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 SPECIAL PREFACE TO THE 
 
 AUTHORIZED AMERICAN EDITIOK 
 
 As there are several unauthorized Editions of my works 
 ,jw circulating freely in the United States, it is but fair 
 \ the publishers of the present volume to state that this 
 sue of "Wormwood; A Drama of Pans," has been per- 
 mally revised and corrected for them by me, and is the 
 ^NLY Authorized version for America. Other novels of 
 line notably "A Romance of Two Worlds," " Thelma, 
 endetta'^' and "Ardath" are to be had in various 
 )rms at all prices throughout the States ; needless to say 
 lat thes^ have been published without any reference tc 
 le as author, and, having been brought out in unseemly 
 aste and carelessness, are full of the grossest errors and 
 listakes, for which I, naturally, cannot be responsible, 
 ^hat the " Romance of Two Worlds '' for example, ap- 
 peared in New York with a misleading picture-cove? 
 epresenting the Eastern and Westei'n hemispheres, 
 whereas the story itself concerns this world and the n: x: 
 nerely shows the zeal of the enterprising publisher v. ^ 
 produced it at all risks without reading iC ;— and that th 
 Imerican editions of " Vendetta 1 " contarn the madde. 
 aisprints in certain Italian idiomatic expressions, rnii i 
 lot be set down to my charge as to one ignorant of th 
 "talian language, but to the admirably " go-ahead ' indivia- 
 lals in the book-trade who " rushed it through fr tr.e 
 \merican public. I have reason to love America for Mv 
 jake of the many friends my writings have won tov ; .. 
 ;here; friends whose faces I have never seen, hut wU 
 correspond frequently with me and whom » seem iamii 
 
 3 
 
 1563110 
 
SPECIAL PREFACE. 
 
 lariy to know through the kindly written expression < 
 their thoughts ; — and it is, I presume, not an unnatun 
 desire on my part that such should^ when reading m 
 books, at least have the advantage of reading them a 
 they were originally written. With regard to the presen 
 story, which I trust may help to rouse public attention t( 
 a pernicious Evil which is gradually spreading over a] 
 the European Continent, I believe most intelligent Ameri 
 cans who have visited Paris will read it with more oi , 
 less anxious interest. It was^ I think, a distinguishec j 
 American Senator who quite recently wrote a long and 
 exhaustive practical account of incalculable mischie.i 
 wrought by the Poison-craze whose dire effects on on ' 
 individual I have attempted to depict ; and if one or tvA 
 more leaders among thinkers, physiologists and scientists, 
 would raise their voices to aid in denouncing this fatal 
 brain-degradation and bringing it well before the con- 
 sideration of those who are the heads of authority in 
 France, it might be checked in its destructive progress, ^ 
 and, with a little earnest and decisive work, be stamped^ 
 out altogether, as a disease is stamped out by perfect 
 sanitation. In this hope I have written " Wormwood " | 
 m this spirit I trust it may be received. 
 
 Marie CoEEJbi,i» 
 London, October 24, 1890. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 The unhappy hero of the following drame is presented 
 to English readers, not as an example of what is excep- 
 tionally tragic and uncommon, but simply as a very ordi- 
 nary type of a large and ever-increasing class. Men such 
 as " Gaston Beauvais '' 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 ad- 
 mitted, even by the French themselves; the open athe- 
 ism, heartlessness, flippancy, and flagrant immorality of 
 the whole modern French school of thought is unques- 
 tioned. If a crime of more than usual cold-blooded atro- 
 city is committed, it generally dates from Paris, or near it ; 
 — -if a book or a picture is produced that is confessedly 
 obscene, the author or artist is, in nine cases out of ten, 
 discovered to be a Frenchman, The shop-windows and 
 bookstalls of Paris are of themselves sufficient witnesses 
 of the national taste in art and literature, — a national taste 
 for vice and indecent vulgarity which cannot be too sin- 
 cerely and compassionately deplored. There are, no 
 doubt, many causes for the wretchedly low standard of 
 moral responsibility and fine feeling displayed by the Paris- 
 ians of to-day— but I do not hesitate to say that one ofi 
 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 Mussulmen have their hours for prayer, — and in a very 
 short time the love of the hideous poison clings so closely 
 ^o their blood and system that it becomes an absolute 
 
 s ' 
 
6 INTRO D UCTOR Y NO TE. 
 
 necessity of existence. The effects of its rapid working 
 on the human brain are beyond all imagination horrible 
 and incurable, and no romancist can exaggerate the ter- 
 rific reality of the evil. If any of my readers are disposed 
 to doubt the possibility of the incidents in my story or to 
 think the details exaggerated, let such make due inquiries 
 of rny leading member of the French medical faculty as 
 to the actual meaning of Absinthism, and the measured 
 statement of the physician will seem wilder than the wild- 
 est tragedy. Moreover, it is not as if this dreadful frenzy 
 affected a few individuals 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 cafes 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 become a 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 v/omen ! 
 
 In the present story I have, as I say, selected a merely 
 ordinary Parisian type ; there are of course infinitely 
 worse examples 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 "Ven- 
 detta ! '^ 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 creation 
 " Pfere Goriot." I have nothing v/hatever 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 ^^ hal masque^' in Paris, I am 
 in a great measure indebted to a very respectable-looking 
 English tourist, who by his dress v/as evidently of some. 
 
^- JN'TRQM¥0TeRY NOTE. j 
 
 /x^Hgious persuasion, and whom I overheard talking to a 
 younger man, on board a steamer going from Thun to In- 
 terlaken. 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, certain 
 of his most lively experiences there. I, sitting close by 
 m a corner unobserved, listened with a good deal of sur- 
 prise as well as amusement to his enthusiastic eulogy of 
 the " cct7i'Ca7i '^ as he had seen it danced in some peculiar 
 haunt of questionable entertainment, and I took calm note 
 thereof, for literary use hereafter. The most delicate feel- 
 ings can hardly be ruffled by an honest (and pious) 
 Britisher's raptures,— and as I have included these rapt- 
 ures in my story, I beg to tender my thanks to the un- 
 known 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, dread- 
 ful, 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 — • 
 
 MARIE CORELLI. 
 
 f>!i.A.RENs, Lake Leman, Switzerland, 
 September f 1890. 
 
"And the name of the star is called WORM- 
 WOOD: and the third part of the waters be- 
 came Wormwood; and many men died of the 
 waters, because they were made bitter/'— Rev- 
 elation viii. II. 
 
 '^Et le nom de cette etoile etait ABSINTHE : 
 et la troisieme partie des eaux fut changee en 
 ABSINTHE ; et elles firent mourir un grand nom- 
 bre d'hommes parce qu'elles etaient de venues 
 ameres." — Revelation viii. ii. (Nouveai^ 
 Testament Francais). 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ? Forgetful- 
 ness ? A sweet unconsciousness of dreamless rest. Aye ! 
 it must be so, if I remember rightly ; but I cannot be 
 quite sure, for it seems a century since I slept v/ell. 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 perplexities 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 mere form's sake, and 
 doze and dream, — -but we do not sleep. 
 
 Stay ! let me consider. What am I doing here so late ? 
 ■why am I not at home ? Why do I stand alone on this 
 bridge, gazing down into the cold, sparkling w^ater of the 
 Seine — w^ater 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 ! How they 
 stare, how they smile, all those drowned w^omen and men 1 
 Some are beautiful ; all are mournful. 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 w^ant something of me? I feel 
 impelled towards them — they draw me downw^ards by a 
 deadly fascination, I must go on, or else ■ 
 
 With a violent effort I tear myself away, and, leaving 
 the bridge, I wander slowly homeward* 
 
 SI 
 
m WORMWOOD, 
 
 Th@ city sleeps, did I say ? Oh no ! Paris is not so 
 clean of conscience or so pure of heart that its inhabit- 
 ants should compose themselves to rest simply because 
 I is midnight There are hosts of people about and 
 jtirring ; rich aristocrats for instance, whose names are 
 blazoned on the lists of honor and la haute noblesse^ can 
 be met at every turn, stalking abroad like beasts in search 
 of prey; they are the painted and bedizened outcasts 
 who draw their silken skirts scornfully aside from any 
 chance of contact with the soiled and ragged garments 
 worn by the wretched and starving members of the same 
 deplorable sisterhood ; and every nov/ and again the 
 flashing 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 concern itself with 
 the distant sailing of the gaudy ships bound for the same 
 disastrous end I 
 
 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 desti- 
 jiation. 
 
 Home at last ! I recognize the dim and dirty alley, 
 the tumbledown, 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 door- 
 step,- — always tearing 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 quarrelling furiously 
 in the passage ; I shrink past them unobserved and make 
 my v/ay up the dark foul-smelling staircase to my narrow 
 den, v/here, on entering, I jealously 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 
 
IVORMIV00B. 
 
 13 
 
 They were eruel to me to-night at the tafe, 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 s»tid 
 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, — croaker9 
 all ! Who is mad, and who is sane ? It is not easy tcr 
 decide. The world has various ways of defining insanity 
 in different individuals. The genius who has grand 'd-^as, 
 and fancies he can realize them is *' mad ; " the priest 
 whOj like Saint Damien, sacrifices himself for others is 
 ** mad/' the hero who, like the English Gordon, perishes 
 at his post instead of running away to save his own skin, 
 is " mad,^' and only the comfortable tradesman or finan- 
 cier 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 ! Vive la 
 folic / Vive P amour I Vive F animalis^n / Vive le Diahle f 
 Live everybody, and everything that can live without a 
 conscience, for conscience is at a discount in this age, and 
 honesty cannot 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 multi- 
 tudes of them there are ! Why were they created 1 
 Through countless centuries bewildered mankind has* 
 gazed at them and asked the same question, — a question 
 never to be answered, — a problem 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 abon;f God 
 any more. Nothing in all the vast mechanism of ihe uni- 
 verse can actually prove a Deity to be existent ; and wo 
 one is called upon to believe in what cannot 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 1 Afraid of the 
 day, afraid of the night, afraid of the glassy river, with its 
 
14 WORMWOOD, 
 
 thousands of drov/ned 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 haply more than they in their time 
 wronged me ! 
 
 Yet, after all, I am no coward ; and why should I fear 
 God, supposing a God should, notwithstanding our denial 
 of Him, positively exist ? If He is the Author of Crea- 
 tion, He is answerable for every atom within it, even for 
 me. 1 have done evil. What then 1 Am I the only 
 one ? If I have sinned more, I have also suffered more • 
 and pleiiiy of scientists and physiologists could be found 
 to prove that my faults are those of temperament and 
 r^air-c:.: struction, and that I cannot help them if I would. 
 Ah, how consoling are these advanced doctrines ! No 
 criminal ought, in strict justice, to be punished at all, see- 
 ing that it is his inborn nature to commit crime, ana that 
 he cannot alter that nature even if he tried ! Only a cant- 
 ing priest would dare to ask him to try ; and, in France 
 at least, we have done with priestcraft. 
 
