compelled to recognize them or talk with them of what
had just taken place. When I joined him, he marched on ,
stiffly and in perfect silence till we were well out of sight of
everybody; then he turned round upon me and gave vent to a
short, sharp oath, his eyes glittering and his lips trembling.
“Gaston, you have behaved like a villain! I would not
have believed that my son could have been capable of such a
coward’s vengeance!”
I looked at him, and shrugged my shoulders.
“You are excited, mon père / What have I done save
º: the truth, and, as the brave English say, shame the
Clevil?”
“The truth—the truth!” said my father, passionately.
“Is it the truth? and if it is, could it not have been told in a
less brutal fashion? You have acted like a fiend! not like a
man! If Silvion Guidel be a vile seducer, and that poor child
Pauline his credulous, ruined victim, could you not have dealt
with him and have spared her ? God! I would as soon wring
the neck of a bird that trusted me, as add any extra weight to
the sorrows of an already broken-hearted woman!”
Gallant old prewa, chevalier / He meant what he said, I
knew—and I-I had been wont to share his sentiments, not
so very long ago. But I said nothing in response to his out-
burst; I merely hummed the fragment of a tune under my
breath, my doing so causing him to stare at me in indignant
SUT I' () ISB.
P. suppose it is true?” he broke forth again. “It is not
a malicious trumped-up lie?”
“As I heard of it first from the lips of the lady concerned
in it, I have no reason to doubt its accuracy!” I murmured,
'Coldly.
6 6 fen you have known of it for some time?”
I bent my head assentingly.
“Then why not have spoken?”, he cried, wrathfully.
“Why not have told me? Why not have done everything—
anything, rather than proclaim the fact of the poor, miserable
little girl’s disgrace to all the world? Why, above all, did
you not challenge Guidel?”
“I was prepared to do so when he suddenly left for Brit-
tany,” I rejoined, tranquilly; “and once there, he knew how
to give my justice the slip; he has entered the priesthood!”
“By Heaven, so he has!” And my father struck his walk-
ing-stick heavily on the ground, “Miserable poltroon! sanc-
timonious young hypocrite!”
“I am glad,” I interrupted, Smiling slightly, “that you at
*
^ *
.N. * -
\, WORMWOOD. 15]
last send the current of your wrath in the right direction! It
is rather unjust of you to blame me in the affair—”
“ Parbleu / you are as much a villain as hel’’ exclaimed
‘my father, fiercely. “Both cowards! both selfishly bent on
the ruin of a pretty frail child too weak to resist your cruelty!
Fine sport, truly! Bah! I do not know which is the worst
scélérat of the two!”
I stopped in my walk and faced him.
“Are we to quarrel, sir?” I demanded, composedly.
“Yes, we are to quarrell” he retorted, hotly. “There is
something in my blood that rises at you! that sickens at you,
though you are my son! I do not excuse Guidel; I do not ex-
cuse Pauline; I do not say you could have married one who by
her own confession was dishonored; but I do say and swear
that in spite of all you could have comported yourself like an
honest lad, and not like a devil incarnate. Who set you up as
a judge of justice or morality? What man is there in the
world with such clean hands that he dare presume to condemn
the meanest creature living? I tell you plainly that, after
your conduct of to-day, the same house can not hold you and
D10 tºgether in peace! there is nothing for it but that we must
art, I’”
“As you please!” I answered, coldly. “But you will allow
me to remark that it is very curious and unreasonable of you
to find such fault with me for publicly refusing to marry one
who was certainly not fit to be your daughter, or to inhabit
the house where my mother died.”
“Don’t talk of your mother!” And such a sudden fury
lighted his eyes that I involuntarily recoiled. “She would
have been the first to condemn your behavior as cruel and un-
natural. She had pity, tenderness, and patience for every
suffering thing! She was an angel of grace and charity!
You can not have much of her nature; and truly you seem
now to have little of mine. Some strange demon seems to in-
habit your frame, and the generous, warm-hearted young fel-
low I knew as my son might be dead for aught I recognize of
him in you! I do not condemn you for refusing to marry
Pauline de Charmilles; I condemn you for the manner of your
refusal! Enough! I repeat, we must part—and the sooner
the better! I could not bear to meet the friends we know in
your company and think of the ruthless barbarity you have
displayed toward a fallen and utterly defenseless girl. You
had best leave Paris and take a twelvemonth’s sojourn in some
other land than this; I will place plenty of cash at your dis-
posal. It is impossible that you should stay on here after what
- º
2
/
/
2
A
152 WORMWOOD.
has occurred; mom Dieu !—a madman—a drunkard—a deliri-
ous absintheur might be capable of such useless ferocity; but
â man with all his senses about him—pah! it is the action of
a beast rather than of a rational, reasoning human being!”
I made no reply. The words “a delirious absintheur
might be capable of such useless ferocity,” reiterated them-
Selves over and over again in my ears, and caused me to smile.
Of course I might have gone on arguing the pros and cons of
my case ad infinitum, from the vantage-ground of that par-
ticular sort of moral justice I had chosen to take my stand
upon; but I was not in the humor for it; besides which, my .
father was too indignant to be argued with.
Arrived at our own house, our man-servant Dunois greeted
us with a surprised face, and the information that the curé,
M. Vaudron, “ looking very ill,” was waiting in the library.
There is no marriage?” he questioned, gazing at us open-
eyed.
“None, Dunois!” returned my father, sharply. “Made-
moiselle is not well: it is postponed!”
Oh, famous old courtier! He would tell a lie thus to his
own servant, just to shield a woman’s reputation a moment
longer! There are a good many men like him; I used to be
of a similar disposition till the “fairy with the green eyes”
taught me more worldly wisdom!
‘‘I will see poor Vaudron alone,” he said, addressing me
stiffly as Dunois retired. “His grief must be beyond expres-
sion, and he can dispense with more than one witness of it.”
I bowed, and ascended the staircase leisurely to my own
room. Once shut in there alone, I was seized with an uncon-
trollable fit of laughter. How absurd it all seemed! What a
triumph of bathos! To think of all those fine birds of Parisian
society flocking to See a grand Wedding, and coming in for a
great scandal instead! And the pride of the De Charmilles!
where was it now? Down in the dust! down, down like the
lilies of France, never to bloom white and untarnished again!
What a terrified fool the old count had looked when I made
my formal rejection! and as for Pauline—she was not Pau-
line!—she was a ghost!—a specter without feeling, voice, or
voluntary movement! All the life she had was in her eyes—
great reproachful blue eyes!—they haunted me like twin burn-
ing Sapphires hung in a vault of darkness!
Sitting listlessly in an arm-chair at my window, I looked
out, doing nothing, but simply thinking, and trying to dis-
entangle the thronging images that rose one after the other
with Sugh confusing haste in my brain. I wondered what my
Adº-
wormwood. 153
father and old Vaudron were talking about below. Me? Yes!
no doubt they were shaking their gray heads mournfully over
my strange waywardness. Smiling at the idea, I shut my
eyes, and straightway saw a wealth of green and gold and
amber flame—waves of color that seemed to rise heavingly to-
ward me, while faces, lovelier far than mortal 'ones, floated
forth and smiled at me in wise approval of all that I had done!
Opening my eyes again, I gazed into the street; the people
passed hither and thither, jingling trams ran by with their
human freight to and fro, the soft young foliage of the trees
shimmered in the bright Sun—it was the perfect ideal of a
marriage-day! And in my heart of hearts a wondrous wed-
lock was consummated—an indissoluble union with the fair,
wild absinthe-witch of my dreams! she and she alone should
be part of my flesh and blood from henceforth, I swore! why,
even the words of the marriage-ritual could be made to serve
our needs! “Those whom God hath joined let no man put
asunder!” God—or chance! They are both one and the
same thing—to the absintheur !
Watching the street with drowsy unintelligent eyes, I pres-
ently saw my father and M. Vaudron come out of the house
and cross the road together. The old curé’s head was bent;
he appeared to walk with difficulty, and he was evidently
more than half supported by my father’s stalwart arm. Re-
spectable old fellows both—with warm hearts and clear con-
sciences!—wonderful! It seemed so absurd to me that any
one should try to lead an uncorrupt life in such a corrupt
world! What was the use of it! Was there any possible end
but death to all this aggressive loving-kindness and charity
toward one’s f low-men? Yet a faint sense of admiration
stirred me, as 1 looked after the slowly retreating figures of
the two old friends; and a lingering regret just touched my
heart as with a pin’s prick to think that my father’s indigna-
tion should have made him resolve to send me from him so
suddenly. Not only was I sorry to lose his always agreeable
and intellectual companionship; I felt instinctively that when
I bade him farewell, I should also bid farewell to the last link
that held me to the rapidly vanishing shadow of honor.
Tired of the whirling confusion of my thoughts, I shut my
eyes once more, and allowed my senses to slip into the spectral
land of visions, and my brain-wanderings took me so far, that
when I started back to commonplace reality at last, I was in
total darkness. 1 had not been asleep—that I knew well
enough! but I had been actively dreaming, and the afternoon
was over. Night had descended upon me all unawares, and
2
A
154 WORMWOOD, / .”
suddenly seized with a nervous terror at the silence and ob-
sºurity of my room, I groped about for matches, trembling
like a leaf, and afraid of I knew not what. Not finding
what I sought, and unable to resist the fantastic horror of
myself that had stolen over me, I flung open the door wildly, -
and to my intense relief, admitted a flood of light from the
gas-lamps in the outer hall. Just as I did so, my father’s
voice cried suddenly:
“Gaston! Gaston!”
He had come back then, I mused hazily. What did he
want me for?—me, the “pariah '’ of Parisian society, rejected
because 1 had dared to make a woman’s vice public! My
mouth was parched and dry—I could not answer him im-
mediately. w w
“Gaston! Gaston!” he called for the second time, and
there was a sharp ring of pain in his tone.
Without reply, I descended the stairs, entered the library,
and there, to my amazement, came face to face with Heloise
St. Cyr. Pale, impassioned, wondrously beautiful in grief,
she stood beside my father whose face was full of grave and
pitying sympathy; great tears were in her eyes, and as soon as
she saw me she gave me no time to speak, but sprung forward,
extending her hands appealingly. *
“Oh, Monsieur Gaston, help me!” she cried, sobbingly.
“Help me, and I will forgive all your cruelty to #. Pauline!
only help me to find her! She has left us! she has gone, and
we know not where!”
XIX.
1 GAZED at her a moment in blank silence; then, remem-
bering that she, even she, was the same fair woman who had
but lately cursed me. I rallied my forces and smiled a little.
. “Gone!” I echoed. “Bien / I fail to see what difficulty
you can possibly have in tracing her, mademoiselle! She has
only fled to her lover!”
As I said this with freezing tranquillity, Heloise suddenly
gave way, and, breaking into smothered sobbing, hid her face
on my father’s arm.
“Oh, I hope,” she cried, º “1 hope God is more.
merciful than man! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?
My poor, poor Pauline! alone at night in Paris! such a little,
soft, timid thing! Oh, cruel, cruel! She would never go to
Silvion Guidel, now he has become a priest—never! and see—
see, Monsieur Beauvais, what she has written here *—and, ad-
*
WORMWOOD, 155
dressing herself to my father, she drew from her bosom a lit-
tle crumpled note and unfolded it, “I had left her,” she
sobbed, “ lying on her own bed, after we had carried her up-
stairs in her swoon, and when I came back after attending to
my aunt, who is very, very ill, she had gone! Her bridal dress
was thrown aside; she had not taken one of her jewels, and I
do not think she had any money. Only a little black dress
and cloak and hat were missing from her wardrobe, and this
letter I found on her table. In it she says *—here Heloise
tried to master her tears, and, steadying her voice, she read:
“‘Try to forgive me, darling Heloise; you are so good that
you will even pity those who are wicked. Never think of me
again except when you say your prayers; then ask God just
once to be kind to your little Pauline.’”
My father’s old eyes brimmed over; his heart was touched,
but not mine. I sat down leisurely, and looked on as uncon-
cernedly as a cynical critic looks on at a new play.
“Poor child—poor child!” murmured my father, huskily;
then he turned toward me. “Have you nothing to say, Gas-
ton? no suggestion to make?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Absolutely I am powerless in the matter,” I said, coldly.
“I am in a very peculiar position myself—a position which
neither you nor Mademoiselle St. Cyr seem at all to recognize.
I am a wronged man; yet I receive not the slightest-sympathy
for my wrong; all the compassion and anxiety being, oddly
enough, bestowed on the perpetrators of the injury done to
ſme. I confess, therefore, that I am not particularly inter-
ested in the present dénouement ſ”
Heloise looked straight at me, and then, suddenly approach- ,
- ing me, laid her hand on my arm.
“After all, did you never love Pauline?” she asked.
At this question my blood rose to fever-heat, and I spoke,
Scarcely knowing what I was saying.
“Love her!” I cried. “I loved her with such a passion as
she never knew' I hallowed her with a worship such as she
never dreamed of] She was everything to me—life, soul,
hope, Salvation!—and you ask me if I loved her! Oh, foolish
woman! you can not measure the love I had for her! such
love that once betrayed, must and ever will, turn to loathing
for its betrayer!”
My father looked startled at this sudden outburst of feeling
on my part—but Heloise did not flinch. Her gray eyes shone
upon me through the mist of tears as steadfastly as stars.
“Such love is not love at all!” she said, sº It is selfish-
f
|56 WORM WOOD,
ness: no more. The injury done to you appears all para-
mount; you have no thought, no pity for the injury done to
her. The world is still open to you; but on her it is shut for-
ever. ) ou may sin as she has sinned, without even the plea
of an overwhelming passion to excuse you, and society will
not turn its back on you. But it will scorn her for the evil it
endures in you and in all men. Such is humanity’s scant
justice! If you had ever loved her truly, you would have for-
gotten your own wrong in her misery; you would have raised
her up, not crushed her down lower than she already was;
you would have saved her, not destroyed her! I warned you
long ago that she was a creature of impulse, too young and too
inexperienced to be certain of her own mind in the perplexities
of love or marriage; but you paid no heed to my warning.
And now, she is ruined—desolate!—a mere child cast out on
the cruel wilderness of Paris all alone; think of it, Gaston
Beauvais!—think of it! and take comfort in the thought that
you have had your miserable revenge to the uttermost end of
man’s cowardice!”
Every word fell from her lips with a quiet decisiveness that
stung me in spite of my enforced calm; but I restrained my-
self, and when she had finished speaking, I simply bowed and
Smiled.
“Your brave and eloquent words, mademoiselle, make me
regret that I was so unwise as to love your cousin instead of
yourself! It was a serious mistake! for both of us, perhaps!”
She drew back—the color flushing proudly to her cheeks—
and her look of indignation, Surprise, reproach, and anguish
dazzled and confounded me for an instant. What chance
arrow had sped to its mark now? I wondered, vaguely; I had
nigh insulted her by my remark, and yet grief expressed itself
in her eyes more than anger. Had she ever cared for me?
Not possible! she had always mistrusted me—and now she
hated me. With Supreme disdain, she turned from me to my
father.
“I must go home now, Monsieur Beauvais,” she said,
quietly and with dignity; “I have come here on a useless
errand, I see. Will you take me to the carriage? it is in wait-
ing. My uncle does not yet know of Pauline’s flight; we are
afraid to tell him; and we thought—my aunt and 1–that per-
haps you might help us to some clew—” She hesitated, and
nearly broke down again.
“My dear girl,” returned my father, hastily offering her
his arm in obedience to her mute sign, “be certain that if I
hear the slightest rumor that may lead you on the right track,
WORMWOOD. 15?
you shall know it at once. I will make every possible private
inquiry; alas, alas! what an unfortunate day it was for every-
body when that nephew of my poor old friend Vaudron came
to Paris! Who would have thought it? Vaudron is broken-
hearted; he would as soon have believed in an angel turning
traitor, as that his favorite Silvion would have been guilty of
such deception and cruelty. But whatever his grief, I know
he will assist us in the search for Pauline; that you may be
sure of. Try, try to take comfort, my dear; you must not
give way. There is always the hope that the poor child may
be terrified at her sudden loneliness, and may write to you
and tell you where she is.”
Thus talking, he led her out of the room; she passed me
without acknowledging my presence by the slightest gesture
of farewell; and I waited, sitting near the table and turning
over the newspapers, till I heard the carriage drive away, and
my father’s returning steps echoed slowly along the hall. He
entered the room, sat down, and was silent for many minutes.
I felt that he was looking at me intently. Presently he said,
with some sharpness:
‘‘ Gaston!”
6 & Sir?”
“Are you satisfied with the evil you have done?”
I smiled.
“Really, mon père, you talk as if I were the only criminal
in the matter. There are others—”
“And they are punished,” he declared, passionately.
“Punished more bitterly than most people are for their mis-
deeds; and the heaviest punishment has fallen on the weakest
offender, thanks to you! As for Silvion Guidel, you may de-
pend upon it, he is a prey to the deepest remorse and misery.”
“You think so?” I queried, languidly, without raising my
eyes. “Now I should fancy he finds quite sufficient atone-
ment for his sins in the muttering of an ‘Ave 'or a ‘Pater-
noster.”” ¥
“I tell you he suffers 1” and my father struck his hand
emphatically on the table; “I have studied his nature, and I
know he has the scholar’s mind—the subtle and self-torment-
ing disposition which is always a curse to its owner! He has
behaved like a coward and a villain, and he knows it! But
you—you also have behaved like a coward and a villain, and
you do not seem to know it!”
“No! you are right;” I responded, calmly. “I do not!”
“Dieu / Have you no heari”
“None!” and I fixed my eyes quietly upon him. “How
158 WORMWOOD,
should you expect it? I gave what heart 1 had to my be-
trothed wife, and she has killed it. It is stone dead! I forget
that it ever existed! Pray do not let us talk any more of the
matter, mon père; I am perfectly content to leave Paris for a
time, as you suggest--indeed, I think the plan an admirable
one. It will certainly be best that I should remove my pres-
ence from you, and from all to whom I have suddenly become
obnoxious. But, before we part, I will ask you to remember,
first—that I have never willfully, through all my life, given
you a moment’s cause for pain or reproach, and secondly, that,
in this rupture of a marriage which was to have been the com-
pletion of life’s happiness for me, I am guiltless of anything
Save a desire to wreak just punishment on the betrayers of
my honor. Thirdly, that the only offense you can charge
against me is, a Want of sympathy with a dishonored woman,
who has not only confessed, but almost glories in her dis-
honor!”
With that I saluted him profoundly and left him to his own
reflections. I had shown no heat; I had displayed no temper;
I had stated my case with the coolest logic—the logic of an
absintheur ! But once up again in the solitude of my own
room with the door shut fast, I laughed aloud and bitterly at
the persistent and ridiculous wrongsidedness with which every-
body insisted on viewing the whole affair. All the pity was
for Pauline! and yet people would go on prating about “mo-
rality!” Judged strictly, Pauline de Charmilles had not a shad-
ow of defense on her side; but because she was young, beauti-
ful, and a woman, her fate excited sympathy. Had she been
ugly and misshapen, she might have been Scourged and driven
from pillar to post till she died of sheer exhaustion for aught
any one would have cared! We are most of us ruled by the
flesh and the devil; and very few of us have any real con-
ception of justice.
But do not imagine, good friends, that I, a confirmed
drinker of absinthe, want to be moral. Not I' I should win
scanty attention from some of you if I did. I only observe to
you, en passant, that, considering how the barriers between
vice and virtue are being fast broken down in all great “civ-
ilized ” countries; how, even in eminently virtuous and re-
spectable Albion, women of known disreputable character
are allowed to enter and mix with the highest aristocratic cir-
cles—and how it will most probably soon be necessary to estab-
lish in church-going London and under the very nose of good
Mrs. Grundy, a recognized demi-monde after the fashion of
my dear Paris—in the face of all these facts, 1 Say, Surely it is
WORMWOOD, 159
-**
*
time to leave off sermonizing about dull household virtues! an
age of Realism and Zola has no time for them. But whatever
you may think of my opinions—opinions born of blessed ab-
sinthe—sit in judgment on yourselves, my readers, before you
venture to judge me ! Believe me, I used, like many other
young men, to have my ideals of greatness and goodness; the
beautiful, the mystical, the impersonal and sublime had at-
tractions for my spirit; but the wise “green fairy ‘’ has cured
me of this unworldly foolishness. Formerly, I loved to read
noble poetry; I could lose myself in inward communion with
the divine spirit of Plato, and other thinkers grand and true
as he—but, now!—now, I grin in company with the “edu-
cated * masses over the indecent wit of the cheap Paris press;
now like “un vrai absintheur'? I enjoy a sneer at virtue;
now, like many of my class who wish to “go with the time,”
1 fling a stone or a handful of mud at any one presuming to
live a cleaner and greater life than his fellows. I am one of
your “newer’’ generation, you poor old world! the genera-
tion under which you groan as you roll silently on in your
fate-appointed orbit; the generation of brute-Selfishness, lit-
tleness, and godlessness; the generation of the finite Ego op-
osed to the infinite Eternities! I please myself in the way I
ive; I am answerable to none other. And you, dear reader,
whose languid eyes rest carelessly on this printed page—entre
70tus Soit dit 1–do not you follow the same wise rule? Is not
your every thought, idea, and plan, however much it may at
first seem for the benefit of others, really for your own ulti-
mate interest and good? Of course! Excellent! Let us then
metaphorically shake hands upon our declared brotherhood;
for though you may be, and no doubt are, highly respectable,
while I am all together disreputable—though you may be
everything that Society approves, while I am an absinthe-drink-
ing outcast from polite life, a skulking pariah of the slums
and back streets of Paris, we are both at one—yes, my dear
friend, l assure you—entirely at one! in the worship of Self!
XX.
NEXT day I remembered I had a visit to make. The Comte
de Charmilles expected me to call upon him before noon. I
meant to go, of course; I had no wish to disappoint him. I
was prepared for a stormy scene with him; I could already
picture the haughty old aristocrat’s wounded pride and indig-
nation at the dishonor brought on his name; but I could not
quite imagine what he would be likely to say. Certes, he

2% WORMIWOOD,
could not excuse his daughter or her partner in iniquity; he
might pour out his wrath upon me for making the affair pub-
lic to all his friends and acquaintance, but that would be the
utmost he could do. I determined to hear him out with the
utmost patience and courtesy—my quarrel was not with him
—he had never given me offense, save by his stupid royalist
tendencies and bigoted Catholicism; and it was quite enough
for me, a nineteenth-century republican, to have lowered his
pride and broken it; I wanted nothing more so far as he was
concerned. Before starting on my ceremonious errand, I
packed a few clothes and other necessaries in my portmanteau
ready for immediate departure from home, and this done, I
went in search of my father. He was just preparing to leave
the house for his usual duties at the bank, and he looked
fagged and wearied. He lifted his eyes and regarded me
steadily as I approached him; his lips quivered, and, sudden-
ly laying his hand on my shoulder, he said:
“Gaston, it goes to my old heart to part with you—for I
love you. But something has imbittered and crossed your
once sweet and generous nature; and though I have thought
about it anxiously all night, I have still come to the same con-
clusion, namely, that it will be best for us both that we should
separate for a time, especially under the unhappy circum-
stances that have just taken place. The whole position is too
painful for everybody concerned. And I am quite ready to
admit that the suffering you have personally undergone has
been, and is, of a nature to chafe and exasperate your feelings.
Change of scene and different surroundings will do much for
you, mon garçon—and this miserable esclandre will possibly
die out during your absence. Choose your own time for
oing—” W
& 4 ; have chosen it ’’—I interrupted him quietly—“I shall
leave you to-day.”
An expression of sharp pain contracted his fine old features
for a moment, then apparently rallying his self-possession, he
returned:
“Soit / It is perhaps best. You will find a note from me
in your desk in the library; I have thought it wisest to give
you at once a round sum sufficient for present needs. Your
share in the bank as my partner naturally continues, and
shall be religiously set aside for your use on your return. I
do not know whether you have any idea of a destination; I
should suggest your visiting England for a time.”
I smiled.
“Thanks! I am too truly French in my sympathies io
\
... --> " …?” *- vºw tº - - ---
& -*. * * *Y. - _r r --- -
• * * - *. * - --~~ .
* - - - - - WORMWOOD. 16f
*-
- care for the British climate. No-if, like a mew Cain, I am
to be a vagabond on the face of the earth, I will wander as far
as my fancy takes me; Africa, par ea ample, presents boundless
- forests, where, if one chose, one could almost lose one’s very
- identity.” *
My father’s eyes flashed a keen and Sorrowful reproach into
IIll Ilê.
“Mon fils, why speak so bitterly? Is it necessary to add an
extra pang to my grief?”
A sudden impulse moved me to softer emotion; taking his
hand 1 kissed it respectfully.
“Mon père, I regret beyond all words that I am unhappily
the cause of any distress to you. We part; and it is no doubt
advisable, as you say, that we should do so, for a time; but in
bidding you farewell I will ask you to think of me at my best,
~ and to believe that there is no man in all the World whom I
admire and honor more than yourself. Sentiment between
men is ridiculous I know, but—” I kissed his hand once
more, and I felt his fingers tremble as they clung for a mo-
ment to mine.
“God bless thee, Gaston,” he murmured. “And—stay—
let me have time to think again. Do not leave Paris yet—
wait till to-morrow.” ---
I made a half sign of assent, but uttered no promise; and
watched him with a curious forsaken feeling, as with a kindly
yet wistful last look at me, he left the house and walked
rapidly along on his usual way to business. Should I ever
dwell with him again in the old frank familiarity of inter-
course that had made us more like comrades than father and
son? I doubted it. My life was changed; my road lay down
a dark side-turning; his continued fair and open, with the full
sunshine of honor lighting it to the-end.
Entering the library, I looked in my desk for the packet my
father had mentioned, and found it—a bulky envelope con-
taining French notes to the amount of what would be about
five hundred pounds in English money. I took possession of
these, and then wrote a note to my father, thanking him for
his generosity, and bidding him farewell, while, to Satisfy him
as to my destination, l added that it was my immediate in-
tention to visit Italy. A lie, of course—I had no such inten-
tion; I never meant to leave Paris, but of this hereafter. I
then finished my packing and other preparations, and went out,
of the dear old house at Neuilly with scarce a regret, not real-
izing, as I afterward realized, that I should never, never entor
it again. -
162 * WORMWOOD."
Hailing a passing carriage I bade the driver take me to the
Gare de l’Est. Our man-servant Dunois, who put my port-
manteau into the vehicle and watched my departure more or
less curiously, heard me give this order, which was precisely
what I wanted. I knew he would repeat it to my father, who
by this means would receive the impression that I had carried
out my written intention, and departed for Italy by the Lu-
Gerne and Chiasso route to Milan, Arrived at the Gare, I put
my portmanteau in charge of the official to whom such bag-
gage is consigned for Safe keeping, and then I leisurely pro-
ceeded to retrace my route on foot, till I reached the residence
of the Comte de Charmilles. The very outside of the great
house looked dreary; some of the blinds were down; there was
a deserted, melancholy aspect about it that was doubly strik- .
ing in comparison with the glitter and brilliancy that had sur-
rounded it on the previous day. The maid who opened the
door to me looked scared and miserable as though she had
been up all night, and, murmuring under her breath and with
averted eyes that her Inaster had been expecting me for some
time, she showed me into the count’s private study and an-
hounced me by name. The count himself was sitting in his
arm-chair, his back turned toward me, his figure rigidly erect,
and he gave no sign of having heard my entrance.
The servant departed noiselessly, closing the door behind
her; and I stood irresolute, waiting for him to speak. But he
uttered not a word. All at Once my eyes lighted on a case of
pistols open on the table. From the position and appearance
of the weapons, I saw they were loaded and ready for use.
The situation flashed upon rae in an instant, and I smiled with
some contempt as I realized it. This foolish old man, this
withering stump of ancient French chivalry, had actually re-
solved to fight out the question of his daughter’s honor with
me, face to face. Was ever such a mad Scheme! What a
Don Quixote of a father, to be sure! If he had taken up arms
for a stage mistress now, if he had risen in eager defense of
some coarse painted dancing-woman, whose nearly nude body
was on view to the public for so many francs per night, one
would not have blamed him or thought him ridiculous—no,
not in Paris. But to think of fighting a duel for merely a
daughter’s reputation—Dieu ! it was a freak worthy of laugh-
ter. Yet there was a touch of the romantic and 'pathetic about
it that moved me in spite of myself, though of course I deter-
mined to refuse his challenge. I did not want to shed the
blood of that old white-haired man. But suppose he still
persisted? Well, then I must defend myself; and if I killed
/

- WORMWOOD, ..N
.*
Jam here
him, it would be unfortunate, but it could not be helped.
The idea of his dispatching me never entered my head. There
was something in me—ot so I imagined—that could not be
killed—not yet. t z
Meanwhile the object of my musings remained immovably
silent, and I began rather to wonder at such obstinate tacitur-
nity. His indomitable pride had met with a terrific fall, I re-
flected; probably he found it difficult to begin the conversa-
tion. I advanced a little.
“Monsieur de Charmilles! You bade me come to you, and
122
He made no answer. His left hand, thin and wrinkled,
rested on the carved oak arm of the chair, and I thought I
saw it tremble ever so slightly. Was his rage so great that it
had rendered him absolutely speechless? I moved a few steps
Ilêarðr.
“Monsieur de Charmilles,” I repeated, raising my voice a
little, “I am here—Gaston Beauvais. Have you anything to
say to me?”
No answer. A vagué awe seized me, and instinctively hush-
ing my footsteps, I approached and ventured to touch the
fingers that were lightly closed round the arm of the chair;
they were warm, but they did not move; only the diamond
signet on the third finger glittered coldly like a wintery star.
“Monsieur de Charmilles!” I said, loudly, once more;
then, mastering the curious sensation of terror that held me
momentarily inert and uncertain what to do, I went resolutely
forward and round, so that I could look him full in the face.
As I did so I recoiled with an involuntary exclamation; the
old man’s features were rigid and bloodless; the eyes were
wide open, fixed and glassy, though they appeared to stare at
me with an expression of calm and freezing disdain; the lips
were parted in a stern smile, and the fine white hair was
slightly roughened about the forehead as though a hand had
been lately pressed there to still some throbbing ache. A
frozen figure of old-world dignity he sat, surveying me—or so
it seemed—in speechless but majestic scorn; while I, for one
amazed, breathless moment stood confronting him, overpow-
ered by the cold solemnity and grandeur of his aspect. Then
—all suddenly—the set jaw dropped; the ghastly look of
Death darkened the erstwhile tranquil countenance; and my
awe gave way to the wildest nervous horror. Springing to the
bell I rang it violently and incessantly; the servants flocked
in, and in a few seconds the room was a scene of confusion
and lamentation. As in a dream I saw the Comtesse de
-->
- ** --~~~~ *-* *-** * - ? -> **
-- ** *. -ºr
*-*. * > * ~ * a. * ** ~
-- ,” ºr wº *, *, * ~~
164 wofMwooD. * - - - - - -
Charmilles feebly totter in and distractedly fall on her knees,
... by her husband’s passive form; I saw Heloise busying herself
in chafing her uncle’s yet warm hands; I heard the sound of
convulsive sobbing; and then I begane dimly aware of a phy-
sician’s presence, and of the sudden hush of suspense follow- .
ing his arrival. A brief examination sufficed; the words, “1.
est mort ſ” though uttered in the lowest whisper, reached the
ears of the desolate countess, who, with a long shuddering wail.
of agony, sunk senseless at the dead man’s feet. It was all
over; some little vessel in the heart had snapped—some little
subtle cord in the brain had given way under the pressure of
strong indignation, grief, and excitement, and the proud old
aristocrat had gone to that equalizing dust where there is
neither pride nor shame. He was dead—and some narrow-
minded fools may consider, if they like, that I killed him.
But how? What crime had Î committed? None. I had
merely made a stand for moral law in social life. My career
was stainless Save for the green trail of the absinthe-slime which
no one Saw. And Society never blames vice that does not
publicly offend. Pauline was the sinner—little, child-like,
blue-eyed Pauline—and I took a sort of grim and awful pleas-
ure in regarding her as a parricide. Why, because she had a .
sweet face, a slim form and a bright smile, should she escape ‘’
from the results of her own treachery, and crime?. I could not
see it then—and I can not see it even now. No dhe can make
me responsible for the old count’s death—no one, I say—
though at times his white, still, majestic face confronts me
in the darkness with a speechless reproach and undying chal-
lenge. But I know it is only a phantasm, and I quickly take
refuge in the truth as declared by the fashionable world of
2 Paris when his death became generally known—namely, that
his daughter’s dishonor (not my proclamation of it, observe),
had broken his heart; and that even so, broken-hearted for
her Sake, he died. ..~~~
sº-º-º-º-º-º-º:
*
XXI.
FROM this period I may begin to date my rapid downward
career—a career that however disreputable and strange it may
seem to those who elect to be virtuous and self-controlled, has
brought to me personally the wildest and most unpurchasable
varieties of pleasure. Pleasure, such as a forest-savage
may know when the absolute freedom of air, woodland,
and water, is his; when no laws bind him, and when he has no
one to whom he is bound to account for his actions. I hate
º
•
--