 Well, Yje live in a great and w^onderful 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 idyll and allegory; and 
 we find them on the whole rather ejinuyant. We have 
 <: . ';./ 1 different tastes. We want the ugly truths of 
 , •-. I - e pretty fables. We like ugly truths. We find 
 tf-/ : ,.ant and palatable, like the hot sauce poured 
 
 on Ub to give it a flavor. For example, 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 e7itrdi7iant in a novel which faith- 
 fully describes the love-making of Jeanne the washer-wo- 
 man with Jacques the rag-picker. We prefer their coarse 
 amours to Virginie's tearful sentiment— ^^//r^i'/^;;?/'^, atit7^es 
 mxurs. I thought of this yesterday, when, strolling aim- 
 lessly across the Pont Neuf, I glanced at the various titles 
 of the books for sale on the open air counters and saw 
 
t^0MMW^0^' 15 
 
 Realism rept^sented to the last dregs of reality. And theji 
 I began to consider ^^rhat the story of my life would look 
 like when written, and what people would think of it ii 
 they read it. 7'his idea has haunted me all last night and 
 to-day. I have turned Ic over and over again in my mind 
 with a certain savage amusement. Dear old world ! dear 
 Society ! will you believe me if I tell you what I am } No, 
 I am sure you will not I You will shudder a little, per- 
 haps ; 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 ie« 
 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 allj 
 only one example out of a thousand ; a thousand } ay, 
 more than a thousand like him, who in this very city are 
 possessed by the same seductive delirium^, and are press- 
 ing 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 ? Time was when I 
 loved my country ; when I would have shed every drop of 
 blood in my body gladly for her defence ; but now— now, 
 — enjin / I see the folly of patriotism, and to speak 
 frankly, I would rather drown like a dog in the Seine than 
 undergo the troublesome fatigues of war. I v/as not al- 
 ways 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 as in our cafes night after night with una- 
 bated zest and never-satiated craving, have nigh forgotten 
 their countiy's bitter defeat,— or if they have not forgotten. 
 
t6 IVORMIVOOD. 
 
 have certainly ceased to care. True, they talk,— we 
 all talk,— of taking the Rhine and storming Berlin 
 jnst as children babble of their toy castles and tin sol- 
 diers, but we are not in earnest. No, no ! not we ! We 
 are wise in our generation we absintheurs; 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 finger 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. 
 
 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 baga- 
 telle! 
 
 Dear people of Paris, you want Realism, do you not? 
 Realism in art, realism, in literature, realism in every- 
 thing? You Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, dancing 
 on the edge of your own sepulchre — for the time is 
 coming fast when France will no more be accounted a 
 nation — you want to look at the loathsome worms and 
 tuisightly poisonous growths that attend your own de- 
 composition and decay ! You want Hfe denuded of all 
 poetical adornment that you may see it as it truly is ? 
 Well, so you shall, as far as I am concerned! I will 
 hide nothing from you ! I will tear out the very fibres 
 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. 
 
 Perhaps it is not often that you chance upon a 
 hinnan subject who is entirely callous? A creature in 
 whose nerves 3^ou can thrust your steel hooks of inqui- 
 zViovmii research without his uttering so much as a 
 'mothered sob of pain? Yet I am such an one! per- 
 chance you may find me a strange, even an interesting 
 Study! 
 
WQRMWOOm, gm\ 
 
 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 recesses of 
 life, and examine and gloat upon, till I have learnt 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, somet 
 link that I lose, some clue that I fancy might explain 
 much that seems incomprehensible. I suppose others 
 have missed this little unnameable 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 penitent 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 nnproven Divinity. Already I have 
 passed judgment on myself ;— what can you say for, or 
 against me, O world, that will alter or strengthen my owa 
 self-wrought condemnation and doom ? I have lived fasl^ 
 what then ? Is it not the way to die quickly ? 
 
WOaMWOQM. 
 
 II. 
 
 It Is a familiar business to mej this talcing up of the 
 pen and writing down of thought. Long ago, when I was 
 quite a young man^ I used to scrihhle fe nil leto7ts and stray 
 articles for the Paris papers and gain a few extra francs 
 thereby. 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 inter« 
 rupted 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 in» 
 stead, thinking how droll it v^as that I should ever have 
 written it 1 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 I 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 complaisant enough to 
 call handsome, and that assuredly by none would have 
 been deemed positively ill-looking. There was a prom 
 ro.^'S; btelligence I believe in my physiognomy, a certain 
 . ^' p^I^-e earnestness and animation that led my over- 
 sanguine relatives and friends to expect wonders of me— 
 a few enthusiasts expressing their firm (and foolish) con- 
 viction that I should be a great man some day. Great ! 
 I i I laugh to think <^f ^t. I can see my own features as 
 I write, in a tracked and blurred mirror opposite; I 
 note tUe 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 
 
Pi^ORMWOOD. 19 
 
 Sving? Well no— not what tne practiced hotilevardier 
 would understand by that term. I do not frequent 
 places of amusement, I am not the boon-companion of 
 ballet-dancers and cafe-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 respect- 
 able^ I might even have been famous — -imagine it ' f"; ^- 
 know I once had a few glimmerings of the swif^ r,^ 
 
 called genius in me, and that my thoughts we: y,0' rr . 
 cisely like those of everyday men and wc^u, ^^^ 
 chance was against me, chance or fate ; both ^j-ms are 
 synonymous. Let none talk to me of opposingj^^'s self 
 to fate ; that is simply impossible. Fight as v ^^y we 
 cannot alter an evil destiny, or reverse a lucky c^^ 
 
 Resist temptation ! cry the preachers. Very - 4 | ]3-nt 
 suppose you cmiiiot resist ? Suppose you see obiecc 
 whatever in making resistance? For example, yrv- r^^r^ 
 to me if you can, what use it would be to any oi jivino- 
 that I should reform my ways ? Not a soul woulu --^ ?. \ 
 I should starve on just as I starve now, only without any 
 sort of comfort ; I should seek help, work, sympathy, and 
 find none ; and I should perish in the end just as surely 
 and as friendlessly as I shall perish 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 
 morality 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 i-®- 
 sponsibilities of one's being, and a steadfast obedie"- "^e 
 to the lavvTs of God and one's country." 
 
 Exactly ! but how does this definition work, when by 
 the merest chance you discover that you have 710 actual 
 responsibilities, 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 WViQh violent dispute and 
 
go WORMWOOD. 
 
 petty wrangling, by a few human individuals nerf?, if 
 
 not quite, as capricious and unreasonabie 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 shov/s 
 
 of good, in a world which is evil to its very core ! Let us 
 krow^^^^^'^^^^^ truly for what we are, let us not deceive 
 onrr.i^s with phantasms of what we cannot be. We 
 fire ui ' animals — we shall never be angels— neither 
 here i hereafter. As for me, I have done with ro- 
 mances love, friendship, ambition, fame ; va past days 
 it is tr"^ -^ ^^^ some store by these airy cheats — these 
 vaporo' visions ; but now — now they count to me as 
 nau^-ht .-^ possess a dearer joy, more real, more lasting 
 
 than thef ^^ ^ 
 
 Would ^ou learn what thing it is that holds me, 
 
 wretched ^ ^ seem, to life 1 what link binds my frail 
 body ar ^^ai^^^ soul together ? and why, with no friends 
 ^l: ^h - xortune, I still contrive to beat back death as 
 long as possible t 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 existence ; green as the moon's light on a 
 forest pool it glimmers in my glass ; eagerly I quafi: 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 flying, of armies 
 marching, of haste and uproar and confusion and death ! 
 Ay ! even at times I have heard the trumpets blare on 
 the field of battle, and the shout "Z^ revajiche ! la re- 
 vanche P^ 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 1 I torture 
 myself with absurd delusions ; did I na| but lately say I 
 loved France no longer? . . . France !. Do I fiotXoYO, 
 thee ? Not now,— oh, not now let my words be accepted 
 
WORMWOOD. " 2t 
 
 \ 
 concerning thee ; not now, but later on, when this heavy 
 weight is lifted from my heart ; when this hot pulsation 
 is stilled in my brain ; when tiie 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 passion- 
 ate tenderness and wild remorse above thy grave, poor 
 France, thou beaten and discrowned fair empress of 
 nations ; thou whom I, and others such as I am^ Biight 
 yet help to rescue and reinvest with glory if — ii 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 pos- 
 sess me with regrets for the past ; but they shall not suc- 
 ceed. No wise man stops to consider his by-gone possi- 
 bilities. The land of Might»Have-Been is, after all, noth- 
 ing but a blurred prospect, a sort of dim and distant land- 
 scape, where the dull clouds rain perpetual 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 agreeable 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 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 attitude 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, 
 everything is more or less fooiisli in this Vv^orld ; if v/e wish 
 to avoid folly we must seek a different planet. 
 
 et me think; where did I see her first.? At her 
 mother's xjiouse, it must have been. Yes ! the picture 
 floats back to me across a hazy sea of memories, and sus- 
 pends itself, mirage-like, before my half-bewildered gaze. 
 She has just returned to Paris from her school at Lau- 
 
sanne in Switzerlande The Swiss wild-roses had left theh 
 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 simple 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 wdth 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 equalled 
 by his fanatical devotion to the Church, led her through 
 the rooms leaning gracefully on his arm, and formally in- 
 troduced 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 Comte had been friends 
 from bo3^hood, and there was an especially marked kind- 
 ness in his voice and manner, when, pausing at my side, 
 he thus addressed me— - 
 
 *' Monsieur Beauvais, permit me to present to you my 
 daughter Pauline, Pauline, my child, this is M. Gaston 
 Beauvais, the son of our excellent friend M. Charles Beau* 
 vais, the banker, who has the beautiful house at Neuilly^ 
 and who used to give thee so many marrons glaces when 
 thou wert a small, dear, greedy baby ; dost thou remember ? ■ ^ 
 
 A charming smile parted her lovely lips, and she re- 
 turned my profound bow with the prettiest sweeping curtv 
 sey imaginable. 
 
 "• Helas P^ she said playfully, shrugging her shoulders. 
 ** I must confess that the days of the marrons glaces are 
 not yet past 1 I am a greedy baby still, am I not, my good 
 papa? Can you believe it^ Monsieur Beauvais, those 
 mai^rons glaces were the first luxuries I asked for when I 
 came home ! they are so good ! everything is so good in 
 Paris ! My dear, beautiful Paris ! I am so glad to be 
 back again ! You cannot imagine hov/ dull it is at Lau* 
 sanne ! A pretty place ? Oh yes ! but so very dull ! 
 There are no good bon-bons^ no delices of any kind, and 
 the people are so stupid they do not even know how to 
 make an eclair properly! ah. How I used to long 
 for klairs ! I saw some one afternoon in a little 
 shop-window, and went in to tr)^ what they were like ; inmi 
 Dieii I they w^ere so very bad, they tasted of cheese I 
 YeSp truly I so many things in Switzerland taste of chees% 
 
W9RMWO0D. 23 
 
 I think ! Par exemple^ 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 
 iclairs and marrons glaces^ 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 eight* 
 een 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 man. I 
 listened to her soft and trifling chatter with far deeper 
 interest than I should probably have felt in the conver- 
 sation of the most astute diplomat 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, glanc- 
 ing 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 prac- 
 tical side of life as well, if not better than any shrewd 
 republican going :■ — he knew that my father was rich, and 
 that I was his only heir, and he laid his plans accordingly. 
 He was hke all French fathers ; yet why should I specify 
 French fathers 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 cannot 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 bright^, 
 ness and esprit which is the happy heritage of so manj 
 Frenchwomen, none of whom think it necessary \,u 
 practise or assume the chilly touch-me-not diffidence and 
 unbecoming constraint which makes the young English 
 **m€es^^ such a tame and tiresome companion to men of 
 
t4t 
 
 WORMWOOD. 
 
 sense and humor. She was soon perfectly at hot «a90 
 with me, and became prettily garrulous and confidential, 
 telling me stories of her life at Lausanne, describing the 
 loveliness of the scenery on Lake Leman, and drawing 
 word portraits of her teachers and schoolmates, with a 
 facile directness and point that brought them at once be- 
 fore the mind's eye as though they were actually present. 
 We sat together 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. Reunions, balls, receptions, operas, 
 theatres, all such festivities as these, this ingenuous wor- 
 shipper of the " niarro?t glace " looked forward to with 
 singular vivacity, and it was only after she had babbled 
 sweetly about fashion and society for several minutes that 
 she suddenly turned upon me with a marvellously brilliant 
 penetrating glance of her dark blue eyes, a glance such as 
 I afterwards found out was common to her, but which 
 then startled me as much as an unexpected flash of light- 
 ning might have done^ and said — 
 
 " And you ? What are yoti going to do ? How do you^ 
 amuse yourself ? '^ 
 
 *' Mademoisellej 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 
 sometimes,— 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, occasionally." 
 
 " Books ? " she exclaimed, her lovely eyes opening* wi^da 
 Urith eager interest. " You write books i ** 
 
 ^' I kave written one or two^^^ I admitted mode^tty. 
 
WORMWOOD. fj 
 
 ** Oh, do tell me the titles of them ! " she entreatefl " I 
 shall be so interested ! I read every story I can g^t hold 
 of, especially love-stories, you know ! I adofe love- 
 stories ! I always cry over them, and -'' 
 
 Here our conversation was abruptly broken off. 
 Madame la Comtesse de Charmilles, a dignified gra7ide 
 dajne clad in richest black silk, v/ith diamonds gleaming 
 here and there upon her handsome person, sailed up to 
 us from a remote corner of the room where she had no 
 doubt been v/atching us with the speculative observation 
 of the match-making matron, and said — • 
 
 ** Pauline, my child^ the Marquis de Gui^card desires 
 the honor of taking you in to supper. Monsieur Beauvais 
 will have the amiability to escort your cousin. My niece, 
 Mademoiselle St. Cyr— Monsieur Gaston Beauvais." 
 And thereupon she presented me to a pale serious-look- 
 ing girl, v/ho merely acknowledged my formal salute by 
 Jhe slightest perceptible 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 Madame de Charmilles 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 tG 
 me at table, and I made amends for my previous disap* 
 pointment hy conversing v/ith her all the time, to the 
 complete vanquishment and discomfiture of old De 
 Guiscard. Not that he really cared, I think, seeing he 
 was so entirely absorbed in eating. We talked of book? 
 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 senti- 
 mental 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 unrivalled 
 Sarasate, of Rubinstein, of Verdi, of the child-pianist, 
 Otto Hegner ; then, skimming down from the empvrean 
 of music to the lower level of the histrionic art, I de- 
 scribed to her the various qualities of talent displayed by 
 
i6 WORMWOOD. 
 
 the several actors and actresses who were ranked among 
 the most popular of the passing hour. And so we chatted 
 ©Bj happily engrossed v/ith one another, and forgetful of 
 all else. As for the pale cousin, whose name I afterwards 
 learned was HeloisCj 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 afterwards 1 — ^— No matter I she is dead, 
 quite dead, and I only dream I see her still 1 
 
 The hours fled by on golden v/ings, 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 overwhelming passion seized me ; I v/as no 
 longer master of my own destiny ; Pauline was m.y fate. 
 What was her fascination ? How was it that she, a girl 
 fresh from school, a mere baby in thought, fond of bon- 
 bons rind foolish trifles, should suddenly ravish my soul 
 by s-irprise and enslave and dominate it utterly ? I can- 
 not tell T put the question to the physiologists and scien» 
 ti.-- ts who explain everything, and they will answer you« 
 She was beautiful— -that I can positively affirm, for I 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 after- 
 wards, 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 housekeeper going, believe 
 me— -she will be strict with the children, scold the ser?« 
 ants, and make herself look as ornamental as she can 
 ti''^ age and fat render ornament superfluous. But a 
 \-\'oman of genius, with that strange subtle attraction 
 about her which is yet not actual beauty, she is the per« 
 soi I tc 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 shud- 
 deringly wonder at !— eyes full of unsned tears— will those 
 tears never fall ? — large, soft, serious eyes^ like those of 
 Pauline's pale cousin ller/ose ! 
 
woian^'^ou. 37 
 
 IIL 
 
 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. But she was so pale and quiet, and so concen- 
 trated within the mystic circle of her own thoughts, that 
 she never seemed to me like others of her sex and age. 
 At first I took a strong dislike to her, she had such fair 
 bright hair, and I hated golden-haired women. I sup- 
 pose this was because writers— poets especially — have 
 sung their praises of golden hair till the world is wearied, 
 -—and also because so many females of the demi-mo7ide 
 have dyed their coarse tresses to such hideous straw- 
 tints in order to be in accordance with the prevailing 
 fashion and sentiment. However, the abundant locks of 
 Heloise were, in their way, of a matchless hue, a singularly 
 pale gold, brightening here and there into flecks of red- 
 dish auburn close to the smooth nape of her neck, whei^e 
 they grev/ \i\ soft, small curls like the delicate fluff under 
 a young bird's v/ing. I often caught myself staring at 
 these little warm rings of sun-color on the milky white- 
 ness 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 apparently un- 
 conscious of our presence. Her uncle told me she was a 
 wonderful scholar, that she had numberless romances in 
 her headj and all the poets in her heart. I remember I 
 thought at the time that he was exaggerating her gifts out 
 of mere affectionate complaisance^ for I never quite be- 
 lieved in woman's real aptitude for learning. I could 
 quite understand a certain surface-brilliancy of attain- 
 ment in the female mind, but I would never c.dnit l]i''J: 
 such knowledge went deep enough to last. I \ -is n.i:.' 
 taken, of course; since then I have realized t'^ I a 
 woman' s genius, if great and ti->ie, equals, and < •. ■ ■--■ -^ 
 
2& W&RMWO(bD. 
 
 passes, 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-— //^^ novel I was 
 so proud of having written-— she smiled at the woes of mf 
 sentimental heroine, and told me very gently that I di^ 
 not yet understand women. Not understand women! 
 1, a born and bred Parisian of five-and-twenty 1 Absurd ! 
 Now Pauline " adored '^ my book. She read and re-read 
 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 creatures 
 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 
 affection for her, though not so openly displayed, was 
 evidently strong and deeply-rooted. Mademoiselle St. 
 Cyr was poor, so I understood ; her parents resided in 
 some obscure town in Normandy, and had hard work to 
 keep a decent roof above their heads, for which reason 
 the Comtesse de Charmilles had undertaken 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 disti'-aite 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 tJien—z. 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 Avas done without Heloise being 
 first consulted,— that in any domestic difficulty or co7itre- 
 temps, ever3^body washed their hands of trouble and trans» 
 ferred it to Heloise ; that when her uncle, to gratify his 
 extreme love of fresh air and exercise, cantered into tne 
 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 PauliuqV 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 29 
 
 Ixxmxrmnt hair^ and that she was generally useful to every 
 one. This fact of itself made me consider her v/ith a sort 
 of faint contempt ; practical-utility persons v/ere never a.t- 
 tractive to me, though I reluctantly owned the advisability 
 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, /never saw her occupied olher- 
 wise than with a book. She was forever reading,— -she 
 was, I decided, going to develop herself into a *' f erame 
 savante, ^* a character I detested. So I paid her very 
 little attention, and when I did speak to her on any sub- 
 ject it was always with that particularly condescending 
 carelessness which a wise man of hve-ancl-twenty who has 
 written books may bestow on a vastly inferior type of 
 humanity. 
 
 In a very short time I became a frequent and inti- 
 mate visitor at the house of the De Charmilles, and 
 my intentions there were pretty well guessed by all 
 the members of the fainily. 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'2 ^'Id-fashioned sentiments 
 on etiquette, and knew that, in strict accordance 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 id no hurry to do 
 this ; it was a sufficient delight to me for the present to see 
 my heart's enchantress occasionally, to bring her flovv^ers 
 or bon»bons^ to hear her sing and play—for she was a 
 graceful proficient in music— and to make one of the fam- 
 ily party at supper, and argue politics good-humoredly with 
 the old Royalist County whose contempt for the Republic 
 was beyond all bounds, and who was anxious to convert 
 me to his way of thinking. Often on these occasions my 
 father, an excellent 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 Cure of our parish, whose bon-mots were pro- 
 verbial ; and many a pleasant evening we passed all to- 
 gether, seated round the large table in the oak-panelled 
 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 whieh the lamp-light 
 
3® 
 
 wormwood: 
 
 flickered or fell. And as the days flew on and November 
 began to rustle by in a shroud of dead autumn leaves, it 
 leemed to my adoring eyes that Pauline grew lovelier than 
 vWer. Her gayety increased ; she invested herself with a 
 thousand new fascinations, a thousand fresh coquetries. 
 Every dress she wore appeared to become her more per- 
 fectly than the last. She fluttered here and there like a 
 beautiful butterfly in a garden of roses, and I, who had 
 lov^d 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. Whenever 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 1 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 chaf^ 
 ing prisoner in a cell till morning dawned. During all 
 this self-torment which I half enjoyed, it being a more de- 
 licious than painful experience, I might have spoken to 
 the Comte de Charmilles ; but I refrained, determining to 
 wait till after the feast of Noel. 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 eloquence, 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 ob- 
 stacles in the way of our union, and it was impossible to in- 
 vent 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 any- 
 thing ; but, remember, I was very young, and Heloise St. 
 Cyr was quite right when she said I did not yet under- 
 stand 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 antique furniture, such as would have been the joy 
 of connoisseurs, and everything, even to the smallest 
 ^ifle^ was kept in the exact order in which my mother had 
 
WORMWOOD. 3t 
 
 \A\ it seventeen years previously, when she died giving 
 birth to a girl-child who survived 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 I petite manianr^ 
 in a voice rendered so weak by fright that I 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 lit- 
 tle jesus v{\ the church creche 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 a child- 
 ish 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 
 
 I have said that my father had a special friend with 
 whom he loved to talk and argue on all ^^ political and 
 philosphical questions that came up for discussion, 
 namelyj. Monsieur Vaudron, the Cure of our parish. Hd 
 was a good man—perfectly unaffected, simple-hearted, 
 and honest Imagine, an honest priest ! It is a sufficient 
 rarity in France. He was in earnest, too. He believed 
 in Our Lady and his patron saint with unflinching fervor 
 and tenacity. It was no use bringing the heavy batteries 
 ^f advanced science to storm Ms little citadel. He stood 
 firm. 
 
 " Talk as yon will,'' he would say, " there is alwnys 
 something left that you cannot understand. No ! neither 
 you nor M. Rdnan, nor any other overwise theorist Irv- 
 ing, and for me that Something is Everything. WI.ei 
 you can explain avv^ay that little inexplicable— why then, 
 who knows !— I may go as far and even further than any 
 heretic of the age "—here he ^Yould smile and rub his 
 bands complacently—** but till then- — " An expressive 
 
32 WORMWOOD. 
 
 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 expression of countenance that betokened some 
 vexation and anxiety. 
 
 '^ To speak truly, I am worried,'* he said at last, in an- 
 swer to my father's repeated inquiries as to whether any- 
 thing was wrong with him. " And I am full of uncom- 
 fortable doubts and presentiments. I am to have an un- 
 expected addition to my poor household in the person of 
 my nephew, who is studying 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, sooewhat 
 wealthy farmer possessing house and lands in Brittany. 
 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 tovvrn 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 Hve, 
 and you can imagine how my old Margot will look upon 
 such an unexpected invasion ! ** 
 
 We smiled. Margot was the good Cure^s cook, houses- 
 keeper, and domestic tyrant ; a withered little woman^ 
 something like a dried apple, one of those apples that you 
 have to cut into pretty deeply before you find the sweet- 
 ness that lurks at its core. She had a sharp tongue, too, 
 V^id Margot, and however much the Cure might believe 
 m 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, mon 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 I ^* agreed my father solemnly, yet 
 with a twinkle in his eye, " Young men are proverbially 
 difficult to manage/* 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 33 
 
 ** They are--^they are ! I am sure of that ! " and the 
 Cur<^ shook his head in a desponding manner. '' But 
 still I cannot refuse the request of my only sister, the 
 first request she has ever made of me since her marriage ! 
 Besides, if I would refuse, it is too late, the boy is on his 
 way — be will be here to-morrow, and I must break the 
 news somehow to Margot, it will be difficult — mon Dieu f 
 it will be very difficult — -but it must be done ! " 
 
 And he heaved such a profound sigh, that I, who had 
 been glancing up and down the flimsy columns of the 
 *' Petit Journal," to avoid interrupting the conversation 
 of my eiders, suddenly gave way to irresistible laughter. 
 My merriment was contagious ; the picture of M. Vau- 
 dron 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 v/ait upon two men in- 
 stead of one, and proffering his mild apologies for the 
 same, struck us all v/ith an overwhelming sense of the 
 ridiculous, even the Cure himself, whose laughter was as 
 loud and long as my father's or mine. 
 