* -- . * * . . . . . -- . . . A* -- - r”.
º-º- ~ : WroRMWOOD. 165 N
your smug, hypocritical civilization, good world. I would
- rather be what I am than play the double part your rules of
life enjoin. I am an alien from all respectability; what then?
Respectability is generally dull. And I am never dull; my
absinthe-witch takes care of that. Her kaleidoscope of vision
Is exhaustless; and though of late she has shown me the same
sights somewhat too often, I am, perchance, the most to
blame for this—the tenacity of my own brain holding fast to
certain images that it would be best to forget. This is the
fauſt of my constitution—a tendency to remember—I can not
forget, if I would, and whereas on some temperaments the
emerald nectar bestows oblivion, on mine it sharpens and in-
tensifies memory. Nevertheless, the feverish excitation of
leasure never dies out, and my disposition is such that I am
able to brood on things that would appall most men with the
keenest and most appreciative delight. It is not perhaps
agreeable, is it, to peaceable and right-minded people to dwell
gloatingly on the harrowing details of a murder, for instance?
To me, however, it is not only agreeable, but absolutely fasci-
nating; and I have merely to shut my eyes to see—what?
Water glimmering in the moonlight, trees waving in the wind,
- and a face upturned to the quiet skies drifting steadily and
helplessly down stream; but stop! I must not brood too ten-
derly upon this picture yet—though it is difficult to me some-
times to keep my thoughts in sequence. No “absintheur *
can be always coherent; it is too much to expect of the green
fairy’s votaries.
Well! the Comte de Charmilles was dead, and a whole fort-
night had elapsed since his funeral had wound its solemn black
length through the streets of Paris to Père-le-Chaise, where
the family vault had opened its stone jaws to receive the mor-
tal remains of him who was the last male heir of his race. His
great house was shut up as a house of mourning; the widowed
countess and her niece Heloise dwelt there together, so I
learned, in melancholy solitude, denying themselves to all vis-
itors. Under any other circumstances they would most proba-
bly have left the city, and sought in change of Scene a relaxa-
tion from grief; but I knew why they remained immured in
their desolate town mansion—simply in the hope that now,
having nothing to fear from the wrath of her father, the lost
Pauline might return to her home.
And l—I also was still in Paris. As I said before, I had
never for a moment intended to leave it. I had formed cer- ***
tain plans of my own respecting the wild new mode of life I
purposed to follow, and these plans I was able to carry out
*-* --- -
P. º . . wORMwooD. *~
with entire success. I took a small apartment in an obscure
hotel, under an assumed name, and in my daily and nightly
rambles I carefully kept to the back streets, partly to avoid a
- Ghance meeting with any of my acquaintance, and partly under
the impression that in one of these poorer quarters of Paris I
should find Pauline. I had no idea what I should do if I really
did happen to discover her whereabouts—part of the quality
of one in my condition of absinthism is that he can not abso-
lutely decide anything too long beforehand. When the time
for decision comes, he acts as suddenly as a wild beast springs
—on impulse—needless to add that the impulse is always more
or less evil. -
A fortnight is not a long time, is it? save to children and
parted lovers, yet it had sufficed me to make deadly progress
in my self-chosen method of enjoying existence; so much so,
in fact, that nothing in the world seemed to me of real im-
portance provided absinthe never failed. I think, at this par-
ticular juncture, that if any one possessing the power to deny
me the full complement of the nectar which was now as neces-
sary to me as the blood in my veins, had denied it, I should
have killed him on the spot without a moment’s compunction.
But fortunately, absinthe is obtainable everywhere in Paris—
it is not a costly luxury either—and I soon became familiar
with the different haunts where the most potent forms of it
were obtainable. It must of course be understood by the in-
quisitive reader, that the effects of this divine cordial are
different on different temperaments. On the densely stupid
brain it can only render the stupefaction more complete. The
habitual Chinese opium-eater, for example, gets no dreams
out of his drug, his own mind being too slow and sluggish for
the creation of any sort of vision. But, put a quick-witted
Frenchman or Italian in an Oriental opium-den, and, the
poison-fumes will invoke for him a crowd of phantom images,
horrible or beautiful, according to the tendency of his thoughts.
So with absinthe. Only that absinthe differs from opium in
this respect, namely that it has not only one, but three distinct
gradations of action. Imagine, for the sake of metaphor, the
brain to be a musical instrument, well strung and in perfect
tune—absinthe first deadens the vibrating power, then, one by
one, reverses the harmonies, and finally completely alters the
very nature of the sounds. Music can still be drawn from it;
but it is a different music to what it erstwhile was capable of.
On the active brain, its effect is to quicken the activity to
feverishness, while hurling it through new and extraordinary
channels of thought; on a slow brain it quenches whatever
2"
wormwood. N
feeble glimmer of intelligence previously existed there, the re-
sult in such a case being frequently cureless idiocy. But what
does this matter? Its charm is irresistible for both wit and
fool; and in this age, when to follow our own immediate de-
sires is the only accepted gospel—the gospel of Paris at least,
if of no other city—s absinthe is to many, as to me, the chief
necessity of life. Because, however uncertain in its other
phases it may prove, it can be absolutely relied upon to kill
Conscience.
I lived on from day to day in my hidden retirement, perfect-
ly contented with my lot, and doing nothing whatever but
dreamily wander about the by-ways 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 rea-
son, the impulse of search continued; and every woman of
youthful and shrinking appearance I met came in for my close
ańd eager scrutiny. Once or twice in my Ionely walks I saw
Heloise 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 mere-
ly the shadow of my father’s figure silhouetted by the lamp-
light 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 re-
gretted 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 reinvigorate
my forces with the absinthe-fire that I fully believed was the
only thing that kept me alive; but whén 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
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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 care-worn; 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
.* i. I pressed my hand heavily over my eyes to still their "
urning ache; and turning from the house, I looked down on
the dark asphalt pavement at my feet. There were those lit-
tle fickering 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 they 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 sung, 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 toward 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 honor; 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 favorite 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 per-
fectly 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 real-
istic 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 1 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 mus-
ings, 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 shin-
ing 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 semicircle 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 ačrial 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 marvelous 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 believe one’s self miles away from
any city. Often and often I had wandered hither in my boy-
hood, reading some favorite book or giving myself up to pleas-
ant day-dreaming 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
* A case of this kind happened near Paris last year.
As
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P. * WORMWOOD,
house that I could see; the moonbeams 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 toward 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 arid rest seemed
all for me, and for me alone.
Orice 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 neighboring
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 bees round the various ideas of religion and wor-
ship 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 serv-
ice; how, in every church, in every form of creed, men,
preaching one thing and openly practicing another, offered
themselves as “Christian examples” forsooth! to their less pro-
fessing 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, relig- ||
ion 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 serv-
ants 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
* *

*... WORMWOOD. y 17 N
- to end in a swoon, I moved unsteadily, feeling my way as
though I were blind, down toward the river’s brink. I had
an idea that I would rest there awhile on the cool grass till I
recovered; and I went toward 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 alto-
gether; I bent aside the branches, and slipped between the
closely set and intertwisted truñks in order to gain as speedily
as possible the spot I sought, when, as though I had received
a paralyzing electric shock, l 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 sprung furiously for-
ward, 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
toward me as I came. - *.
“You—you!” I whispered, hoarsely, for rage choked my
voice. “You here! You-Silvion Guidell”
|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.”
--- *- - rº- * * * <&
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172 . WORMWOOD. - - - ,
“You know she is not!” I retorted. “How do you know? -
I tell you she is dead! dead to every one that honored 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 clinched themselves involuntarily till the nails
dug into my flesh.
“Láche I’’ 1 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 wise.
“Do not say that, Gaston Beauvais!” he muttered, fierce-
‘ly, 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 pas-
sionate 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 miné
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 luster; 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 P.
ing 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
1 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. * -
*
** * *
* * ~. * * *.
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* “Where isshe?” he again demanded.
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** On the streets of Paris!” I answered, sneeringly.
- “My God!” and he sprung toward me. “Her father—”
“Is dead and buried. What next? Ask! I shall not --
scruple to tell you the result of your work, Silvion Guide!! 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 utter 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.
..º
“What can you do?” I exclaimed. “Nothing! You are
too late! You talk of reparation—what reparation is possible
7,070 ? 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 ref,
uge of the priesthood like a beaten curl 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 feign-
ing? Listen! Pauline de Charmilles confessed her shame to
me in Secret; I proclaimed it in public. I do not love dis-
honor; I set no value on flawed jewels. I rejected her!—
mark you that, Silvion Guidel, 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
Game 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 molder-
ing in his grave!”
His eyes flashed forth a fierce and unutferable Scorn.
“I see worse than that,” he answered, passionately. l
See—oh, God!—I see what 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;

^*. e
.*
2’,
*~ $ • * *
174: worMwood.
“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 1 stood, and
a strange Smile curved his lips.
“Why do you not kill me?” he said, with an inviting gest-
ure. “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.
“Why did you become a priest?” I asked. §
He sighed. - *
“Because I was compelled,” he answered, wearily. “Of
course you will not believe me. But you do not understand
—and it would take too long to explain. I could not help
myself; circumstance is often stronger than will. I strove
against it—all in vain! you are right enough when you speak
of church tyranny. The Church is a tyrant—none crueler,
more absolute, or more lacking in Christian charity; its velvet
glove covers a merciless hand of iron. Once made a priest, I
was sent on to Rome; and there, under pretense of special
favor and protection, I was kept in close attendance on cardi-
nals and m0nsign0pi; 1 prayed for news from home; none
ever reached me, till, tired of waiting, I came away by stealth
and traveled straight to Paris; I only arrived to-day.”
“And why are you here?” I demanded, indicating by a
gesture the surrounding woodland and rippling water.
“‘Why?” he sighed again, and looked upward to the peace-
ful sky above him. “Because here the heavens Smiled upon
the only happiness I ever knew! Love, the natural claim and
heritage of man—this was bestowed upon me here; here I
won the tender birthright of my blood—a birthright which
priestly usage would have defrauded me of] I came here too
because I dared not go elsewhere; for, though I was ignorant
of all you have told me, I avoided my uncle’s house—I know
not why—save that I felt I could not bear to enter it—now!”
I remained silenſ, watching him.
“Here was our secret trysting-plaee!” he went on,
dreamily. “Here under these trees, beloved for her sake,
Pauline has wandered with me, her sweet eyes speaking what
her lips were afraid to utter—her little hand in mine—her
head resting on my heart! Here We two have tasted the
z A = -ºr "
WORMWOOD. . -N
divinest joy that life can ever give, or death take away—joy
that you have never known, Gaston Beauvais!—rio; for my
darling never loved you! Your touch-never wakened in her
one responsive throb of passion; she loved me, and me alone!
Ay! even if you had married her, and if my faults were ten
thousand times greater than they are, she would still love me
faithfully to the end!”
Here was specious “French * reasoning with a vengeance!
I thought I must have gone mad with fury as I saw the ex-
pression of Serene triumph on that pale poet-face, fair as an
angel’s in the radiance of the moon.
“You boast of that?” I said, hoarsely. “You dare to
boast of that?”
He smiled victoriously.
“Even so. 1 boast of that. It is something to be proud
of, to have been loved truly, once!”
My hands clinched.
“Will you seek her out?” I asked, breathlessly.
“I will!”
“When?”
** To-morrow.”
“To-night is not ended!” I muttered, edging a little,
nearer to him still, and trying to keep my thoughts steady in
the surging tumult of hissing and whispering noises that,
buzzed in my brain. “And—if you find her—what then?”
“What then?” and with a reckless gesture of mingled defi-
ance and passion, he lifted his eyes once more to the observant
stars. “Why, then it may be that 1 shall condemn my soul
to hell for her sake. I shall, if the Church is the voice of
God! But, should it chance, as I have thought, that God is
something infinitely more supreme than any Church—more
great, more loving, more tenderly wise and pitiful than can be
imagined by His subject-Greature man—I doubt not, if this be
true, that when I rescue and comfort the woman I have
wronged as only love can comfort her—when I kneel at her
feet and ask her pardon for the evil 1 have wrought; even
thus shall I make my surest peace with Heaven!”
Canting hypocrite! vile traducer! worse in my sight than
ever for his braggart pretense of piety! Quick as a lightning
flash the suppressed ferocity of my soul broke forth—and
without warning or premeditation I threw myself Savagely
upon him. §
“Best make peace with it now!” I cried. “For, by God!
it is your last chance!”
For one panting second we stared into each other’s eyes,

176 wormwooD.
our faces almost touching, our very breaths commingling;
then, yielding to the natural impulse of Self-defense, he closed
with me and fought strenuously for life. He was light, agile
and muscular, and would have proved a powerful opponent to
most men; but his strength was as nothing to the Superhuman
force that possessed me—the force of twenty devils as it were,
brought into opposition against this one struggling existence.
Wild voices sung, shouted, and yelled in my ears, “Kill!
Kill! Kill him!” Circles of fire swam before me, and once,
as he swerved back from my grasp and nearly fell, I laughed
aloud—laughed, as I sprung at him anew, and shook him furi-
ously to and fro as a wild beast shakes its prey. Closing with
me again, he managed to seize my arms in such wise thał for ,
the moment 1 was rendered powerless; and once more his
great, dark eyes flamed into mine.
“Are you mad, Gaston Beauvais?” he gasped. “Do you
want to murder me?”
As he spoke, my rapid glance traveled upward to his neck
which showed itself bare and white just above the close-set,
priestly band of his black habit; I saw where I could win my
fearful victory! I made a pretense of falling beneath his hold,
and involuntarily his grasp relaxed; in one breath of time I
had wrenched myself free, in another my two hands were
closed fast on that smooth, full, tempting throat, gripping it
hard as a wise of steel! . . . Tighter! tighter! and the fair
face above me grew dark and convulsed; the flashing gray-
black eyes started horribly from their sockets! tighter still!
one desperate choking struggle more, and he fell prone on the
sward, I falling upon him, so that the deadly clutch of my
fingers never relaxed for a second. Once down, my murder-
ous task was easier; my wrists had more power, and F pressed
all my weight upon the swelled and throbbing arteries beneath
my relentless hands. Those eyes! how they glared at me!
| wide open and awfully protruding! Would the cursed life in
them never be quenched?
“Die! die!” I muttered, fiercely, under my breath. ‘ God!
That it should take so long to kill a man!”
Suddenly a great shudder shook the limbs over whºch I
crouched brute-like and watchful; those pulsing veins bereath
my fingers stopped; the head fell further back; the lips
parted, showing a glimmer of pearly teeth within, in the
ghastly somblance of a smile; and then—then came silence!
Silence! horror! What now? What did it all mean? What
was this cold awfulness? this dumb, rigid, staring thing? Was
this Death? Seized by a swift, frenzied fear, I sprung up; I

- * WORMWOOD. 177 N
looked about me everywhere. Everywhere solitude! only the
whispering of trees and shining of stars! Only Nature, and
that—that strange still figure on the grass with arms outspread
on either side, like a Christ without the cross. What had I
done? I considered doubtfully; looking vaguely at my own
hands the while. No stain of blood was on them! Had I
then killed him? No-no! not possible! He had swooned!
I stepped close up to him; I took his hand; it was warm.
“Guidel!” I said, and the sound of my own voice startled
my sense of hearing. “Come, get up! do not lie there as if
I had murdered you! Get up, I tell you! Our quarrel is
over; we will fight no more!”
Silence! The wide-open eyes regarded me fixedly; they
were glazing over with a strange film!" A bird darted from
one of the branches overhead, and flew rustlingly through the
air; the sound of its wings threw me into a cold perspiration,
and I fell on my knees shuddering through and through. I
crawled reluctantly up to that dark, recumbent mass . . . if
he were dead . . . if he were dead, I thought, quº; in
every limb–why, then—I would shut those eyes! My pre-
vious mad fury had given place to weak, half-delirious terror;
I could scarcely summon up the courage to reach out my
hands and let them hover above those pallid features, that in
all the contorted agony of their last expression were already
freezing Junder my very gaze into a marble-like rigidity! I
touched the eyelids; I pressed them firmly down over the
glassy balls beneath. . . . So! they could look at me no
longer! *
With a sigh of relief I crawled away again, and once at
arm’s-length from the Corpse, stood upright, wondering what
next I should do. I had killed Silvion Guidel; this seemed
evident; and yet I strove to represent to myself that it was
not, could not be so. Some inherent weakness of the heart’s
action might have done the deed; it could not have been the
mere grasp of my hands. But, after all—had I not meant to
kill him? - Had not the idea slept in my brain for weeks with-
out declaring itself? and had it not become actively para-
mount with me from the moment I saw him that night?
Yes; it was a murder—and a premeditated one if truth were
told! I had violently taken a man’s life—Il 1 looked awfully
round at my victim—and looking, shrieked aloud. The eyes
—the eyes that I had shut so fast, were open—wide open and
protruding more than ever! iſow they stared at me! with
what fixed and pertinacious solemnity! In a delirium of haste
I rushed back to the horrible figure lying prone, and pressed
&

P 178 - WORMWOOD. *—. - -
my fingers hard and heavily once more upon the cold yet re-
bellious lids. But in vain! they curled upward again from
under my very touch, and again left the eyeballs glassy and
bare. I moaned and shivered, while the sweat poured from
my forehead in the extremity of fear that possessed me; and -
then all at once a ghastly thought flashed across my brain.
I had heard Scientists say that the eyes of a murdered man
took in their last look the portrait of his murderer, and that
this so terribly painted miniature could be reproduced faith- -
fully, line for line! Was such a thing possible? . . . Oh,
why, why could I not shut those eyes! I could stamp them
out with my heel if I dared—but I did not dare! ,--
Again I looked up at the stars, then down at the river,
whereof the tide, now risen higher, made a roaring rush of
music, and while I waited thus, the church clock, the same I
had heard before, struck midnight. Only an hour had passed
since I stood on the bridge, an evil, brooding man, but not—
not a murderer! Only an hourl, it seemed an eternity; and
truly it had wrought an eternal change in my destiny. I had
shed no blood; and yet the air was red about me—the very
stars seemed to dart at me fiery tongues of flame; but the
worst thing of all was the horrible passiveness, the dreadful
inertness of my strangled foe; for, oddly enough, though I
knew I had killed him, at the same time I could not compre-
hend why he should be dead.
I had turned my back upon the corpse; but now I forced
myself to confront it once more—though I strove my utmost
to avoid its terrible eyes. Silvion Guidel’s eyes they were—
imagine it!—those strained, glazed, anguished, crystalline-look-
ing things—the eyes that had darkened with thought and
lightened with love—the eyes that had flashed their passionate
prayer into the eyes of Pauline! hal- what would she say if she
could see them now? Pauline’s lover! Pauline’s seducer!
The libertine—the priest! there he lay, the holy chosen serv-
ant of Mother Church—dead / Dead, and I had killed him!
Good! For the millionth time or more, the world’s Cain had
proved himself stronger than God’s favored Abell And yet,
you say, some of you, that God is “omnipotent.” Tell this
to children if it please you; but spare me, an abs????heºr, from
so unnecessary a lie!
For a time my brain reeled under its pressure of sickening
thought; but at last the idea came to me that I must some-
how or other get rid of the body. I could not bury it; I could
perhaps drag it or carry it to that shelving bank which jutted
slopingly into the river at a little distance from where I stood,
ty
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—would wash it to and fro and disfigure it with mud and weedy
slime, and carry it perchance down like a log, past cities,
towns, and villages, to the sea—the wide, merciful, blank sea,
where so many things are sunk and forgotten. Unless—un-
less it should be found and dragged ashoré; but I would not
Šuffer myself to think of this probability; and stringing up
every nerve and sinew to the labor, I began my task. I lifted
the corpse from the ground, always appalled by the never-
closing eyes, and by dint of the strongest effort, managed to
support its chill and awful weight across my shoulder, while
I staggered to the river’s brink. There stopping and panting
for breath, I laid it down, struck once more by the tremulous
sense that life after all might still be fluttering within this
stiffening mass of clay. Keeping my courage firm, I bent
dawn and felt the heart; it was stone-still; but some small
thing like a packet lay pressed above it. An Agnus Dei ?
Oh, no! priests do not always wear purely Sacred symbols! I
took it out—it was a folded paper which 1 opened, and found
inside a thick curl of soft, dark hair. Pauline’s hair! I knew
it well! the touch of it, the delicate scent of it, made me trem-
ble as with an ague fit; and I hastily thrust it into my own
breast. Then I stared again down at my work, and smiled!
There was no beauty in this lifeless lump before me; death by
strangulation had so blackened and distorted the features that
their classic regularity and fairness were no longer perceivable;
the very parting of the lips, which had at first seemed like a
faint, Serene Smile, had now stiffened into a hideous grin.
Death is not always beautiful, mes amis / The pretty senti-
mentalists may imagine it so if they choose, but it is far more
often repulsive in its effects than admirable, believe me. And
if it chance that you are doomed to die by the close pull of the
hangman’s cord about your throat, or the grip of a madman’s
fingers close on your wind-pipe, you may be sure your counte-
nance will not be a model for sculptors afterward.
Now, as I stood regarding my victim steadfastly, a certain
grim pleasure began to stir throbbingly in my veins. I—I,
alone and unassisted, had destroyed all that subtle mechanksm
of manhood called God’s handiwork; I had defaced all that
comeliness on which Nature seemed to have set her fairest
seal! Why should I have been so terrified at those open eyes,
I thought, self-scorningly? they were dead things and luster-
Iess; their reproachful expression was mere seeming ! Quick!
Into the quiet waters with such useless carrion! let it first
sink like a stone, and then float, a disfigured blubber mass,
*
~ * wormwood. N
and from thence I could fling it into the Seine. And the Se
*
180 WORMWOOD. - -
^,
on the destroying tide. For water, like earth, breeds hungry
corpse-devouring creatures, who will make short work of even
such sacred goods as a priest’s dead body; besides, there is no
blood, no sign of violence anywhere, no proof of of mur-
der / Stay, though: there are marks on the throat—the
marks of my throttling fingers; but what of that? Surely
the river’s quiet working will efface these in an hour. *
Raising myself stiffly erect, I peered round about me on all
sides, and scanned the opposite bank of the Seine scrutinizing-
ly, lest haply some lonely, musing Soul should be walking there
and watching the water ripple caressingly beneath the moon;
but there was no one visible. I might have been alone in a
desert, so profoundly still and Solitary was the night; all nat-
ure seemed gravely occupied in watching me, or so I fancied;
the heavens leaned toward me with all their whirling stars, as
though I had drawn them down to stare wonderingly at my
slain man. Once more I lifted the body; this time the head
fell back over my arm with sickening suddenness, and a light
wind fanned the clustering hair backward from the brow.
Looking—for Some resistless, instinctive force compelled me
to look—I saw a slight but deep Scar running just across the
left temple, whereuffon a new fear assailed me. If found,
would the corfse be recognized by that scar? was there any-
thing else that might give a clew to its identity, and so start
long and circumstantial inquiries and researches which in the
end might track me out as the murderer? I laid my horrid .
burden down again, and hastily ransacked the pockets of the
priestly garments; there was not a letter or paper by which
anything could be traced, only a return ticket to Rome, which
I tore up, an old breviary and a purse containing about four
hundred francs. There was no name in the breviary, and 1
put it back together with the purse, ia the place where I had
found it. In leaving the money thus untouched, I calculated
that if discovered at all, the body-would probably be taken
for that of a suicide, as a murdered man is generally, especial-
ly in France, deprived of valuables. That sort of suspicion,
that idea of mºrder——how the word chilled me—would in this
case be averted; for I attached no importance to the circum-
stance of the priest's garb. Priests are apt to kill themselves
as other people, are they not? They have more reason, I
should say, knowing themselves to be such false pretenders.
Satisfied with my examination—though I could not do away
with that scar on the temple—I raised the rigid weight, now
grown heavier, once more—the arms hung downward, stiff and
inert—one of the hands swinging round as I moved, touched


. . . Aºs womrwood 181 U
me, and I nearly shrieked aloud, it was so clammy cold. I
reached the edge of the shelving bank, and then, staggering
slowly, inch by inch, along the natural pier of stones that ran
out into the river, I flung the Corpse from Ine, far forward,
with all my might. It fell crashingly through the water, the
sonorous echo of its fall resounding on both banks of the
stream to such an extent that it seemed to me as if all the
world must instantly awaken from sleep and rush upon me in
crowds to demand a knowledge of my crime. I waited, my
heart almost standing still with sheer terror, waited till the
close circles in the water widened and widened and melted in
smooth width away. No sound followed, no cry of “Murder!”
startled the night, all was quiet as before, all as watchfully
observant of me as if each servarate leaf on the branches of
the trees had eyes.
I hurried back to the spot where the struggle had taken
place, and there with eager hands and feet I scraped and
smoothed the torn and trampled earth and walked and re-
walked upon it till it looked neatly flat as a board in the clear
light of the moon; ay, I even overcame my shuddering relug-
tance so far that I coaxed and pulled and brushed up the
crushed grass on which Silvion Guidel had fallen down to die.
So!—all was done—and, pausing, I surveyed the scene, Oh,
scene of perfect peace! Oh, quiet nook for love indeed—such
love as brought Pauline here in the dewy hush of early morn-
ings when instead of praying at Mass, as she so prettily feigned,
she listened to a pleading more passionate than the cold white
angels know. For love, the love we crave and thirst for, is
not, methinks, of holy origin—it was germinated in hell—born
ºf fire, tears, and restless breathing; the bright chill realms of
heaven holding no such burning flame. I cursed the fairness
of the place, and Nature mocked my curses with her Smile.
The tranquil moon gazed downward pensively, thinking her
own thoughts doubtless as she swept through the sky; the trees
quivered softly in their dreams, touched perchance by Some
tender rush of memory; and the river lapped whisperingly
against the shore as though delivering kisses from the blos-
soms on one side to the blossoms on the other. The sleepy
enchantment of the mingling midnight and morning seemed
to hang like an opaline mist in the air, and as I looked I-Sud-
denly felt that I, standing where I did, had all at once become
a mere outcast and alien from the beautiful confidence of Nat-
ure; that the dead body I had just thrown in the murmuring
waters was far more gathered into the heart of things than I.
Slowly and with an inexplicable reluctance I crept away,
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slinking through the trees like a terrified beast that shuns
Some fierce pursuer, afraid of both moonbeams and shadows,
- and still more afraid of the deep calm about me—a calm that
could almost be felt. I stole out of the Bois and set foot on
the Suresnes Bridge; a loose plank creaked beneath my tread,. . .
and the sound sent the blood up to my brow in a hot rush of
pain, and then, then Some impulse made me pause. Some
deadly fascination seized me to lean my arms upon the bridge
parapet and look over, and down into the river below. The
water heaved under me in a silvery white glitter, and while I
yet gazed downward a dark mass drifted into view—a heavy
floating blackness, out of which two glistening awful eyes
stared at me and at the moon! . . . Clutching at the edge
of the parapet 1 hung over it with a beating heart and strain-
ing sight—anon, I broke into a fit of delirious laughter.
“Silvion!” I whispered. “Silvion Guidel! What—are you
there again? Not at rest yet? Sleep, man—sleep! Be satis-
fied with God now you have found Him. Good-night, Guidel,
good-night!”
Here my laughter suddenly spent itself in a fierce sobbing
groan; I shrunk back from the parapet trembling in every
limb, and like a sick man waking out of a morphia sleep, I
suddenly realized that the tide seemed turning toward Paris—
not down to the sea. Well, what then? .
I dared not stop to think. With a savage cry I covered my
face and fled—fled in furious panting haste and fear, rushing
along the silent road to the city with the reckless speed of an
escaped madman, and followed as it seemed by the sound of a
whispered “Murder / Murder ſ” hissed after me by the vin- - -
dictive, upward-flowing Seine, that pursued me closely as I
ran, bearing with if its awful witness to the black deed I had
done. º-
---,
XXIII. - 4
For the next three or four days I lived in a sort of fever-
ish delirium, hovering betwixt hope and terror, satisfaction
and despair. But by degrees I began to make scorn of my
own cowardice—for though I searched all the newspapers with
avidity, I never saw the one thing I dreaded, namely an ac-
count of the discovery of a priest’s body in the Seine, and a
suggestion as to his having come to his death by foul means.
Another murder had been committed in Paris just the day.
after I had killed Silvion Guidel—and it was a particularly
brilliant one—quite dramatic in fact. The mistress of a fa.

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imous,opera tenor had been found in her bed with her throat
cut, and the tenor—a ladies’ favorite—had been arrested for
the crime in spite of his gracefully stagey protestations of sor-
\row and innocence. This event was the talk of Paris; so that
one corpse more or less found floating in the river would at
such a time of superior excitement awaken very little, if any,
interest. For though the natural stupidity of the unofficial
*man is great, that of the strictly official personage is even
greater. I allude to the chiefs of the police. They are a very .
excellent class of blockheads, and their intentions are no doubt
admirably just and severe; but they have too much routine,
too many little absurd minutiae of rule and etiquette out of
which they can seldom be persuaded to move. It follows
therefore that the perpetrators of crime having no specially
designed routine, and being generally totally lacking in
etiquette, very often get the best of it, and that nine out
, of every ten murders remain undiscovered. It was so in
my case; it is so, you may be sure, in many another. Mere
formal rule must be done?way with in the task of discovering
a murderer—there must be less writing of documents, and
tying of tape and docketing of accounts, and more instant and
decisive action. When, for example, a policeman on duty
finds the body of a murdered and mutilated woman in a pool,
of blood on a doorstep, and after much cogitation and reflec-
tion, decides that blood-hounds might be useful in tracking the
- murderer, he would do well to get those blood-hounds at once,
and not wait till the next day, when the scent will be more
\ than difficult to pursue. But I have no wish to complain of
the respectable muddlers who sit in their offices carefully writ-
ing descriptive reports and compiling evidence, while the
criminal they are in search of probably passes under their very
windows with a triumphant grin and scornful snap of his gory
fingers—not at all. On the contrary, I am very much obliged
to them for never taking any trouble about me, and allowing
me to roam through Paris at perfect liberty. For at the time
-- I strangled my priestly victim, I had no wish to be even
known as a murderer. “Extenuating circumstances '' would
no doubt have been found sufficiently strong to save me from
the guillotine; but I really-should not have cared particularly
for-the renown thus attained. Yes, renown—why not? A
notorious Paris murderer gains more renown in a day than a
great genius in ten years. There is a difference in the quality
of renown, you Say. I fail to see it. There is a difference, if
you like, in the character of the person renowned; but the re-
nown itself, the dirty hand-clapping of the many-tongued mob,
184 . - WORMWQOD.
is almost the same. Because they—the mob—never praise a
great man without at the same time calumniating him for
Some trifling fault of character; likewise they never cast their .
opprobrium at as criminal without discovering in him some
faint speck of virtue of which they frequently make such a
hullabaloo that it sometimes looks as if they thought him a
martyred Saint after all. “ Not this man, but Barrabas!” is
shouted all over the world to this day; the crucifixion of great
, natures and the setting free of known robbers is the common
and incessant custom of the crowd. We are told by the teach-
ers of the present age that Christianity is a myth, its Founder
a legendary personage; but by all the creeds of this world and
the next the story remains, agd I fancy will continue to re-
main, a curiously true and significant symbol of Humanity.
I suppose nearly a week must have passed since I had sent
Silvion Guidel to his account with that Deity he professed to
serve, when one day, straying down a back street which was a
short cut to the obscure hotel I inhabited, I saw Pauline. It
was dusk, and she was hurrying along rapidly; but for one in-
stant I caught sight of the young ghildish face, the soft blue
eyes, the dark curling clusters of háir. She did not perceive
me, and I followed her at a distance, wondering whither she
was bound and how she lived. She was miserably clad; hér
figure looked thin and shadowy; but she walked with a light
swift step, a-step which to my idea seemed to imply that some
interest, or hope, or ambition still kept her capable of living
on, though lonely and abandoned, in the wild and wicked world
of Paris. Suddenly at a corner she turned and disappeared;
and though I pursued her almost at a run I could not discover
in what direction she had gone. Provoked at my own stupid-
ity, I rambled aimlessly up and down the place I found myself
in, which was a mere slum, and was on the point of asking
some questions at one of the filthy-looking hovels close by,
when a hand grasped me from behind, a loud laugh broke on
my ears, and I turned to confront Andre Gessonex.
“Have you come to pay me a visit, mon cher ?” he asked,
with a half-mock, half-ceremonious Salutation. “By my
faith, you do me an inestimable honor. I live here,” and he
pointed to a miserable tenement house, the roof of which was
half off, and the three upper windows broken. “Behold:
“Appartements Meublés l’” And true enough, this grandiose
announcement was distinctly to be read on a wooden placard
dangling from one of the aforesaid broken windows. “I have
the best floor,” he continued, “ the “salon let us call it!—
the other apartments I have not examined, but I should im:
*
,-

* ..., WORMWOOD, 185. U
agine they must be airy. No doubt they also command an
open view from the roof, which would probably be an attrac-
tion. But enter, cher Beauvais, enter. I am delighted to
welcome you; the best I have of everything is at your service.”
And with the oddest gestures of fantastic courtesy, he invit-
ed me to follow him. .
I hesitated a moment; he looked so wild about the eyes, so
gaunt and ghastly, that for the moment I wondered whether 1
was not perhaps intrusting myself to the tender mercies of a
madman. Then I quickly remembered my own condition—
what if he were mad, I thought; his madness had not led him
to commit murder—not yet. I had a certain dull curiosity to
see what sort of a place he dwelt in. I therefore complied
with his request, and stumbled after him up a crooked flight
of stairs, nearly falling over a small child on the way—a
tousled, half-naked creature who sat crouched in one of the
darkest corners, biting a crust of bread and Snarling over it in
very much the fashion of an angry tiger-Cat. Gessonex, hear-
ing my smothered exclamation, turned round, spied this ob-
ject, and laughed delightedly.
“Ah, voilà l’’ he cried. “That is one of my models of
the Stone Period! If you have kicked that charming boy by
accident, Beauvais, do not trouble to ask his pardon. He will
not appreciate the courtesy! Two sentiments alone inspire
him—fear and ferocity.” And seizing the mass of hair and
rags by its neck, he shook it to and fro violently, exclaiming,
“ Viens ici, béte / Montre fles dents et tes ongles / Wiens !”
The creature uttered some unintelligible sound, and got on
its feet, still biting the crust and Snarling, and presently we
all three stood in a low wide room, littered about with painter’s
materials and various sorts of tawdry rubbish, where the first
thing that riveted the eye was an enormous canvas stretched
across the wall,” on which the body of a nude Venus was dis-
played in all its rotundity, the head, not yet being painted in,
was left to the imagination of the spectator. Gessonex, still
grasping the bundle he called his “béte,” threw himself down
in a chair, after signing to me to take whatever seat I found
convenient; and with the handle of a long paint-brush, began
by degrees to lift the matted locks of hair from off the face of
the mysterious object he held, who bit and growled on con-
tinuously, regardless of his patron’s attentions. Presently a
countenance became visible—the countenance of a mingled
monkey and Savage—brutish, repulsive, terrible respects in all
save for the eyes, which were magnificent, jewel-like, clear
and cruel as the eyes of a Wolf or a Snake.