 " Ah well 1 /' he said at last, wiping away the drops of 
 mirth from his eyes. ^' I know I am an old fool, and 
 that I ailom'' Matgot 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 w^hite and fit for holy 
 service 1 She is an excellent woman— I assure you, ex* 
 cellent 1 but regarding this nephevvr— - — " 
 
 " Ah, that is a serious question ! " murmured my father, 
 who seemed mischievously determined not to help him 
 'out wdth any solution of his difficulty. " He is coming, 
 you say, to-morrow .^ '^ 
 
 f " He is — he is, without a doubt ! " replied poor M. 
 'Vaudron, 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 4iiy utmost for the bov/* 
 
34 iroj^Mivoon, 
 
 Here he t)foke off and rubbed liis nose perplexedly. 
 
 ^' Vv'hat is be llfce. this nephew of yours ? '^ I put in 
 suddenly, '' Have you any idea ? '^ 
 
 *' Iruly^ not much/' he replied thoughtfully, "I never 
 saw hiip but once, and then he was only three years oldj 
 a fine child, if I remember rightly. If one is to believe 
 in his mother's description of him (but that, of course, 
 cannot be done) he is an intellectual marvel^ a positive 
 prodigy of good looks and Y/isdom combined ; there nevel 
 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 mother'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 mus- 
 ing Cure. 
 
 "Come, man cher P^ he said cheerfully, "I know what 
 you want as well as possible ! You want me to go 
 around with you and help smooth this affair over with 
 your old Margot. Is it not so 1 Speak truly ! ^' 
 
 "Ah, mon a??ii/^^ 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 1 ah, what it is 
 to have so excellent a friend ! I shall owe you a thou- 
 sand obligations for this kindness! there Vv^ill no longer be 
 any difficulty, and I shall be once more at ease ! But 
 you are sure it is no trouble 1 " 
 
 While he thus spoke, my father had stepped into the 
 hall and put on his coat and hat, and he now i^tood 
 equipped for walking, his stalwart form and refined, 
 rather melancholy face, offering a great contrast to the 
 round dumpy figure and plump clean-sh?tven countenance 
 Oi liie good little Cure. 
 
 "^//^;/i"/" he said mirthfully. " We will start before 
 it grows any later, and take Madame Margct by surprise. 
 She is in love with m.e, that old Margot of thine ! I warn 
 thee, Vawdron, that she has designs upon me ! She will 
 need one of thy exord/ams after mass next Sunday j for I 
 
VrORMWOOI>. 
 
 35 
 
 will SO confuse her with compliments on her house-man- 
 agement, and on the excellent way in which she will cer- 
 tainly purpose attending to thy nephew, that she will al- 
 most believe herself to be young and marriageable once 
 more ! ^' 
 
 He laughed ; so did the Cure, 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 pre- 
 tence of indifference, and answered in the negative. 
 
 " Ah well ! One night more or less in the week will 
 rjot make much difference to thy feelings, or to hers, 
 S/ee, what a bright moon ! Thou canst play Romeo with 
 real scenery ; is there no balcony to thy Juliet's win- 
 
 d;ow ? " 
 
 And with this sort of badinage^ mingled with laughter, 
 the two elderly gentlemen descended the steps, and cross- 
 iag the road arm-in-arm were soon lost to sight in an op- 
 posite 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 probable every one knew or 
 l^'uessed it. I might as well speak openly, and at once to 
 the Comte de Charmilles ; why not to-morrow 1 Yes, 
 to-morrow 1 I resolved I would do so. And to-morrow 
 then, ah, God 1— I should be free to clasp my darling in 
 my arms unreproved, to tell her how I had thought of her 
 every minute of the day and night ; how I adored her ; 
 how I worshipped 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 indoors, 
 and began to busy my brain with certain financial cal- 
 culations and reports which demanded the closest atten- 
 tion. 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 
 
P H^ORMWOOB. 
 
 which I was scribbling, and shining with such a con« 
 spicuous brilliancy that it almost dimmed the brightness 
 of the lit lamp over my head. I stopped writing to look 
 at it, it flickered with a liquid pale radiance like the 
 lustre of an emerald, or the color of absinthe. It moved 
 away after a while, 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 
 intermediator betv/een the Cure and his old Margot, he 
 remarked to me, as we went upstairs to our bedrooms— 
 
 " The unexpected nephew of M. Vaudron will have 
 fine weather for his journey 1 '' 
 
 " Excellent ! '* I agreed, stifling a yawn^ for I v/as 
 rather sleepy. " By the way, what is the unexpected 
 nephev/s name ? '^ 
 
 " Silvion Guidel." 
 
 I stopped on the stairs. 
 
 " Silvion Guide! 1 A strange name, surely ? ^^ 
 
 " It sounds strange, yes ! but * Guide!' is an old Brittany 
 name, so Vaudron tells me ; ' Silvion ' is certainly not so 
 common as * Sylvain,' yet they are very nearly alike.'' 
 
 ^^ True 1 ^' and I said no more. But I thought several 
 times, at odd walking moments during the night, of that 
 name— Silvion Guide!— and wondered what sort of being 
 he was that bore it. He was studying to be a priest, so it 
 was not likely that /should see much of !iim. However, 
 a curious sense of irritation grew up in me that this fellow 
 from Brittany sliould be coming to Paris at all. I disliked 
 him already, even while admitting to myself that sucli a 
 dislike was altogether foolish and unreasonable. And the 
 name, " Silvion Guidel " haunted me then, even as it 
 haunts me now ; only the^i it suggested nothing, save a 
 faint inexplicable sense of aversion ; but 7102^ .?— now it is 
 written loefore me in letters of Are ! it stares at me from 
 every clear blank space of wall ; it VvTites itself beneath 
 my feet on the ground, and above me in the heavens ; I 
 never lose the accursed sight of it I I never shall I neverj 
 aever 1 until I die I 
 
WQJiMtrOOO, ^1 
 
 IV, 
 
 The next day I carried out my previous night's resolu- 
 tion to ask the Comte de Charmilles for his daughter's 
 hand in marriage. As I expected, I was met with entire 
 favor, and when I 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 1 She usually sat with her cousin in a 
 ^m-aXl boudoir fronting on the garden ; and she was gen- 
 erally at home at this early hour of the afternoon ; but for 
 (:>nce I could not find her. Where was she, I wondered? 
 l^erhaps in the large drawing-room, though she seldom 
 went there, that apartment being only used occasionally 
 for the reception of visitors. However I turned in that 
 direction, and was jlist crossing the passage^ when I was 
 brought to an abrupt standstill 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 7'erve 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 solitary inmate 
 dumfoundered ; why, it was that pale and quiet Heloise 
 St. Cyr who stood there, her bow lifted, her features aiit 
 with enthusiasm, her bright hair ruffled, and her large 
 eyes ablaze ! What a face 1 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. 
 
38 WORMWOOD. 
 
 ^^ She will be down, directly. She is upstairs changing \\^t 
 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 tongue4ied. I 
 wanted to say something about her marvellous playing, 
 but at the moment 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. 
 
 *' I was practising ! '' 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 M. 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 stranger, the mere son of a farmer in Br/V- 
 tany " 
 
 ^^ Pardon P^ interrupted Heloi'se. "He is already 
 highly distinguished for learning and scholarship, and a 
 special letter of introduction and recommendation con- 
 cerning him came by last night's post for my uncle from 
 the Prior of St. Xavier's monastery at Rennes. The Price 
 is one of my uncle's dearest and oldest friends, thus, yen 
 see, it is quite eit regie that this Monsieur Guidel should re- 
 ceive his first welcome from the house of De Cliarmiiles." 
 
 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 " 
 I 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 1 said 
 these words! She evidently guessed my errand, and 
 there was something in her expression that was per- 
 plexing and difficult to decipher. She looked startled^ 
 sorry, vaguely troubled, and I wondered why. Presentiyj, 
 
WORMWOOD.^ 39 
 
 laying down her violin, she came towards me and touched 
 
 my arm gently, almost pleadingly. 
 
 *' Do not be in a hurry, Monsieur Eeauvais ! " 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, I 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 Sacre Coeur to- 
 gether. I know her nature thoroughly ! She is sweet, 
 she is good, she is a little angel of beauty ; but she does 
 not understand what love is, she cannot even translate 
 the passing emotions 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 cannot be sure 1" 
 
 Her voice thrilled with quite a plaintive cadence, and 
 her strange eyes, which I now noticed were a sort of 
 gray-green 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 Pau- 
 line'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 Charmilles that will be in any w^ay dis- 
 tressing to her, my sole desire being to make her life, so 
 far as I am able, one of perfect felicity. As for the com- 
 prehension of love, I think that comes instinctively to all 
 women of marriageable age. Surely you yourself " — and 
 I spoke in a more bantering tone — " cannot be ignorant 
 of its meaning ! If you loved any one, you would not 
 require much time to think about it V^ . ^^ 
 
"Yes, Indeed I 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 
 iast? Whether it 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 change- 
 less fidelity— -love absolutely unselfish, pure, and death- 
 less ? I s'fioold need time to know myself and my lover, 
 and to fee! that our two spirits merged into one as 
 Jiarmonionsly 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^ 
 floated through the room with such a penetrating rich- 
 ness that the very air seemed to puisa tearound me in faini 
 yet soothing echoes. What a strange creature she was^ 
 I thoughts and a quick sigh escaped my lips uncou« 
 sciously. 
 
 " I did not know you played the violin, Mademoiselle/^ 
 I began hastily, and with a touch of embarrassment. 
 
 " /^^/^^;^//" and she smiled. "But that is not sur-^ 
 prising I You do not know, and it is probable you never 
 will know anything at all about me 1 I am a very un» 
 interesting person ; it is not worth any one's while to 
 study me. Listen I "«=— and she held up her finger as a 
 clear voice rang through the house carolling a lively 
 strain from one of the operettas popular at that time— 
 " there is Pauline ; she is coming this way. One word 
 more^ M. Beauvais ^^— and she turned swiftly upon me 
 with ao air of almost imperial dignity—" if you are 
 modest and wise^ you will remember what I have said to 
 you; if you are conceited and foolish, you will forget J 
 Au revoir / ^^ 
 
 And before I had time to answer her, she had vanished, 
 taking her violin with her, and leaving me in a state of 
 mingled perplexity and vague annoyance. However, as 
 I have before stated, I never paid much attention to He- 
 loi'se 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 draperies, with a curly dark head and 
 a pair of laughing deep blue eyes, appeared at the open 
 door of the room, and Pauline herself entering, stretched 
 out both her hands in gay greeting. 
 
WORMWOOD, 41 
 
 ^Bon jour^ Monsieur Gaston! How long have you 
 been here, making love to Heloise ? Ah, mkchant ! I 
 know how very bad you are 1 What ! you come to see 
 ^^— only me ? Oh, yes, that is a very pretty way to excuse 
 yourself ? Then why was Heloi'se crying as she passed 
 me ? You have vexed her, and I shall not forgive ^o\!i. 
 for I love her dearly ! " 
 
 << Crying ! " I stammered in amazement. " Mademoi* 
 selle St. Cyr ? Why, she was as bright as possible just 
 now; she has been playing her violin— » — '' 
 
 ** Yes ; she plays it only when she is sad," and Pauline 
 nodded 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 1 I shall blame 
 you,^' 
 
 " Me I " I stared helplessly, then smikd, for I at once 
 perceived she was only jesting, and I watched her with 
 my heart beating quick hammer-strokes, as she sank 
 lazily down in a cushioned ottoman near the fire, and held 
 out her little hands to the v\/armth of the red glow. 
 
 We have been driving in the Bois, maram.a and Ip and 
 it was so cold ! ■ ' she said, with a delicate frissonement of 
 her pretty figure, *^ Heloi'se was vvdse to remain at home. 
 Only she missed seeing Monsieur Antinous from Brit* 
 tany ! " 
 
 Engrossed as I was with my own thoughts and the con* 
 templation of her beauty— for I was wondering how I 
 should begin my declaration of love— this last sentence of 
 liers impressed me unpleasantly. 
 
 "Do you mean the nephew of M. Vaudron?" I in* 
 quired, with, no doubt, a touch of annoyance in my ac« 
 cents which she, womanlike, was quick to notice. 
 
 *' Yes, truly ! I do mean the nephew of M, Vaudron ! " 
 she replied, a little sparkle of malicious mirth lighting up 
 lier lovely eyes. " He has arrived. Oh qu^il est beaii f 
 He is a savage from Brittany— a forest philosopher — very 
 wase, very serious, very good 1 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, laughing, she clapped her hands gayly. 
 "^^You are jealous — jealous because I say M. Silvion 
 ^uidel is handsome ! '' 
 
 ^^ Jealous r' I exclaimed, with some heat, "I? Why 
 
42 WORMWOOB. 
 
 should I be ? I know nothing about the young man->-«» 
 / have not seen him yet 1 When I do I will tell you 
 frankly what I think of him. Meanwhile " — here I gath- 
 ered 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 
 colored 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, arid all the 
 pent-up longing of my soul found utterance in words. 
 Her beauty, her irresistible sweetness, my deep and 
 deathless \oyq^ the happiness we would enjoy when once 
 united,—- these were the themes on which I discoursed 
 v/ith the flery eloquence and pleading of a troubadour ; 
 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, bint 
 soon grew very quiet", and, still allowing me to hold hor 
 hands, looked up with an innocent vague wonder. 
 
 " You really Vv^ant to marry me. Monsieur Gaston ? '^ 
 she asked, a faint smile parfeig her lips. " Soon 1 " 
 
 " Soon 1 '* I echoed passionately. " Would I might 
 claim you to-morrow as my bride, Pauline ! then should I 
 be the happiest of men 1 But you have not answered me, 
 imo7Z a7ige I ^^ 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 I love thee ? ^' 
 
 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 dark- 
 ened 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 
 '3he threw all reflection to the winds, she laughed, and 
 ^lestied her pretty head confidingly against my ^iiGr.ldef. 
 
 " Otii^ mmi Gaston I I love thee ! Thc^:ia:u:;;joodand 
 kina ; papa is pleased with thee, mainait also ; we shall 
 be very, very happy \ Ok, quel baise?' P' for I had in the 
 relief and ecstasy of the moment pressed my first love» 
 
IV0RMIV00D.\ H^ 
 
 kiss on her sweet mouth. " Must we always kiss each 
 other now ? Is it necessary ? " 
 
 " Not necessary to thee, perhaps ! " I whispered ten- 
 derly, kissing her again. " But it is to me ! '' 
 
 With an impulsive half-petulant movement, she drew 
 herself suddenly away from my embrace ; then, apparently 
 regretting the hastiness of this action, she came once more 
 towards me, and, folding her hands in demure fashion on 
 my arm, looked at me searchingiy, as though she sought 
 to read my very soul. 
 
 ^^ Fauvre gar^on r' she sighed softly, "thou dost truly 
 love me t very, very dearly ? '' 
 
 More dearly, I assured her, than m}^ own life ! 
 
 " It is very kind of thee," she said, with a pretty plaint- 
 ivene: , "for I am very stupid, and every one says thou 
 £jjt 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 arising in my mind lest she should retract or hesitate. 
 She waited with downcast eyes for a minute, and then 
 glanced up at me radiantly smiling. 
 
 " Then we will marry 1 " she said. " We will live at 
 Neuilly, and papa and mamauHnSS, visit us, and Heloise 
 will come and see us, and we shall please everybody! 
 Oestfini! So ! " and she dropped me a mischievous lit- 
 tle courtesy. ^'' Me void, Monsieur Gasto7t I voire jolie petite 
 Jiancee ! a voire serviced 
 
 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 gra- 
 cious kindliness of manner that plainly evinced her knowl- 
 edge and approval of the situation. She glanced smil- 
 ingly from her daughter to me, and from me back to her 
 daughter, and straightway comprehended that all was welL 
 
 " Bon jour, monjils!''^ she said gently, laying a slight 
 emphasis on the affectionate title, and adopting the 
 tutoyer form of address without iiirth'^r ceremony. 
 "Thou art very welcome ! Thou wilt stay and dine this 
 evening? M. de Charmilles has gone to persuade thy 
 father to join us, and M. Vaiidron is coming also^ with 
 Ms nephew, I\i. Silvion Guiclcl." 
 
44> m€^MMPFQ4m* 
 
 I HAVE forgotten many things. Many" circtinistatiee^ 
 that I might otherwise have remembered are now^ thanks 
 to the merciful eUxir of love, effaced from my brain as 
 utterly as though they had been burnt out with fire ; but 
 that one night in my life — the night of my betrothal to 
 Pauline de Charmilies — 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 m.any respects^ 
 marked^ not only by my triumph as Pauline's accepted 
 lover, but also by the astonishing and bewildering pres* 
 ence of the man Silvion Guidel. I say astonishing and 
 bewildering, because that w^as the first effect bis singular 
 beauty made upon the most prejudiced and casual ob* 
 server. It was not that he was in first flush of youtlij and 
 that his features still had all the fine transparency and 
 glow of boyhood upon them; it was not, that his eyes, 
 gray-black and fiery, seemed full of some potent magnetic 
 force w^hich compelled the beholder^s fascinated gaze ; no, 
 it was the expression of the whole countenance that was 
 so extraordinarily interesting, an expression such as ao 
 inspired painter might strive to convey into the visage of 
 some ideal seraph of patience and vdsdom supernaL Ij 
 like every one else at the house of the De Charmillea 
 ,that night, found myself attracted against my will by the 
 '.graceful 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 aris- 
 tocratic assemblare. The former instinctive aversion 1 
 had felt with regard to him subsided for the time bemg, 
 and I listened as attentively as any one at table w^hen- 
 ever bis 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 Comt^' 
 
TWRMWOOD. 
 
 45 
 
 oSe Charmilles ha(k iitinounced to all present the news of 
 his daughter's engagement to me. When he did so I 
 glanced quickly at Heioise St. Cyr, but though she looked 
 even paler than usual she gave no sign either of surprise 
 or pleasure. My father had then, in his turn, proposed 
 the health of the " chers fiances,'' which was drunk with 
 readiness by all except Silvion Guidel, who never touched 
 wine. He apologized for this lack of bon camaraderie,, 
 and was about to raise a glass of water to his lips, in 
 order to join in the toast^ when Hdloi'se spoke across the 
 table in swift eager accents. 
 
 " Do not drink my cousin's health in water, M. Gui- 
 del ! " she said. "It is unlucky, and your wishes may 
 prove fatal to them both I *^ 
 
 He smiled, and at once set down the glass. 
 
 " You are superstitious, mademoiselle ! " he replied, 
 Ijently bending his handsome head towards her. " But I 
 will not try to combat your feeling. I v/ill content my- 
 taclf with a silent prayer in my heart for your cousin's 
 happiness, a prayer which, though it may not find express 
 sion inwordvS, is none the less sincere." 
 
 His voice was so serious and soft and full of emotion^ 
 ibat 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 
 Heioise 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 dinner 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 Gui* 
 del?" 
 
 He turned his dark picturesque face in her direction. 
 
 ^' I hope so, God willing ! As my revered uncle will 
 tell you, I have studied solely for the priesthood." 
 
 " Yes, that may be," returned Heioise, a faint color 
 creeping 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, Heioise, petite femme Socrate/ " exclaimed the 
 
43 WORMWOOD. 
 
 Comte de Cliarmilles good-naturedly. " What art tlion 
 
 going to say out of thy stores of Vvdsdom ? You must 
 understand, M. 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 you?- ground of learning ; I 
 have often told her that she studies like a man." 
 
 Silvion Guidel bowed courteously, and looked tov/ards 
 Heloi'se 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 neces- 
 sary to religion. In what way do you consider thi^^ 
 proved ? '' 
 
 Heloise met his gaze very fixedly. 
 
 *^ I heard you speaking wdth my uncle some minutes 
 ago, of science,'^ she answered, " of modern science in 
 particular, and its various wonderful discoveries. Now 
 do you not lind 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 ai>^ 
 fully persuaded, strengthen our belief instead of weaken 
 ing it. I am not afraid of science, mademoiselle ; my 
 faith is firm 1 " 
 
 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 pro- 
 foundly touched. 
 
 " Well said, Silvion, mon gar^oiz ? '^ he said with 
 tender seriousness. " When the good God has once 
 drawn our hearts to the love of 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 faith of a servant 
 qI the Church is implanted deep in the soul 1 " 
 
WOA'MWOOD, 
 
 4t 
 
 He nodded his head several times with pious sedate* 
 nesSj therij rekq^sing 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 Y/ishes to obtain 
 any special favor she sticks a pin in the petticoat, with 
 the most absolute behef 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 
 intercessioUo I have never been able to see anything 
 ridiculous in the superstition which is born of ignorance ; 
 2LS 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 v/ill 
 have a special care of his vineyard or field of corn. I 
 Icve 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 1 " 
 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 m^e, and 
 as his brilliant eyes flashed on mine, the aversion I had 
 felt for him before I ever saw him sprang up afresh in 
 my mind, 
 
 '^ Monsieur is of the new school of France ? " he in- 
 quired with the faintest little curl of mockery dividing 
 his delicate lips. " lie possibly entertains — as so many 
 do^ — the progressive principles of atheist and republican ?^' 
 
 The blood rushed to my face ; his manner angered me, 
 and I should have ansv/cred him with a good deal of heat 
 and impatience, 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 sh© 
 
4S WORMWOOD. 
 
 dreaded any sort of argumentj lest it might lead to higll 
 tvords and general unpleasantnesSo But whatever I might 
 have said was forestalled by M. Vaudron, who addressed 
 his nephevv' g^ntiy^ yet with a touch of severity toOo 
 
 " Tais-toi-—tais~toi^ mo7i~garz I " he said, using the old 
 Breton term of endearment, " Monsieur Gaston Beauvais 
 is a young man like thee, and in all probability he is no 
 more certain of his principles than thou art 1 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 re- 
 publicans in the flash of their impetuous youth may be 
 Royalists or Imperialists when they arrive at mature man- 
 hood ; 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 
 followers of Christ, lay ourselves open to just blamCc 
 You are boys — both ^o\x and Monsieur Gaston ; as boys 
 joM must be judged by your elders, till time and experi- 
 ence give you the right to be considered as meiic"'' 
 
 This little homily was evidently very satisfactory to 
 both my father and the Comte de Charmiiles« 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 minCo 
 
 ^^ I must ask you to pardon me ! " he said sofdy, 
 under cover of a discussion on finance, v/hich 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 w^as a soft, caressing 
 grace about him that was indescribably fascinating ; his 
 beautiful countenance was like that of a pleading angel, 
 his eyes 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 enthusiastic, he seemed quite satisfied, 
 
 ''How lovely she is 1 '' he then said in the same con* 
 fidential tone, leaning back in his chair and smiling a 
 little. ^' How like a fairy dream ! It is impossible % 
 imagine a more enchanting creature 1 " 
 
WORMWOOD. ^ 
 
 I lookfcu at iiim surprised. I had goc trie very foolish 
 idea into my head that the devotees of religion never 
 perceived a woman's beauty. 
 
 " You mean " I began. 
 
 "I mean your lovely fiancee, Mademoiselle de Char- 
 milles ! Ah ! you are indeed to be congratulated ! She is 
 like some fair saint in a sculptured niche where the light 
 falls through rose-colored windows, her eyes have so pure^ 
 a radiance in them 1 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 1 '^ 
 
 " You are more likely to be a poet than a priest 1 " I 
 saidj amazed and vaguely vexed at his enthusiasm. 
 
 He smiled. "• Mo?i ami, religion is poetry, — poetry is 
 religion. 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, peni- 
 tence and prayer. They should look out upon the mirror 
 of the world, and see life reflected 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 enlightened multi- 
 tude. The duty of a priest is, to my thinking, to preach 
 of happiness and hope, not sorrow and death. If ever 1 
 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 
 ihe 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 1 " 
 
 " Would you take the beauty of woman as a text, for 
 example 1 " I asked incredulously. 
 