P 186 worMwooD. *- 3. .
“There!” said Gessonex, triumphantly, turning the strange
physiognomy round toward me, “there’s a boy for you! He
would do credit to the antediluvian age, when Man was still in
process of formation. The chin, you see, is not developed;
the forehead recedes like that of the baboon ancestor; the nose
has not yet received its intellectual prominence—but the eyes
are perfectly formed. Now about these eyes—you have in
them the most complete disprovers of the poetical sentiment
- about “eyes being the windows of the soul,” because this child
has simply no soul. He is an animal, made merely, if we
quote Scripture, to ‘arise, kill and eat.” He has no idea of
anything else; his thoughts are as the thoughts of beasts, and
the only sentences of intelligible speech he knows are my
teaching. Hear him; he will give you an excellent homily on
the duty of life. Now tell me, mon singe,” he went on, 'ad-
dressing the boy, and artistically lifting up another of his
matted curls with the paint-brush handle, “What is life? It
is a mystery to us. Will you explain it?”
The savage little creature glared from one to the other of us
in sullen curiosity and fear, his breath Game quickly, and he
clinched his small grimy hands. . He was evidently trying to
remember something and found the effort exhausting. Pres-
ently between his set teeth came the words: -
“J’ai faim I’’
“Bravo!” said Gessonex, approvingly, still arranging the
hair of his protégé. “Very well said. You See, Beauvais,
he understands life thoroughly, this child. ‘J’ai faim l’ All
is said. It is the universal cry of existence—hunger! And
the remarkable part of the whole affair is, that the complaint .
is incessant; even Monsieur Gros-Jean, conscious of the well-
rounded paunch he has acquired through overfeeding, has
never had enough, and at morning, noon, and evening, pro-
pounds the hunger problem afresh, and curses his chef for not
providing more novelties in the cuisine. Humanity is never
satisfied; it ransacks earth, air, Ocean, it gathers together
gold, jewels, palaces, ships, wine—and woman—and then,
when all is gotten that can be gained out of the laboring uni-
verse, it turns its savage face toward heaven and apostrophizes
Deity with a defiance. ... “This world, is not enough for my
needs!’ it cries. “I will i. Orion in my pocket and wear
- the Pleiades in my button-hole! I will have Eternity for my
heritage and Thyself for my comrade—ſ’ai faim l’’
He laughed wildly, and opening a drawer near him, took
out a small apple and threw it playfully aloft.
“Catch!” he cried, and the boy, tossing up his head, caught
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it. between his teeth with extraordinary precision as it fell.
s: “Well done! Now let us see you munch as Adam munched
before you—ah! what a juicy flavor! if it were only a stolen
morsel, it would be ever so much sweeter. Sit there!” and
he pointed to an old bench in the opposite corner, whereon the
strange child squatted obediently enough, his wonderful eyes
sparkling with avidity as he plunged his sharp teeth in the
fruit which was to him an evident rare delicacy. “He is the
most admirable rat-hunter in Paris, I should say,” went on
Géssonex, eying him encouragingly. “Sharp as a ferret and
agile at a cat, he kills the vermin by scores, and what is very
human, eats them with infinite relish afterward.”
... I shuddered.
-- “Horrible!” I exclaimed, involuntarily. “Does he starve,
then?” * *
Gessonex regarded me with a rather pathetic Smile.
“My friend, we all starve here,” he answered, placidly.
“It is the fashion of this particular quartier. Some of us—
myself for instalace—consider food a vulgar superfluity; and
we take a certain honest pride in occasionally being able to
dispense with it altogether. It is more à la mode in this neigh-
borhood, which, however, is quite aristocratic compared to
Some others close by. All the same, I am really rather curious
to know what has brought you here, moſt cher / May 1, with-
out rudeness, ask the question?”
“I saw a woman I thought I knew,” I answered, evasively.
“And I followed her.”
“Ah! And the result?” -
“No result at all. , 1 lost sight of her suddenly, and do not
know how or where she disappeared.” *~
“Ah!” said Gessonex again, meditatively. “Women are
Very plentiful in these parts—that is, a certain sort of women
—the flotsam and jetsam of the demi-monde. From warm
palaces, and carriages drawn by high-fed prancing horses they
come to this—and then—to that.”
He pointed through the window and my eyes followed his
gesture; a glittering strip of water was just pallidly visible in
the deepening twilight—a curving gleam of the Seine. A
faint tremor shook me, and to change the subject I reverted
Önce more to the ‘brute ’ child, who had now finished his
apple and Sat glowering at us like a young owl from under his
tangled bush of hair.
“What is he?” I asked, abruptly.
“My dear Beauvais, I thought I had explained,” said Ges-
sonex, affably, “He is a type of the Age of Stone. But if
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you want a more explicit definition, I will be strictly accurate
and call him a production of absinthe.” -
I started, then controlled myself, as I saw that Gessonex
regarded me intently. I forced a smile.
“A production of absintheº’’ I echoed, incredulously.
“Precisely. Of absinthe and mania together. That is why
I find him so intensely interesting. I know his pedigree, just
as one knows the pedigree of a valuable dog or remarkable
horse—and it is full of significance. His grandfather was a
man of science.”
I burst out laughing at the incongruity of this statement,
Mºon Gessonex shook his head at me in mock-solemn re-
TO3,0ſ). s
prº Never laugh, mon ami, at a joke you do not entirely
understand. You can not understand, and you never will
understand the awful witticisms of Mother Nature; and it is a
F. of her enormous jesting that I am about to relate to you
repeat, this boy’s grandfather was a man of science; with a
pair of spectacles fixed on his nose and a score or so of refer-
ence volumes at hand, he set about prying into the innermost
recesses of creation. Through his lunettes he peered dubious-
ly at the Shadow-Brightness called God, and declared Him to
be n0m est. He weighed Man’s heart and mind in his small
brazen scales, and fossilized both by his freezing analysis. He
talked of Matter and of Force, of Evolution and of Atoms.
Love went on, Faith went on, Grief went on, Death went on;
he had little or nothing to do with any of these; his main ob-
ject was to prove away the flesh and blood of Life, and leave
it a mere bleached skeleton. He succeeded admirably, and at
the age of sixty, found himself alone with that skeleton / He
dined with it, supped with it, slept with it. It confronted
him at all hours and seasons, rattling its bones, and terrifying
him with its empty eye-sockets and dangling jaws. At last,
one stormy night, its hand roused him from his sleep, and
showed him the exact spot where his razor lay. He took the
hint immediately, made the long artistic slit across his throat
which the skeleton so urgently recommended, and died—or,
to put it more delicately—departed to that mysterious region
where lunettes are not worn, and knowledge is imparted with-
out the aid of printer’s ink. He was a very interesting indi-
vidual, great when he was alive, according to the savants, for-
gotten in the usual way now he is dead.”
. He paused, and I looked at him inquiringly.
“Well?”
“Well! He left one son, a charmingly dissolute individual,
*"
* wormwood. 189 U
whose sole delight in life was to drink and dance the hours
away. A remarkable contrast to his father, as you may im–
agine—and herein Dame Nature began her little psychological
game of cross-purposes. This fellow, born in Paris, and a
worshiper of all things Parisian, took to absinthe in very early
manhood—not that I blame him for that in the least, because
it is really a fascinating hobby—and afterward, through some
extraordinary freak of the gods, became an actor. Night after
night he painted his face, padded his legs, and strutted the
boards, feigning the various common phases of love and vil-
lainy in that lowest of all professions, the ape-like art of Mim-
icry. He, unlike his revered parent, never troubled himself
concerning the deeper questions of life at all; Chaos was his
faith, and Nonentity his principle. His stage appearance—
particularly his leg-padding—captivated a dancer who went by
the sobriquet of ‘Fatima; she passed for an Odalisque, but
was really the daughter of a Paris washer woman; and he was
likewise smitten by her abundant charms—wild eyes, flowing
hair, and shapely limbs—and after a bit the two made up
their minds to live together. Marriage of course was not con-
sidered a necessity to people of their reputable standing—it
seldom is in these cases, Love, however, or the passion they
called by that name, proved much too weak and inadequate a
rival to cope with absinthe—the ‘green fairy' had taken a
firm hold of our friend the actor’s mind; and whether his
amour had turned his head, or whether the emerald elixir had
played him an ill turn I can not tell you, but for some months
after he had taken up his residence with the charming ‘Fati-
ma’ he was the victim of a singular and exceedingly trouble-
some frenzy. This was neither more nor less than the idea
that his chère amie ’ was a scaly serpent whose basilisk eyes
attracted him in spite of his will, and whose sinuous embraces
suffocated him and drove him mad. His behavior under these
curious mental circumstances was excessively irritating, and
finally, after enduring his preposterous eccentricities till her
patience—of which she had a very slight stock—was entirely
exhausted, la belle Fatima bundled him off to a lunatic asy-
lum, where, finding no sharp instrument convenient to his
hand as his father had done before him, he throttled himself
with his own desperate fingers. Imagine it! such a deter-
mined method of strangulation must have been a most un-
pleasant exit.”
A tremor ran through me as he spoke, and I averted my
gaze from his.
“It was a most unfortunate affair altogether,” continued
\\
*.
*~.
P 190 - * wonywood. -
Gssonex, reflectively, “and I’m afraid it must be set. down
chiefly to the fault of absinthe, which though a most delight-
ful and admirable slave, is an exceedingly bad master. Yes,”
—and he mused over this a little to himself—“an exceedingly
bad master. If people would only imitate my example, and
take all its pleasures without its tyranny, how much wiser and
better that would be.”
I forced myself to speak—to smile.
“The ‘passion verte ’ never subdues you, then? You sub-
due ºf 2?”
Our eyes met. A yellowish-red flush crept through the
sickly pallor of his skin, but he laughed and gave a careless
gesture of indifference.
“Of course! Fancy a man being mastered and controlled
by a mere liqueur ! The idea is sublimely ridiculous. To
complete my story: this boy here—this exponent of the Stone
Age—is the child of the absintheur and his ‘Serpent,” begotten
of mania and born of apathy, the result is sufficiently remark-
able. I knew the parents, also the Savant grandpapa, and I
have always taken a scientific interest in this their only de-
scendant. I think I know now how we can physiologically
resolve ourselves back to the primary Brute-period, if we
choose, by living entirely on absinthe.”
“But are you not a lover of absinthef” I queried, half
playfully. “A positive epicure in the flavor of the green nec-
tar? Why, then, do you judge so ill of its effects?”
He looked at me in the most naïve wonderment.
“My friend, I do not judge ill of its effects—there you
quite mistake me. I say it will help us to recover our brute-
natures, and that is precisely what I most desire. Civilization
is a curse, Morality an enormous hinderance to freedom. Man
was born a savage, and he is still happiest in a state of Sav-
agery. He has been civilized over and over again, believe
me, through innumerable cycles of time, but the Savage can
not be gotten out of him, and if allowed to do so, he returns
to his pristine condition of lawless liberty with the most aston-
ishing ease. Civilized, we are shackled and bound in a thou-
sand ways when we wish to give the rein to our natural im-
puſses; we should be much more contented in our original
state of brutishness and nudity. And contentment is what we
want, and what in our present modes of constrained culture
we never get. For example, I am not half as civilized as the
slain unit once known as Me, whom I buried—I told you about
that remarkable funeral, did I not?—and as a natural conse-
quence I am much happier. The Me who died was a painfully
2-
sº
*-
- . . . . . . wormwooD. 191 w
- conscious creature, always striving to do good, to attain the
impossible perfection, to teach and love, to help and comfort
his fellow-men; now, there was a frightful absurdity. Yes,
that Me was an utter fool—he painted angels, poetic ideals and
visions of ethereal ecstasy—and all the art critics dubbed him
an ass for his pains. And, apropos of art—as you are here,
Beauvais, I want you to see my last work—it’s not a bit of use.
now, but it may be worth something a hundred years hence.”
“Is that it?” I inquired, with a movement of the hand to-
ward the headless undraped Venus.
“That! oh, no! That is a mere study of flesh-tints à la
Rubens. This is what I call my “chef d’aeuvre I’”
WAnd springing up from his chair excitedly, he went toward
the further end of the room, where the entire wall was covered
with a dark curtain which I had not perceived before, while,
in a sort of automatic imitation of his patron’s movements,
the boy with the wild eyes followed him and crouched beside
him on the floor, watching him. Slowly, and with a fastidious
lingering tenderness, he drew the drapery aside, and at the
same time pushed back the blind from an upper window, thus
allowing the light to fall fully on the canvas displayed. I
stared as if fascinated, yet appalled, it was so somberly
grounded, that for a moment I could not grasp the meaning’
of the weird and awful thing. Then it grew upon me by de-
grees, and I understood the story it told. It was the interior
of a vast church or cathedral, gloomy and unillumined
save by one or two lamps which were burning low. In front
of the altar knelt a priest, his countenance distorted with min-
gled rage and grief, wrenching open, by the sheer force of his
hands, a coffin. Part of the lid, split asunder, showed a
woman’s face, still beautiful with a strangely seductive,
sensuous beauty, though the artist’s touch had marked the
blue, disfiguring shadow of death and decay beginning to set
in about the eyes, nostrils, and corners of the mouth. Under-
neath the picture was written in distinct letters, painted
blood-red: “O Dieu que j’abjure! Rends-moi cette femme !”
A whole life’s torture was expressed in the dark and dread-
ful scene—and on me it had a harrowing, nervous effect. I
thought of Silvion Guidel, and my limbs shook under me as I
approached to look at it more nearly. The Savage child curled
up on the floor, fixed its eyes upon me as I Game, and point-
ing to the picture, muttered:
* Joli / Joli / Il meurt ſ—n'est-ce-pas qu’il meurt?”
- Gessonex heard him and laughed.
“Ow; chère brute, il meurt J. He dies of disappointed pas-
---

J 192 . WORMWOOD,
*
;
sion, as we all die of disappointed something or other, if it
only be of a disappointment in one’s powers of breathing.
What do you think of it, Beauvais?”
“It is a magnificent work,” I said, and spoke truly.
“It is! I know it is!” he responded, proudly. “But all
the same I will starve like a rat in a hole rather than sell it!”
I looked at him in surprise.
& & Why?”
“Why? Because I want my name properly advertised when
I am dead, and the only way to get that done royally is to be-
queath the picture to France! France, having nothing to pay
for it, will be liberal of praise, and the art critics, knowing my
bones can not profit by what they say, will storm the world
with loud eulogium!”
He dropped the curtain over the painting and turned upon -
me abruptly.
“Tell me, Beauvais, have you tasted absinthe again since
that night we met?”
“Of course. Frequently.”
His eyes flashed into mine with a singularly bright and
piercing regard. Then he seized my hand and shook it with
great fervor.
“That is right! I am glad! Only don’t let the charming
fairy master-you, Beauvais! always remember to keep the
upper hand, as I do /*
He laughed boisterously and pushed his long matted locks
from his temples; of course I knew he was as infatuated a
prey to the fatal passion as myself. , No one loves absinthe
lukewarmly, but always entirely and absorbingly,
“Come!” he cried, presently. ... “Let us do something
amusing. Let us go to the Morgue!”
“To the Morgue!” I echoed, recoiling a little; I had seen
the place once long ago and the sight had sickened me.
“Why to the Morgue just now?” -
“Because it is dusk, mon ami—and because the charm ºf
the electric light will give grace to the dead. If you have
never been there at this hour, it will be a new experience for
you; really it is a most interesting study to any one of an
artistic temperament. I prefer it to the theater; pray do not
refuse me your company.”
I thought a moment, and then decided I would go with
him. He, putting on his hat, turned to the “brute ’’ child.
“Wait till I come back, mon singe l’’ he said, patting its
tousled mane. “Kill rats and eat them if thou wilt; I have
at present nothing else for thee,” .*
gº