 " Why not 1 '' he answered calmly. *' The beauty of 
 woman 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 1 " I said dryiy^ and with a slight scorn foi 
 4 
 
so 
 
 WOEiUlVOOD. 
 
 his ignorance " You have not lived in Paris^, M. GuidfeL 
 There are lovely women at the cafes chant ants ; 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 veritable harpies of vice from their earliest 
 years ! '^ 
 
 A sudden interest flashed into his face. I noticed it 
 with surprise^ and he sav/ that I 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 beforci 
 had marked his accents when addressing me. 
 
 " Ah ! yoii have had a wider experience ! '^ he said softly. 
 "you have met these— these harpies ? " 
 
 I was indescribably irritated at this. V/hat business 
 had he to cast even the suspicion of such a slur on my 
 manner of conduct? 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 hear- 
 say. " 
 
 " Indeed 1 " and he sighed gently. ^' But one should 
 always prove the truth of things before believing in an ill 
 reportc 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 av/ay in scorn from even a sinful woman 1 '^ 
 
 I uttered an impatient exclamation — but said no more, 
 as just then the Comte de Charmilles rose from 
 table, my father and the Cure following his example, and 
 we all made our entrance into the drawing-room, where 
 the ladies awaited us, and where coffee was already pre- 
 pared. I took instant advantage of my newly-gained 
 privileges as Pauline's fiance to ensconce myself by her 
 side, and, drawing a chair to where she sat toying with 
 some delicate embroidery, I conversed v/ith her in that 
 dulcet soitO'Voce^ which, though very delightful and con'» 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 SI 
 
 veinent to the lovers concerned, is often peculiarly pro- 
 voking to those left out in the coldo Once or twice I saw 
 the would-be priest Guidel glance at us with a singular 
 flashing light in his eyes as though he had become sud- 
 denly 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 Charmilles, yet proving 
 himself whenever he did speak, to be unquestionably a 
 man of rare intellectual endowment and splendid scholar- 
 ship, I noticed that Heloise St Cyr v/atched him with 
 the deepest interest, and I jestingly called Pauline's 
 attention to the fact 
 
 ^^Thy cousin is becoming enamored of the handsome 
 Breton ! '^ I said. " Who knows but that she may not 
 lead him altogether aside from his holier intentions ! '' 
 
 She looked at me, with a sudden rosy flush of color in 
 her facCo 
 
 " Oh no 1 '^ she murmured hastily, and there was, or so 
 I then fancied, a touch of petulance in her accents. 
 " That is impossible 1 Heloise loves no one, she will 
 love no one but— but me J '^ 
 
 I smiled, and taking her little hand in mine^ studied all 
 its pretty dimples and rose-tinted finger-tips. 
 
 " Not yet, perhaps 1 " I answered softly. " But a time 
 for love will come to her, Pauline, even as to thee 1 ^^ 
 
 " Are you sure it has come for me ? '^ she asked half 
 timidly, hall 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 smil- 
 ing, 
 
 "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, some- 
 times, a woman may worship a man, may she not 1 She 
 may love him so much, that he may seem to her mind al- 
 most more than God ? ^' 
 
 " Assuredly she may ! ^^ I rejoined slowly, and in some 
 surprise, for she had spoken with unusual seriousness 
 ^id passion \ " but, Pauline^ such excess of love is rare^ 
 
5« WORMWOOD, 
 
 moreover, it is not likely to last, it is too violent and Kea^ 
 strong ; it is always unwise and often dangerous^ and thii 
 priests would tell you it is wicked ! ''' 
 
 ^' Yes, I am sure it is wicked ! " she acquiesced, sigh* 
 ing a little, ['■ dreadfully wicked ! and — and, as you say, 
 dangerous/*' She paused ; the pensiveness passed from 
 her bright face like a passing cloud from a star, and shs 
 laughed, a little low laugh of perfect contentment. 
 '^ Well, be satisfied, Gaston ! I do not worship thee, so 1 
 am not wicked ! I am thy very good little fiancee, who 
 is ver}^, very fond of thee, and happy in thy company^ 
 voila tout r^ 
 
 And, bending towards me, she took a rose from her 
 bouqiiet-de-corsage, and fastened it in my button-hole, and 
 I, enchanted by her sweet manner and coquettish grace, 
 attached not the least importance to what she had just 
 been saying. I remembered her words afterwards — after- 
 wards, when I learnt 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 contempt 
 for his sake, aye ! and be torn 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 
 \vho has never loved anything or anybody, and you will 
 have fouad the one, the only marvel of the centuries! 
 
 / 
 
^GKMWOOI?.^ 33 
 
 That same evening, the evening of Silvion GuidM^s 
 Introduction into our midst, Heloise St. Cyr suddenly in- 
 vested herself with the powers of an Arabian Nights en- 
 chantress, and transferred us all whither she w^ould on the 
 magic swing of her violin-bow. As a general rule, so her 
 aunt told me, she never would exhibit her rare talent be- 
 fore any listeners that were not of her own family, £c her 
 behavior on this occasion was altogether exceptional. It 
 v/as Pauline wh® asked her to play, and probably the fact 
 that it v/as her little cousin's betrothal-night induced 
 her to accede to the eager request. Anyw^ay, she made 
 no difficulty about it, but consented at once, Vv^ithout the 
 least hesitation, Pauline accompanied her on the piano, 
 being careful to subdue her part of the performance to a 
 delicate softness, so that we might hear, to its full splen- 
 dor of tone and utmost fineness of silver sound, the mar- 
 velous music this strange, pa.le, golden-haired woman 
 flung out on the air in such wild throbs of passion that 
 our very hearts beat faster as w^e 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-drav/n rose silken curtains provided 
 a .Qstrous ba.ckground for her figure ; clad in a plain 
 straight white gown, wdth 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 
 Amati violin. To and fro, with unerring grace and ex- 
 quisite precision, swept that wand-like bow, with the ease 
 and lightness of a willow-branch waving in the wind, and 
 yet wdth a force and nerve-power that were absolutelv as- 
 tonishing in a woman-performer. Grand pleaalng iiolcs 
 came quivering to us from the sensitive fibre of the 
 fourth string; delicate harmonies flew over our heaJ.s I'ke 
 fine foam-beilsj breaking from a 'A^ave of tune ; we caught 
 
u 
 
 t-roRMivoolj. 
 
 faint whispers of the sweetest spiritual confessions, 
 prayers and aspirations ; we Hstened to the airy dancing 
 of winged sylphs on golden floors of melody ; we heard 
 che rustle of the nightingale's brown wings against cool 
 green leaves, followed by a toYrent 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 applause. I sprang up from v^'here 
 I had been sitting, rapt in a silent ecstasy of attention^ 
 and poured out the praise v/hich, being unpremeditated 
 and heartfelt, was not 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 propos- 
 ing enigmas, mademoiselle ? '' 
 
 Pauline looked round from the piano with a half-per- 
 plexed 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 /can see nothing ter- 
 rible in music 1 '^ 
 
 Heloise bent over her sv/iftly, and kissed her curls. 
 
 "No, chh'ie ; because you have never thought of any- 
 thing sad. Even so may it always be 1 " 
 
 " 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 lie spoke, " sorrow 
 and joy alternately ; but w^hen sorrov/ and joy deepen into 
 darker and more tragic colors, I doubt vdiether music can 
 adequately denote absolute* horror, frenzy, or remorsCc 
 A tragedy in sound seems to me almost impossible.'*' 
 
 "Yet language is sound," replied Heloise, ''even as 
 music is, and music is often able to go on v/ith a story 
 when language breaks off and fails. You would have 
 your mind turned to a tragic key, M. 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, Pauline, ma douce I I will 
 be an independent soloist this time ! '^ 
 
 We all gazed at her in vague admiration as sho took up 
 
WORMWOOD, 55 
 
 her violin once more, and began to play a delicate prelude, 
 more like the rippling of a brook than the sound of a 
 stringed instrument. 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 aloud in a voice harmonious 
 as music itself — 
 
 " Elle avait de beaux cheveiix, blonds* 
 Comme une moisson d'aout, si longs 
 Qu'ils lui tombaient jusqu'au talons* 
 
 "Elle avait une voix etrange, 
 Musicale, de fee ou d'ange, 
 Des yeux verts sous leur noire frange." 
 
 Here^ the bow moved caressingly upwards and a plaint- 
 ively wild tune that seemed born of high mountains and 
 dense forests floated softly through the room. And above 
 itj th^ player's voice still rose and fell— 
 
 " Lui, ne craignait pas de rival,' 
 Quand il traversait mont ou val, 
 En I'emportant sur son chevaL 
 
 " Car, pour tons ceux de la contree 
 Alti^re elle s'etait montree 
 Jusqu'au jour qu'li I'eut recontree.*' 
 
 The music changed to a shuddering minor key, and a 
 sobbing wail broke from the strings. 
 
 *' L' amour la prit si fort au coeur, 
 Que pour un sourire moqueur, 
 II lui vint un mal de langueur. 
 
 *'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 lifetime. 
 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 at- 
 tention 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 
 " Rendezvous " exists— a poem almost as beautiful and weird as 
 Keats's '^ Belle dame sans Merci "—allowing for the difference of 
 bnguages, ' 
 
5^ WORMWOOD, 
 
 "Et dans ses dernieres caresses: 
 Fais un archet avec mes tresses, 
 Pour charmer tes autres mai tresses I 
 
 " Puis, dans un long baiser nerveux 
 Elle mourut ! " 
 
 And here v/e distinctly heard the solemn beat of a 
 funeral march underlying the pathetic minor melody — 
 
 '^ Suivant ses v(£ux 
 li fit i'archet de ses cheveux ! " 
 
 There was a half pause, then all suddenly clamorouis 
 chords echoed upon our ears like the passionate exclama- 
 tions of an almost incoherent despair. 
 
 " Comme un aveugle qui marmonne,. 
 Sur un violon de Cremone 
 II jouait, demandant I'aumone. 
 
 " Tous avaient d'enivrants frissons, 
 A I'ecouter. Car dans ces sons 
 Vivaient la morte et ses chansons. 
 
 "Leroi, charme, fit sa fortune. 
 Lui, sut plaire a la reine brune. 
 [Et i'enlever au clair de lune. 
 
 "Mais, chaque fois qu'il y touchait 
 Pour plaire a la reine, Farchet 
 Tristement le lui reprochaitl '' 
 
 Oh, the unutterable sadness, the wailing melancholy 
 of that wandering wild tune 1 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 Guidei's color 
 come and go with the excess of emotion the mingled 
 music and poetry aroused in him for all his quiet de- 
 meanor. Heloise continued — 
 
 " Au son du funebre langage 
 lis moururent a mi-voyageo 
 Et la morte reprit son gage. 
 
 " Elle reprit ses cheveux, blonds 
 Comme une moisson d'aout, si longs 
 Qu'ils lui tombaient jusqu'au talons ! '* 
 
 h long-drawn sigh of sound, and all was still 1 So 
 
WORMWOOD, "^57 
 
 deeply fascinated were we with this recitation and violin- 
 nnusic combined, that we sat silent as though under a 
 spell, till we became gradually conscious that Heloise 
 v,^as surveying us with a slight smile, and a little more 
 color in her cheeks than usual. Then we surrounded hef 
 with acclamations, Pauline moving up to her, and hiding 
 her tear-v/et 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 marvellous ! '' 
 
 " That is true ! — that is true !" declared the good Cure, 
 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 
 w^eep ! " 
 
 Heloi'se laughed. " Or else take to sinning afresh ! " 
 she said, with that slight touch of sarcasm which some- 
 times distinguished her. " There is nothing in ' 1' Archet,' 
 mon pere^ 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 somethi?i{^^ 
 thav is evident. And the influence must be good ; it c 
 not possibly be bad ! '' 
 
 "That depends entirely on the temperament of me 
 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 "practical-utility" manner, thus 
 waiving aside any further conversation 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 presently 
 the talk became general, exclusive of myself and Pauline, 
 whom I had 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, 
 1 suppose ? " 
 
S8 ' IVORMJVOOD. 
 
 *' Would it please you if I did?'* I asked, 
 
 ''Would it please you?" she inquired. 
 
 Whereupon I launched forth once more into pas- 
 sionate protestations to which she listened, I fanciedj 
 with a touch of weariness. I stopped short ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 ., ''You are tired, ma cherie!" I said tenderly. 
 \ "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 cousins' music exhausted me! Do you 
 know" — and she turned her sweet blue eyes upon me 
 with a wistful expression — "it frightened me! it 
 mUvSt be terrible to love like that!" 
 
 "Like what?" I asked playfully, rather amused by 
 the tragic earnestness of her tone. 
 
 She glanced up quickly, and, seeing that I smiled, 
 gave a little petulant shrug of her shoulders. 
 
 "Like the lady with the 'cheveux si longs, qu'ils lui 
 tombaient jusqu.'au talons!'" she answered. "But 
 you laugh at me, so it does not matter!" 
 
 "It was all a fable, ma mie!" I said coaxingly. 
 
 "Yet there may be a soupcon 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, — remember you promised to tell me!— 
 what do you think of M. Silvion Guidel?" 
 
 I looked across the room to where he stood, not 
 drinking wine as the others were doing, but leaning 
 slightly against the mantelpiece, conversing with the 
 Comtesse de Charmilles. 
 
 "He is very handsome!" I admitted. "Too hand- 
 some 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 out of his element as a priest." 
 
 "Oh, but he is good!" said my fiancee earnestly. 
 
 "So he may be!" I laughed; "but all good men need 
 ii©t become priests ! Par exemple,y®u would not call nae 
 
WORMWOOD. 59 
 
 Very bad ; but I am not going to be such a fool as to take 
 the vow of celibacy — I am going to marry yoiij^ 
 
 " And you imagine that will be very fortunate ? '' she 
 said, v/ith a bright saucy smile. 
 
 '' The only fortune I desire ! " I replied, kissing her 
 handc 
 
 She blushed prettily, then risings moved away towards 
 where the rest of the party stood, and joined in their con- 
 versation. I followed her example, and after a little more 
 chat, the last good-nights were said, and we — that is, my- 
 self and my father, the Cure and his nephew — took our 
 leave. We all four walked pa^<" of the way home to- 
 gether, the talk between us turniiig 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 expressed the hope that 
 it might be his proud privilege to perform for us the 
 Church ceremony of marriage. My father was in high 
 spirits ; such a match was precisely what he had 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 
 undoubtedly possessed. Silvion Guidel was the most 
 silent of us all, — he walked beside me, and seemed so ab- 
 sorbed 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, M, Gaston/' he tnen 
 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 ? '' 
 
 *^ 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 Cure' and his nephew 
 going to the left, my father and I continuing the road 
 straight onwards. We lit our cigars and walked for some 
 minutes without speaking, then my father broke silence. 
 
6e lV0RMWO0i^, 
 
 " A remarkably handsome fellow, that Guidel 1 ^' hti 
 said. " Dangerously so^ for a priest 1 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, Gaston ? " 
 
 "• No ! ^' I replied frankly^ and at once^ ^^ I cannot say I 
 
 do ! '' :, 
 
 My father looked surprised, % 
 
 " But why ? '' 
 
 ** Impossible to tell, mon pere. He is fascinating, he is 
 agreeable, he is brilliant ; but there is something in him 
 that I mistrust I '^ 
 
 ^' Tut'tut ! " and my father took my arm good-humor, 
 edly. ^^ Nov/ 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 beautiful 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 1 He is fit for anything, moit choux I h 
 diplomat, a statesman, a writer of astonishing books, 
 He has genius ; and genius is like the Greek Proteus, it 
 can take all manner of forms and be great in any one oi 
 them ! Aye 1 " and my father nodded his head saga.' 
 ciously. " Take my word for it, Gaston, there is som.e- 
 thing in this young man Guidel that is altogether excep' 
 tional and remarkable ; he is one of the world's inspired 
 dreamers, and to my notion he is more likely to aid m 
 overturning priestcraft, than to place himself in its ranks 
 as a bulwark of defense/^ 
 
 I murmured something unintelligible by way of reply s| 
 my father's praise of the Breton stranger was not so ver> 
 pleasing to me tha,t I should wish to encourage him iti irs 
 continuance, We soon reached our ovv^n door, and, bid- 
 ding each other good-night, retired at once to rest. Eu! 
 all through my sleep I was haunted by fragments of the 
 violin music played by Heloise St, Cyr, and scraps of ihf^ 
 verses she had recited. At one time, between midnidit 
 and morning, I dreamt I saw her standing in my room, 
 robed in a white shroudlike garment ; she hxed her eyes 
 on niine, and, as I looked^ her lips parted^ and she said. 
 
WORMWOOD, ^S 
 
 ^ B^e mour'Cit f'^ and I thought she meant that Fauiin^ 
 t.^s dead. Struggling to escape from the horror of this 
 impression, I cried, " No, no ! she lives ! She 5s 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 Guldel stared full at me, pallidly illumined by the 
 moon. Again I started, and cried out, and this time 
 awoke myself thoroughly. I sprang out of bed, and 
 dashed back the window-draperies ; I threv/ open the 
 closed shutters ; the night v/as 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 "-o 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 ixxy usually 
 dear and evenly-balanced brain. 
 
WQRMWQQM. 
 
 VII 
 
 On the far horizon of my line of life there sitines % 
 waving, ever-diminishing gleam of brightness ; I know 
 it to be the hazy reflection of my bygone glad days and 
 sweet memories, and Vv^hen I shut my eyes close and 
 send my thoughts backward, I am almost able to count 
 those little dazzling points of sunshine sparkling through 
 the gloom that now encompasses my soul. But though 
 brilliant they were brief — brief as the few stray flashes of 
 lightning that cross the skies on a hot summer'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 
 conscience ; but it is far more necessary to have no 
 memory ! Are there any poor souls wearing on forlornly 
 towards the grave and m.onotonously 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 fancied they might win 
 the chiefest prize, and then they will understand the 
 meaning of spiritual torture ! Then v/ill 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 f orgetfulness ! Ah ! if one could 
 only be sure that we do forget when we die ! but that is 
 just Vv^hat I, for one, cannot count upon. The uncer- 
 tainty fills me Y/ith 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 1 For even now I ait. 
 
WOJ^MWOOD. 63 
 
 haunted by faces I would fain forget, by voices, by plead- 
 ing eyes, by praying hands ; and anon, by stark rigid 
 forms, 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 im.mediately following 
 my betrothal to Pauline de Charmilles, I think I must 
 have been the proudest, most contented, perfectly light- 
 heaited man in France. No cloud marred my joy; no 
 bitterness nauseated my cup of felicity. AH things 
 smiled upon me, and in the warm expansion of my natu»re 
 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 towards me made me 
 feel ashamed of my former captiousness and instinctive 
 dislike of him, and by degrees we became as close inti- 
 mates 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 v/as frequently 
 invited to their house, though I 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 particularly pleased Vv^ith 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 engage- 
 ment to me as a sort of title to command his greater re- 
 spect. He was not half so constrained with Pleloise 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 r:emory frag- 
 ments of old Breton songs and ballads, aiis v/hich she 
 afterwards rendered on her violin with surpassmg pathos 
 and skill. One touching little unrhymed ditty, v/hich she 
 recited to her own improvised accompaniment, I re- 
 member was called ^^ Le Pauvre Clerc/' and ran as fot 
 lows: — 
 
64 WORAIIVO0B, 
 
 * J*ai perdu mes sabots et dechire mes pauvres pieds^ 
 A suivre ma douce dans les cliamps, dans les bois| 
 La pluie, le gresil, et la glace, 
 Ne sent point un obstacle a i'amour I 
 
 *Ma douce est jeune comme moi, 
 Ella n'a pas encore vingt ans ; 
 
 Elle est fraiche et jolie 
 ■:jes regards sont pleins de feu I 
 
 Ses paroles charmantes \ 
 Elle est une prison 
 
 Oil j'ai enferme mon cceur^ 
 
 ^ Je ne saurais a quoi la comparer; 
 Sera-ce a la petite rose blanche qu'on appelle Rose-MaiiG^ 
 
 Petite perle des jeunes fiiles; 
 
 Fleur de lis entre les fieurs ; 
 Elle s'ouvre aujourd'hui, et elle se ferm.era demain. 
 
 •^^En vous faisant la cour, ma douce, j'ai ressembie 
 Au rossignol perche sur le rameau d'aubepine : 
 Quand il veut s'endormir, les epines le piquent, alors 
 II s'eieve a la cime de I'arbre et se met a chanter I 
 
 " Mon etoile est fatale, 
 
 Mon etat est contre nature, 
 Je n'ai eu dans ce monde 
 
 Que des peines a enaurer, 
 Je suis comme une ame dans les flammes du purgatoir? 
 Nul Chretien sur la terre qui me veuille du bien ! 
 
 "H n'y a personne qui ait eu autant a souffrir 
 A votre sujet que moi depuis ma naissance ; 
 Aussi je vous supplie a deux genoux 
 Et au nom de Dieu d'avoir pitie de votre clerc ! " 
 
 It was exceedingly simple and yet peculiarly vaoMruhAi 
 so much so, that the first time we heard Heloise's render< 
 ing of it, I saw, som.ewhat to my concern, big tears well 
 iiig up in my pretty Pauline's eyes and falling one by one 
 ^n her clasped hands. Guidel was standing near her at 
 the time, and he too seemed sincerely troubled by her 
 emotion. Bending towards her, he said, with a faint 
 smile — 
 
 " Are you crying for ^ le pauvre clerc,' mademoiselle ? 
 Surely 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.* j 
 
IVORMIVOOD, 6j 
 
 But here Pauline hastily dried her eyes, pressed my 
 hand, and weat quietly away, and when she came back 
 again, she was radiant and bright as ever. 
 
 The Feast of Noel and the gay Jour de V An had been 
 marked to Pauline by the large number of presents and 
 floral souvenirs she received. All her friends knew she 
 was "fiancee," and congratulations and ''etrennes" were 
 poured upon her. But she had grown either blasee or 
 philosophical, for she evinced none of her former child- 
 like delight at the baskets and boxes of bonbons given to 
 her; even a goodly round hamper of gilded wicker-work, 
 wreathed with violets and packed close with her once 
 adored ''marrons glacees," failed to excite her to any great 
 enthusiasm. On the morning of the Jour de 1' An yipent her 
 a fancifully-designed osier gondola full of roses alrO. a neck- 
 lace of pearls ; and of all her gifts this had seemed to please 
 her most, to my delight. Silvion Guidel had contented 
 himself with wishing her happiness in his usual serious and 
 earnest fashion, and for the New Year had offered her 
 no token save a large and spotless cluster of the lilies of St 
 John, and she 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 attached 
 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 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! 
 
 With the passing of the worst part of winter, just 
 towards the close of March, Heloise St. Cyr was sum- 
 moned to see her mother, who was thought to be danger- 
 ously ill. The night belore she left for Normandy, I was 
 spending a couple of hours at the De Charmilles' — there 
 was no visitor there that evening but myself, and I was 
 now accounted almost one of the family. I thought she 
 6 
 
66 WOI^MWOOD. 
 
 looked very weary and anxious, but attributed this solely 
 to the bad news she had received from her native home. 
 I was therefore rather surprised, v/hen, taking advantage 
 of Pauline's absence from the room for a few moments^ 
 she came hurriedly up to me and sat down by my side. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Monsieur Gaston/' she saidj 
 with an odd hestitation and fluttered nervousness ^i man- 
 ner. ^' You cannot imagine hov/ unhappy I am at being 
 obliged to leave Pauline just nov/ ! " 
 
 " Indeed, I can quite understand it ! '' I replied 
 quickly, for I entirely sympathized in suck 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 m.urmured^ 
 her vof ^ trembling a little. " But, M. Gaston, you will 
 not let ir'auline be too much alone ? You will visit her 
 every day, and see her as often as possible 1 " 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 '' 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 resist 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 I would give a7iytJiing 
 to be able to stay with her, and w^atch over her a little, 
 instead of going to Normandy ! She used not to be so 
 over-particular 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 
 her to attend M. 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. I'o 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 v/ould rather she went to his church than to any other. 
 
fVOA'MlVOOI^. Cf 
 
 Yon are over-anxious, Heloise— the news oi 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 my 
 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 unearthly glow ! Just then Pauline 
 came back, so she broke off her conversation v/ith 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 
 iiancee, 
 
 " So you go to mass every morning, like a good little 
 girl 1 " I said merrily, twisting one of her rich brown curls 
 round my finger as I spoke. 
 