WORMWOOD. 193
Hearing these words I took out a couple of francs from my
pocket and offered them to the boy. For a second he stared
as if he could not believe his eyes, then uttered such an eldritch
screech of rapture as made the rafters ring. He kissed the
money, then crawled along the floor and kissed my feet, and
finally sprung up and dashed away down the rickety stairs
with the speed of a hunted antelope, while Gessonex looking
after him, laughed.
“He is a droll little creature!” he said. “Now he will
buy no end of things with those two silver coins; he knows
how to bargain so well that he will get double what I should
get with the same amount, moreover, the people about here are
afraid of his looks and his savage jabbering, and will give him
anything to be rid of him. Yet the nature of the animal is
such that he will put all his purchases on this table, and sit
and glare at the whole menu without touching a morsel till I
come back. He is like a dog, fond of me because I feed him,
and in this, though a barbarian, he resembles the rich man’s
civilized poor relations!”
*ºse
XXIV.
WE left the house together and walked through the wretched
slum in which it was situated, I looking sharply from right to
left to see whether, among the miserable women who were
gathered gossiping drearily at different door-ways, there was
any one like Pauline. But no; they were all ugly, old, dis-
figured by illness or wasted by starvation, and they scarcely
glanced at us, though the fantastic Gessonex took the trouble
to raise his battered hat to them as he passed, caring nothing
for the fact that not one of them, even by way of a jest, re-
turned his salutation. We soon traversed the streets that lay
between the quarter we had left and the Morgue, and arrived
at the long, low, grewsome-looking building just as a covered
stretcher was being carried into it. Gessonex touched the
stretcher in a pleasantly familiar style. •
“Qui va lă 2’’ he inquired, playfully.
One of the bearers glanced up and grinned.
“Only a boy, m'sieu. Crushed on the railway.”
“Is that all?” and Gessonex shrugged his shoulders.
“Dieu ! how uninteresting!”
We entered the dismal dead-house arm in arm; the light
was not turned full on, and only a pale flicker showed us the
awful slab on which it is the custom for unknown corpses to
be laid side by side, with ice-cold water dripping and trickling
194 wormwood. . *
*
over them from the roof above. There were only two thers
at the immediate moment—the crushed boy had to be carried
away “pour faire sa toilette ” before he could be exposed to
i. view. . And not more than five or six morbid persons
esides ourselves were looking with a fascinated inquisitiveness
at that couple of rigid forms on the slab–the emptied recepta-
cles of that mysterious life-principle which comes we know
not whence, and goes we know not where. As I have said,
the light was very dim, and it was difficult to discern even the
outlines of these two corpses, and Gessonex loudly complained
of this inconvenience.
“Sacre blew 1 We are not in the catacombs!” he ex-
claimed. “And when a great artist like myself visits the
dead, he expects to see them—not to be put to the trouble of
guessing at their lineaments.”
Those who were present stared, then smiled, and seemed to
silently agree with this sentiment; and just then a sedate,
official-looking personage made his sudden appearance from a
side door, and recognizing Gessonex, bowed politely.
“Pardon, m'sieu !” said this individual. “The light shall
be turned on instantly. The spectators are not many.” This
apologetically.
Gessonex laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Ha! Thou art the man of little economies, mom a mi /’’
he said. “Thou dost grudge even the dead their last lantern
on the road to Styx! Didst never hear of the Styx? no mat-
ter! Come, come—light up! It may be we shall recognize
acquaintances in yonder agreeably speechless personages—one
of them looks, in this dim twilight, amazingly massive—a
positively herculean monster!”
The official smiled.
“A monster truly! That body was found in the river two
days ago, and m'sieu is perhaps aware that the water distends
a copse somewhat unpleasantly.”
With these words and an affable nôd he disappeared; and
something—I know not what—caused me to carelessly hum a
tune, as I pressed my face against the glass screen, and peered
in at the death-slab before me. Suddenly the light flashed
up with a white glare—hot, brilliant, and dazzling—and for a
moment I saw nothing. But I heard Gessonex saying:
“The old lady is prettier than the young man in this case,
Beauvais! Death by poison is evidently more soothing to the
muscles than death by drowning!” sº
I looked—and gradually my aching Sense of vision took in
the scene. The first corpse, the one nearest to me, was that
-* - WORMWOOD. 195
of the woman of whom Gessonex spoke; some one standing
close by began detailing her wretched history—how she had,
in a fit of madness, killed herself by eating rat poison. Her
features were quite placid—the poor old withered body was
decently composed and rigid, and the little drops of trickling
water rolled off her parched skin like pearls. But that other
thing that lay there a little apart—that other dark, livid,
twisted mass—was it, could it be all that was mortal of a
man? ,
“What is that?” I asked, pointing at it a little vaguely, no
doubt, for my head throbbed, and I was consciouss of a pecul-
iar straining, choking Sensation in my throat that rendered
spsech difficult. *s-
“‘That was a man, but is so no longer!” returned
Gessonex, lightly. “He is now an It—and as an It is re-
markably hideous! So hideous that I am quite fascinated. I
really must have a closer look at death’s handiwork this time
—come, Beauvais. Monsieur Jeteaux knows me very well,
and will let us pass inside.”
M. Jeteaux turned out to be the official personage who had
previously spoken to us, and on Gessonex stating that he
wanted to make a sketch of that drowned man, but that from
outside the glass screen he could not see the features properly,
we were very readily allowed to enter.
“Only that the face is hardly a face at all,” said M.
Jeteaux, with affable indifference. “One can scarcely make
out its right lineaments. The oddest thing about this par-
ticular corpse is that the eyes have not been destroyed. It
must have been floating to and fro in the water three days if
not more, and it has been here two; but the eyes are like
stone and remain almost uninjured.”
Thus speaking, he accompanied us close up to the marble
slab, and the full view of the dead creature loomed darkly
upon us. The sight was so ghastly that for a moment the
Careless Gessonex himself was startled—while I—I staggered
backward slightly, overcome by a reeling sense of nausea.
Ugh! those blue, swollen, contorted limbs! It had been im-
possible to straighten them, so said the imperturbable M.
Jeteaux—in fact, a “toilette ’’ for this twisted personage had
been completely beyond the skill of the valets of the Morgue. .
I mastered the sick fear and abhorrence that threatened to
unsteady my nerves, and came up, out of sheer bravado, as
closely as I could to the detestable thing; I saw its face, all
horribly distended, its blue lips, which were parted widely in
a sort of ferocious Smile, its great protruding eyes—God! I
196 worMwooD. - --
could hardly save myself from uttering a shriek as the man
Jeteaux, desirous of being civil to Gessonex, lifted the unnatu-
rally swollen head into an upright position, and those stony
yet wet-glistening eyes stared vacantly at me out of their pur-
ple sockets! I knew them / truth to tell 1 had known this re-
pulsive corpse all the time if I had only dared to admit as
much to myself! And if I had had any doubts as to its
identity, those doubts would have been dispelled by that
straight scar on the left temple, which, as the drenched hair
was completely thrown back from the forehead, was distinctly
visible, Yes! all that was mortal of Silvion Guidel lay there
before me, within touch of my hand—I the murderer stood by
the side of the murdered! and as far as I could control my-
self, 1 showed no sign of guilt or horror. But there was a
loud singing and roaring about me like the noise of an angry
river rising into flood; my brain was giddy, and I kept my
gaze pertinaciously fixed on the body out of sheer inability to
move a muscle or to utter a word. The cool, business-like
voice of M. Jeteaux close at my ear startled me horribly,
though, and nearly threw me off my guard.
“He was a priest,” said the official, with a slight accent of
contempt; “the clothes prove that;” and he indicated by a
gesture a set of garments (I recognized them well enough!)
hanging up, as is the Morgue custom, immediately above the
corpse they once covered; “but of what order, and where he
came from no one can tell. We found a purse full of money
upon him, and a breviary with no name inside; he has not
been identified and he will not keep any longer; so to-mor-
row he will be removed.
“Where to?” I inquired, my voice sounding thick and far
away, and I coughed violently as a Sort of excuse for huski-
In OSS,
Gessonex laughed. He was busy making a rapid pencil
sketch of the corpse.
“Where to? My dear friend, to the comfortable “fosse —
the ditch of death wherein we all drown in the end. Of course
we can have our own private patches of ditch if we choose to
pay for such a luxury; but we shall fertilize the earth better
if we allow ourselves to be thrown all together in one furrow
-—it is more convenient to our survivors, and we may as well
be obliging. The public “fosses’ is really the most sensible
sorſ of grave, and the most truly religious because it is the
mns, equalizing. This man *-and he gave a few artistic
finishing touches to his sketch-‘‘ was evidently good-looking
QłkC&
WORM WOOD. 197
Jeteaux Smiled incredulously.
“M’sieu is an artist, and can imagine good looks where
none have ever existed,” he observed, politely.
“ Not at all,” returned Gessonex, still working rapidly with
his pencil. “This body is certainly very much swollen by
by the water, but one can guess the original natural outlines.
The limbs were finely molded; the shoulders and chest were
strong and nobly formed—the face—yes! it is probable the
face was an ideal one; there are faint marks upon it that still
indicate beauty; the eyes were evidently remarkable; why,
Beauvais! what pleasant jest amuses you?”
For I had broken out into an uproarious fit of laughter—
laughter that 1 could no more restrain than an hysterical
Woman can restrain her causeless tears. And when Gessonex
and his friend Jeteaux stared at me in surprise I became fairly
convulsed and laughed more than ever! Presently, struggling
for utterance:
“Mon Diew /* I said. “Would you have me play tragedi-
an over such a spectacle as this? Monsieur Jeteaux says he
was a priest! well, look at him now, how well he represents
his vocation! Is not his mouth most piously open and ready
to say an ‘Ave!’ and his eyes—those admirable eyes!—have
they not quite the expression of Sanctimonious holiness so in-
geniously practiced by all of his crafty calling? A priest, you
Say! a worshiper of God—and see what God has done for him!
Defaced his beauty, if beauty he ever had, and brought him
to the Morgue! what a droll way this God has of rewarding
His sworn servants!”
M. Jeteaux appeared vaguely troubled by my words.
“Perhaps he was a bad priest,” he suggested. “There
are many—and this one may have committed so flagrant an
error of discipline that he probably imagined the only way out
of it was suicide.”
I laughed again.
“Oh! you think him a suicide?”
“Assuredly! There are no marks of violence, and besides,
he was not robbed of his money.”
These foolish officials! Always the same ideas and the same
routine! Inwardly I congratulated myself on my own cun-
ning, and turning to Gessonex, asked him if he had finished
his sketch.
“Though what you want it for I can not imagine!” I add-
ed, irritably.
Gessonex shrugged his shoulders.
“Only for the sake of study,” he returned. “Just to see
198 WORMWOOD.
what Death can do for a man’s anatomy! See!” and he
touched the throat of that which had been Guidel, “the
arteries here are swollen, and in such a way that one could
almost fancy he had been strangled. Again, observe the ribs
—they start through the flesh—not from meagerness, but from
having made a powerful effort—a struggle for life. Here the
sinews of the leg are strained as though they had used all their
resisting power against Some opposing body. I am not an
artist for nothing,” he continued, affably turning to Jeteaux,
“ and I assure you, life did not go easily of willingly out of
this priest—he was probably murdered.”
Curse him and his knowledge of anatomy! I thought; why
the devil could he not hold his tongue? M. Jeteaux, however,
only smiled, shrugged his shoulders as Gessonex had done,
and spread out his hands with a deprecatory gesture.
“Mais—m’sieu, there are no proofs of such a crime,” he
said. “And besides—a priest!”
“True!” I interposed, the passion of ribald laughter once
more threatening me, “a dead priest is a ridiculous object.
A dead dog or a dead cat is more worthy of pity in these
times. France—our France—has nobly declared herself sick
of priests, mon ami,” and I clapped him familiarly on the
shoulder, “and one less in the world is a relief to us all.”
Jeteaux was quite delighted with this remark.
“M'sieu is a thinker!” he queried, pleasantly, as we left
the Morgue death-chamber, and turned our backs on the livid
mass of perishing clay once called “le beau º' Silvion Guidel.
“In a way—yes,” I responded, swiftly. “I think as Paris
thinks—that life is a bagatelle, and death a Satisfactory finish
to the game. And to invent a God and pay priests to keep
up the imposture is a disgrace to humanity and civilization.
But we are progressing quickly, we shall soon sweep away the
old legends and foolish nursery superstitions—and bury them
—bury them—as—as yonder lump of dead priestCraft is to be
buried to-morrow—in the common fosse,’ the receptacle for
all decayed and useless lumber which obstructs or is offensive
to the world!” I paused; then on a sudden impulse, added:
“He is to be buried to-morrow—positively?”
Jeteaux looked surprised.
“The body in there? Mais, certainement 1 it could not be
kept another day.” º
This idea diverted me extremely. “It’ could not be kept
another day! Here was this brave Silvion Guidel—once beau-
tiful as Antinous, brilliant, witty, amorous—he was no more
than so much tainted flesh that could not be kept above ground
, - . * - * . Jº. * *
- . -- . ~~ -
**.J - -"
w - --4
*-
* - - -
- *
-- w
- *
wormwooD. 199
- another day. And l had brought about this pleasant end for
him—even Il I had murdered him; I could have identified
him, and yet—no one guessed—no one imagined the Secret
that there was between that quiet Corpse and me! Despite
my efforts 1 laughed wildly again, when we went out of the
Morgue, though I did not venture to give another backward
glance through the glass screen—laughed so loudly and long
that Gessonex, always easily moved, began to laugh also, and
soon agreed with me that the sight of a dead priest was after
all a very amusing entertainment.
“Let me see your sketch,” I said to him presently, when
we stopped a moment to light our cigarettes; then, as he
handed it to me: “It’s not badly done; but you have made
the eyes like saucers! “Bon Dieu !’ they seem to say,
“Rends-moi la grace d’étre amoureua pour wºme fois, quoigue
je suis prétre / Qu'est-ce-que la vie sans aimer wºme femme !’”
I broke into another laugh, and with an air of complete
unconsciousness, tore the sketch into minute fragments, and
sent the bits floating on the breeze. Gessonex uttered a quick
exclamation. - *
ºcre bleu ! Do you know what you have done, Beau-
WallS.
I looked at him blankly.
“NO! What?” - --
“You have torn up my sketch!”
“Have I? Positively I was not aware of it! I thought it
was a bit of waste paper. Forgive me! I often get frightful-
ly abstracted every now and then—ever since I took to drink-
$ng absinthe ſ” -
He turned upon me with nervous suddenness.
“Dieu / Have you taken to drinking it, then, as a matter
of course?”
“As a matter of life—and death!” I replied, curtly.
He stared at me, and seemed to tremble, then he smiled.
“Good! . Then you must also take the consequences!”
‘‘I find the consequences fairly agreeable—at present.”
“Yes—so you may—so you will—until—” He broke off,
then looked sharply behind him; he had an unpleasant trick
of doing that, I noticed; and he had frequently startled and
annoyed me by these quick glances backward over his own
shoulder. “Can you see him?” he whispered, abruptly, a
peculiar expression coming into his eyes as they met mine.
“See him? See whom?” I queried, amazed.
IIe laughed lightly.
“A friend—or rather I should say a creditor! He wants
200 - wormwoop.
his bill paid, and I am not disposed to settle with him—not
just yet!” - -
We were standing at the quiet corner of a quiet street; 1
looked from right to left, and round and about everywhere,
but not a soul could I perceive but our two selves.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Pshaw! You are dreaming, Gessonex!”
He smiled--very strangely, I thought. * x
“So are you !” he responded, calmly. “Dreaming heavily
—a fiery, drunken dream! I know!—I know all the pleasure
of it—the madness of it! But absinthe has its waking hours
as well as its sleep––and your time for waking has not come.
But it will come—you may be sure of that!” He paused, then
added, slowly: “I am sorry you tore up my sketch!” *
“I also regret it, mon cher ſ” I declared, puffing away at
my cigarette. “But it was an ugly memory; why did you
want to keep such a thing?” `.
“To remind me of death,” he replied, “to teach me how
hideous and replusive and loathsome the fairest of us may be-
come when the soul has been Snatched out of us and lost in
the elemental vortex. God! to think of it! and yet, while the
Soul still remains in us we are loved—actually loved ſ”
“While the life is in us, you mean,” I said, with a cold
Smile. “There is no soul, so say the Positivists.”
“The soul—the life,” murmured Gessonex, dreamily, “are
they not one and the same? I think so. The vital principle,
the strange, ethereal essence that colors the blood, strings the
nerves, lights the eyes, and works the brain; we call it life,
but it is something more than life—it is spirit. And imagine
it, Beauvais! we have it in our own power to release that sub-
tle thing, whatever it is; we can kill a man, and lo! there is
a lump of clay, and that strange essence has gone! or, we can
kill ourselves, with the same result. Only, one wonders, what
becomes of us?”
“ Nirvana ſ–Nothingness!” I responded, airily. “That
is the Buddhist idea of eternal bliss—an idea that is very fash-
ionable in Paris just now!” -
Gessonex turned his great wild eyes upon me with a look of
vague reproach. * --
“Fashionable in Paris!” he echoed, bitterly, “even so may
one talk of being fashionable in hell! The deity that permits
the works of a Victor Hugo to drop gradually into oblivion,
and sings the praises of a Zola who with a sort of pitchfork
pen turns up under men’s nostrils such literary garbage as
loads the very air with stench and mind-malaria!—faugh.
. . . - wormwood. 201
Religion of any sort for Paris in its present condition is absurd
–it is like offering the devil a crucifix. Do not accept Paris
opinions, Beauvais ! there is something more than ‘nothing-
ness” even in apparently clear space ’’—and he glanced about
him with an odd touch of dread in his manner. “Believe me
there is no nothingness!” He paused, laughed a little, and
passed his hand across his brows as though he swept away
some unpleasing thought. “Good-night!” he said then, “I
must return to my enfant terrible, who will starve till I come.
Again I wish you had not torn up that sketch.”
“So do I, as you harp upon the subject so persistently,”
I said, with mingled irritation and contrition, the latter feel-
ing I feigned as best 1 could; “I am really very sorry! Shall
we gº back to the Morgue and ask permission to take another
View?”
“No, no!” and Gessonex shuddered slightly; “I could not
look at that dead priest again! There was something clamor-
ous in his eyes, they were alive with some ghastly accusation!”
I forced a smile.
“How unpleasantly grim you are this evening, Gessonex,”
1 said, carelessly. “I think I will leave you to your own re-
flections. A u revoir /?’
“Wait!” he exclaimed, eagerly; and catching my hand in
his own he pressed it hard. “I am “grim,” as you say—I
know it. I am at times more gloomy than a monk whose
midnight duty it is to dig his own grave to the sound of a
muffled bell. But it is not always so; my natural humor is
gay—mirthful enough to please the wildest bon viveur, I as-
sure you. You shall see me again Soon, and we will have sport
enough; tell me where I can meet you now and then.”
I named a café on the Boulevard Montmartre—a favorite
resort for many a sworn absintheur.
“Ah,” he said, laughingly, “I know the place; it is too
grand for me as a rule—I hate the light, the gilding, the
painted flowers, the ugly fat dame de Comptoir; but no matter
—I will join you there some evening. Expect me.”
“When?” I asked.
“Soon. When my creditors will allow me to appear in
ublic. Bon S07 r.”
Iſe lifted his hat with his usual fantastic flourish, smiled,
and was gone. I drew a deep breath of relief. For some mo-
ments the strain on my nerves had been terrific; I could
scarcely have endured his companionship a moment longer.
I looked about me. I was in a very quiet thoroughfare—there
were trees, and seats under the trees; but I was near the river
Yº-
202 WORM WOOT).
*
—too near. I turned resolutely away from it, and walked on-
ward, walked till I found myself in the lively and brilliant
Avenue de l’Opera. Here 1 presently saw a man pacing slow-
ly ahead of me, clad in a priest’s close black garments. He
annoyed me terribly; I had no desire to be reminded of priest-
craft just then. Could I not get in front of this leisurely
strolling fool? I hurried my steps, and with an effort came
up with him, passed him, looked round, and recognized Sil-
vion Guidel ! . . . Silvion Guidel, pale-faced, dreamy-eyed,
Serene as usual, only . . . as I stared wildly at him his lips
fell apart in the horrible leering smile I had seen on the face
of the corpse in the Morgue. Heedless of what I did, I struck
at him fiercely—my clinched fist passed through his seeming
substance; he vanished into impalpable nothingness before my
eyes. I stamped and swore; a hand seized and swung me to
one side. *
& 6 Kºken béte 1” said a rough voice. “ Tu te grises trop
oq'ſ ſ”
Drunk! I 1 reeled back from the push this insolent
passer-by had given me, and rallying my forces, took to walk-
ing again as rapidly as possibly, concentrating all my
energies on speed of movement; and refusing to allow myself
to think.
I soon reached a café whereof I was a known frequenter,
and called for the one, the only elixir of my life, the blessed
anodyne of conscience, the confuser of thought; and drank
and drank till the very sense of being was almost lost, and all
ideas were blurred and set awry in my brain—drank till with
every vein burning and every drop of blood coursing through
my body like hissing fire, 1 rushed out into the calm and
chilly night, maddened with a sort of furious, evil ecstasy that
was perfectly indescribable. . The spirit of a mocking devil
possessed me; a devil proud as Milton’s Satan, insidious as
Byron's Lucifer, and malevolently cunning as Goethe’s Mephis-
topheles—the world seemed to me a mere child’s ball to kick
and spurn at; the creatures crawling on it stupid emmets born
out of a cloud of dust and a shower of rain. Yes, I was mad-
dened, gloriously maddened—maddened into a temporary for-
getfulness of my crime of murder—and bent on some method
of forgetting it still more and more utterly. Where should I
go? what should I do? In what resort of fiends and apes could
I hide myself for awhile, so as to be sure, quite sure that I
should not again meet that pale yet leering shadow of Silvion
Guidel?
sº
** ~~
WORMWOOD. 203
XXV.
PAUSING for a moment, while the pavement rocked unstead-
ily beneath me, I tried to shape Some course of immediate
action, but found that impossible. To return to my own
-rooms and endeavor to rest was an idea that never occurred to
me; rest and 1 were strangers to each other. I could not
grasp at any distinct fact or thought; I had become for the
time being a mere beast, with every animal instinct in me
awake and rampant. Intelligence, culture, Scholarship—these
seemed lost to me—they occupied no place in my drugged
memory. Nothing is easier than for a man to forget such
things. A brute by origin, he returns to his brute nature
willingly. And I–I did not stand long considering, or striving
to consider, my own condition there where I was, close by the
Avenue de l’Opera, with the stream of passers-by coming and
going like grinning ghosts in a dream; I hurled myself, as it
were, full into the throng and let myself drift with it, careless
of whither I went. There were odd noises in my ears—ring-
ing of bells, beating and crashing of hammers; it seemed to
my fancy that there, spread out before me, was a clear green
piece of water with a great ship upon it; the ship was in proc-
ess of building, and I heard the finishing blows on her iron
keel, the throbbing sound of her panting engines; 1 saw her
launched, when lo! her giant bulk split apart like a sundered
Orange, and there, down among her sinking timbers lay a
laughing naked thing with pale amber hair, and white arms
intwined round a livid corpse that crumbled into a skeleton as
I looked; and anon, from a skeleton, into dust. All the work
of my absinthe-witch; her magic lantern of strange pictures
was never exhausted. I rambled on and on, heedless of the
people about me, eager for some distraction, and almost un-
conscious that I moved, but burning with a sort of rapturous
rage to the finger-tips—a sensation that would easily have
prompted and persuaded me to any deed of outrage or vio-
lence. Mark me here, good reader, whosoever you are; do not
imagine for a moment that my character is an uncommon one
in Paris. Not by any means. The streets are full of such as
I am—men, who, reeling home in the furia of absintle, will
not stop to consider the enormity of any crime; human wolves
who would kill you as soon as look at you, or kill themselves
just as the fancy takes them; men who would insnare the
merest child in woman’s shape, and not only outrage her, but
204 WORM WOO}).
murder and mutilate her afterward; and then, when all is
done and they are by some happy accident caught and con-
demned for the crime, will smoke a cigar on the way to the
guillotine and cut a joke with the executioner as the knife de-
scends. You would rather not know all this, perhaps? you
would rather shut your eyes to the terrific tragedy of modern
life and only see that orderly commonplace surface part of it
which does not alarm you or shock your nerves? I dare say—
just as you would rather not remember that you must die.
But why all this pretense? why keep up such a game of Sham?
Paris is described as a brilliant center of civilization; but it is
the civilization of the organ-grinder’s monkey, who is trained
to wear coat and hat, do a few agile tricks, grab at money,
crack nuts, and fastidiously examine the insect parasites of his
own skin. It is not a shade near the civilization of old Rome
or Athens, nor does it even distantly resemble that of Nineveh
or Babylon. In those age-buried cities, if we may credit his-
torical records, men believed in the dignity of manhood, and
did their best to still further ennoble it; but we in our day are
so thoroughly alive to our own ridiculousness generally, that
we spare neither time nor trouble in impressing ourselves with
the fact. And so our most successful books are those which
make sport of, and find excuse for, our vices; our most paying
dramas those which expose our criminalities in such a manner
as to just sheer off by a hair’s-breadth positive indecency; our
most popular preachers and orators those which have most
vant and most hypocrisy. And so we whirl along from hour
to hour, and the heavens do not crack, and no divine thunder-
bolt slays us for our misdeeds—if they are misdeeds. Assured-
ly the Greek Zeus was a far more interesting Deity than the
present strange Immensity of Eternal Silence, in which some
people perchance feel the thought-throbbings of a vast Force
which broods and broods and waits—waits may be for a fixed
appointed time when the whole universe as it now is, shall dis-
perse like a ſleece of film, and leave space clear and clean for
the working out of another Creation.
As I tell you, if I had wanted money that night, I would
have murdered even an aged and feeble man to obtain it. If
I had wanted love, or what is called love in Paris, I would
have won it, either by flattery or force. But I needed neither
gold nor woman’s kisses; of the first I still had sufficient; of
the second, why, in Paris they can always be secured at the
cost of a fow napoleons and a champagne supper. No, I
wanted something that gold could not buy nor woman's lips
Versuade-–Forgetfulness—and it enraged me to think that this
WORMWOOD. * 205
was the one, the only thing that my absinthe-witch would not
give me in all its completeness. Some drinkers of the Green
Elixir there are who can win this boon; they sink into an
apathy that approaches idiotism, as the famous Dr. Charcot
will tell you; they almost forget that they live. Why could
not I do this? Why could I not strike into fragments at one
blow, as it were, this burning, reflecting, quivering dial-plate
of memory that seared and scorched my brain? Aimlessly
hurrying on as though bound on Some swift errand, yet with-
out any definite object in view, I arrived all at once in front of
a gate-way over which a garish arch of electric light flashed its
wavering red, blue, and green—a sort of turnstile wicket
marked the side entrance, with an inscription above it in large
letters, “BAL MASQUE! ENTREE LIBRE!” There are plenty
of such places in Paris of course, though I had never set foot
in one of them—dancing saloons of the lowest type where the
“Entrée Libre ‘’is merely held out as a bait to attract a large
and mixed attendance. Once inside everything has to be paid
for—that is always understood. It is the same rule with all
the cafés chantants—one enters graffis, but one pays for hav-
ing entered. The sound of music reached me where 1 slood
—wild, harsh music such as devils might dance to; and with-
out taking a second’s thought about it, for I could not think,
I twisted the bars of the turnstile violently and rushed in, into
the midst of a hurly-burly such as no painter’s brush has ever
dared devise—a scene that could not be witnessed anywhere
save in “civilized ‘’ Paris. In a long Salle, tawdry with
bright paint and common gilding, whirled a crowd of men and
women fantastically attired in all sorts of motley costumes,
Some as clowns, others as sheeted corpses, others as laun-
dresses, fishermen, sailors, Soldiers, vivandières ; here was a
strutting caricature of Boulanger, there an exaggerated double
of the president of the republic; altogether a wild and furious
crew, shrieking, howling, and dancing like lunatics just es-
Caped from detention. Some few wore masks and dominos,
but the greater part of the assemblage were unmasked; and
my entrance, clad merely as a plain civilian, excited no sort of
notice. I was to the full as de rigueur for such an entertain-
ment as any one else present. I flung myself into the midst
of the gesticulating, gabbling vortex of people with a sense of
pleasure at being surrounded by so much noise and movement;
here not a Soul could know me, here no unpleasant thought or
fanciful impression would have time to write itself across my
brain; here it was better than being in a wilderness; one could
yell and scream and caper with the rest of one’s fellow-apes
.* *º-
206 WORMWOOD,
and be as merry as one chose. ...I elbowed my way along, and
promised an officious but very dirty waiter my custom present-
ly, and while I tried to urge my muddled intelligence into a
clearer comprehension of all that was going on, the crowd, sud-
denly parted asunder with laughter and shouts of applause,
and standing back in closely pressed ranks made an open space
in their center for the approach of two women discreetly
masked, one arrayed in very short black gauze skirts, the other
in blood red. Attitudinizing for a moment in that theatrical
pose which all dancers assume before commencing their evolu-
tions, they uttered a peculiar shout, half savage, half mirth-
ful, a noisy burst of music answered them, and then, with an
indescribable slide forward and an impudent bracing of the
arms akimbo, they started the “can-can,” which though im-
modest, vile, Vulgar, and licentious, has perhaps more power
to inflame the passions of a Paris mob than the chanting of
the “Marseillaise.” It can be danced in various ways, this
curious fandango of threatening gesture and amorous invita-
tion; and if the dancers be a couple of heavy Paris laundresses
or pétroleuses, it will probably be rendered so ridiculously as
to be harmless. But, danced by women with lithe, strong,
sinuous limbs, with arms that twist like the bodies of snakes,
with bosoms that seem to heave with suppressed rage and
ferocity, with eyes that flash hell-fire through the black eye-
holes of a conspirator-like mask, and with utter, reckless,
audacious disregard of all pretense at modesty, its effect is ter-
rible, enraging, inciting to deeds of rapine, pillage, and slaugh-
ter. And why? Why, in Heaven’s name, should a mere
dance make men mad? Why? Mild questioner, whoever you
are, I can not answer you. Why are men made as they are?
will you tell me that? Why does an English earl marry a
music-hall singer? He has seen her in tights, he has heard her
roar forth vulgar ditties to the lowest classes of the public, and
yet he has been known to marry her and make her “my
lady ?’ and a peeress of the realm. Explain to me this incon-
gruity, and I will explain to you then why it is that sight of
the “can-can,” danced in all its frankness, turns Parisian
men for the time being into Screeching, stamping maniacs,
whom to see, to hear, to realize the existence of, is to feel that
with all our “culture * we are removed only half a step away
from absolute barbarism. On me the spectacle of those two
strong women, the one wearing the color of the grave, the
other the Color of blood, aſ led as a sort of exhilarating charm,
and I howled, stamped, shrieked, and applauded as furiously
as the rest of the on-lookers. More than this, when the dance
gº-
WORMWOOD. * 20?
was over, 1 approached the black siren and besought her to
honor me with her hand in a waltz, an invitation which I ac-
companied by a whisper in her ear—a whisper that had inft
the chink of base coin rather than the silvery ring of courtly
homage—she had her price, of course, like all the women
there, and that price I paid. I whirled her several times
round the room—for she waltzed well—and finally, sitting
down by her side, asked her, or rather, I should say, com-
manded her, as I was paymaster for the evening, to remove
her mask. She did so, and displayed a handsome, coarse vis-
age, badly rouged, and whitened with pearl powder; her way
of life had rendered her old before her time, but the youth
and wickedness in her magnificent eyes made amends for her
premature wrinkles.
“ Tiens, madame / Comme tu est laide l’” I said, with
brusque candor. “Mais c’est une jolie laideur !” *
She laughed harshly.
“Oui / je suis laide—je le Sais !” she responded, indiffer-
ently. “Que veua-tu, mon jeune farouche / J’ai vécu !”
It was my turn to laugh now, and I did so uproariously.
She had lived—shel She thought so, in all good faith; she
believed she knew life inside and out, and all through. She,
who had probably never opened a noble book or looked at a
fine picture, she who would certainly have no eyes for scenery
or the wonder and science of Nature, she whose experience had
been limited to the knowledge of the most despicable side of
despicable men’s characters; she had lived, which was tanta-
mount to saying that she comprehended the object and inten-
tion of living. What a fool she was; what a shallow-brained
fool! and yet, it is for such women as she was that men occa-
sionally ruin themselves and their families. The painted suc-
cessful wanton of the stage never lacks diamonds or flowers;
the honest wife and mother often lacks bread. Such is the
world and the life of the world, and God does nothing to im-
prove it. What an impassively dumb spectator of things IIe
is in His vast, clear empyrean! Why does He not “rend the
heavens and come down,” as the old Psalmist implored IIim
to do, then we should understand, we should not have to wait
for death to teach us. And the question is, will death teach
us? Is death a silence or an overpoweringly precise explana-
tion? Ah! At present, not knowing, we laugh at the idea;
but it is a laugh with a shudder in it.
Well, I danced again and yet again with the fumale fiend
who had “lived,” as she said; I gave her Champagne, ices,
bonbons—all that her greedy appelite demanded, and 1 Watched
208 wormwooD. .*-
her with a certain vague amusement, as she eat and drank and
laughed and jested, while the wine flushed her cheeks and lent
an extra devilish sparkle to her eyes. Between the dances we
sat together in a sort of retired alcove adorned with soiled
hangings of faded crimson, and at the next table to us, in a
similar kind of compartment, were a clown and a harlequin
—the clown a man, the harlequin a woman. These two were
noisily drunk, and they sung scraps of song, whistled and
screeched alternately, the female harlequin sometimes beating
her sword of lath against her knees, and anon laying it with a
resonant “crack!” across her grinning companion’s shoulders.
Half stupefied myself, and too confused in mind to understand
even my own actions, I stared at this pair of fools disporting
themselves much as I might have stared at a couple of danc-
ing bears in a menagerie; and then growing suddenly tired of
their rough antics, my eyes wandered from them down and
across the length and breadth of the Salle, where the vari-col-
ored crowd still twirled and flitted and swung to and fro, like
a merry-go-round of puppets at a fair. And then I perceived
a new figure in the throng—a stranger in black, who looked
Guriously out of place and incongruous, so I fancied, and I
turned to my siren of the “can-can,” who with both her mus-
cular white arms folded on the table, was staring hard at me
with, as I thought, an expression of intense inquisitiveness
not unmixed with fear.
“ Vollà l’” I said, laughing. “A priest at a bal nasque !
Docs he not look droll? See what temptations these gentle-
men of the Church yield to.”
She turned her black eyes in the direction I indicated.
“What priest?” she asked. “Where?”
& 6 There. 55 -
And I pointed straight before me into the salle, where I
plainly saw the individual I meant—a man, wearing the close-
ly buttoned-up clerical black garment I had learned to abomi-
nate so heartily.
“I do not see him,” she said. “No real priest would dare
to come here, I fancy. Some one in priest’s clothes perhaps,
dressed up for fun—yes—that is very likely. A priest is al-
ways ridiculous. Find him, and I will dance with him.”
I laughed again, and flipped her on the bare arm that lay
nearest to me.
“You will be a fool if you do,” I told her, carelessly.
“He will have no money for you, and you have had enough
champagne. There he is! there, with his back turned to us,
Don’t you see him now?”
WORMWOOD. 209
She stared and stared, then shrugged her shoulders.
6 NO.”
A sudden horrible fear froze my blood. I sprung from my
seat.
“Come!” I said, hoarsely. “Come! Quick! Give me
another dance, and dance your best!”
I snatched her round the waist, and whirled her into the
throng with so much celerity and violence that she nearly lost
her footing and fell; but I cared little for that; I plunged
madly with her through the room and straight up to the spot
where that priest was standing—standing quite still.
“Look! look!” I whispered. “You can see him plainly
enough. I told you he was a priest, and I was right. Took!
he does not move!”
Under her rouge her face grew very pale. “Oi dome 2’’
she murmured, nervously. “Je me vois rien l’’
Closer and closer we waltzed toward that motionless shape
of man, and I saw the dark outlines of his figure more and
more distinctly.
“You can touch him now,” I said, my voice shaking as I
spoke. “Your dress brushes against him! what! have you no
eyes? Ah, diable ſ” and I uttered a furious Gry as the figure
turned its face upon me. Silvion Guidel again, by all the
Furies of fact or fiction! Silvion Guidel! . . . And this
time, as I looked, he moved away rapidly, and began to slip
stealthily through the crowd; roughly flinging my partner
from me I followed fast, striking out right and left with my
two hands to force a passage between the foolish flocks of
dancing masqueraders, I heard shrieks of terror and amaze-
ment, loud shouts of “Il est fou !—il est fou !” but I heeded
nothing, nothing save that black figure gliding swiftly on before
me, nothing until in my wild headlong rush I was stopped by
the sudden consciousness of being in the fresh air. The wind
blew coldly on my face, I saw the moonlight falling in wide
patterns around me; but — was I alone? No! for Silvion
Guidel stood there also, by the side of a great tree that spread
its huge boughs downward to the ground; he gazed straight at
me with wistful, beautiful, impassioned eyes, but no Smile
crossed the quiet pallor of his countenance. He looked—yes
—exactly as he had looked before I murdered him! . . . Per-
haps—perhaps, I thought vaguely, there was some mistake?
perhaps I had not killed him after all! he seemed still to be
alive.
“Silvion!” I whispered. “What now?—Silvion!”
A light breeze rustled the branches overhead; the moon-
*
210 - wormwood. .
beams appeared to gather and melt into a silvery sea, and I
sprung forward, resolvedly intent on grasping that substantial-
looking form in such a manner as to establish for myself the
fact of its actual existence; it rose upward from my touch like
a cloud of ascending Smoke and Vanished utterly . . . while
I, striking my forehead sharply against the rough trunk of the
tree where the accursed phantom of my own brain had con-
fronted me, fell heavily forward on the ground, stunned and
insensible. wº
XXVI.
I LAY there in a dead stupor for some hours; but I was
roused to my senses at last by the ungentle attentions of a
gendarme, who grasped and shook me to and fro as if I were
a bag of wheat.
“Léve-toi / Get up, beast!” he growled, his rough provin-
cial accent making the smooth French tongue sound like the
ugly snarl of a Savage bull-dog. “Drunk at nine in the morn-
ing! A pretty way of earning the right to live.”
I struggled to my feet and stared haughtily at him.
“I am a gentleman,” I said. “Leave me alone!”
The fellow burst out laughing.
“A gentleman! Truly, that is easily seen. One of the old
aristocracy, doubtless.” *
He picked up my hat—it was entirely battered in on one
side—and handed it to me with a derisive bow.
I looked at him as steadily as I could; everything seemed
to flicker and dance before my eyes; but I remembered I had
some money left in my pockets. I searched, and drew out a
piece of twenty francs.
“What do you know about gentlemen or aristocrats?” I
said. “Do you not measure them all by this?” and I held
up-the gold coin. “You called me a beast; what a mistake
that was! A drunken beggar is a beast if you like, but a
grand seigneur who amuses himself,” here 1 dropped the
piece into his quickly outstretched palm. “C”est awłre chose,
n’est-ce pas, mon ami ?”
He touched his hat, and the laughter was all on my side
now. He looked such a ridiculous puppet of officialism.
“Mais oui, monsieur !—mais oui ſ' he murmured, con-
fusedly, pocketing his gold. “Mille pardons . . . c'est le
devoir—vous le savez. . . . Emfin—monsieur, j’ai l’honneur
de vous saleur !”
And he edged himself away with as much dignity as was
WORMWOOD, 21]
possible in the very undignified position he occupied, namely,
that of taking money to prove a beast a gentleman. His first
exclamation at sight of me was honest and true, my condition
was worse than bestial, for beasts never fall so low as men,
and he knew it, and I knew it. But for twenty francs he
could be made to say, “ Monsieur, j'ai l’honneur de vows
saleur !” Poor devil! Only one out of thousands like him in
this droll world, where there is so much bombastic prating
about Duty and Honor.
Nine o’clock in the morning! So late as that! I looked
about me and realized that I was close to the Champs Elysées;
I could not imagine how I had come there, nor could I re-
member precisely where I had been during the past night. I
was aware of a deadly sense of sickness, and I was very un-
steady on my feet, so that I was obliged to walk slowly. My
hat was damaged beyond despair; I put it on as it was, all
crushed and beaten in, and what with my soiled linen, disor-
dered garments and unkempt hair, I felt that my appearance
was not, on this fine bright morning in Paris, altogether pre-
possessing. But what did I care for that? Who was to see
me? who was to know me? Humming the Scrap of a tune
, under my breath I sauntered giddily along; but the horrible
sickness upon me increased with every step I took, and finally
I determined to sit down for awhile, and try to recover a
firmer hold of my physical faculties. I staggered blindly to-
ward a bench under the trees, and aimost fell upon it, thereby
knocking heavily against an upright dignified-looking old gen-
tleman who just then happened to cross my path, and to
whom I feebly muttered a word or two by way of apology.
But the loud cry he gave startled me into a wide-awake condi-
tion more successfully than any cold douché of water could
have done.
“Gaston! My God! Gaston /’’
I stared stupidly at him with eyes that blinked painfully in
the spring Sunshine. Who was he, this tidy, respectable, elderly
personage, who, pale as death, regarded me with the terror-
stricken air of Qne who sees some sudden spectral prodigy?
“Gaston!” he cried again.
Ah, of course! I knew him now! My father! Actually my
father—who would have thought it! I felt in a dim sort of
way that I had no further claim to relationship with this wor-
thy piece of honesty. and I laughed drowsily as I made a feeble
clutch at my battered hat and pulled it off to salute him.
“ Pardieu !” I murmured. “This is an unexpected meet-
ing, mon père? I rejoice to see you looking so well!”
212 TWORMWOOD.
White to the lips, he stood still, staring at me, one hand
grasping his gold-headed cane, the other nervously clinching
and unclinching itself. Had I any sense of filial compassion
or decency left, which I had not, I should have understood
that the old man was suffering acutely from such a severe
shock as needed all his physical courage and endurance to
battle against, and I should have been as sorry for him as I
ought; but in the condition I was, I only felt a kind of grim
amusement to think what a horrible disappointment I must be
to him! His son! Iſ I laughed again in a sort of stupid
fashion, and surveying my ill-used hat I remarked airily:
“My presence in Paris must be a surprise to you, sir? I
suppose you thought I was in Italy?”
He paid no attention to my words. He seemed quite
stunned. Suddenly, rousing his faculties, as it were by a Su-
preme effort, he made a stride toward me.
“Gaston!” he exclaimed, sharply, “what does this mean?
Why are you here? What has happened to you? Why have
you never written to me? what is the reason of this disgrace-
ful plight in which I find you? Mon Diew—what have I done
to deserve this shame?”
His voice shook, and his wrath seemed close upon the verge
of tears.
“What have you done, mon père 2 why, nothing!” I re-
sponded tranquilly, “Nothing, I assure you! And why talk'
of shame? No shame attaches to you in the very least. Pray
do not distress yourself! You ask me a great many questions,
and as I am not particularly well this morning—” º
His face softened and changed in an instant, and he ad-
vanced another step or two hurriedly.
“Ah! you are ill! you have been suffering and have never
told me of it,” he said, with a sort of eager relief and solici-
tude. “Is it indeed so, my poor Gaston? why then, forgive
my hastiness! here, lean on my arm and let me take you
home.”
A great lump rose in my throat, what a good simple old
fellow he was, this far-away, half-forgotten individual to
whom 1 dimly understood I owed my being. He was ready
to offer me his arm-he, the cleanly, respectable, honorable
banker, whose methodical regularity of habits and almost
fastidious punctilio were known to all his friends and ac-
quaintance—he would, if I had made illness my sole excuse—
he would have actually escorted my draggled, dirty, slouching
figure through the streets with more than the tenderness of
the Good Samaritan! il–a murderer ſ—I Smiled—his sim-
"WORMW OOT). 213
plicity was too sincere to merit any further deception from
Iſlé.
“You mistake!” I said, speaking harshly and with diffi-
culty. “I am not ill—not with the sort of illness that you or
any one else could cure. I’ve been up all night—dancing all
night—drunk all night—going to the devil all night! ah! that
surprises you, does it? Emfin, I do not see why you should
be surprised. On va avec son siècle 2°
He retreated from me, and a frown of deepening indigna-
tion and scorn darkened his fine features.
“If this is a jest,” he said, sternly, “it is a poor one and
in very bad taste. Perhaps you will condescend to explain—”
“Oh, certainly!” and I passed my hand in and out my
rough, uncombed hair. “Voyons, where shall I begin? Let
me consider your questions. Imprimis—what does this mean?
Well, it means that the majority of men are beasts and the
minority respectable; needless to add that I belong to the ma-
jority. It is the strongest side, you know—it always wins.
INext—why am I here? I really can’t tell you—I forget what
I did last night, and as a natural consequence, my wits have
gone wool-gathering this morning. As for being still in Paris
itself instead of running away to other less interesting parts of
Europe, I really, on consideration, saw no reason why I should
leave it—So in Paris I stayed. One can lose one’s self in Paris
quite as easily as in a wilderness. I have kept out of your
way, and I have not intruded my objectionable presence upon
any one of our mutual friends. I did not write to you, be-
cause—well, because I imagined it was better for you to try
and forget me. To finish—you ask what has happened to me,
and what the reason is of this my present condition. I have
taken to a new profession—that is all!”
“A new profession!” echoed my father, blankly. “What
profession?”
I looked at him steadfastly, dimly pitying him, yet feeling
no inclination to spare him the final blow. \
“Oh, a common one among men in Paris!” I responded,
with forced lightness. “Well known, well appreciated, well
paid too, albeit in strange coin. And perhaps the best part of
it is, that once you adopt it you can never leave it; it does not
allow for any caprice or change of humor. You enter it, and
there you are!—an idée five in its brain!”
The old man drew himself up a little more stiffly erect and
eyed me with an indignant yet sorrowful wonder.
“I do not understand you,” he said, curtly. “To me you
&
X. L4 WORMWOOD.
seem foolish—drunk—disgraced! I can not believe you are
my son!” *
“I am not,” I replied, calmly. “Do not recognize me as
such any longer. In the way I have chosen to live, one cuts
all the ties of mere relationship. I should be of no use to you
—nor would you—pardon me for saying so!—be of any use to
me. What should I do with a home or home associations? I
—an absintheur.”
As the word left my lips, he seemed to stagger and sway
forward a little; I thought he would have fallen, and involun-
tarily I made a hasty movement to assist him; but he waved
me back with a feeble yet eloquent gesture; his eyes flashed,
his whole form seemed to dilate with the passion of his wrath
and pain.
“Back! Do not touch me!” he said, in low, fierce ac-
cents. “How dare you face me with such a hideous avowalſ
An absintheur 2 You? What! You, my son, a confessed
slave to that abominable vice that not only makes of its.
votaries cowards but madmen? My God! Would you had
died as a child—would I had laid you in the grave, a little in-
nocent lad as I remember you, than have lived to see you come
to this. An absintheur. In that one word is comprised all
the worst possibilities of crime! Why—why in Heaven’s name
have you fallen so low?”
“Low?” I repeated. “You think it low? Well, that is
droll. Is it more low, for example, than a woman’s infidelity?
a man’s treachery? Have I not suffered, and shall I not be
comforted? Some people solace themselves by doing their
duty, and sacrifice their lives for a cause—for an idea; and
sorry recompense they win for it in the end. . Now, I prefer
to please myself in my own fashion—the fashion of absinthe.
I am perfectly happy, why trouble about mêP”
IIis eyes met mine; the brave honest eyes that had never
known how to play at treachery, and the look of unspeakable
Teproach in them went to my very heart. But I gave no out-
ward sign of feeling.
“Is this all you have to say?” he asked, at last.
“All!” I echoed, carelessly. “Is it not enough?”
IHe waited as if to gather force for his next utterance, and
when he spoke again, his voice was sharp and resonant,
almost metallic in its measured distinctness.
“Enough, certainly!” he said. “And more than enough!
Enough to convince me without further argument, that I
have no longer a son. My Son—the son I loved and knew as
both child and man, is dead; and I do not recognize the fiend
*-*.
WORMWOOT). 215
that has arisen to confront me in his disfigured likeness. You
—you were once Gaston Beauvais—a gentleman in name and
position—you, who now avow yourself an absintheur, and
take pride in the disgraceful confession. My God! I think I
could have pardoned you anything but this—any crime would
have seemed light in comparison with this willful debauchery
of both intelligence and conscience, without which no man has
manhood worthy of the name!”
I peered lazily at him from between my half-closed eyelids.
He had really a very distinguished airl he was altogether such
a noble-looking old man.
“Good!” I murmured, affably. “Very good! Very well
said! Platitudes, of course, yet admirably expressed!”
His face flushed; he grasped his stick convulsively.
.#y Heaven!” he muttered, “I am tempted to strike
you!”
“T)o not,” I answered, smiling a little; “you would soil
that handsome cane of yours, and possibly hurt your hand.
I really am not worth the risk of these two contingencies!”
He gazed at me in blank amazement. \\
“Are you mad?” he cried.
“I don’t think so,” I responded, quietly. “I don’t feel
so. On the contrary, I feel perfectly sane, tranquil, and com-
fortable. It seems to me that you are the madman in this
case, mon père—forgive me for the brusquerie of the obser-
Vation.”
“1” he echoed, with a stupefied stare.
“Yes, you. You, who expect of men what is not in them;
you, who would have us all virtuous and respectable in order
to win the world’s good opinion. The world’s good opinion!
Pshaw! Who, knowing how the world forms its opinion, cares
a job for that opinion when it is formed? Not I] I have
created a world, of my own, where I am sole law-giver—and
the code of morality I practice is au fond precisely the same
as is followed under different auspices throughout society;
namely, I please myself, which, after all, is the chief object
of each man’s existence.” *
Thus I rambled on half incoherently, indifferent as to
whether my father stayed to listen to me or went away in dis-
gust. He had, however, now regained all his ordinary com-
posure, and he held up his hand with an authoritative gest-
UI Pê.
“Silence!” he said. “You shame the very air you breathe.
Listen to me—understand well what I say, and answer plainly
ºr syrº-wr a
216 WORM WºOOſ).
if you can. You tell me you have become an absintheur—do
you know what that means?”
“I believe I do,” I replied, indifferently. “It means, in
the end—death.”
“Oh, if it meant only death!” he exclaimed; passionately.
“If it meant only the common fate that in due time comes
to us all! But it means more than this—it means crime of
the most revolting character; it means brutality, cruelty,
apathy, sensuality, and mania! Have you realized the doom
you create for yourself, or have you never thought thus far?”
I gave a gesture of weariness.
“Mon père, you excite yourself quite unnecessarily. I
have thought, till I am tired of thinking; I have conned over
all the problems of life till I am sick of the useless study.
What is the good of it all! For example, you are a banker, I
was your partner in business (you see, I use the past tense,
though you have not formally dismissed me); now what a
trouble and worry it is to consume one’s days in looking after
other people’s money! To consider another profession—the
hackneyed one of fighting for “La Patrie.” What does La
Patrie ’ care for all the blood shed on her battle-fields? She
is such a droll ‘ Patrie ’—one week she shrieks out, ‘Alsace-s
Lorraine / En revamche /’ the next, she talks calmly through
her printing-presses of making friends with Germany, and
even condescends to flatter the new German Emperor. In
such a state of things, who would endure the toil and moil of
military service, when one could sit idle all day in a café,
drinking absinthe comfortably instead. Ah, bah! Do not
look so indignant—the days of romance are over, sir! We want
to do as we like with our lives—not to be coerced into wasting
them on vain dreams of either virtue or glory!”
My father heard me in perfect silence. When I had fin-
ished speaking:
“That is your answer?” he demanded.
“Answer to what? Oh, as to whether T understand the
meaning of being an absintheur. Yes! that is my answer; I
am quite happy, and even suppose I do become a maniac as
you so amiably suggest, I have heard that maniacs are really
very enviable sort of people. They imagine themselves to be
kings, emperors, popes, and what not—it is just as agreeable
an existence as any other, I should imagine.”
“Enough!” and my father fixed his eyes upon me with
such a coldness of unutterable Scorn in them, as for the mo-
ment gave me a dim sense of shame, “I want to hear no more
special pleadings for the most degrading and loathsome vice of
WO?MWOOſ). - 21?
*-*
this our city and age. No more, I tell you! not a word!
What I have to say you will do well to remember, and think
of as often as your besotted brain can think. First, then, in
the life you have elected to lead, you will cease to bear my
name.”
I bowed, smiling serenely. -º-
“Ca va sans dire. I have already ceased to bear it,” I
answered him. “Your honor is safe with me, sir, I assure
you, though 1 care nothing for my own.”
He went on as though he had not heard me.
“You will no longer have any connection with the bank,
nor any share in its concerns, I shall take in your place as
my partner your cousin Emil Versoix.”
I bowed again. Emil Versoix was my father’s sister’s son
—a bright young fellow of about my own age; what an open-
ing for him, I thought! and how proud he would be to get
the position I had voluntarily resigned.
“I shall send you,” continued my father, “whatever sums
are belonging to you on account of your past work and share
with me in business. That, and no more. When that is
spent, live as you can, but do not come to me—our relation-
ship must be now a things dissolved and broken forever.
From this day henceforth I disown you, for I know that the
hideous vice you pander to allows for no future repentance or
redemption. I had a son!” and his voice quivered a little—
“a son of whom I was too fondly, foolishly proud; but he is
fost to me—lost as utterly as the unhappy Pauline, or her no
less unhappy lover, Silvion Guidel!”
I started, and a tremor ran through me.
“Lost! Silvion Guidel!” I stammered. “How? Lost,
did you say?”
“Ay, lost!” repeated my father, in melancholy accents.
“If you have not heard, hear now—for it is you who caused
the mischief done to be simply irreparable! Your quondam
friend, made priest, was sent to Rome, and from Rome he
has disappeared—gone, no one knows where. All possible
Search has been made, all possible inquiry; but in vain, and
his parents are mad with grief and desolation. Like the poor
child Pauline, he has vanished, leaving no trace, and though
pity and forgiveness would await them both were they to re-
turn to their homes, as yet no sign has been obtained of
either.”
“They are probably together,” 1 said, with a sudden fierce
laugh. “In some sequestered nook of the world, loving as
lowers should, and mocking the grief of those they wronged!”
218 WORMWOOI).
jº
With an impetuous movement my father raised his cane,
and 1 certainly thought that this time he would have struck
me, but he restrained himself. º,
b “Oh, callous devil!” he cried, wrathfully. “Is it possi-
le—”
“Is what possible?” I demanded, my rage also rising in a
tumult. “Nay, is it possible you can speak of ‘pity and ſor-
giveness for those two guilty fools? Pity and forgiveness!
the prodigal son with the prodigal daughter welcomed back,
and the fatted calf killed to do them honor! Bah! what fine
false sentiment! I–I’’—and I struck my breast angrily—
“I was and am the principal sufferer! but see you, because I
win consolation in a way that harms no one but myself—I am
disinherited— I am disowned—I am cast out and spurned at-
while she, Pauline, the wanton, and he, Guidel, the seducer,
are being searched for tenderly, high and low, to be brought
back when found, to peace and pardon! Oh, the strange
justice of the world!, Enough of all this! go! go, you who
were my father!—go! why should we exchange more words?
You have chosen your path—I mine! and you may depend
upon it, the much-admired and regretted Silvion Guidel has
chosen his! Go! why.do you stand there staring at me?”
For I had risen, and confronted him boldly; he seemed
nothing more to me now than a man grown foolish in his old
age and unable to distinguish wrong from right. No one was
near us; we stood in a sequestered corner of the Champs
Elysées, and from the broader avenues came ringing between:
whiles the laughter and chatter of children at play. He—my
father—looked at me with the strained, startled gaze of a
brave man wounded to the death.
“Can sorrow change you thus?” he said, slowly. “Are
you so much of a moral coward that you will allow a mere
love disappointment in youth to blight and wither to nothing-
ness your whole career? Are you not man enough to live it
down?”
“I am living it down,” I responded, harshly. “But in my
own way. I am forgetting the world and its smug hypocrisies
and canting mockery of virtue. I am ceasing to Gare whether
women are faithful or men honorable; I know they are neither,
and I no longer expect it. I am killing my illusions one by
one. When a noble thought or a fine idea presents itself to
me (which is but seldom) I spring at its throat and strangle it
before it has time to breathe. For I am aware that noble
thoughts and fine ideas are the laughing-stock of this century,
and that the stupid dreamers who indulge in them are made
$-
WOR MWOOD, 21%
the dupes of the age. You look startled—well you may! to
you, mon père, I am dangerous; for—I loved you! And what
I once loved is now become a mere reproach to me—a black-
ness on my horizon—an obstruction in my path; SO keep out
of my way, if you are wise. I promise to keep out of yours.
The money you offer me I will not have; I will beg, steal,
starve—anything rather than take one centime from you, even
though it be my right to claim the residue of what I earned.
You shall see my face no more; I will die and make no sign;
to you I am dead already; let me be forgotten then as the
dead always are forgotten—in spite of the monuments raised
to their memory!”
IIe 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 through its scabbard; 1 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 père, as I told you—but now, if I saw much of you
—of your independent air, your proud step, your sincere eyes,
P. 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 absintheuſ'—did you not
know that? However, though the offense 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 re-
proach and scorn; I smiled at his expression of dignified dis-
gust, and as I smiled he turned away.
‘‘ Adieu, moſt père,” I said again.
Iſe 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 with-
out regret, without remorse; indeed, with rather a sense of re-
220 -* WORMWOOf).
lief 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 tire-
Some 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 can not 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 con-
fused chaos of all impressions, so that it is frequently impossi-
ble 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 Color, 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. Afterward — 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 ex-
cited 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 wonder-
ments, vague speculations, hovered to and fro without m
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 Guidel. If he could
have guessed that I had murdered him. What would he have
done, I wondered? Probably he would have given me up for
the police; he had a frightfully strained idea of honor, 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
makº.g every sort of inquiry about him, when all the while he
# - I - é -
worxſwooD. 221
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 circum-
stance and others similar to it make me at times doubtful as
to whether Death is really the conclusion of things the Posi-
tivists tell us it is. True, the body dies, but there is some-
thing 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 2 If not there, then—where 2 Silvion Guidel, 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 way
and very persistent way, so that when he was not actually visi-
ble in spectral shape, he was almost palpable in invisibility.
This impression was so pronounced with me, that it is possi-
ble, had I been taken unawares and asked some suddell ques-
tion as to Guidel’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 posi-
tively—and knowing, still vaguely refused to believe it.
Everything was misty and indefinite with me, and the inter-
view 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 chdtelaines, 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 pave-
ments 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
had laughed up in my eyes the first night 1 met her, and had
talked in foolish school-girl fashion of her favorite “ I” (t) roºf
glacés.” Heavens! what odd material women are made of
Then, one would have thought a box of bonbons sufficient to
222. - WORM WOOD.
º -
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-centered hope and drifted—con-
tent 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 S0—proud, thankful, even boast-
ful 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 won-
dered dimly whether I had loved her as much as she had loved
Guidel. No sooner did l 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 forewarning of madness—
wild, shrieking, untamable 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 immeasura-
bly 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; every 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 my-
self steadily to track out the lost girl by some practical detect-
ive 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 cer-
tainty 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 eat 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,
WORMWOOD. 223
>
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 mon-
keys, male and female, surged through the quiet air with in-
cessant reverberations of shrill discord. Here and there one
chanced on the provincial British pater-familias 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 ex-
pressions of wonder, offense, 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 con-
tinental 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 busi-
ness to be; but I afterward 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 drôll circumstance, by the bye—that
steady going to church of the English folk in order to keep up
appearances in their respective neighborhoods. 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 narrow-minded 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
behavior 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 com-
mon with all Frenchmen worthy the name; but now I am not
80 sure. I saw an English woman the other day, young and
fair, with serious, sweet eyes; she walked in the Champs
Elysées 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 breath.
224 - W ORM W OOD. . . . W.
ing 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 forever! . &
Yes; it was merry enough on the bright boulevards tha
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 flavor; and I
had not sat there so very long, meditatively stirring round and
round the pale-green liquor in my glass when I saw Andre
Gessonex approaching. I remembered then that I had told
him to meet me some evening at this very place on the Boule-
vard 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, lift-
ing his hat with the usual flourish. He glanced at my tum-
bler. -
“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 re-
gard: “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 casily shocked or repelled. But this particular thing was
so gratuitously indecent that, though I was accustomed to see
I’arisians 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 as:
sented briefly to his query. - -
“It is clever,” he went on, still thoughtfully stroking his
},eard, “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,”
gºa •
WORMW OOD. 2.35
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, far-away
sort of smile. “He dines, and I do not; he sleeps, and I do
not; he has a full purse—nline is empty! and, strangest
anomaly of all, because he pays his way he is considered re-
spectable, while I, not being able to pay my way, am judged
as quite the reverse. Foul-minded? Polluted? Tut, ºn 0),
cher, there is no foul-mindedness 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 toward 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 l'ire '' 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 that
ready appreciation which nearly all low-class French women
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 peo-
ple, and I sprung up just in time to see Gessonex reel forward
and fall heavily to the grund. 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 hu-
man and superhuman into his own hands for the nonce, he
had shot himself. He had coolly and deliberately sent a bul-
let whizzing through his brain, his fingers still convulsively
226 S WORMWOOD,
grasped the weapon with which he had done the deed; his
mouth was streaming with blood, and the “Journal pour
Rire,” 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, fast-glazing 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.
‘‘Is he dead?’” -
“No. He still breathes. But a couple of minutes—eff
c’est fini.”
Gessonex heard, and made a slight movement to and fro
with one hand on his breast.
“Oui, c’est fini,” he muttered, thickly. “De dernier mot
du Christ—le dernier mol de loſt le monde—c'est fini. Emfin,
—j’ai paſſé . . . tout.”
And stretching out his limbs with a long and terrible shud-
der, he expired. The features whitened slowly and grew rigid,
the jaw fell—all was over! I rose from my kneeling attitude
on the pavement like one in a dream, Scarcely noting the awed
and pitying faces of the crowd of by-standers, and found my-
self face to face with a couple of gendarmes. They were civil
enough, but they had their duty to perform.
“You knew him?” they asked me, pointing to the corpse.
“Only slightly,” I responded, “a mere acquaintance.”
“Ah! But you can give us his name?”
“Assuredly. Andre Gessonex.”
“What? The artist?” exclaimed some one near me.
“Yes. The artist.” -
‘‘ Moſt Dieu ! What a calamity! Andre Gessonex! A
genius! and we have so few geniuses!. Messieurs, c’est .11ydre
(Wessonea qui est mort / grand peintre, voyez-vous—grand
homme de France /*
I listened, stupefied. It was like one of the scenes of a wild
nightmare. ‘‘ Grand homme de France " ' What! so soon
great, now that he was dead? Utterly bewildered I heard the
name run from mouth to mouth, people who had never known
it before caught it up like a watch-word, and in a moment
the fever of French enthusiasm had spread all along the boule-
wards. The man who had first started it talked louder and
louder, growing more and more eloquent with every bombastic
shower of words he flung to his eager and attentive audience,
| W ORMIWOOD. 227
the excitement increased, the virtues of the dead man were
proclaimed and exalted, and his worth found out, suddenly,
and as suddenly acknowledged with the wildest public acclaim.
A stretcher was brought, the body of Gessonex was laid upon
it and covered reverently with a cloth; I was asked for, and
gave the address of the miserable room where the poor forlorn
wretch had struggled for bare existence, and in a very few
minutes a procession was formed, which added to its numbers
with every step of the way. Women wept, men chattered
volubly in true Parisian fashion concerning the great gifts of
one whom they had scarcely ever heard of till now, and I
watched it all, listened to it all in a vague, incredulous stupor
which utterly darkened all my capability of reasoning out the
ningled comedy and tragedy of the situation. But when the
silly, hypocritical mourning-train had wound itself out of
sight, I went away in my turn—away from everything and
everybody into a dusky, cool, old and unfrequented church,
and there in full view of the sculptured Christ on the cross, I
gave way to reckless laughter. Yes, laughter that bordered
on weeping, on frenzy, on madness, if you will! for who would
not laugh at the woful yet ridiculous comedy of the world’s
ways and the world’s justice. Andre Gessonex, alive, might
starve for all Paris Cared, but Andre Gessonex dead, hurrica
out of existence by his own act, was in a trice of time discov-
ered to be “grand homine de France.” Ah, ye cruel beasts
that call yourselves men and women! cruel and wanton de-
facers of God’s impress on the human mind, if any impress
of God there be; is there no punishment lurking behind
the veil of the Universe for you that shall in some degree
atone to all the great who have suffered at your hands? To
be nobler than common is a sufficient reason for contempt
and misprisal by the vulgar majority, and never yet was
there a grand spirit shut in human form, whether Socrates
or Christ, that has not been laid on the rack of torture and
wrenched piecemeal by the red-hot flaying-irons of public spite,
derision, or neglect. Surely there shall be an atonement? If
not, then there is a figure set wrong in the mathematical bal-
ance of creation—a line awry, a flaw in the round jewel, and
God Himself can not be Perfect. But why do I talk of God?
I do not believe in Him, and yet, one is always perplexed and
baffled by the Inexplicable Cause of things. And, somehow,
my laughter died away in a sob, as I sat in the quiet gloom of
the lonely old church and watched the dim lamps twinkle
above the altar; while all that was mortal of Andre Gessonex
was being carried mournfully back to his miserable attic by
~g -- * * … ---
*
--- .* *
**
228 *~- worMwooD.
the capricious, weeping, laughing, frivolous Crowds of Paris
that had let him die, self-slain!
XXVIII.
A FEW days elapsed, and the rest of the little miserable
farce of Fame was played out with all the pomp and circum-
stance of a great tragedy. The wretched hole which had
served poor Gessonex for both studio and sleeping-room was
piled so high with wreaths of roses and laurel that one could
scarcely enter its low door for the abundance of flowers; all
his debts were paid by voluntary contributions from suddenly
discovered admirers, and the merest unfinished sketch he had
left behind him fetched fabulous sums. The great picture of
the priest in the cathedral was found uncurtained, with a
paper pinned across it bearing these words:
“Bequeathed to France
-In exchange for a Grave
And the fame of it went through all the land, everybody
spoke of “Le Prêtre *—as it was called, all the newspapers
were full of it; it was borne reverently to the Musée du Lux-
embourg, and there hung in a grand room by itself, framed
with befitting splendor and festooned about with folds of
royal purple; and people came softly in to look at it and to
wonder at the terror and pathos of its story, and whispering
pity for the painter’s fate was on the lips of all the fair and
fashionable dames of Paris, who visited it in crowds and sent
garlands of rare value to deck its dead creator’s coffin. And
I—I looked on, sarcastically amused at everything, and all I
did was to visit the blossom-scented garret from time to time
to see the “brute,” the strange, uncouth little boy, whom
(#essonex had designated as his “model for the Stone Period,”
and “a production of Absinthe.” This elfish creature would
not believe his patron was dead, he could not be brought to
understand it in any sort of way, neither could he be persuad-
ed to touch a morsel of food. Night after night, day after
day, he kept watch by the mortál remains of his only friend,
like a faithful hound, his whole soul concentrated as it seemed
in his large bright eyes, which rested on the set waxen features
of the dead man with a tenderness and patience that was
almost awful. At last the final hour came; the time for the
funeral, which was to be a public one, carried out with at the
122
honors due to departed greatness, and it was then that the
poor “bruſe ’’ began to be troublesome. He clung to the
~,
º
**-
•º
ºf
- Coffin with more than human strength and tenacity, and when
sº
-
- worMwood. 229
they tried to drag him away, he snarled and bit like a wild
cat. No one knew what to do with him, and finally a sugges-
tion was made that he should be gagged, tied with cords, and
dragged away by force from the chamber of death, in which the
poor child had learned all he knew of life. This course was
decided upon, and early in the afternoon of the day on which
it was to be carried out, I went into the room and looked at
him, conscious of a certain vague pity stirring at my heart for
his wretched fate. The sunlight streamed in, making a wide
pattern on the floor, wreaths and cushions of Immortelles, and
garlands of laurel were piled about everywhere, and in the
center of these heaped-up floral offerings the coffin stood, the
lid partly off—for the little Savage guardian of it would never
allow it to be actually shut. The face of Gessonex was just
visible; it had greatly changed from meagerness to beauty; a
great peace was settled and engraved upon it, and fragrant
lilies lay all about his throat and brow, hiding the wound in
his temple and covering up all disfigurement. The boy sat
beside the coffin immovable, watchfully intent as usual, ap-
parently waiting for his friend to awake. On an impulse I
spoke to him:
“Tu as faim, mon enfant 2°
He looked up. -
“ Non 1’’ - The reply was faint and sullen, and he kept his
head turned away as he spoke. -
I waited a moment, and then went up and laid my hand
gently on his shoulder.
“Listen,” I said, slowly, separating my words with careful
distinctness, for I knew his comprehension of language was
limited. “You wait for what will not happen. He is not
asleep, so he can not wake. Try to understand me, he is not
here.”
The great jewel-like eyes of the child rested on me earnestly.
“Not here?” he repeated, dully. “Not here?”
“No,” I said, firmly. “He has gone. Where? Ah, that
is difficult! but—we believe, not so very far away. See,” and
I moved the flowers a little that covered the breast of the
corpse, “this man is pale; he is made of marble, he does not
move, he does not speak, he does not look at you; how then
can it be your friend. Surely you can observe for yourself
that he cares nothing for you; if it were your friend he would
smile and speak to you. He is not here, this white, quiet per-
sonage is not he--he is gone.”
Some glimmer of my meaning seemed to enter the boy's
*
*** -- T-ºr-
230 W ORM WOOD,
*-
brain, for he suddenly stood up, and an anxious look clouded
his face. *
“Gone?” he echoed. “Gone; but why should he go?”
“He was tired,” I replied, smiling a little. “He needed
peace and rest. You will find him, I am sure, if you look,
among the green trees where the birds sing, where there are
running brooks and flowers, and fresh winds to shake the
boughs, where all artists love to dwell when they can escape
from cities. He has gone, I tell you, and Paris is making one
of its huge mistakes as usual. This is not Gessonex—why do
you not go after him and find him?”
An eager light sparkled in his eyes; he clinched his hands
and set his teeth.
“Oui, out !” he murmured, rapidly. “Je vais le chercher
—mon Dieu !—mais . . . oil done?” ---
Now was my opportunity, if he would only suffer himself to
be persuaded away. -*
“Come with me,” I said. “I will take you to him.”
He fixed his gaze upon me—the half-timorous, half-trusting
gaze of a wild animal—a look that somehow shamed me by its
strange steadfastness, so that it was as much as I could do to
meet it without embarrassment. He was a little Savage at
heart, and he had the Savage’s instinctive perception of treach-
ery. *
“ Non 1’’ he muttered, resolutely. “Je vais le chercher,
seul 1 . . . Il n'est pas ici?” *
And with this query addressed more to himself than to me,
he sprung again to the side of the coffin and looked in; and
then for the first time, as it seemed, the consciousness of the
different aspect of his friend appeared to strike him.
“C'est wrai /’’ he said, amazedly. “Il m'est pas ici / ce
m’est pas lui / J’ai perdu le temps ; je vais le chercher / mais,
settl, Seºul ſ” sº
And without another moment’s delay he crept past me like
the strange, stealthy creature he was, and running swiftly
down the stairs, disappeared. 1 sat still in the room for some
time expecting he would return, but he did not—he was gone,
Heaven only could tell where. A little later in the day the
men came who were prepared to take him captive, and glad
enough they were to find him no longer in their way, for no
one had much relished the idea of a tussle with the wild, devil-
ish-looking little creature whose natural ferocity was so de-
clared and so untamable; and all the arrangements for the last
obsequies of Andre Gessonex were now completed without any
further delay or interruption. As for me, I knew I had sent
worxiwood. 231
#
the child into a wilderness of perplexities that would never be
cleared up; he would search and search for his patron proba-
. . bly till he died of sheer fatigue and disappointment—but what
then? As well die that way as any other; I could not be-
friend him; besides, even had I wished to do so, the chances
were that he would not have trusted me. Any way I saw him
no more—whatever his fate I never knew it.
And so it came about that the funeral of the starved, un-
happy, half-mad painter of “Le Prêtre '’ was the finest thing
that had been seen in Paris for many a long day. Such pomp
and solemnity, such prancing of black steeds, such glare of
blessed candles, such odorous cars of flowers. Once upon a
time a suicide was not entitled to any religious rites of burial;
but we, with our glorious republic, which keeps such a coerc-
ing hand on the priests, and will hear as little of God as may
be, we have changed all that. We do as seemeth good unto
ourselves; and we do not despise a man for having sent him-
self out of the world; on the contrary we rather admire his
spirit. It is a sort of defiance of the Divine, and, as such,
meets with our ready sympathy. And I smiled as I saw the
mortal remains of my absinthe-drinking friend carried to the
last long rest; I thought of his own fantastic dreams as to
what his final end should be. “The Raphael of France!” So
he had imagined he would be called, when he had, in his inco-
herent, yet picturesque style, described to me his own fancied
funeral. Well, so far he had been a fairly accurate seer;
and in leaping the boundary-line of life he had caught Fame
like a shooting-star and turned it into a torch to shed strange
brilliancy on his grave. All was well with him; he had not
missed glory in death though he had lacked food in life. All
was well with him; he had received the best possible trans-
formation of his being; his genius was everything, and he was
nothing. I watched his solemn obsequies to their end; I heard
one of the most famous orators of France proclaim his praise
over the yawning tomb in which they laid him down, and
when all was done, I, with every one else, departed from the
scene. But some hours later, after the earth had been piled
above him, I returned to Père-la-Chaise and sat by the just-
covered grave alone. I remembered he had said he liked white
violets, and I had yielded to a foolish sentiment and had
bought a small garland of them. I laid them on the cold and
fresh-turned soil; their scent sweetened the air, and I rested
quietly for a few moments thinking. My mind had been
clearer since the last one or two days; my faculties, instead of
being dulled, were more that usually acute—painfully so at
232 WORMWOOD,
times—for every nerve in my body would throb and quiver at
the mere passage of an idea through my brain. I looked up
at the sky, it was a dappled-gray color, flecked here and there
with gold—for the setting of the sun was nigh—then I looked
again at the white violets that lay, fragrant and pure, on the
top of all the other wreaths of laurel and myrtle that covered
Gessonex’s grave. There was to be a fair monument raised
above it, so the people said, but I doubted it. Doré’s last
resting-place remains unmarked to this day. My countrymen
promise much more than they perform; it is charming “po-
lifesse ’’ on their part, so we do not call it lying.
Presently my eyes began to wander round and about the
cemetery, which is beautiful in its way—a veritable City of the
Dead, where no rough rumors stir the air—and by and by, I
caught sight of the name “De Charmilles * carved on the
marble portal of a tomb not very far distant. I realized that
I was close to the funeral-vault of the once proud family Pau-
line—not I—had disgraced and ruined, and acting on a sud-
den instinct which I could not explain to myself, I rose and
went toward it. It was built in the shape of a small chapel,
as many of these tombs are; it had stained glass windows and
armorial bearings, and a pair of Sculptured angels guarded it
with uplifted crosses and drooping wings. But there was a
figure in front of it kneeling at the closed door that was no
angel, but merely a woman. She was slight, and clad in
poorest garments, the evening wind blew her thin shawl about
her like a gossamer sail, but the glimmer of the late sunlight
glistened on a tress of nut-brown hair that had escaped from
its coils and fell loosely over her shoulders, and my heart beat
thickly as I looked—I knew—I felt that woman was Pauline!
Now, should I speak to her or should I wait, wait till those
open-air devotions of hers were done, and then follow her
stealthily and track her out to whatever home she had found
in the wilderness of the city? I pondered a moment and de-
cided on the latter course; then, crouching behind one of the
grave-stones hard by, + watched her and kept still. How long
she knelt there! and what patience women have! They never
seem to tire of asking favors of the God who never hears—or
if He does hear, never answers. It must be dull work, and
yet they do it. The sun went down, the breeze blew more
coldly, and at last, with a long sigh that was half a moan, a
sound that came shuddering forlornly to me where I was in
hiding, she rose, and with slow, rather faltering tread went on
her way out of the cemetery. 1 followed, walking on the grass
that my footsteps might not be heard. Once she turned
w **
... -- * * * .* *... 3 -
*
- wormwooD. 233
round; I saw her face, and seeing it, recoiled. For it was still
so wondrously fair and child-like, though ravaged by grief and
made pallid by want and anxiety, it was still the face that had
captivated my soul and made me mad, though I had now dis-
carded that form of madness for another more lasting. Out
into the public thoroughfare we passed, she and I, one follow-
ing the other, and for more than half an hour I kept her in
sight, closely tracking the movement of her slender figure as
it glided through the throng of street-passengers, then, all
suddenly, I lost her. With a muttered curse I stood still,
Searching, about me eagerly on all sides; but vainly—she was
one. Was she a phantom too, like Silvion Guidel? What a
fool I had been not to at once attack her with a rough speech
while she was kneeling at her father’s grave! It was no senti-
ment of pity that had held me back from So doing; why had I
let her go? Heartily enraged at my own stupidity, I sauntered
discontentedly homeward. I had changed residence of late—
for my money was not inexhaustible—and as 1 had refused the
additional funds I might have had by right at my father’s
hands, it was well I had already decided to exercise economy.
I had taken a couple of small rooms, decent and tidy enough in
their way, in a clean and fairly respectable house—that is,
respectable for the poorer quarters of Paris; it is only recently
that I have come to the den where I live now. But that is
the humor of absinthel it leads one down in the social scale so
gently, step by step, so insidiously, so carefully, that one can
not see the end. And even for me the end is not yet!
XXIX.
IN the thickest part of the woods of Boulogne it is easy to
fancy one’s self miles away from Paris; the landscape is gen-
tly pleasing and pastoral, and to the eyes that are unsatiated
with grander scenery, it will assuredly seem beautiful. I
found myself there one morning about an hour before noon; I
had taken a sudden fancy to see the green trees, to inhale the
odor of the pines, and to watch the light breath of the wind
sweep over the grass, ruffling it softly, just as water is rufiled,
into varying ripples of delicate grays and greens. I avoided
those avenues where the pretty young girls of Paris may be
seen with their gouvermantes, walking demurely along with
downcast eyes and that affectation of perfect innocence which
does so charm and subdue the spirits of men until—well—
until they find it is all put on for show, to insnare them into
the marriage market. " I strolled into bosky dells, rendered:
* * * -
*
234 ºt WORMWOOD.
*
Sweeter by the luxury of solitude; I, though I had the stain of
murderſon my soul, for Once felt almost at peace. I wandered
about dreamily and listlessly; the absintheur has his occa-
sional phases of tranquillity like other people—tranquillity
that is as strange and as overpowering as a sudden swoon—in
which the tired senses rest, and the brain is for the nonce
empty of all images and impressions. And so 1 was scarcely
startled when, pushing aside the boughs that screened the
mossy turn in the pathway, I came upon what at first seemed
like the picture of a woman reading, till at last it resolved
itself into substantial fact and form, and I recognized Heloise
St. Cyr. She sat alone on a little rustic bench; her face and
figure were slightly turned away from me; she was dressed in
black, but she had taken off her hat and placed it beside her,
and the sunlight flickering through the boughs above her
played fully on her glorious gold hair. Her head was bent
attentively over the book she held, her attitude was full of
graceful ease and unstudied repose, and as I watched her from
a little distance a sense of sudden awe and fear stole over me
—I trembled in every limb. A good girl, mark you, a brave,
sweet, pure-minded woman, is the most terrific reproach that
exists on earth to the evil-doer and wicked man. It is as
though the deaf blind God suddenly made Himself manifest,
as though He not only heard and saw, but with His voice
thundered loud accusation. Many of us—l speak of men—
cling to bad women, and give them our ungrudging admira-
tion—and why? Because they help us to be vile; because
they laugh at our vices and foster them, and we love them for
that. But good women—I tell you that such are often left
loveless and alone because they will not degrade themselves to
our brute-level. We want toys, not angels; puppets, not
queens. But all the same, when the angel or the queen passes
us by with the serene scorn of our base passions written in her
clear calm eyes, we shrink and are ashamed, ay, if only for a
moment’s space. ,
And she-Heloise—sat there before me, unconscious of my
presence, unconscious that the pure air about her was tainted
by the unquiet breathing of a murderer and coward. For I
knew myself to be both these things; absinthe had given me
the spirit of braggardism, but had deprived me of all true
courage. Boastfulness is not valor, yet it often passes for
such in France. Poor France, fair France, dear France!
there are some of her sons still left who would give their life
blood to see her rise up in her old glory, and be again what
she once was—a queen of nations. But alas! it is not because
-- WORMWOOD. 235
of the German conquest, nor because she has had foolish rulers
that she has fallen and is still falling, it is because the new
morals and opinions of the age, propounded and accepted by
narrow-minded, superficial, and materialistic thinkers, breed
in her a nest of vipers and scorpions instead of men; and your
ordinary modern Frenchman has too low an estimate of all
high ideals to risk his life in fighting for any one of them.
There are exceptions to the rule certainly; there are always
exceptions, but they are rare—so rare, that we have let all
Europe know there is no really strong, wise ruling brain in
France any more than there is in England. One would no
more accept M. Carnot as a representive of the French national
intellect than one would accept Mr. Gladstone and his contra-
dictions as a representative of English stability.
The wind rustled the boughs, a bird sung softly among the
upper cool bunches of leaves, and I stood screened by the
foliage; nervously hesitating, and looking at Heloise, the sweet-
est and best woman I had ever known. Always fond of read-
ing she was, and my restless mind flew off to a hazy considera-
tion of what her book might possibly be. One might safely
conclude it was not by Zola—the literary scavenger of Paris
would have no charm for that high-souled, proudly delicate
Normandy-bred maiden. Probably it was one of her favorite
classics, or a volume of poems—she was a great lover of poesy.
I heard her sigh—a deep fluttering sigh that mingled itself
with the low-whispering wind—she suddenly closed her book,
and raising her eyes, looked out on the quiet landscape away
from me. My heart beat fast, but I resolved to speak to her,
and with a hasty movement I thrust aside the intervening
boughs.
“Heloise!”
She started; what a pale, amazed, Scared face she turned
upon me. Did she not know me?
“Heloise!” I said again.
She rose nervously from her seat and glanced about her
from right to left, apparently searching for Some way of es-
Cape; it was evident she took me for some drunken or imperti-
nent stranger. I had forgotten how changed I was; I had for-
gotten that I looked more like a tramp than a gentleman. I
laughed a little confusedly, and lifted my hat.
“You do not seem to recognize me, Heloise,” I said, care-
lessly. “Yet Gaston Beauvais was once no stranger to you.”
Oh, what a wondering, piteous look she gave me! what a
spºnless sorrow swam suddenly into the large, lovely gray
eyes!
• * *
236 WORMWOOD.
* > *
“Gaston Beauvais!” she faltered, “Oh, no; not possible!
You—you—Gaston? Oh, no!—no!”
And, covering her face with her two fair white hands, she
broke into sudden weeping. . . . My God! it would have
been well if 1 could have killed myself then. For my heart
was touched; my hard, hard heart that I thought had turned
to stone. Her tears, the sincere outflow of a pure woman’s
womanly grief, fell like dew on my burned and callous soul,
and for a moment I was stricken dumb with an aching re-
morse—remorse that I should have voluntarily placed such a
chasm of eternal separation between all good things and the
accursed Me that now seemed to usurp Creation rather than
belong to it. I felt a choking sensation in my throat, my lips
grew parched; I strove to speak once or twice but failed; and
she—she, poor child, wept on. Presently, making an effort
to conquer myself, I ventured to approach her a step or two
more nearly.
“Heloise! Mademoiselle St. Cyr!” I said, unsteadily.
“Pray, pray do not distress yourself like this. I was foolish
to have spoken to you—you were not prepared to see me; I
have startled, alarmed you. I am much altered in my looks,
I know; but I forgot—pray forgive me!” * j
She checked her sobs, and uncovering her tear-wet eyes,"
turned their humid luster full upon me. I shrunk a little
backward; but she stretched out her trembling hands.
“It is really you, Monsieur Gaston?” she murmured, nerv-
ously. “Oh, have you been very ill? You look so strange
and pale—you have greatly changed.”
“Yes, for the worse—I know that,” I interrupted her
quietly. “You could scarcely expect me to improve, could
you, Heloise? Nay, did you not yourself curse me not so very
long ago? and are you surprised to find the curse fulfilled?”
She sunk on the rustic bench she had just quitted, and re-
garded me with an affrighted look. *
“I cursed you?” she echoed. “I? oh, yes, yes! I re-
member; I was wicked—on that dreadful day of Pauline’s dis-
grace and ruin, I said hard things to you, I know. I was full
of pain and anger; but, believe me, that very night I prayed
for you; indeed l have prayed for you always—for you and
my lost Pauline.” *
The tenderness her presence had aroused in me froze sud-
denly into chill cynicism.
“Pardieu ! Women are curious creatures,” I said, with a
bitter laugh. “They curse a man at noonday, and pray for
him at midnight. That is droll. But beware how you couple
WORMWOOI). 23;
perjured lovers’ names together, even in prayer, mademoiselle
—your God, if He be consistent, can scarcely care to attend
to such a petition—as an instance you see how He has taken
care of me !”
Her head drooped; a shudder ran through her frame, but
she was silent.
“Look at me,” I went on recklessly. “Look! Why, you
would not have known me if I had not declared myself. You
remember Gaston Beauvais? what a dandy he was; how spruce
and smart and even fastidious in dress? a silly young fool for
his pains! you remember how he never took much thought
about anything except to make sure that he did his work con-
scientiously, ran into no debts, acted honorably to all men,
and stood well with the world. He was the stupidest creature
extant; he believed in the possibility of happiness; he loved,
and fancied himself beloved. He was duped and deceived
all such trusting noodles are—and he took his whipping and
scourging at the hands of Fate rather badly. But he learned
wisdom at last—the wisdom of the wisest—he found out that
men were Sots and knaves, and Women coquettes and wantons,
and he resolved to make the best of an eternally bad business
and please himself since he could please nobody else. And he
has succeeded—here he is—here I am to answer for the truth
of his success. I am very happy; one does not want a new
coat to be contented. I have heard say that a woman always
judges a man by his clothes; but if you judge me by mine you
will do wrongly. They are shabby, I admit, but I am at ease
in them, and they serve me better than a court suit serves a
lackey. I look ill, you tell me—but I am not ill; the face is
always a tell-tale in matters of dissipation—and I do not deny
that I am dissipated,” here I laughed harshly as I met ber
grieved and wondering gaze; “I live a fast life; I consort
with evil men and evil women—that is, people who do not,
like the hypocritical higher classes of society, waste valuable
time in pretending to be good. I am a gamester, an idler, a
fainéanſ of the Paris cafés, I have taken my life in my own
hands and torn it up piecemeal for any dog to devour; and, to
conclude, I am an absintheur, by which term, if you under-
stand it at all, you will obtain the whole clew to the mystery
of my present existence. Absinthe-drinking is a sort of pro-
fession as well as amusement in Paris; it is followed by a great
many men both small and great—men of distinction, as well
as nobodies—I am in excellent company, I assure you; and,
upon my word, when I think of my past silly efforts to keep
in a straight line of law with our Jaded system of morals and
238 WORMWOOD,
behavior, and compare it with my present freedom from all
restraint and responsibility, I have nothing, positively noth-
ing, to regret.” €.
During this tirade, the fair woman’s face beside me had
grown paler and paler; her lips were firmly pressed together,
her eyes cast down. When I had finished, I waited, expecting
to hear some passionate burst of reproach from her, but none
came. She took up her book, methodically marked the place
in it where she had left off reading, put on her hat—though I
noticed her hands trembled—and then rising, she said, sim-
ply: *-
“Adieu.”
I stared at her amazed. t
“Adieu!” I echoed. “What do you mean? Do you think
I can let you go without more words than these after so many
weeks of separation? It was in June I last saw you, and it is
now close upon the end of September; and what a host of
tragedies have been enacted since then! Tragedies! ay, mur-
ders and suicides;” and with an involuntary gesture of ºpen
I stretched out my hand. “Do not go, Heloise!— not yet! I
want to speak to you. I want to ask you a thousand things.”
“Why?” she queried, in a mechanical sort of way. “You
say you have nothing to regret.”
I stood mute. Her eyes now rested on me steadfastly
enough, yet with a strained piteousness in them that disturbed
me greatly.
“You have nothing to regret,” she repeated, listlessly.
“Old days are over for you—as they are for Ine. In the space
of a few months the best, the happiest part of our lives has
ended. Only ”—and she caught her breath hard—“before I
go, I will say one thing: it is that I am Sorry I cursed you or
seemed to curse you. It was wrong, though indeed it is not I
that would have driven you to spoil your life as you yourself
have spoiled it. l know you suffered bitterly, but I had
hoped you were man enough to overcome that suffering and
make yourself master of it. I knew you were deceived, but I
had thought you generous enough to have pardoned deceit.
You seemed to me a brave and gallant gentleman; I was not
prepared to find your nature weak and—and cowardly.”
She hesitated before the last word; but as she uttered it I
smiled.
“True, quite true, Heloise,” I said, quietly. “I am a
coward. I glory in it. The brave are those that run all sorts
of dangerous risks for the sake of others, or for a cause, the
successful results of which they personally will not be per-
Z
! .
* *
WORMWOOD, 239
*
mitted to share. 1 avoid all this trouble. I am “coward
: enough to wish comfort and safety for myself. I leave the
* question of Honor to the arguing tongues and clashing Swords
of those who care about it—I do not.”
She looked at me indignantly, and her large eyes flashed.
“Oh, God!” she cried. “Is it possible you can have fallen
so low? Was not your cruel vengeance sufficient? You drove
Pauline from her home; her disgrace, which you so publicly
proclaimed, killed, as you know, my uncle, her father; evil
and misfortune have been sown broadcast by that one mali-
cious act of yours; even the wretched Silvion Guidel has disap-
peared mysteriously; no trace of him can be found; and not
content with this havoc, you ruin yourself. And all for what?
For a child’s broken troth-plight! a child who, as I told you
at first, was too young to know her own mind, and who sim-
ply accepted you as her affianced husband because she thought
it would please her parents—no more. She had then no idea,
no conception of love; and when it. Game, she fell a victim to
it—it was too strong for her slight resistance. I warned you
as well as I could; I foresaw it all—I dreaded it; for no wom-
an as young and impressionable as Pauline could have been
long in Silvion Guidel’s company without being powerfully
aſ tracted. I warned you, but you would see nothing—men
are so blind! They can not, they will not understand that in
every woman’s heart there is the hunger of love, a hunger
which must be appeased. When you first met Pauline she had
never known this feeling, and you never roused it in her; but
it woke at the mere glance, the mere voice of Silvion Guidel.
These things will happen—they are always happening; one is
powerless to prevent them. If one could always love where love
is advisable! but one can not do so. Pauline’s sin was no more
than that of hundreds of other women who not only win the
world’s pardon, but also the exoneration of the sternest
judges; and yet I am sure she has suffered with a sharper in-
tensity than many less innocent. But you, you have nothing
to regret, you say—no, not though two homes lie wasted and
deserted by your pitilessness? and now you have ravaged your
own life too; you might have spared that; yes, you might have
spared that, you might have left that—to God.”
Her breast heaved, and a wave of color rushed to her cheeks
and as quickly receded; she pressed one hand on her heart.
“You need not,” she went on, pathetically, “ have given
me cause to-day to even inmagine that perhaps my foolish Gurse
did harm to you. It is a vague reproach that I shall think of
often, And yot I know I spoke in haste only, and without
~
*— .**
240 * --- WORMWOOD, s : *
any malicious intent—I could not ”—here her voice sunk
lower and lower—“I could not have truly cursed what I once
loved.” . .
My heart gave a fierce bound, and then almost stood still.
Loved! What she once loved! Had she, then, loved me?
Certes, a glimmering guess, a sort of instinctive feeling that
she might have loved me, had stolen over me now and then
during my courtship of her cousin Pauline, but that she had
really bestowed any of her affection on me unasked was an
idea that had never positively occurred to my mind. And
now? . . . We looked at each other—she with a strange pale
light on her face such as I had never seen there; I amazed, yet
conscious of immense, irreparable loss—loss which those words
of hers—“what I once loved,’’ made absolute and eternal.
Both vaguely conscience-smitten, we gazed into each other’s
eyes; even so might two spirits, one on the gold edge of
heaven, the other on the red brink of hell, and all Chaos be-
tween them, gaze wistfully and wonder at their own froward
fate, ay, and such, if such there be, may lean far out from
either sphere, stretch hands, waft kisses, Smile, weep, cry aloud
each other’s name, and yet no bridge shall ever span the dark
division, no ray of light connect those Self-severed souls!
“Heloise!” I stammered, and then, my voice failing me, I
was silent.
She, moving restlessly where she sat on the rustic seat with
the shadows of the green leaves ſlickering over her, intwined
her white hands one within the other, and liſted her large
solemn eyes toward the deep-blue sky.
“There is no shame in it now,” she said, in hushed, serious
accents. “There is never any shame in what is dead. The
darkest sin, the worst crime, is expiated by death; and so my
love, being perished, is no longer blamable. I have not seen
you for a long time, and perhaps I shall never see you again;
one tells many lies in life, and one seldom has the chance of
speaking the truth; but I feel that I must speak it now. I
loved you—you see how calmly I can say it—how dispassion-
ately, because it is past. The old heartache troubles me no
longer, and I am not afraid of you any more. But before—I
used to be afraid—I used to think you must be able to guess
my secret, and that you despised me for it. You loved Pau-
line; she was much worthier love than 1; and I should have
been quite contented and at rest had I felt certain that she
loved you in return. But I never was certain; I felt that her
affection was merely that of a playful child for an elder
brother; I felt sure that she knew nothing of love—-love such
*
WOHMIWOOD. 241
as you had for her, or—as I had for you. But you, you saw
nothing—” *…*.
She stopped abruptly, for I suddenly flung myself down on
the seat beside her, and now caught her hands in mine.
“Nothing—nothing!” I muttered, wildly. “We men never
do see anything. We are bats, moths, flying desperately into
all sorts of light and fire and getting burned and withered up
for our pains. Heloise! Heloise! You loved me, you say—
$/0u ? Why, just for the merest häir’s-breadth of mercy ex-
tended to us, I might have loved you—we might have been
happy. Why do you pray to God, Heloise? How can you
pray to Him? Seeing you, knowing you, hearing you, why
did He not save me by your grace as by an angel’s interven-
tion? He could have done so had He willed it; and I should
have believed in Him then. And you—why did you not give
me one look, one word? why did you not employ all the thou-
Sand charms of your loveliness to attract me? why were you
always so silent and cold? was that your mode of defense
against yourself and me, child? Oh, my God! what a waste
and havoc of life there is in the world! Listen: there are
plenty of women who by a thousand Coquetries and unmistak-
able signs give us men plainly to understand what they mean
—and we are only too ready to obey their signals; but you,
you, because you are good and innocent, must needs shut up
your soul in a prison of ice for the sake of what? Conven-
tionality, Social usage! A curse on conventionality! Heloise!
Heloise! if I had only known—if I could have guessed that I
might have sought your love and found it! but now—why
have told me now, you beautiful, fond, foolish woman, when
it is too late?”
I was breathless with the strange excitement that had seized
me, though I held myself as much as I could in strong restraint,
fearing to alarm her by my vehemence; but my whole soul
was so suddenly overpowered by the extent of the desolation I
myself had wrought that I could not check the torrent of
words that broke from my lips. It maddened me to realize,
as I did, that we two had always been on the verge of love
unknowingly; and yet, by reason of something in ourselves
that refused to yield to the attraction of each other’s presence,
and something in the whim of chance and circumstance, we
had willfully let love go beyond all possible recall. And she,
olh, she was cold and calm, or if she were not, she had the
nerve to seem so—all your delicately strung student-women
are like that; so full of fine philosophies that they are scarcely
conscious of a heart. Her face was quite colorless; she looked
242 WORMWOOD.
like an exquisitely wrought figure of marble; her hand lay
passively in mine, chill as a frozen snowflake.
“Why,” I repeated, half savagely, “why have you told me
all this now, when it is too late?”
Her lips trembled apart; but for a moment no sound issued
from them. Then with a slight effort she answered me.
“It is just because it is too late that I have told you; it is
because my love is dead, that I have chosen you should know
that it once lived. If there were the smallest pulse of life
stirring in it now, you should never have known.”
And she withdrew her hand from my clasp as she spoke.
“You are a strange woman, Heloise!” I said, involun-
tarily.
“Possibly I may be,” she replied, with a sudden quiver of
passion in her voice that added richness to its liquid thrill.
“And yet again, perhaps not as strange as you imagine.
There are many women who can love without blazoning their
love to the world, there are many too who will die for love
and give no sign of suffering. But we need speak no more of
this. I only wished to prove to you how impossible it was that
I could ever Seriously and maliciously have wished you ill, and
to ask you, for the Sake of the past, to refrain from perpetrat-
ing fresh injuries on your life and soul. Surely, however
much a man has been wronged by others, he need not wrong
himself.”
“If his life were of any value to any one in the world he
need not and he would not,” I responded. “But when it is a
complete matter of indifference to everybody whether he lives
or dies—que voulez-vous? I tell you, Heloise, I have gone too
far for remedy, even if you loved me now—which you do not
—you could not raise me from the depths into which I have
fallen, and where I am perfectly contented to remain.”
Her eyes flashed mingled indignation and Sorrow.
“I thank God my love for you has perished then!” she ex-
claimed, passionately. “For had I still loved you, it would
have killed me to see you degraded as you are to-day.”
I smiled a little contemptuously.
“Chêre Heloise, do not talk of degradation,” I murmured.
“Or, if we must talk of it, let us consider the fate of—Pau-
line.” &
She started as though I had stabbed her with a dagger’s
point. **
“Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?” she de-
manded, eagerly.
“Yes—and no,” I replied. “I have seen her twice, but ſ
WORMWOOD. 243
have not spoken to her, nor do I know where she lives. I saw
her, the first time, wandering, Shabbily clad, in the back
streets of Paris”—Heloise uttered a faint cry, and tears
sprung into her eyes—“ and when I beheld her for the Second
time she was kneeling outside her father’s grave at Père-la-
Chaise. But I intend to track her out; I will find her, wher-
ever she is.”
Oh, what a happy hopeful light swept over the fair pale
face beside me.
“You will?” she cried. “You will find her—you will re-
store her to her mother—to me?—the poor, poor unhappy child!
Ah, Gaston, if you do this you will Surely make your peace
with God.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Ma chère, there is time enough for that. Monsieur le
Ö07, Dieu and I have not quarreled that I am aware of, and if
we had we should perhaps not be very apxious to renew our
friendship. I would rather make my peace with you. If I
find Pauline will you love me again?” *
She gave a faint exclamation and recoiled from me as
though afraid.
“Oh, no! never, never!” she said, shudderingly. “Never!
What power can revive a perished passion, Gaston Beauvais?
Once dead, it is dead forever. You are to me the merest
phantom of the man I once adored in Secret; 1 could no more
love you now than I could love a corpse long buried!”
She spoke with vehemence and fervor, and every pulse in
my body seemed to rebound with a Smarting sense of anger
against her. I felt that though she had, as she said, once
loved me, she now regarded me with something near positive
aversion, though that aversion was mingled with a pity which
I scorned. She was unjust—all women are. The subtle
nerves of her feminine organization had been wrenched and
twisted awry by disappointed passion quite as much as mine
had, and I could read and analyze her emotion; I saw she in-
stinctively despised herself for ever having bestowed a single
tender thought on such a piece of unworthiness as 1. No mat-
ter, I would meet her on her own ground; if she could not
love me she should fear me.
“Merci, chère el belle amie l’” I said, satirically. “We
have—for no reason that I can see—played a veritable game
of cat and mouse together. You have caught me in your
pearly claws, and you have purred prettily concerning your
past affection for me; and now you settle on me tooth and
mail and lear me into shreds of hopelessness and despair. Soil /
244 WORMWOOD,
It is the way of women—I do not complain. I shall, as I told
you, seek out Pauline; but if I find her, do not imagine I
shall restore her to your arms. Pas si bete / I shall keep
her for myself. I would not have her for my wife—no!—but
there is no earthly objection to my taking her as my mistress.
The idea will not shock or shame her—now !” *
With one swift movement Heloise sprung up and faced me,
her whole figure trembling with suppressed emotion.
“Oh, God! You would not be so base!” she cried. “You
could not, you dare not!”
I rose in my turn and confronted her calmly.
“How inconsistent you are, Heloise!” I said, indolently.
“Base! I see nothing base in such a proposal to such a wom-
an as your too-much-loved young cousin. She has of her own
free will descended several steps of the ladder of perdition; no
force will be needed to persuade her down to the end. You
overrate the case—” º
“I tell you you shall not harm her!” exclaimed Heloise,
with a sudden fierceness of grief and passion. “I too have
searched for her, and I will search for her still—more ardently
now that I know she must be defended from Jou ! Oh, I will
be near you when you least think of it. I will track you, I
will follow you, I will do anything to save her from the addi-
tional vileness of your touch—your—”
She paused, breathless.
I smiled.
“Do not be melodramatic, ma chère,” I murmured, coldly.
“It suits you; you look admirably lovely in anger; but still,
we are in the Bois, and there may be listeners. I shall be
charmed if you will follow me and track me out—as you say;
but—you will find it difficult. You can not save what is hope-
lessly lost—and as for ‘daring!’ Dieu how little you know
me! there is nothing I dare not do—nothing, Save one thing.”
She stood still, her eyes dilated, her breath coming and
going quickly, her hands clinched; but she said not a word.
“You do not ask what that one thing is,” I went on, keep-
ing my gaze upon her. “But I will tell you. The limit of
my courage, such as it is, stops with you. I dare not—mark
me well—I dare not affront you; so that, however much my
heart may ache and hunger for love, I dare not love you.
You are the one sacred thing on earth to me, and so you will
remain—for I have voluntarily resigned home and kindred
—my father has disowned me, as completely as I have dis-
owned him, and only the memory of your beauty will cling to
WORMWOOD, 245
me henceforth, as something just a little less valuable and
sweet than—absinthe.” /
I laughed, and she surveyed me amazedly.
“Than absintheſ” she repeated, mechanically. “I do not
understand—”
“No, I suppose you do not,” I went on quietly, “you will
probably never understand how absinthe can become dearer to
a man than his own life. It is very strange, but in Paris,
very true. You have been in dangerous company, Heloise,
to-day! be thankful you have escaped all harm! You have
talked of past love and passion to a man who has fire in his
veins instead of blood, and who, had he once let slip the leash
of difficult self-control, might have thought little of taking his
fill of kisses from your lips, and killing you afterward. Do
not look so frightened, I dare not touch you, I dare not even
kiss your hand! You are free as angels are, free to depart
from me in peace and safety, with what poor blessing a self-
ruined man may presume to invoke upon you. But do not
ask me to consider Pauline as I consider you, you might as
easily expect me to pardon Silvion Guidel!” sº
She was silent, I think from sheer terror this time, and a
restless inquisitiveness stirred in me, an anxiety to find out
how much she knew concerning the mysterious disappearance
of that once holy Saint of the Church whom I had sent to find
out in other worlds the causes of his Creed.
“What has become of him, do you think?” I said sudden-
ly. “Perhaps he is dead?”
How pale she looked, how Scared and strange!
“Perhaps,” she murmured half inaudibly.
“Perhaps,” I went on recklessly, and laughing as 1 spoke,
“ perhaps he is murdered / Have you ever thought of that?
It is quite-possible!”
And at that instant our eyes met! What, was my crime
blazoned in my face? I could not tell, I only know that she
uttered a smothered cry—an exclamation of fear or horror, or
both—and with a movement of her hands, as though she
thrust some hideous object away from her, she turned and
fled! I saw the sunlight flash on her hair like the heavenly
halo above the forehead of an angel; I heard the rustle of her
dress sweep with a swift shuddering hiss over the long grass
that bent beneath her tread—she was gone. In her haste she
had left behind her the book she had been reading, and I took
it up mechanically. It was a translation of Plato, it opened
of its own accord at a passage she had marked.
246 worMwooD.
“When one is attempting noble things, it is surely noble
also to suffer whatever it may befall us to suffer.”
Ay, for the grand old Greeks this was truth, but for modern
men what does it avail? Who attempts “noble things ’’ now.
adays without being deemed half mad for his or her effort?
And as for suffering there is surely enough of that without go-
ing out of one’s way in search of it. Good Plato! you are not
in favor of this period of time; your philosophies are as unac-
ceptable to our “advanced * condition as Christ's Christianity!
So I thought; but I took the volume with me all the same; it
had the signature of “Heloise St. Cyr,” written on its fly-leaf
in a firm, characteristic woman’s hand, and I had a super-
stitious idea that it might act like a talisman to shield me
from evil. Folly, of course! for there is no talisman in earth
or in heaven that can defend a man from the baser part of
himself. And to that baser part I had succumbed, and I had
no repentance—no! not though I should have sacrificed the
love of a thousand women as fair and pure-souled as this
strange girl Heloise, who had loved me once, and whose love
I myself had turned into hatred. And yet—yet—I was more
awake to the knowledge of my own utter vileness' than 1 had
ever been before, as with the Plato in my hand, and my hat
pulled low down over my brows I went slinkingly by side-paths
and by-ways out of the Bois like the accursed thing I was—
accursed, and for once, fully conscious of my curse!
XXX.
WEEKS went past; with me their progress was scarcely
noticed, for 1 lived in a sort of wild nightmare of delirium
that could no more be called life than fever is called health.
I was beginning to learn a few of the heavier penalties attached
to the passion that absorbed me, and the mere premonitory
symptoms of those penalties were terrifying enough to shake
the nerves of many a bolder man than I. I drank more and
more absinthe to drown my sensations; sometimes I obtained
a stupefying result with the required relief, but that relief was
only temporary. The visions that now haunted me were more
varied and unnatural in character; yet it was not so much of
visions I had to complain as impressions. These were forci-
ble, singular, and alarmingly realistic. For example, I would
be all at once seized by the notion that everything about me
was of absurdly abnormal proportions, or the reverse: men
and women would, as I looked at them, Suddenly assume the
appearance of monsters both in height and breadth, and again,
WORMWOOD. 24?
would reduce themselves in the twinkling of an eye to the
merest pygmies. This happened frequently; I knew it was
only an impression or distortion of the brain-inhages, but it
was nevertheless troublesome and confusing. Then there
were the crowds of persons I saw who were not real, and whom
I classed under the head of “visions;” but, whereas once
there was a certain order and method in the manner of their
appearance, there was now none; they rushed before me in
disorderly masses, with faces and gestures that were inde-
scribably hideous and revolting. Therefore my chief aim now
was to try and deaden my brain utterly; I was tired of the
torture and perplexity its subtle mechanism caused me to
suffer. Meanwhile I gained some little distraction by search-
ing everywhere for Pauline; this was the only object apart
from absinthe that interested me in the least. The rest of the
world was the most tiresome pageantry-show—sometimes dim
and indistinct—sometimes luridly brilliant; but always spec-
tral, always like a thing set apart from me with which I had
no connection whatsoever,
So, imperceptibly to my consciousness, the summer faded
and died, and autumn also came to its sumptuously colored
end in a glory of gold and crimson foliage, which fell to the
ground almost before one had time to realize its rich beauty.
A chill November began, attended with pale fog and drizzling
rain; the leaves lately so gay of tint, dropped in dead heaps,
or drifted mournfully on the sweeping wings of the gusty blast;
the little tables outside all the cafés were moved within, and
the somberness of approaching winter began to loom darkly
over Paris, not that Paris ever cares particularly for threaten-
ing skies or inclement weather, its bright interior life bidding
defiance to the dullest day. If you have even a very moderate
income, just sufficient to rent the tiniest maisonette in Paris,
you can live more agreeably there perhaps than in any other
city in the world. You are certain to have lively coloring
about you, for no little “ appartement ’’ in Paris, but is
cheerful with painted floral designs, gilding, and mirrors; if
you be a woman your admirer will bring you white lilac and
orchids in the middle of December, arranged with that per-
fectly fine French taste which is unequaled throughout the
globe, and on a frosty day your cuisinière will make you a
“bouillon ’’ such as no English cook has any idea of; while,
no matter whether you be on the topmost floor of the tallest
house, you need only look out of window to see Some piece of
merriment or other afoot—for we Parisians, whatever our
faults, are merry enough; and even when, monkey-like, we
4
t
f
248 wormwooD. T
tear some grand ideal to bits and throw it in the gutter, we
always grin over it. We dance on graves; we snap our
fingers in the face of the criminal who is just going to be
guillotined—why not? “ Tout casse, tout passe l’’ we may as
well laugh at the whole Human Comedy while we can. Now
I, for example, have never been in England; but I have read
much about it, and I have met many English people, and on
the whole I am inclined to admire “perfide Albion.” Her
people are so wise in their generation. When your English
lord is conscious of having more vices in his composition than
there are days in the year, he builds a church and endows an
hospital. Can anything be more excellent? He becomes
virtuous at once in the eyes of the world at large, and yet he
need never resign one of his favorite little peccadilloes. We
do not manage these things quite so well in France; we are
blagueurs—even if we are vicious, mous blaguons le chose.
IIow much better it is to be secretive & l’Anglaise / to appear
good no matter how bad we are, and to seem as though all
the Ten Commandments were written on our brows even while
we are coveting our neighbor’s wife! But I digress. I ought
to keep to the thread of my story, ought 1 not, dear critics on
the press? you who treat every narrative, true or imaginative
that goes into print, as a gourmet treats a quail, leaving noth-
ing on the plate but a fragment of picked bone which you
present to the public and call it a “review.” Ah, mes gar-
ſ:01.8 ſ take care. To not indulge your small private spites
and jealousies too openly, or you may lose your occupation,
which, though it only pay you at the rate of half a guinea a
column, and sometimes less, is still an occupation. The pub-
lig itself is the supreme critic now; its “review º' does not ap-
pear in print, but nevertheless its unwritten verdict declares
itself with such an amazing weight of influence, that the
ephemeral opinions of a few ill-paid journalists are the merest
straws beating against the strong force of a whirlwind. Digres-
sion again? Yes; what else do you expect of an absin/heur 2
I do not think I am more discursive than Gladstone of Hawar-
den, or more flighty than Boulanger of Jersey. Allons, I will
try to be explicit and tell you how pretty school-girl Pauline
de Charmilles ended her troubles; but I confess I have dallied
with the subject purposely. Why? Why, because I hate yet
rejoice to think of it, because I dwell on it with loving and
with loathing, because it makes me laugh with ecstasy; and
anon, weep and tremble and implore! though what I implore,
and to whom I address any sort of appeal, 1 can not explain
to you. Sometimes cowering on the ground I wail aloud:
WORMWOOD. * 249
“Oh, God—God!” half credulous, half despairing, and then
when the weak paroxysm is past, and the pitiless blank silence
of things hurls itself down on my soul as the crushing answer
to my cry, I rise to my feet, calm, tearless, and myself again,
knowing that there is no God! none at least that ever replies
to the shriek of torture or the groan of misery. How strange
it is that there are some folks who still continue to pray!
One cold, dark evening, how minutely I remember every
small incident connected with it! I was wandering home in
my usual desultory fashion, a little more heavily drugged
than usual, and in a state of sublime indifference to the
weather, which was wet and gusty, when I heard a woman's
voice singing in one of the by-streets down which I generally
took my way. There was something sweet and liquid in the
thrill of the notes as they rose upward softly through the mist
and rain, and I could hear the words of the song distinctly; it
was a well-known convent chant to the “Guardian Angel;”
these heavenly messengers seem rather idle in the world now-
adays!
“Wiens sur ton aile, Ange fidèle
Prendre mon coeur!
C'est le-plus ardent de mes voeux;
Près de Marie
Place-moi bientôt dans les cieux!
O guide aimable, Sois favorable
A mon désir
Et viens finir
Ma triste vie
Avec Marie!”
A wavering child-like pathos in the enunciation of the last
lines struck me with a sense of familiarity; involuntarily I
thought of TIcloise and of the way she used to play the violin,
and of the pleasant musical evenings we used to pass all to-
gether at the house of the De Charmilles. I sauntered into
the street, and down it lazily; the woman who sung was stand-
ing at the side of the curbstone, and there were a few people
about her listening; one or two dropped coins in her timidly
outstretched hand. As I came close within view of her I
stopped and stared, doubtful for a moment as to her identity;
then, in doubt no longer, I sprung to her side.
“Pauline!” I exclaimed. *
She started, and shuddered back from me, her face growing
paler than ever, her eyes opening wide in wistful wonder and
fear. The little group that had listened to her song broke up
and dispersed; they had no particular interest in her more
“W
250 WORMIWOOD.
than in any other wandering street-vocalist, and in less than a
minute we were almost alone.
'''“Pauline,” I said again; then, breaking into a derisiva
laugh, I went on: “What! has it come to this? you, the sole
daughter of a proud and ancient house, singing in the high-
ways and by-ways for bread! Dieu ! one would have thought
there were more comfortable ways of earning a living—for you
at any rate! you, with your fair face and knowledge of evil
could surely have done better than this!”
She looked at me steadfastly, but made no answer: she was
apparently as amazed and stricken at the sight of me as her
cousin Heloise had been. Meanwhile I surveyed her with a
swift yet intent scrutiny; 1 noticed her shabby, almost thread-
bare clothes; the thin, starved look of her figure; the lines of
suffering about her mouth and eyes; and yet with all this she
was still beautiful—beautiful as an angel or fairy over whom
the cloud of sorrow hangs like blight on a flower.
“Well!” I resumed, roughly, after waiting in vain for her
to speak, “we have met at last, it seems. I have searched for
you everywhere; so have your relatives and friends. You have
kept the secret of your hiding-place very well all these months
—no doubt for some good reason. Who is your lover?”
Still the same steadfast look—the same plaintive, patient
uplifting of the eyes.
“My lover?” she echoed after me, softly and with surprise.
“If you are, as 1 suppose you must be, Gaston Beauvais, then
you know—you have always known his name. Whom can I
love—who can love me—if not Silvion?”
I laughed again.
“Bien / You can love the dead, then? Nay, you are too
fair to waste your beauty thus. A corpse can give no caresses;
and le bean, Silvion by this time is something less even than a
corpse. How you stare! Did you not know that he was
dead?”
Her face grew gray as ashes, and rigid in the extremity of
her fear. *
“Dead!” she gasped. “ No-no! That could not be!
Dead? Silvion? No, no! You are cruel—you always were
cruel; you are Gaston Beauvais, the cruelest of all cruel men,
and you tell me lies to torture me! You were always glad to
torture me! yes, even after you had loved me! I never could
understand that, for if one loves at all, one always forgives.
And so I do not believe you; Silvion is not dead; he could not
die; he is too young—”
“Oh, little fool!” I interrupted her, fiercely, “do not the
à
l
º
WORMWOOD. 251
young die? The young, the strong, and the beautiful, like
your Silvion, are generally the first to go; they are too good,
say the old women, for this wicked world. Too good!—ha,
ha!—the axiom is excellent in the case of Silvion Guidel, who
was so perfect a saint. Come here, Pauline!” and I seized
her hand. “Do not try to resist me, or it will be the worse
for you. One look at my face will tell you what I have be-
come—as vile a man as you are a woman! Scum, both of us,
on the streets of Paris! Come with me, I tell you. Scream
or struggle, and as sure as these clouds drop rain from heaven
I will kill you! I never had much mercy in my disposition; I
dare say you remember that! I have less than ever now.
There are many things I must say to you—things which you
must hear—which you shall hear! Come to some remoter
place than this, where we shall not be noticed—where no one
will interrupt us, or think that we are more than two beggars
discoursing of the day’s gains.” *
And clutching her arm, I half dragged, half led her with
me; I myself full of a strange, rising fury that savored of
madness, she almost paralyzed, I think, with sheer terror.
Out of the street we hurried, and passed into a small, obscure
side-alley or court, from the Gorner of which could be per-
sº the shimmer of the Seine and the lights on the Pont
euf. ass"
“Now!” I said, hoarsely, drawing her by force up so near
to me that our faces were close together, and our eyes, peer-
ing into each other’s, seemed to ravage out as by fire the
secrets hidden in our hearts; “now let us speak the truth,
you and I, and since you were always the most graceful liar of
the two, perhaps you had best begin. Fling off the mask,
Pauline de Charmilles! make open confession, and so in part
mend the wounds of your soul! tell me how you have lived all
this while, and what you have been doing? I know your
past; 1 can imagine your present! but—speak out! Tell me
how Paris has treated you; what you were I can remember;
and all I want to know now is what you are.”
How strangely quiet she had become! this once playful,
childish, coquettish creature I had loved! She never flinched
beneath my gaze; she never tried to draw her hands away
from mine; her features were colorless, but her lips were firm-
ly set, and no tears dimmed the feverish luster of her eyes.
“What I am?” she murmured, in faint yet clear accents.
“I am what I have always been—a poor, broken-hearted
woman who is faithful!”
º º
252 WORMWOOD.
Faithful! I flung her hands from me in derision; I stared
at her, amazed at her effrontery.
“Faithful!” I echoed. “You! You, who sported with a
man’s heart as though it were a toy—you, who ruined an hon-
est man’s life to gratify a selfish, guilty passion—you—you
dare to speak of faithfulness—you—”
“Stop!” she said, Softly and with perfect composure. “I
think you do not understand—it is seldom men can under-
stand women. In Selfishness, if we speak of that, you are
surely more to blame than I–for you think of nothing but
your own wrong—a wrong for which, God knows, 1 would
have made any possible reparation. And I repeat it, I am
faithful! You can not, you dare not call the woman false
who is true to the memory of the only love she ever yielded
herself to, body and sou!! She who surrenders her life to
many lowers—she it is who is unfaithful; she it is who is base,
but not such an one as Il For I have had but one passion—
one thought—one hope—one thread to bind me to existence—
Silvion! You know, for I told you all the truth, that my love
was never centered upon you; you know that I had never
wakened to the least comprehension of love till he, Silvion,
made me see all its glory, all its misery! and neither he nor I
is to blame for our unhappy destiny! Blame Nature, blame
Fate, blame God, blame Love itself—the joy, the despair of
it all was to be! But faithlessness! Ah, Gaston Beauvais! if
ever any woman in the world was faithful, I am that woman!
I can keep that one poor pride to comfort me when I die! If,
in these weary months any other man’s hand had touched
mine with a gesture of affection; if another man’s lips had
touched mine with the lightest caress—then—then you might
have spurned me as a vile and fallen thing; then you would
have had the right to loathe me as I should have loathed my-
self! But I am as one vowed and consecrated—yes! conse-
Grated to love, and to lowe's companion, Sorrow—and though
I have, against my wish and will, brought grief to you and
many who once were dear to me, I am faithful—faithful' to
the one passion of my life, and I shall be faithful still until
the end!”
Oh, quixotic fool! I thought, as I heard her impassioned
words fall one by one, musically, on the careless air. Why,
she might have been a Saint for her fearless and holy look!
she of the corrupt heart and wayward will—even she; it was
laughable! she might have been a saint! My God! for one
wild fleeting moment I thought her so; for a comparison be-
tween her life and mine passed over me and caused me to re-
WORMWOOD. 253
&
coil from her as one unworthy to be near so pure a thing!
Pure?—what? Because she had been true to her betrayer?
Fine purity, indeed! What was I dreaming of? The rain and
mist were dark about us; no heavenly aureole shone above her
brows; she was a mere bedraggled wretch with a worn face,
feigning a wondrous honesty! Faithful? Faithful—to that
bruised and battered thing I had flung out into the river with
such infinite trouble!—faithful—to that forbidding lump of
clay thrown long ago into the common grave of nameless
suicides! What a jest! what a mockery! I looked at her as
she stood before me, as frail and slight a woman as ever was
born to misery.
“So! And with all this famous fidelity you boast of, how
have you lived?” I asked her, derisively.
“I have worked,” she replied, simply, “and when I could
get no work, I have sung, as you saw me to-night, in the
poorer streets—for the poor are more generous than the rich
—and many people have been very good to me. And some-
times I have starved; but I have always hoped and waited—”
“For what?” I cried. “Oh, most foolish of all foolish
women—waited and hoped for what?”
“For one glimpse of Silvion!” and she raised her eyes with
a trustful light in their dark-blue depths to the murky and
discontented heavens. “I have always felt that some day he
would come to Paris, and that I should see his face once more.
I would ask him for nothing but a word of blessing; I would
not call him from the life he has been compelled to choose,
and I would not reproach him for choosing it; I should be
uite, quite happy just to kiss his hand and let him go; but—
} should have seen him. Then I would go into some quiet
º of the poor and end my days; I would pray for
im—”
“Ay! as though he were another Abelard!” I interrupted
her harshly. “Your prayers will probably take the form of
Colardeau’s poesy:
“‘Un Dieu parle à mon coeur,
* Dece Dieu, ton rival, sois encore le vainqueurſ’
We all understand the ulterior meaning of such pretty senti-
ment. What! will you actually swear to me that you have
lived hidden apart like this to work and starve on the mere
hope of seeing your lover again, when you know that by his
own act he separated himself from you forever?”
Sile did not speak; but she made a sign of patient assent. -
I burst into laughter, loud, long, and irresistible,
*~,
254 WORMWOOD.
“And they say that God exists!” I cried. “A God of
justice, who allows His creatures to torment themselves with
shadows! Oh, sublime justice! Listen, listen, you, child,
who hold fast to a fidelity which nowadays is counted as a
mere dog’s virtue—listen, and learn from me what a spend-
thrift you have been of your time, and how you have wasted
your prayers! Listen! listen!” and again I caught her hands
in mine and bent my face downward to hers. “Listen, for I
am in the humor to tell you everything—everything! You
have spoken; it is my turn to speak now. The truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God! Do
you hear that? That is the proper legal oath; it suffices for
a court of justice where not a man believes in the God abjured;
it must suffice for you who do believe—or so you say! Well,
then, by that Oath, and by everything holy and blasphemous
in this sacred and profane world of ours, I swear to you Sil-
vion Guidel is dead! You can think his soul is in Heaven if
you like—if it console you so to think; but wherever his soul
is, his body is dead; and it was his fine, fair body you knew—
his body you loved; you surely will not be such a hypocrite as
to deny that? Well, that body is dead—dead and turned to
hideous corruption! Ha! you shudder! you struggle!” for
she was striving to tear her hands from my grip. “Perhaps
you can guess how he died? Not willingly, I assure you; he
was not by any means glad to go to the paradise whose per-
fect joys he proclaimed. No; he was a rebellious priest; he
fought for every breath of the strong, rich, throbbing life that
made mere manhood glorious to him; but he was conquered!
he gave in at last— - Silence! do not scream, or I shall kill
you! He is dead, I say!—stone dead! who should know it
better than I, seeing that I–murdered him?”
XXXI.
WHAT fools women are! To break their hearts is sometimes
as easy as to break fine glass—a word will do it. A mere
word! one uttered at random out of the thousands in the dic-
tionary. “Murder,” for example—a word of six letters—it
has a ludicrously appalling effect on human nerves. On the
silly Pauline it fell like a thunder-bolt sped suddenly from the
hand of God; and down she dropped at my feet, white as
Snow, inert as stone. I might have struck her across the
brows with a heavy hammer, or pierced her body with some
sharp weapon, she lay so stunned and helpless. The sight of
her ſigure there, huddled in a motionless heap, made me
WORMWOOD. 255
angry; she looked as though she were dead. I was not Sorry
for her; no! I was sorry for nothing now; but I lifted her up
from the wet pavement in my arms, and held her close against
my breast in a mechanical endeavor to warm her back to Con-
Sciousness.
“Poor, pretty little toy!” I thought, as I chafed one of her
limp, cold hands, and then, hardly knowing what I did, I
kissed her. Some subtle honey or poison, or both, was surely
on her lips, for as 1 touched them I grew mad. What! Only
one kiss for me who had been deprived of them so long? No;
ten, twenty, a hundred! I rained them down on cheeks, eyes,
brow, and hair; though I might as well have kissed a corpse,
she was so still and Gold. But she breathed; her heart beat
against mine; I could feel its faint pulsations, and I renewed
my kisses with the ardor, not of love, but of hatred. You do
not think it possible to kiss a woman you hate? Fair lady!
(for it can not be one of my sex that suggests the doubt) you
know little of men. We are, when roused, tigers in our loves
and hatreds; and we are quite capable of embracing a woman
whom we mentally loathe, so long as she has physical attrac-
tion—ay! the very fact of our loathing will oftentimes redouble
the fascination we have for her company. Oh, we are not all
lath-and-plaster men, with a stereotyped smile and company
manners! The most seeming-cold of us have strange depths
of passion in our natures which, if once stirred, leap into flame
- and destroy all that is within our reach! Such fire was in me
now as my lips almost breathlessly caressed the fair face that
lay against my heart like a white flower, and when at last the
dark-blue eyes opened and regarded me, first with vague doubt
and questioning, then with affright and abhorrence, a Sense of
the fiercest triumph was in me—a triumph which grew hotter
with every instant, as I reflected that now—now, at any rate,
l'auline was in my power. I could make her mine if I choose;
she had been faithful to Silvion living, but she should not re-
main faithful to him dead. I held her fast in my arms with
all my strength—with all my strength?—my strength was as
a reed in the wind before the sudden access of superhuman
power that rushed upon her as she recovered from her swoon.
She broke from my clasp; she pushed me violently from her,
and then stood irresolute, feebly pressing her hand against her
eyes as though in an effort to recall her thoughts.
“Silvion—dead!” she muttered, “dead! and I never knew
No warning given, no message, no spirit-voice in the night to
tell me! Oh, no! God would not be so cruel! Dead—and
—ºnurdered / Ah, no!” and her acconi's rose to a shrill Wail
256 WORMWOOD,
_2^
2.
.*
2.
—“it can not be true—it can not! Gaston Beauvais, it was
not you who spoke, it was some horrid fancy of my own; you
did not say it—you could not say it—”
She stopped, panting for breath. My blood burned as I
looked at her—in her agony and terror she was so beautiful.
How wild and brilliant were those lovely eyes! I took a fierce
delight in pricking her on to such adorable frenzy.
“I said, Pauline, what I will say again, that your lover, Sil-
vion Guidel, is dead, and that it was I who killed him. With-
out a weapon, too—with these hands alone—and yet see, there
is no blood upon them.”
I held them out to her; she craned her neck forward and
looked at them strangely, with a peering horror in her eyes
that seemed to make them fixed and glassy. Then a light
flashed over her face, her lips parted in a shrill scream.
“Murderer!” she cried, clapping her hands wildly. “Mur-
derer! You have confessed—you shall atone! You shall die
for your crime! I will have justice! Azt secours / au se-
cott's ſ”
I sprung upon her Swiftly, I covered her mouth, I grasped
her slim throat and stifled her shrieks.
“Silence, fool!” I whispered, hoarsely. “I told you I
would kill you if you Screamed. Another sound, another
movement, and I will keep my word. What are you shouting
for? what do you want with justice? There is no such thing,
either in earth or heaven. Silvion Guidel is dead and buried,
but who can prove that he was murdered? He was buried as
a suicide. If I tell you I killed him I can tell others a differ-
ent story, and your denunciation of me will seem mere hys-
terical raving. Be still!” Here, as I felt her swaying unsteadily
beneath my touch, I took my hands from her mouth and throat
and let her go. She tottered and sunk down on the pavement,
shuddering in every limb, and crouching there, moaned to her-
self like a sick and suffering child. I waited a minute or two,
listening. Had any one heard her scream? I half expected
Some officious gendarme to appear and inquire what was the
matter; but no, nothing disturbed the dark stillness but the
roar of passing traffic and the plash of the slow rain. Satisfied
at last that all was safe, I turned to her once more, this time
with something of derision.
“Why do you lie there?” I asked her. “You were warmer
in my arms a few moments ago. I have stolen the kisses your
Silvion left on those pretty lips of yours; you did well to keep
them from the touch of other men—they were reserved for
me, Fragrant as roses I found them, but somewhat cold,
* WORMWOOD, 25?
But you must wish to hear news of Silvion; let me tell you of
him. You were right, he did come to Paris.”
She made no reply, but rocked herself to and fro, still shiv-
ering and moaning.
“There is a pretty nook near Suresnes,” I went on. “The
trees there have sheltered and hidden the shame of your love
many, and many a time. There are grassy nôoks, and the
birds build their nests to the sound of their own singing; the
river flows softly, and in the early morning when the bells are
ringing for Mass, the scene is fair enough to tempt even a
prude to , wantonness. Are you weeping? Ah! we always
grow sentimental over the scene of our pleasantest sins. We
love the spot, we are drawn to it by some fatal yet potent
fascination, and after an interval of absence we return to it
with a lingering fond desire to see it once again. Yes, I know
—Silvion Guidel knew—and even so, he, in good time, re-
turned.”
Still no answer. Still the same shuddering movement and
restless moaning.
“I met him there,” I pursued—I was beginning to take a
fantastic pleasure in my own narrative. “It was night, and
the moon was shining. It must have looked different when
you kept your Secret trysts—for you chose the freshest hours
of the day, when all your friends and relatives believed you
were praying for them at Mass like the young Saint you seemed
to be; it was all sunshine and soft wind for you; but for me—
well! the stars are but sad cold worlds in the sky, and the
moon has a solemn face in spite of her associations with lovers;
and so I found there was something suggestive of death in the
air when I chanced upon le beau Silvion. We spoke together;
he had strange ideas of the possibility of mingling his love with
his sworn duty to the Church; indeed, he seemed to think that
God would be on his side if he gave up his vocation altogether
and returned to you. Are you in pain that you keep up such
a constant moaning? But I soon convinced him that he was
wrong, and that the Divine aid was always to be had for the
right, providing the right was strong enough to hold its own.
And for the nonce this strong right found its impersonation in
me. We did not quarrel—there was no time for that. We said
what we had to say and there an end. Life—the life of a
sensual priest—presented itself to me as a citadel to be stormed;
1 attacked, he defended it. I had no weapon—neither had he
—my hands alone did the work of justice. For it must have
been justice, according to the highest religious tenets, else God
would not have permitted it, and my strength would have
9
\
258 WORMIWOOD,
been rendered useless by Divine interposition. Now in France
they guillotine criminals, in England they hang them; in the
East they strangle them; it is all one, so long as the business
of breathing is stopped. 1 remembered this, and adopted the
Eastern method; it was hard work, I can assure you, to stran-
gle a man without rope or bowstring; it took me time to do it,
and it was difficult; also it was very difficult for him to die.”
“Oh, God 1’’. The cry was like the last exclamation wrung
from a creature dying on the inquisitional rack of torture; it
was terrible even to me, and for a moment I paused, my blood
Chilled by that awful, despairing groan. “But the demon
within me urged on my speech again, and I resumed, with an
air of affected indifference:
“All difficulties come to an end, of course, like everything
else—and his were soon terminated. He died at last. I flung
his body in the Seine— Well, what now?” for she suddenly
sprung erect, and stared at me with a curiously vague yet
hunted look, like some trapped wild animal meditating an es-
cape. “You must not leave me yet—you have not heard all.
So—stand still as you are; you look like a young tragic Muse;
you are beautiful—quite inspired; I almost believe you are
glad to know your betrayer is dead. I threw his body in the
Seine, I tell you; and a little while afterward I saw it in the
Morgue ‘’—here I began to laugh involuntarily. “I swear I
should scarcely have known the Raphael-like Silvion again.
Imagine those curved red lips that used to smile at shadows
like another Narcissus, all twisted and blue; think of the sup-
ple, straight limbs, livid and swollen to twice their natural
size; by Heaven! it was astonishing—amusing. The grossest
caricature of manhood—all Save the eyes. They lemained
true to the departed covetous soul that had expressed its base
desires through them; they still uttered the last craving of
the wrenched-out life that had gone—“Tove! Love and Pau-
line!’” º
As I said this I smiled. She stood before me like a stone
image—so still that I wondered whether she had heard. Her
hair had come unbound, and she fingered a tress of it mechan-
ically.
“Love and Pauline,” I repeated, with a sort of satisfaction
in the enunciation of the two words, “that is what those dead
eyes said; that is what my heart says now—love and Pauline!
Silvion desired, and for a time possessed both—at present it is
my turn. For he is lost in the common fosse, among crowds
of other self-slayers; and you can not even find his grave to
- W ORMWOOD, 259
weep over. Yet, strange to say, I have seen him many times
since then—” *
The passive form before me stirred and swayed like a slen-
der sapling in a gust of wind, and a voice spoke hoarsely and
feebly:
“Seen what? seen whom?”
“Silvion,” 1 answered, my brain suddenly darkening with
phantasmal recollections as I spoke; and, yielding to an in-
voluntary sensation, I turned sharply round, just in time to
perceive the figure of a priest outline itself dimly as though in
pale phosphorescence against the dark corner of the narrow-
built court where we stood. “ There !” I cried, furiously.
“See you, Pauline? There he is! creeping along like a cow-
ard on some base errand. I have not killed him after all!
There! there! Look! He is beckoning you!”
She sprung forward, her eyes blazing, her arms outstretched,
her lips apart. -
“Where? where?” she wailed. “Silvion! Silvion! Oh, no,
no! You torture me! all is silence, blackness, death! Oh,
God! God! is there no mercy?”
And suddenly flinging up her hands above her head, she
broke into a loud peal of discordant delirious laughter and
rushed violently past me out of the court. Horror or mad-
ness lent speed to her flight, for though I followed her close I
could not get within touch of her. The rain and mist seemed
to infold her as she fled, till she looked like a phantom blown
before me by the wind; once in the open thoroughfare, one or
two passengers stopped and stared after her as she ran, and
after me too, doubtless; but otherwise gave no heed to our
headlong progress. Straight on she rushed, straight to the
Pont Neuf, which on this wet and dreary night was vacant
and solitary. I accelerated my steps; I strained every nerve
and sinew to overtake her, but in vain. She was like a leaf in
a storm, hurled onward by temporary insanity, she seemed
literally to have wings—to fly instead of to run; but half-way
across the bridge she paused. One flitting second, and she
sprung on the parapet.
** Pauline!” I Gried. “Wait! Pauline!”
She never turned her head; she raised her hands to heaven
and clasped them as though in supplication, then—she threw
herself forward as swiftly as a bird pinioning its way into
space. One Small, dull splash echoed on the silence—she was
gone! I reached the spot a moment after she had vanished;
I leaned over the parapet, I peered down into the gloomy

260 …” WORMWOOD,
water; nothing there! Nothing but blank stillness, blank ob-
scurity.
“Pauline!” I muttered. “Little Pauline!”
Then, as I strained my sight over the monotonous width of
the river, I saw a something lift itself into view—a woman’s
robe blew upward and outward like a dark, wet sail; it swirled
round once, twice, thrice, and then it sunk again. . . . My
teeth chattered; I clung to the stone parapet to prevent myself
from falling. And yet a horrible sense of amusement stirred
within me—the satirical amusement of a fiend; it seemed such
a ludicrous thing to consider that, after all, this weak, fragile
child had escaped me, had actually gone quietly away where I
could not, dared not forlow.
“Pauline!” I whispered. “Tell me, what is death like?
Is it easy? Do you know anything about love down there in
the cold? Remember my kisses were the last on your lips—
mine, not Silvion’s! God Himself can not undo that, all
Eternity can not alter that. They will burn you in hell, they
will taint you in heaven, those kisses of mine, Pauline. They
will part you from Silvion—ah! there is their chiefest sting.
You shall not be with him—I say you shall not!” and I almost
shrieked as the idea flashed across my perverted brain that
perhaps after all the poets were right, and that lovers who
loved and were faithful, met in the sight of a God who forgave
them their love, and were happy together forever. “May the
whole space of heaven keep you asunder! may the fire of God’s
breath sow the whirlwind between you! may you wander apart
and alone, finding paradise empty, and all immortality worth-
less and wearisome! every kiss of mine on your lips be a curse,
Pauline! a curse by which I shall claim your spirit hereafter!”
Gasping for articulate speech, the wild imprecation left my
lips without my realizing my own utterance; I was giddy and
faint, my temples throbbed heavily, the blood rushed to my
brain, the sky, the trees, the houses, the bridge rushed round
and round me in dark whirling rings. All at once my throat
filled with a cold sense of suffocation, tears flooded my eyes,
and I broke into a loud sob of fiercest agony.
“Pauline! Pauline!” I cried to the hushed and dreary
waters, “I loved you! You broke my heart! You ruined my
life | You made me what I am! Pauline! Pauline! I loved
Oul’” &
The wind filled my ears with a dull roaring noise; something
black and cloudy seemed to rise palpably out of the river and
sway toward me--the pale, stern face of Silvion Guidel came
between me and the murky skies, and with a faint groan, and
WORMWOOD, - 261
a Savor as of blood in my mouth, I lost my hold on thought
and action, and reeled down into utter darkness—-insensible.
XXXII. *A
DULL gray lines with flecks of fire between them—fire that
radiated into all sorts of tints, blue, green, red, and amber—
these were the first glimmerings of light on my sense of vision
that roused me anew to consciousness. Vaguely, and without
unclosing my eyes I studied these little points of flame as they
danced to and fro on their neutral gray background; then a
violent shivering fit seized me, and I stirred languidly into my
wretched life once more. It was morning, very early morn-
ing, and I was still on the Pont Neuf, lying crouched close to
the parapet like any hunted, suffering animal. The mists of
dawn hung heavily over the river, and a few bells were ringing
lazily here and there for early Mass. I struggled to my feet,
pushed my tangled hair from my eyes, and strove hard to
realize what had happened. Little by little I unraveled my
knotted thoughts, and grasped at the central solution of their
perplexity, namely, this: Pauline was drowned! Pauline—
even shel—the little fairy thing that had danced and sung and
flirted and prattled of her school at Vevey and her love of
“ marrons glacés,” even she had become a tragic heroine, wild
as any Juliet or Francesca. How strange if seemed—as the
critics would say—how melodramatic / For we are supposed
to be living in very commonplace days, though truly this is
one of the greatest errors the modern wiseacres ever indulged
in. Never was there a period in which there was so much
fatal complexity of thought and discussion; never was there a
time in which men and women were so prone to analyze then-
selves and the world they inhabit with more pitiless precision
and fastidious doubt and argument; and this tendency creates
such strange new desires, such subtle comparisons, such mar-
velous accuracy of perception, such discontent, such keen yet
careless valuation of life at its best, that more romances and
tragedies are enacted now than Sophocles ever dreamed of.
They are performed without any very great éclat or stage-
effects, for we latter-day, philosophers hate to give grand
names to anything, our chief object of study being to destroy
all ideals; hence we put down a suicide to temporary insanity,
a murder to some hereditary disposition or wrong balance of
molecules in the brain of the murderer, and love and all the
rest of the passions to a little passing heat of the blood. All
disposed of quite quietly. Yet suicides are on the increase—so
263 WORMWOOT),
are murders; and love and revenge, and hatred and jealousy
run on in their old predestined human course, caring nothing
for the names we give them, and making as much havoc as
ever they did in the days of Caesar Borgia. To modern casu-
ists, however, Pauline would but seem “temporarily insane *
—and during that fit of temporary insanity, she had drowned
herself—voilà tout !
Any way, she was dead; that was the chief thing I had to
realize and to remember; but with its usual obstimacy my brain
refused to credit it. The mists rose slowly up from the river,
the church bells ceased ringing; a chill wind blew. I shud-
dered at the pure cold air; it seemed to freeze my blood. I
looked abstractedly at the river, and my eyes lighted by chance
on a long low flat building not far distant—the Morgue. Ah,
Pauline! if it were indeed she who had been “melodramatic ’’
enough to drown—Pauline would be taken to the Morgue, and
I should see her there. . A little patience—a day, perhaps two
days—and I should see her there! *
... Meanwhile, I was cold and tired and starved; I would go
home—home if I could walk there, if my limbs were not too
weak and stiff to support me. Oh, for a draught of absinthel
that would soon put fire into my veins and warm the numb-
ness of my heart! I paused a moment, still gazing at the dull
water and the dull mists; then all at once a curious sick fear
began to creep through me, an awful premonition that some-
thing terrible was about to happen, though what it was I could
not imagine. My heart began to beat heavily; I kept my eyes
riveted on the scene immediately opposite, for while the sensa-
tion I speak of mastered me, I dared not look behind. Pres-
ently I heard a low panting near me like the breathing of some
heavy creature, and my nervous dread grew stronger. For a
moment I felt that I would rather fling myself into the Seine
than turn my head. It was an absurd Sensation, a cowardly
sensation; one that I knew I Ought to control and subdue,
and after a brief but painful contest with myself I gathered
together a slight stock, not of actual courage, but physical
bravado, and slowly, irresolutely looked back over my own
shoulder; then, unspeakably startled and amazed at what I saw,
I turned my whole body round involuntarily and confronted the
formidable beast that lay crouched there on the Pont Neuf,
watching me with its sly green eyes, and apparently waiting
on my movements. A leopard of the forest at large in the
heart of Paris! could anything be more strange and hideously
terrifying? I stared at it, it stared at me. I could almost
count the brown velvet spots on its tawny hide, I saw its lithe
/
WORMWOOT). a' 263
body quiver with the pulsations of its quick breath, and for
some minutes I was perfectly paralyzed with fear and horror
—afraid to stir an inch. Presently, as I stood inert and ter-
ror-stricken, I heard steps approaching, and a laborer appeared
carrying some tin cans which clinked together merrily; he
whistled as he came along, and seemed to be in cheerful
humor. I watched him anxiously. What would he do, what
would he say when he caught sight of that leopard lying on
the bridge, obstructing his progress? Onward he marched in-
differently, and my heart almost ceased to beat for a second as
I saw him coming nearer and nearer to the horrible creat-
ure. . . . What! was he blind? Could he not see the dan-
ger before him?' I strove to cry out, but my tongue was like
stiff leather in my mouth, I could not utter a syllable; and
lo! while my fascińated gaze still rested on him he had passed
me—passed apparently over or through the animal I saw and
dreaded.
The truth flashed upon me in an instant—I was the dupe of
my own frenzy, and the leopard was nothing but a brain-
phantasm. I laughed aloud, buttoned my coat close over me
and drew myself erect; as I did this, the leopard rose with
slow and stealthy grace, and when I moved prepared to follow
me. Again I looked at it; again it looked at me; again I
counted the spots on its sleek skin; the thing was absolutely
real and distinct to my vision; was it possible that a diseased
brain could produce such seemingly tangible shapes? I began
to walk rapidly, and another peculiarity of my hallucination
discovered itself, namely, that before me as I looked I saw
nothing but the usual surroundings of the streets and the pass-
ing people, but behind me I knew I felt the horrible monster
at my heels—the monster created by my own poisoned thought
—a Greature from whom there was no possible escape. The
enemies of the body we can physically attack, and often physic-
ally repel, but the enemies of the mind, the frightful phan-
toms of a disordered imagination, these no medicine can cure,
no subtle touch disperse. -
And yet I could not quite accept the fact of the nervous
havoc wrought upon me. I saw a boy carrying a parcel of
“Figaros '' to a neighboring kiosque, and stopping him, I
purchased one of his papers.
“Tell ine,” I then said, lightly, and with a feigned in-
difference, “do you see a—a great dog following me? l
chanced upon a stray one on the Pout Neuf just now, but I
don’t want it at my lodgings. Can you see it?”
The boy looked up and down and Smiled.
<-- ~ *z, *
264 *- WORMWOOD,
“Je ne vois rien, monsieur !”
“Merci!” and nodding to him I strolled away, resolved not
to look back again till I reached my own abode.
Once there, I turned round at the door. The leopard was
within two inches of me. I kept a backward watch on it as it
followed me in and up the stairs to my room. I shut the door
violently in a frantic impulse of hope that I might thus shut
it out—of course that was useless, and when I threw myself
into a chair, it lay down on the floor opposite me. Then I
realized that my case was one in which there could be no ap-
peal; it was no use fighting against spectra. The only thing to
be done was to try and control the frenzy of fear that every
now and then threatened to shake down all reason and co-
herency forever, and make of me a mere howling maniac. I
tried to read, but found I could not understand the printed
page; I found more distraction in thinking of Pauline and her
death—if indeed she were dead. Then, all unbidden, the
memory of the fair and innocent Heloise came across my mind.
Should I go and tell her that I had a strange dream in which
it seemed as though I had frightened Pauline into drowning
herself? No, I would wait; I would wait and watch the
Morgue, for till I saw her there I could not be sure she was
dead. Anon, a fragment of that old Breton Song Heloise used
to recite, repeated itself monotonously in my ears:
“Mon étoile—est fatale,
Mon état est contre nature,
Je n'ai eu dans ce monde
Que des peines ă endurer;
Nul chrétien sur la terre,
Me Veuille du bien!”
I hummed this over and over again to myself till I began to
shed maudlin tears over my own wretched condition; I had
brought myself to it, but what of that? the knowledge did not
ameliorate matters. If you know you have done ill, say the
moralists, you have gained the greatest possible advantage,
because knowing your evil you can amend it. Very wise in
theory no doubt, but no use in practice. I could not eliminate
the poisonous wormwood from my blood; I was powerless to
obliterate from my sight that repulsive spectral animal that
lay before me in such seemingly substantial breathing guise.
And so I wept weakly and foolishly as a driveling drunkard
weeps over his emptied flagon, and thought vaguely of all sorts
of things. I even wondered whether, notwithstanding my
having gone so far, there might'not yet be a remedy for me—
why not? there was a Charcot in Paris—no man wiser, no man
__ ºf
*
WORMWOOD. * , 265
kinder. But suppose I went to him, what would be the re-
sult. He would tell me to give up absinthe. Give up ab-
sinthe? why then, I should give up my life. I should die! I
should be taken away to that terrible unknown Country
whither I had sent Silvion Guidel, where Pauline had followed
him, and I had no wish to go there; I might meet them, so I
stupidly fancied, and it was too soon for such a meeting—yet!
No! I could not give up absinthe, my fairy with the green
eyes, my love, my soul, my heart’s core, the very center and
pivot of my being—anything but that I would do gladly, but
not that—never, never that! Pah! how that leopard stared
at me as I sat glowering and thinking, and pulling at the ends
of my mustache in a sort of dull stupor—the stupor of min-
gled illness and starvation. For I had eaten nothing since
the previous day; and though I was faint, it was not the faint-
ness of natural hunger. That is another peculiarity of my
favorite cordial—taken in small doses it will provoke appetite,
but taken in large and frequent draughts it invariably kills it.
The thought of food attracted yet nauseated me, and so I re-
mained huddled up in my chair engrossed in my own reflec-
tions, the nervous tears still now and then trickling from my
i. and dropping like slow hot rain on my closely clinched
ands.
The sound of a bugle-note startled me for a moment, and
sent my thoughts flying off among fragmentary suggestions of
national pride and military glory. France! France! oh, fair
and radiant France! how canst thou smile on in the faces of
such degenerate children as are clambering at thy knees to-
day! - Oh, France! what glories were thine in old time! what
noble souls were born of thee! what white flags of honor waved
above thy glittering hosts! what truth and chivalry beat in the
hearts of thy sons, what purity and sweetness ruled the minds
of thy daughters! The brilliancy of native wit, of inborn
courtesy, of polished grace, were then the natural outcome of
naturally fine feelings; but now, now! what shall be said of
thee, oh, France, who hast suffered thyself to be despoiled by
conquerors and art almost forgetting thy vows of vengeance!
Paris, steeped in vice and drowned in luxury, feeds her brain
on such loathsome literature as might make even coarse-
mouthed Rabekais and Swift recoil; day after day, night after
night, the absinthe-drinkers crowd the cafés, and swill the
pernicious drug that of all accursed spirits ever brewed to
make of man a beast, does most swiftly fly to the seat of rea-
son to there attack and dethrone it; and yet, the rulers do
nothing to check the spreading evil, the World looks on, pur-
266 - won Mwoon. ~ .
blind as ever and selfishly indifferent, and the hateful cance?
eats on into the breast of France, bringing death closer every
day. France, my France! degraded, lost, and cowardly as I
am, too degraded, too lost, too cowardly to even fight in the
lowest ranks for thee, there are moments when I am not blind
to thy glories, when I am not wholly callous as to thy fate. I
love thee, France! love thee with the foolish; powerless love
that chained and beaten slaves may feel for their native land
when exiled from it—a love that can not prove its strength by
any great or noble act, that can do nothing, nothing but look
on and watch thee slipping like a loosened jewel out of the
blazing tiara of proud nations, and watching, know most sure-
ly that I, and such as I, have shaken thee from what thou
wert, and what thou, still shouldst be. “A ua armes, cito-
yens !” I cry stupidly, as my patriotic reverie breaks in my
brain like a soap-bubble in air. “Formez vos bataillons !”
Ah, God! I started from my chair, staggering to and fro,
my head clasped between my hands; I am dreaming again,
like a fool!—dreaming—and here I am, an absintheur in the
Jity of Absinthe, and glory is neither for me, nor for thee,
Paris, thou frivolous, lovely, godless, lascivious dominion of
Sin! Godless! and why not? sinfull and why not? God did
not answer us when we prayed; He was on the side of the Teu- .
tons. And we have found out that when we try to be good,
life is hard and disagreeable; when we are wicked, or what
moralist consider wicked, then we find everything pleasant and
easy. Some people find the reverse of this, or so they say;
well! they are quite welcome to be virtuous if they choose. I
tried to be virtuous once, and with me it failed to prove its ad-
vantages. I loved a woman honestly, and was betrayed; an=
other man loved the same woman dishonestly, and kept her
faith. This was God’s doing (because everything is done by
the will of God) therefore you see it was no use my striving to
be honest. False arguments, specious reasoning? not at all.
I have the logic of an absintheur, voilà tout !
That leopard again! By and by I began to find a certain
wretched amusement in watching the sunlight play on the
smooth skin of this undesired spectral attendant, and I en-
deavored to accept its presence with resignation. After awhile
I discovered that when I remained passive in one place for
some time the hallucination was brought forward in front of
my eyes, whereas when I walked or was otherwise in rapid
motion it was only to be seen behind me. Let scientists ex-
plain this if they can, by learned dissertations on the nerve-
connections between the spine and brain-cells, the fact remains
wormwooD. 26%
that the impression created upon me of the actual palpable
presence of the animal was distinct and terribly real; and
though later on I found I could pass my hand through its
seeming substance, the conviction of its reality never left me.
Nor is there much chance of its ever leaving me; it is with me
now, and will probably continue to haunt me to my dying
day. I walk through Paris apparently alone, but the huge,
panting, stealthy thing is always close behind me; my ears as
well as my eyes testify to its presence; I sit in cafés and it
lies down in front of me, and we–the specter and I–stare at
each other for hours. People say I have a downward look;
Sometimes they ask why I so often give a rapid glance behind
me as though in fear or anxiety; well, it is because I always
have a vague hope that this phantasmal horror-may go as Sud-
denly as it came, but it never does; it never will. Andre
-Gessonex used to peer behind him in just the same fashion; 1
remembered it now, and understood it. And lidly wondered
what sort of creature the absinthe-fairy had sent to him so
persistently that he should have seen no way out of it but
suicide. Now I had the courage of endurance—or, let us
say, the cowardice; for I could not bear the thought of death,
it was the one thing that appalled me. For I so grasped the
truth of the amazing fecundity of life everywhere, that I knew
and felt death could not be a conclusion; but only the silence
and time needed for the embryo-working of another existence.
And on that other existence I dared not ponder. Oh, if there
is one thing 1 rate at in the universe more than another, it is
the uncertainty of creation’s meaning. Nature is a great
mathematician, so the scientists declare; then why is the chief
number in the calculation always missing? Why is it that no
matter how we count and weigh and plan, we can never make
up the sum total? There is surely a fault somewhere in the
design, and perchance the great unseen, silent, indifferent
Force we call God, has, in a dull moment, propounded a vast
Problem to which He Himself may have forgotten the Answer!
XXXIII.
DURING the next two days I lived for the Morgue, and the
Morgue only. I could not believe Pauline was dead till I saw
her there—there on the wet, cold marble where her lover had
lain before her! I haunted the place; I skulked about it at
all hours like a thief meditating plunder. And at last my
patience was rewarded. An aſternoon came when I saw the
stretcher carried in from the river’s bank with more than
~sº
268 WORMWOOD,
usual pity and reverence, and I, pressing in with the rest of
the morbid spectators, saw the fair, soft, white body of the
woman I had loved and hated and maddened and driven to
her death, laid out on the dull, hard slab of stone like a beau-
tiful figure of frozen snow. The river had used her tenderly
—poor little Pauline! it had caressed her gently and had not
disfigured her delicate limbs or spoiled her pretty face; she
looked so wise, so sweet and calm, that I fancied the cold and
muddy Seine must have warmed and brightened to the touch
of her drowned beauty!
Yes, the river had fondled her! had stroked her cheeks and
left them pale and pure; had kissed her lips and closed them
in a child-like happy Smile; had swept all her dark hair back
from the smooth, white brow just to show how prettily the
blue veins were penciled under the soft, transparent skin; had
closed the gentle eyes and deftly pointed the long, dark lashes
in a downward, sleepy fringe, and had made of one little dead
girl so wondrous and piteous a picture, that otherwise hard-
hearted women sobbed at sight of it, and strong men turned
away with hushed footsteps and moistened eyes. The very
officials at the Morgue were reverent; they stood apart and
looked on solemnly; one of them raised the tiny white hand
and examined a ring on the finger, a small enameled forget-
me-not in gold, and seemed about to draw it off, but on second
thoughts left it where it was. I knew that ring well; Heloise
had given it to her; it was a trinket for which she had always
had a sentimental fondness such as girls often indulge in for
perfectly worthless souvenirs. I stared and stared; I gloated
on every detail of that delicate, half-nude form; and my brain
was steady enough to remind me that now—now it was my
duty to identify the poor litle corpse without a moment’s de-
lay, so that it might be borne reverently to the care of the
widowed Comtesse de Charmilles and Heloise St. Cyr. Then
it would receive proper and honorable interment, and Pauline,
like Shakespeare’s Ophelia, would have
“Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.”
But no! I put away the suggestion as soon as it occurred to
me. I took a peculiar delight in thinking that if her body
were not identified within the proper interval, she too, like her
lover, Silvion Guidel, would be cast into the general ditch of
death, without a name, without a right to memory! My de-
formed and warped intelligence found a vivid pleasure in the
contemplation of such petty and unnecessary cruelty; it
WORMWOOD. 269
seemed good to me to wreak spite upon the dead; and as I
have already told you, the brain of a confirmed absintheur
accepts the most fiendish ideas as both beautiful and just. If
you doubt what I say, make inquiries at any of the large luna-
tic asylums in France—ask to be told some of the aberrations
of absinthe-maniacs, who form the largest percentage of
brains gone incurably wrong, and you will hear enough to
form material for a hundred worse histories than mine. What
Can you expect from a man who has poisoned his blood and
killed his conscience? You may talk of the Soul as you will,
but the soul can only make itself manifest in this life through
the Senses, and if the Senses are diseased and perverted, how
can the messages of the spirit be otherwise than diseased and
perverted also?
And so, yielding to the devilish humors working within me,
I held my peace and gave no sign as to the identity of Pau-
line; but I went to the Morgue so frequently, nearly every
hour, in fact, and stared so long and persistently at her dead
body that my conduct at last attracted some attention from
the authorities in charge. One evening, the third, I think,
after she had been laid there, an official tapped me on the
&l'Iſl.
“ Pardon Monsieur seems to know the corpse?”
I looked at him angrily, and though there were a few peo-
ple standing about us, I gave him the lie direct.
“You mistake. I know nothing.”
He eyed me with suspicion and disfavor.
“You seem to take a strange interest in the sight of the
poor creature, all the same.”
“Well, what of that?” I retorted. “The girl, though
dead, is beautiful! I am an artist; I have the soul of a
poet,” and I laughed ironically. “I love beauty, and I study
it wherever I find it, dead or living; is that so strange?”
“But certainly no, not at all,” said the official, shrugging
his shoulders and still looking at me askance. “Only there
is just this one little thing that I would say. If we could ob-
tain any idea, however slight—any small clew which we might
follow up as to the proper identification of this so unfortunate
demoiselle, we should be glad. She was a lady of gentle birth
and breeding; we have no doubt of that, but the linen she
wore was unmarked; we can find no name anywhere, except
one contained in a locket she wore—”
My nerves shook, and I controlled myself with difficulty.
“What sort of locket?” I asked.
“Oh, a mere trifle—of no value whatever. We opened it,
- - *-*.
270 workſwooD.
of course; it had nothing inside but a withered rose-leaf aná
a small slip of paper, on which was written one word, ‘Sil.
vion.” That may be the name of a place or a person; we do
not know. It does not help us.”
No; it did not help them, but it helped me—helped me to
keep my puny rage more firmly fixed upon that helpless, smil-
ing, waxen-looking thing that lay before me in such solemn
and chilly fairness. A withered rose-leaf, and the name of
that accursed priest! these were her sole treasures, were they?
—all she cared to save from the wreckage of her brief sum-
mer-time. Well, well! women are strange fools at best, and
the wisest man that ever lived can not unravel the mystery of
their complex mechanism. Half puppets, half angels! and
one never knows to which side of their natures to appeal.
“We have given a very precise and particular description
of the corpse in our annonces,” went on the official, medita-
tively, “but at present it has led to nothing. We should be
really glad of identification, though it is only a question of
Sentiment—” -
“A question of sentiment? What do you mean?” I asked,
roughly.
He gave a deprecatory gesture.
“Monsieur, we Frenchmen have hearts. La pauvre petite
there is too delicate and pretty to lie in the common fosse.”
Good God! What an absurd influence the loveliness of a
woman can exert on the weak minds of men! Here was a girl
dead and incapable of knowing whether she was lying in the
common fosse or any other place of interment, and yet this
stern officer of the Morgue, touched by her looks, regretted
the necessity of burying her thus harshly and without rever-
6D.Cé. f
I laughed carelessly.
“You are very gallant, monsieur. I wish I could assist
ou. This girl-suicide is beautiful, as you say—l have con-
templated her face and figure with much pleasure—”
“Will you look at her more closely, monsieur?” he asked,
suddenly turning a keen glance upon me. *
I perceived his drift. He suspected me of knowing some-
thing, and wanted to startle me into confessing it. Cunning
rogue! But I was a match for him. *.
“I shall be charmed to do so,” I responded, with easy in-
difference. “It will be a privilege—a lesson in art.”
He said nothing, but simply li the way within. One min-
ute more, and the electric light flashed in a dazzling White
effulgence over the drowne' g . ; I felt the official’s eyes upon
* *
*
wormwood. - 271
me, and I kept firm. But in very truth I was sick—sick at
heart! and a chill crept through all my blood, for I was near
enough to touch the woman I had so loved. I could have
kissed her; her little white, stiff hand lay within a few inches
of mine. I breathed with difficulty; do what I would, I could
not prevent a slight shiver visibly shaking my limbs. And
shel she was like a little marble goddess asleep—poor little
Pauline!
Then, all suddenly, the official bent over her corpse and
raised it up forcibly by the head and shoulders . . . I thought
1 should have shrieked aloud. g
“Do not touch her!” I exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper.
“It is a-sacrilege!” -
He looked at me steadily, quite unmoved by my words.
“You are sure you can not identify the body? you have no
idea who she was when living?” he demanded, in mueasured
accents.
I shrunk backward. As he held the dead girl in that up-
right attitude I was afraid she might open her eyes.
“I tell you, no!” I answered, with a sort of sullen ferocity.
“No, no, no I Lay her down! Why the devil can you not
let her be?” -
He gave me another searching, distrustful look. Then he
slowly and with a certain tenderness laid the body back in its
former recumbent position, and beckoned me to follow him
out of the mortuary. I did so.
“ Voyons, monsieur,” he said, confidentially, “this is not
a case of murder; there is no ground for any suspicion of that
kind. It is simply a suicide; we have many such, and Surely
from your manner and words, you could, if you choose, give
us some information. Why not speak frankly? Par ea ample,
will you swear that you know absolutely nothing of the wom-
an’s identity?” - **-
Persistent fool! I returned his glance defiantly; we were in
the outer chamber now, and the glass screen was once more
between us and the corpse, so I felt more at ease.
“Why, oaths are not of much value nowadays in France!”
I answered, carelessly. “Our teachers have left us no God,
So what am 1 to swear by? By your head or my own?” .
He was patient, this man of the Morgue, and though I spoke
loudly, and there were people standing about, he took no
offense at my levity. *
“Swear by your honor, monsieur' that is enough.”
My honor! Ha! that was excellent! 1, who had no more
sense of honor than a carrion crow!
272 WORMWOOD,
“By my honor, then!” I said, laughing, “I swear I know
nothing of your pretty dead Magdalen in there! A fille de joie,
no doubt. Strange that so many men have pity for such;
even the amiable Christ had a good word to say on behalf of
these naughty ones! What was it? Yes, I remember: ‘Her
sins, which are many, are forgiven her, for she loved much!”
True; love excuses many follies. And she—the little drowned
one—is charming! I admire her with all my heart; but I
can not tell you who she is, or—to speak more correctly—who
she was!” r
. As I uttered the deliberaté lie, a sort of electric shock ran
through me; my heart leaped violently and the blood rushed
to my brows; a pair of steadfast, sorrowful, lustrous eyes
flashed wondering reproach at me over the heads of the little
throng of spectators; they were the eyes of Heloise St. Cyr.
Yes, it was she; she had kept her word; she had come to
rescue Pauline, to defraud me of my vengeance on the dead!
Stately, angelic, pitiful, and pure, she stood in that cold and
narrow chamber, her face pale as the face of her drowned cous-
in, her hands tremblingly outstretched! As in a dream I saw
the press of people make way for her; I saw men take off
their hats and remain uncovered, as though a prayer were be-
ing spoken; I saw the official in charge approach her and
murmur some respectful inquiry, and then—then l heard her
voice, sweet though shaken with tears—a voice that sent its
penetrating music straight to the very core of my wretched
and worthless being!
“I come to claim her!” she said, simply, addressing her-
self to the official. “She is my cousin, Pauline de Charmilles,
only daughter of the late Comte de Charmilles. We have lost
her—long!” and a half sob escaped her lips. “Give her to
me now, and I will take her—oh, poor Pauline! I will take
her . . . home!” - - -
Her strength gave way; she hid her face in her hands, and
Some women near her began crying for sympathy. It was
what cynical people would call a “Scene.”—and yet, some-
how, I could not mock at it as I would fain have done. The
spirit of Humanity was here—even here among the morbid
frequenters of the Morgue—the “touch of nature which
makes the whole world kin’’ was not lacking anywhere, Save
in me! and more than all, Heloise was here, and in her pres-
ence one could not jest. One believed in God; one always be-
lieves in God, by the side of a good woman. -
I raised my eyes, I was resolved to look at her straight, and
I did so; but only for one second. For her glance swept over
worMwood. 273
me with such unutterable horror, loathing, and agony, that I
cowered like a slave under the lash. I crept out of her sight,
I slunk away, followed by the phantom beast of my own hide-
ous degradation—away—away—out into the chill darkness of
the winter night, defeated! Defeated! defrauded of the last
drop in my delirious draught of hatred! Alone under the
cold and starless sky, I heaped wild Curses on myself, on God,
on the world! on life and time and space! while she, the angel
Heloise, whose love I had once possessed unknowingly, bore
home her sacred dead—home to a maiden funeral-Couch of
flowers, sanctified by tears and hallowed by prayers—home—
to receive the last solemn honors due to innocence and—frailty!
;
2 ” XXXIV.
WHAT was there to do now? Nothing, but to drink ab-
sinthe. With the death of Pauline every other definite object
in living had ended. I cared for nobody; while as far as my
former place in Society was concerned 1 had apparently left no
blank. You can not imagine what little account the world
takes of a man when he ceases to set any value on himself.
He might as well never have been born, or he might be dead;
he is as equally forgotten and as utterly dismissed.
I attended Pauline’s funeral, of course. I found out when
it was to take place, and I watched it from a distance. It was
a pretty scene—a sort of white, fairy burial. For we had a
fall of snow in Paris that day, and the small coffin was covered
with a white pall, and all the flowers upon it were white; and
when the big vault was unbarred to admit this dainty burden
of death hidden in blossoms, its damp and gloomy walls were
all covered with wreaths and garlands, as though it were a
bridal chamber. This was the work of Heloise, no doubt!
sweet Saint Heloise! She looked pale as a ghost and thin as a
shadow that afternoon; she walked by the side of the widowed
Comtesse de Charmilles, who appeared very feeble of tread,
and was draped in black from head to foot. 1 gazed at the
solemn cortège from an obscure corner in the cemetery, and
Smiled as I thought that l—I only had wrought all the misery
on this once proud and now broken-down, bereaved family—
I, and—absinthel If I had remained the same Gaston Beau-
vais that I once had been—if on the night Pauline had made
her wild confession of shame to me, I had listened to the voice
of mercy in my heart—if I had never met Andre Gesso-
nex . . ... imagine!—so much hangs on an “if” Now and
then a kind of remorse stung me, but it was a mere passing
27.4 WORMWOOD,
*-
emotion, and it only troubled me when I thought of or saw
Heloise. She was, as she now is, the one reproach of my life
—the only glimpse of God I have ever known! When Pau-
line was laid to rest, when the iron grating of the cold tomb
shut grimly down on all that was mortal of the bright, foolish
child I had first met fresh from her school at Vevey, this same
sweet, pale Heloise lost all her Self-control for a moment, and
with a long, sobbing cry fell forward in a swoon among the
little frightened attendant acolytes and their flaring candles;
but she recovered speedily. And when she could once more
stand upright, she tottered to the door of the mausoleum, and
Kissed it, and hung a wreath of white roses upon it, on which
the word “Amour !” was written in silver letters. Then she
went away weeping, with all the rest of the funeral train; but
I—I remained behind! Hidden among the trees, I lay quiet,
in undiscovered safety, so that when the night came I was still
there. The guardians of Père-la-Chaise patroled the place as
usual, and locked the gates; but I was left a prisoner within,
which was precisely what I desired. Once alone—all, all alone
in the darkness of the night, I flung up my arms in delirious
ecstasy; this City of the Dead was mine for the time—mine!
all these molding corpses in the clay! I was sole ruler of this
wide domain of graves! I rushed to the shut-up marble prison
of Pauline; I threw myself on the ground before it; I wept
and raved and swore, and called her by every endearing name
I could think of the awful silence maddened me. I beat at
the iron grating with my fists till they bled. “Pauline!” I
cried, “Pauline!” No answer. Oh, God! she would never
answer any call again! Groveling in the dust, I looked up
despairingly; the word “Amour !” with its silvery glisten on
Heloise’s rose - garland, flashed on my eyes like a flame.
“Amour !” Love! God or the devil! It is one or the
other; it is the thing that rules the universe; it is the only
Deity we can never abjure! Love! oh, madness! Tell me,
women and men, tell me whether love rules your lives most
for good, or most for evil? Can we not get at the truth of
this? If we can, then we shall know the secret of life’s rid-
dle. For if Love lead us most to evil, then the hidden Force
of Creation is a Fiend; if it lead us most to good, then—then
we have a God to deal with. And I fear me much it is a God
after all. I shudder to think it; but I am afraid—afraid!
For if God exists, then they—all the dead creatures I know,
whose spirits haunt me—they are happy, wise, victorious and
immortal, while I—I am lower than the veriest insect that
breeds in the mold and is blind to the sun!
WORMWOOD. 275
I must not dwell on this; I must not look back to those
hours passed outside Pauline’s tomb. For they were horri-
ble! Once, as the night waned, I saw Silvion Guidel; he
leaned against the pillars of the vault and barred my way with
one uplifted hand. I could not fight him—a creature of the
mist and air; but his face was as the face of an angel, and its
serene triumph filled me with impotent fury. ... He had won
the day, I felt.". Pauline was his—not mine. God had been
On his side, and Death, instead of Conquering him, had given
him the victory!
One day, weeks after Pauline’s burial, I was very ill. I
could not move at all; the power of my limbs was gone.
Such a strange weakness and sick fever beset me that I did
nothing but weep for sheer helplessness. It was a sort of
temporary paralysis; it passed away after awhile, but it left
me terrified and unstrung. When I got better, a droll idea
entered my brain. I would go to confession. I, who hated
priests, would see what they could tell me for once; I would
find out whether Religion, or what was called religion, had any
mystical Saving grace for an absintheur. I was abjectly mis-
erable at the time; a fit of the most intolerable depression had
laid hold upon me. Moreover, I had been foolishly hurt by
chancing to see my father walking along with his new partner
—the man he had adopted in my place—a fine, handsome,
pleasant, dashing-looking fellow; and he—my father—had
seemed perfectly happy! Yes, perfectly happy! He had not
Šeen me—probably he would not have known me if he had;
he leaned upon the arm of his new “son,” and laughed with
him at some jest or other; he had forgotten me, or if he had
not actually forgotten, he was determined to appear as though
he had. I thought him cruel, callous; 1 blamed fate and
everything and everybody, except myself, who had wrought
my own undoing. That is the way with many of us; we get
willfully and deliberately into mischief; then we look about to
see on which one of our fellow-creatures we can lay the fault.
“Open confession is good for the soul,” says some moralist
or other. I determined to try it—for a change. And my con-
fessor should be good old Père Vaudron. I wondered I had
never thought of him before. He might perhaps be some
comfort to me, for he was an honest Christian, and therefore
he would not be likely to turn away from any penitent, how-
ever fallen and degraded.
But was 1 penitent? Of course not. I was miserable, I
tell you; and I wanted the relief of unburdening myself to
some one who would not repeat what I said. I was not sorry
*N
276 WORMWOOD.
for anything; I was only tired, and made nervous by the
spectral beast that followed me, as well as by other curious
and frightful hallucinations. Fiery wheels in the air—great,
glittering birds of prey swooping down with talons outstretched
to clutch at me; whirlpools of green in the ground into which
it seemed I must fall headlong as I walked—these were com-
mon delusions; but I began to dread madness as I had never
dreaded it before, and the more I considered the matter, the
more determined I became to speak to Père Vaudron, who
had known me from boyhood; it might do me good; there
were miracles in the Church—who could tell?
And so one evening I made my way up to the little well-
remembered chapel—the place where, if all had gone Smooth-
ly, I should have been married to Pauline; the altar where “le
beau Silvion ” had “assisted ” his too-confiding uncle at early
Mass. Everything was very quiet; there were flowers about,
and the Sacred lamps of vigil were burning clearly. A wom-
an was sweeping out the chancel; I recognized her at once; it
was old Margot. She did not know me; she looked up as I
entered, but finding (no doubt) my appearance the reverse of
prepossessing, she resumed her task with increased vigor.
Save for her and myself, the church was empty. After wait-
ing a little I went up and spoke to her.
“Does Monsieur the Curé hear confessions this evening?”
She stared at me and crossed herself, then pointed to the
sacristy bell.
“Sonnez, s'il vous plaît
She was always ºurt and cross, this old Margot. I tried her
398,111. *
gº It is not the usual hour, perhaps?”
She made no reply; so, smiling a little at her acerbity, I did
as she bade me and rang the bell she indicated. A small boy
appeared—an acolyte. -*.
“Does the reverend father attend the confessional this even-
ing?”
“Yes. He will be in the church almost immediately.”
I retired and sat down to wait. I was beginning to feel very
much amused. This was the finest jest I had ever played with
myself; I was actually pretending to have a conscience. Mean-
while old Margot took her departure with her broom and all
her cleansing paraphernalia, and left me alone in the church.
She banged the big door behind her noisily, and the deep si-
ſence that followed its hollow reverberation oppressed me un-
comfortably. There was a large crucifix near me, and the
figure of Christ upon it looked tortured and grewSome; what
/22
WORM WOOſ), 2}}
a foolish fond enthusiast He was, I thought, to perish for such
a delusive idea as the higher spiritualization of Man. We
shall never become spiritual; we are of the earth earthy; our
desires are base, our passions contemptible; but as we have
been created so we shall remain, Selon not others may hold a
different opinion if they choose.
A slow step sounded on the marble floor, and I hastily bent
my head as penitents do, looking between my clasped fingers
at good old Vaudron as he came through the sacristy and
paced gently toward the confessional. Heavens! how changed
he was! how he stooped! and his hair was Snow-white; his face
too, once so florid and merry, was wrinkled, care-worn, and
pale. He had suffered, even he, this poor old man, and his
suffering was also my work. God! what a fiendish power one
human being has to ruin many others! I waited till he was
seated in the usual niche, then I made my way to the peni-
tent’s corner. As I knelt I heard him mutter the usual Latin
formula; he deemed me also at my prayers, but I said noth-
ing. I kept silence so long that at last he sighed impatiently,
and putting his lips close to the curtained grating Said, mildly:
“I am waiting, my son. Take courage.”
My sense of amusement increased. I could have laughed
aloud, it was such a Comedy.
“Mon père,” I murmured, controlling myself by an effort,
“my confession will be strange and terrible; are you prepared
for something quite unusual?”
I felt that he was startled; but in his quiet accents there
was only just the faintest touch of sternness as he replied:
“I am prepared. Commend yourself to God—to Him you
speak as well as to me—therefore be truthful and conceal
nothing, as only by true confession can you hope for mercy.”
“The jargon of the Church as usuall” I said, contemptu-
ously. “Spare me unnecessary platitudes, good father. My
sins are not those of every day, and every-day comfort will not
do for me. And so to begin at once—I have murdered a
º, This and no less is my Grime! can you give me absolu-
tion?”
I heard a sudden agitated movement inside the confessional.
Through the small holes of the grating I could see him clasp
his hands as though in terror or prayer. Then he spoke.
“Absolution? Wretched soul, there is none—none! Un-
less you at Once confess yourself to the authorities and give
ourself up to justice there is no forgiveness either in earth or
eaven for such an evil deed. Who was the man?”
“My enemy.”
278 WORMWOOD.
“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; they 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 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 that he was gone, and that I had
killed him. So he keeps her love to the end, you see, and 1
am baffled of it all. That is why I have come to you—just
because I am baffled—l want you to comfort me, I want a vic-
tory somewhere. I want you to tell me that the man I mur-
dered is damned to all eternity, because he had no time to re-
pent of his sins before he died. I want you to tell me that she
—the woman—is damned also, because she killed herself with-
out God’s permission. Tell me any lies the €hurch 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 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.
“J}lasphemer, 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!
1°ray for true contrition if you can pray, and go!—l 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 Guidell”
WORMWOOD. 279
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 glit-
tering, 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
wnder the seal of confession 1’’
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 feat-
ures. Then, like one in some feverish dream, he scanned me
up and down, doubtfully at first, then with gradually dawn-
ing, horrified recognition.
“God have mercy upon me!” he ejaculated, tremulously.
‘‘It is Gaston Beauvais!”
“Precisely so, mom 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 lower—
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 pro-
fess. 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—fy, Père Vaudron! Wrath in the sanctu-
ary is not becoming 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 es-
eaped my lips before I was aware of it. But it made no visi-
ble effect on him; he merely loosened his hold of me and stood
a step or two apart, looking at me with strained, anguished
€WOS,
“You can break your vows if you like,” I went on, care-
lessly. “Vows of every kind are brittle ware nowadays. You
can tell my father I am a murderer—the murderer of Silvion
Guidel—and so give him fresh cause to congratulate his fore-
sight in having disowned me; you can tell Heloise St. Cyr that
280 . WORMWOOD,
I goaded her cousin to madness; you can betray me to the
guillotine. All this is in your power, and by doing it you will
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 can not bear it—dh, God!
I can not 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 en-
gage 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 toward this
Image of his Faith, a great sigh broke from his lips, and, tot-
tering 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. * N.
And l—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 Snapped
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 vapor that twisted and twirled, and sent shafts of lam-
bent fire or lightning as it seemed into the wery center of my
brain; but through it all, though I seemed Gaught up and de-
voured by flame, I saw Vaudron’s 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 1 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 elec-
tric shock that only left my limbs trembling. Père Vaudron
WORMWOOD. 281
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 agree-
able. 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 can not give absolu-
tion, 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 your-
selves! 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 can not–Heaven help me! I
282 WORMºWOOD,
can not forgive you!” and his voice shook as, waving me back
with one hand, he walked feebly to the door of the sacristy.
“I can not! Christ have mercy upon me! I can not! I have
no strength for that—the poor child Pauline, the wretched
Silvion! no, no, I can not forgive—not yet! God must teach
me to do that. God must help me—of my own accord I can
not.”
hi On a sudden impulse I flung myself on my knees before
lDOl.
“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 sprung 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
absinthew, 3 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, sim-
ple, 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 honored him for it. Human Nature is a
grand thing. Sometimes noble, sometimes mean, sometimes
dignified, sometimes abject; what an amazing phase of Crea-
tion 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,
-A
.* *
WORMWOOD, 283
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
where with 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
afterward; 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
forever. 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 1 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 can not
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 among 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 over-
come this fatal habit of yours as a matter of duty and con-
science.”
Duty and conscience! I smiled, and turning on my pillows,
stared at him curiously. He was a quiet, Self-possessed man
------
284 ‘WORMWOOD,
~.
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. “An
alyze me by all means! I am fond of science!”
h º: looked at me dubiously and felt my pulse, watch in
all Cl. ---
* Science is in its infancy,” he said, meditatively, “ espe-
cially medical science. But some few facts it has entirely mas-
tered. 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 tast-
ing 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 brain is irregular, sometimes violently interrupted
—a state of things which naturally produces giddiness, swoon-
ing, 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 per-
plexed.
“No cure for me?” I asked, indifferently, noting the ex-
pression of his face.
“I do not know—I can not tell,” he answered, hurriedly.
WORMWOOD, 285
“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. .8
“Come, speak!” And I raised myself on my pillows im-
patiently. “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.”
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, busi-
ness-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 ab-
sinthe—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 1 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 quar-
ter. And I should have to do something for a living—some-
thing, if it were but to beg for pence; something even to ob-
tain 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 ex-
istence, 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, came to me the thought of Heloise, St. Cyr. Her
fair and saintly presence seemed to pass, like a holy vision,
286 WORMWOOD.
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 toward 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—l
made my way with painfully slow steps toward 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 win-
ter. Still I felt that I must make an attempt, however futile,
to see the only Greature in the world who could, just at this
juncture in my life, possibly even now be my Savior.
There were a great many people in the stréets; 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 mount-
ed 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, yearn-
ing 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 ab-
sinthe-witch can take on any one of her servitors who dares to
- dream of disputing her inexorable authority.
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
WORMWOOD. 28?
e now? The gates stood open, as I said, and the circum-
stance 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
A testimony, they had so often deceived me. Was this a spec-
tral hallucination? I advanced hesitatingly; I ascended the
t steps; I approached those dreary black hangings and touched
| them; they were real, and the hall beyond them was dark and
i 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 this somber scene dawned
upon me; this was what is called in France a “chapelle ar-
demºte,” 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
ardențe,” 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 sprung to
my eyes as 1 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 Heloise
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
*



2SS s WORMWOOD.
strength, I ascended the stairs slowly with the rest of the
silent, tiptoe-treading mourners. The smell of fresh incense,
mingling with the heavy perfume of lilies, was wafted toward
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: -
“Come 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-vole 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 dashed
forward. . . .
“Heloise l’” I shrieked. “Heloïse 1
5 5
:k :}; $: sº º
>}: >}< >}:
Dead!—dead! Groveling on the ground in wild agony I
clutched handfuls of the flowers with which her funeral couch
was strewn—I groaned—l sobbed—I raved! I could have
killed myself then in the furious frenzy of my horror and de-
SO3,1]'. -
pº Heloise!” I cried again and again. “Heloise! Wake!
Speak to me! Curse me! Love me! Oh, God! God! you
are not dead! not dead! Heloise! Heloise!”
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 distracted-
ly 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 delicate-
ly indented as though some angel’s finger-tips had pressed them
down caressingly—the waxen hands were folded meekly across
the bosom, where a knot of Virgin lilies wept out fragrance in
wormwooD. 289
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, my 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 l’”
The voice was that of a stranger—the accent Spanish—and
1 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 gief. 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 fall-
ing asleep of innocence!”
His look, his words, his manner bewildered me.
“You saw her die?” I muttered, confusedly. “You—
ou—”
you Hélès, 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 Somber wrath gain-
ing possession of my soul.
“And who are you?” 1 said. “Why are you here?”
“I am Waldez, the violinist,” he replied, and then I recol-
lected, this was the very “maestro ** about whose perform-
ances Heloise had used to be so enthusiastic. “I Camo hither
because she sent for me,” he continued. “I traveled all the
way from Russia. She wanted me; it was to give me this be-
fore 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. hat bond had there been between her—the dead
|Heloise — and his man, the musical puppet of a mob’s
290 wormwood.
gºricious 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. -- -ºr *.
“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, Smil-
ing lips—a secret I feverishly Graved 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 Sud-
den interest flashed in his eyes. But he was otherwise un-
moved.
“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 lowed
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 treas-
ure 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 pres-
ence, and make its tone more deep, more thrilling, more ab-
solutely perfect and pure!”
1 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 tens,
derness, her sweetness; you have it all imprisoned there—all
to come forth at your bidding! When you play, she, Heloise,
Will, speak to you, caress you, teach you, help you, comfort.
you!—and I-hate you for it—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 to me, she only thought of you—you, on whom

WORMWOOT). 291
<º
Fortune smiles from day to day! Judge, then, how I hate
you! how I can not do otherwise than hate you! for she has
iven you all—and left me nothing! Nothing! . . . my
od! 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 de-
spair! I saw people make terrified way for me as 1 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 cov-
ered 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 specters 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
Heloise 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 luster 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 wretched-
ness! 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 can not tell.
And when, like all other things, it wore itself out at last;
when I grew calm, with the dreadful calmness of sheer stupe-
faction and exhaustion—then—then I realized it all, and my
absinthe-witch gave me a clew to the whole mystery. There
was a God l—yes; actually a God! a great, terrific, cruel, un-
forgiving, awful Being, and He in all His omnipotence had set

292 WORMW60ſ).
ſ
- *
A
Himself against me! He whose proud Will evolved the grow-
ing 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 Grimson 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 color 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 mis-
eries are my own fault. What have I done, I pray you, save
drink absinthef I have poisoned my brain and blood! well—
but how ridiculously small the seed from which such grim re-
sults have sprung! I am not to blame ºf 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 1 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 Guidel had died thinking
of Pauline—Pauline had drowned, with the name of her lover
on her lips—and Heloise, even Heloise, 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.
1 was left to my own devices; it was shown me distinctly that
my life was without interest to any one but myself. I ag-
cepted the hint. As it was degreed, so it must be; and I did
as Andre Gessonex had done before me—killed the last vestige
of my flickering conscience in me with a final blow—and be-
came—what I am / *
* *k #: +. #: Sº #:
WORMWOOD,
L'ENVOI,
AND what am I? My dear friends, I have told you—an
a^*intheur / Absintheur, pur et Simple; voilà tout. I am a
thing more abject than the lowest beggar that crawls through
Paris whining for a sou! I am a slinking, shuffling beast,
half monkey, half man, whose aspect is so vile, whose body is
go shaken with delirium, whose eyes are so murderous, that if `s
you met me by chance in the day-time, you would probably \
shriek for sheer alarm! But you will not see me thus—day- -
ſight and I are not friends. I have become like a bat or an
owl in my hatred of the sun! it shone gloriously when Heloise
was lying dead; I have not forgotten that! . . . At night I
live; at night I creep out with the other obscene things of
Paris, and by my very presence, add fresh pollution to the
moral poisons in the air! I gain pence by the meanest
errands; I help others to vice; and whenever I have the op-
ortunity I draw down weak youths, mothers’ darlings, to the
rink of ruin, and topple them over—if I can. For twenty
francs you can purchase me body and Soul; for twenty francs
I will murder or steal—all true absintheurs are purchasable.
For they are the degradation of Paris—the canker of the city
—the slaves of a mean insatiable madness which nothing but
death can cure. Death! that word reminds me; I have the
means of death in my power, and yet—I can not die! Strange,
is it not? . . . A little while ago I came upon one of my class
in dire distress; he had been a noted chemist in his day, but
he is nothing now—nothing but an absintheur, who suffers
grinding physical tortures when he has no money wherewith
to purchase what has become the emerald life-blood of his
veins. I found him in a fit of rage, rolling in his garret, and
howling imprecations on all mankind; he was just in the mood
to do what I asked of him. It was a trifle—a mere friendly
exchange of poisons. I gave him the absinthe for which he
craved so desperafely, and in return he prepared for me a lit,
tle vial of liquid, crystal-clear as a diamond, harmless-look
ing as spring water—a small draught, which if once 1 have the
courage to swallow, will give me an instant exit from the
world. Imagine it! I shall not suffer, I am told—first a gid-
diness—then a darkness—and that is all. I take it out often
—that little glittering flask of death; I look at it—I wonder
at it; for it is the key to the Eternal Secret; but I dare not
drink its contents. I dare not, I tell you. I am afraid—hor-




















WORMWOOD. *--
For the longer I live, the more I realize that this death
e is the Afterward that appalls me. Life is precious—yes,
even my life, surrounded with phantoms, darkened with de-
lirium, enfeebled by vice and misery as it is, it is precious.
I know its best and worst—its value and worthlessness; I can
measure it and Scorn it; I can laugh at it and love it. I can
play with myself and it as a tiger plays with its torn and bleed-
ing prey—and knowing it, I cling to it; I do not want to be
tºurled into what I do not know. Some day, perhaps—when
a blind, dark fury overcomes my brain—when specters clutch
at me and sense and memory reel into chaos, then I may drink
the fatal draught I bear about with me; but I shall be truly
mad when I do! too mad to realize my own act. I shall never
part with life consciously, or while the faintest glimmer of
| reason remains in me—be sure of that! I love life, especially
h life in Paris. I love to think that I and my compeers in ab-
sinthe are a blot and a disgrace on the fairest city under the
Sun! I love to meditate on the crass stupidity of our rulers,
who though gravely forbidding the Sale of poisons to the gen-
eral public, permit the free enjoyment of absinthe everywhere!
I watch with a scientific interest the mental and moral de-
them on to their downfall! I love to pervert ideas, to argue
bid sentiments into the minds of those who listen to me; and
I smile as I see how “La revanche l’’ is dying out, and how
content the absinthe-drinker is to crouch before the stalwart,
honest, beer-bred Teuton! It is a grand sight! and we are a
glorious people! just the sort of beings who are constituted to
caper and make mouths at ‘‘perſide Albion,” and capture
the best. Let us drink and dream and dance and carouse and
let the world go by! Let us make a mere empty boast of
honor, and play off sparkling witticisms against purity; let us
inters to depict repulsive nudities; our public men talk loud
inanities; our women to practice all the wiles of wantons and
cocottes. But with this, let us never forget to be enthusiastic
when we are called upon to sing the “Marseillaise.” “How
does it go?
“Amour sacré de la patrie --,
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs-
*~~
mild English tourists in mistake for German spies! All is for
fibly afraid; any condemned criminal is braver than I? *-
---
is not the actual end; there is something afterward; and it
terioration of our young men, and I take a pride in helping
falsely, to mock at virtue, to jeer at faith, and to instill mor- .
courage our writers and dramatists to pen obscenities; our




















WORMWOOD. 295
f
Liberté, liberté cherie
Combats avec tes defenseures!
Sous nos drapeaux que la Victoire
Accoure à tesmäles accents -
Que tes ennemis expirants
Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!” o
Just so! Let us always glorify Liberty, though we are slaves
to a Vice! Lift up your voices, good countrymen, in chorus:
“Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos battaillons! -
Marchons! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!”
Bravo! Only let us roar this loudly enough, with frantic
tossing of arms and waving of banners, with blare of trum-
pets, with tears and emotional embraces, and we shall perhaps
by noise and blague, if by nothing else, convince ourselves if
we can not convince other nations, that France is as great, as
pure, and as powerful as she was in her Lily-days of old. We
can shut our eyes to her decaying intelligence, her beaten con-
dition, her cheap cynicism, her passive atheism, her gross
materialism; we can cheat ourselves into believing that a na-
tion can thrive on Poison; we can do anything so long as we
hold fast to the “Marseillaise ’’ and the Tricolor! Mere sym-
bols! and we scarcely trust them; but, nevertheless, they are
our last chance of safety! France is France still; but the
conqueror’s tread is on her soil! and we—we have borne it and
still can bear it! we have forgotten—we forget! What should
we want with victory? We have ABSINTHE!
TRIE END,
}}
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