 She started. ^' How did you know that ? " 
 
 ^^ Hdloise told me, before she went away. Why, yoa 
 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 1 " 
 
 " No ; I never sleep much after daybreak," she an- 
 swered, her face flushing a little. 
 
 " Like the daisy, awake at sunrise ! " I said laughingly. 
 **Well, I 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' relig- 
 ious scruples were no doubt her heritage, I thought, and 
 I had no inclination to offend them by any undue levity. 
 Religion is becoming to a woman : — a beautiful girl pray- 
 ing is the only idea the world can give of whal God's 
 angels may be. The morrow came, and I did not go to 
 church as I had intended, having overslept myself. But 
 in die course of the day, I happened to meet AI. Vau- 
 dron, and to him I mentioned Pauline's regular attend- 
 ance at his early mass. The good man's brow clouded, 
 and he looked exceedingly puszled. 
 
68 WORMWOOD. 
 
 'That is strange! very strange!*' he remarked mus- 
 ingly. "I must be getting very short-sighted, or else 
 the dear child must keep very much in the back- 
 ground 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 several; the first one 
 is at six o'clock, when my nephew assists me as deacon ; 
 the next at seven, when I have the usual attend- 
 ant to help me officiate, for at that time Silvian goes 
 for a walk, he is 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 proud of her, Gaston!'* 
 
 *'And am I not so?" I responded laughingly. ''I 
 should love her! — even if she never went to mass!" 
 
 He shook his head with much pious severity at this 
 audacious declaration, but could not quite repress a 
 kindly smile 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 disappointment, she was not there! There 
 were very few people present, two or three market 
 women and an old widow in the deepest mourning. 
 Immediately after the Elevation of the Host, I slipped 
 out, and hurrying home, wrote a little note to my tru- 
 ant 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. 
 
 *Tauvre garcon] " she playfully exclaimed, throwing 
 her ai2ms about me. *' What a dreadful thing to have 
 risen so early, all for nothing! I did not go to church 
 at all; I stayed in bed, for I was sleepy; in fact, I am 
 getting very lazy again, and once lazy, helas! I shall 
 cease to be religious ! ' ' 
 
WQRMW®0J9. 69 
 
 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 disappointment 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 I thought no more 
 about the matter. 
 
 Just about this time my father wa« suddenly compelled 
 to go to London on business connected vs^ith certain large 
 financial speculations, in which our firm was concerned^ 
 both for ourselves and others. He calculated on being 
 absent about a fortnight or three weeks, with the naturals 
 and inevitable result, that, while he was away, all the work o£ 
 superintending our Paris banking-house fell entirely on my 
 hands. I was busy from morning until night ; I had in- 
 deed so little leisure of my own, that I could seldomt 
 spare more than the Sunday afternoon and evening for the 
 uninterrupted enjoyment of Pauline's society. 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 v/ith uncomfortable per* 
 sistency ; 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 
 looking 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 Char- 
 milles was pleasantly occupied with the ordering and pre- 
 paring of the marriage trousseaux, and a few stray wed- 
 ding-gifts had already arrived. I was mounting securely 
 upwards 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 after- 
 nooa and walk home with me, and as I was rather lonely 
 in the big old house at Neuilly, nov/ that my father was 
 absent, he would give me many an occasional hour of his 
 company, talking on various subjects such as he knew 
 were interesting to my particular turn of mind. He had 
 the most vivid and intellectual comprehension of art> 
 science, and .literature, and his conversation had always 
 
yo WORMIVOOIX 
 
 that brilliancy and point which makes spoken language 
 almost as fascinating as the neatly turned and witty 
 phrases written by some author, whose style is his chief 
 charm. And sometimes, when I was obliged to turn to 
 my work and absorb myself in hard and dry calculations, 
 Guidel would still remain with me, quite silent, sitting in 
 a chair near the window, his head leaning back, and his 
 eyes fixed dreamily on the delicate spring-time leafage 
 of the trees outside. I would often glance up and see 
 him thus, gravely engrossed in his own thoughts, with 
 that serious musing smile on his lips, that was like the 
 smile of some youthful poet who contemplates how to 
 evolve 
 
 " Beaiitiftil things jnade 7tew 
 For the delight of the sky-children I " * 
 
 And, worst confession of all, I think, that I have to 
 make, I learnt to love him ! I — even I ! A peculiar 
 sense of revering tenderness stirred me whenever he, 
 with his beautiful calm face and saintly expression, came 
 into the room where I sat alone, fagged out with the 
 day's labor, and laying his two hands affectionately on 
 my shoulders, said — 
 
 *^ Still working hard, Beauvais ! What a thing it is to 
 be so absolutely conscientious ! Rest, mon ami ! rest a 
 little, if not for your own sake, then for the sake of your 
 idxx fiancee^ who will grieve to see you over-wearied ! " 
 
 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 sen- 
 sitive 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 unreasonable ! 
 Yet, though first impressions are sometimes erroneous, 1 
 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 
 
 * Keats. 
 
lV@RMW&t^D, 
 
 n 
 
 natures that is destined to remain in constant opposition. 
 You may conquer it for a time, it may even change, 
 as it did in my case, to profound affection ; but, sooner 
 or later, it will spring up again with tenfold strength and 
 deadliness ; the reason of your first aversion will be made 
 painfully manifest, and the end of it all will be doubly 
 bitter because of the love that for a brief while sweetened 
 it. I say I loved Silvion Guidel ! and in proportion to 
 the sincerity of that love, I afterwards measured the 
 intensity of my hate 1 
 
ja WOMMWQQA 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A BRILLIANT May had begun in Paris, the foliage was 
 all in its young beauty of pale-green sprouting leaf, the 
 Champs Elysees were bright with flowers, and the gay 
 city looked its loveliest. My father was still delayed by 
 his affairs in England ; but I knew he would not remain 
 away much longer now, as he was good-naturedly anxious 
 to relieve me of some of the more onerous cares of busi- 
 ness before the time for my marriage came too close at 
 hand. Heloi'se St. Cyr was also expected back daily ; 
 her mother had recovered, and she had, therefore, 
 nothing to detain her any longer in Normandy. Pauline 
 told me this news, and I noticed that she did not seem 
 at all over-enthusiastic concerning her cousin's return. 
 Like a fool, I flattered myself that this was because / 
 had now become the first in her affections, and that, as a 
 perfectly natural consequence, the once-adored Heloi'se 
 was bound to occupy a lower and vastly inferior place. 
 I was full of my own joy, my own triumph, and I v^^as 
 blind to anything else but these. True, I did remark on 
 one or two occasions, during my visits to her, that my 
 fia7icee was sometimes not quite so brilliant as usual ; 
 that there was a certain transparency and ethereal del- 
 icacy 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 
 itlieir wistfulness of expression ; that now and then her 
 lips quivered pathetically when I kissed her, and that 
 there were moments when she appeared to be on the 
 verge of tears. But I attributed all these signs of sub- 
 ' dued emotion to the nervous excitement a young girl 
 would naturally feel at the swift hourly approach of her 
 marriage-day. I knew she was exceedingly sensitive, 
 and for this reason I rather looked forward to the return 
 • of Heloi'se, as I felt certain that she, with her womanly 
 
WORMWOOD, 73 
 
 tact, quiet ways, and strong tenderness for Pauline 
 would, by her very presence in the house, do much to 
 soothe my little betrothed's highly-strung and over- 
 wrought condition, and would also take a great deal of 
 the fatigue of preparation for the wedding off her hands. 
 Still, I did not really think very deeply about it any 
 way, and I was rather taken by surprise one afternoon, 
 when, on calling to leave some flowers for Pauline en 
 passant^ the servant begged me to enter and wait in the 
 drawing-room for a few minutes, as the Comtesse de 
 Charmilles had expressed a particular wish to see me 
 alone on a matter of importance. I crossed the familiar 
 threshold I remember that day with a strange dull sen- 
 sation at my heart ; and as the doors of the great salon 
 were thrown open for me, a shiver seized me as though it 
 were winter instead of spring. The room looked bare 
 and blank in spite of its rich furniture and adornment. 
 No Pauline came tripping in to greet me, and I stood, 
 hat in hand, leaning against the edge of the grand piano, 
 gazing blankly through the window and wondering fool- 
 ishly to myself v/hy the gardener, usually so neat, had left 
 a heap of the past winter's dead leaves in one corner of 
 the outside gravel-path ! There they were, an ugly brown 
 pile of them; and every now and then the light May 
 wind fluttered them, blowing two or three off to whirl like 
 dark blots against the clear blue sky. I was still monot- 
 onously meditating on this trifle, and com.paring those 
 swept-up emblems of decay with the clustre of rich dewy 
 red roses I had just brought for my fiancke^ 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 1 " I faltered, dreading I knew 
 not what. 
 
 *^ She is not well," began the Comtesse gently, then 
 paused. 
 
 My heart beat violently. 
 
 " It is something dangerous ? You have sent for a 
 
 physician ? You " Here m}^ attempted self-control 
 
 gave way, and I exclaimed, " Let me see hear ! I must — 
 
Ij4 WORMW0QD, 
 
 I will ! Madame, I have the right to see her 1 Why do 
 
 you hinder me ? " 
 
 The Comtesse laid her hand on my arm in a pacifying 
 manner, and smiled a little forcedly. 
 
 " Be tranquil, Gaston. There is nothing serious the 
 matter. To-day, it is true, she is not well ; she has been 
 weeping violently, pativre e7tfant I — 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 — alvv^ays 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, monfils^ — to ask you, — is the love between 
 you both as great as ever ? '' 
 
 I stared at her amazed. What a silly woman she was, 
 I thought, to make such an odd and altogether un- 
 necessary inquiry ! 
 
 " Most assuredly it is, madame ! " I replied, with em- 
 phatic earnestness. " It is even greater on 7ny part, and 
 of her tenderness I have never had a moment's occasion 
 to doubt. That she sheds tears at all is of itself dis- 
 tressing news to me, — but nevertheless, it is true that 
 girls will often weep for nothing, especially when they are 
 a little over-strung and unduly excited, as Pauline may be 
 at the present time. She probably reflects, with a very 
 natural regret, for which I should be the last to blame 
 her, — that very soon she will have to leave home 
 and your fostering care ; — the change from girlhood to 
 marriage is a very serious one, — and being sensitive, 
 she has perhaps thought more deeply about it than we 
 imagine " — here I paused, embarrassed and concerned, 
 for I saw two big drops roll slowly down the mother's 
 cheeks, and glisten in the folds of her rich silk robe. 
 
 "Yes, it may be that," — she said, in low tremulous 
 accents. " I have thought so myself ; — yet every now 
 and then I have had the idea — a very foolish one no 
 doubt,~that perhaps the child is secretly unhappy ! But 
 if you assure me that all is well between you, then I must 
 be mistaken. Pardon my anxiety ! " and she extended 
 her hand, which I took and kissed respectfully — " we 
 have all had too much to do, I fancy, while our dear 
 Heloise has been away, and "-—here she smiled more 
 
tVORMlVOOD. 
 
 readily-—** it is possible we are all morbid in consequence ! 
 At any rate, next time you are alone with Pauline, will 
 you ask her to confide in you, if indeed there is anything 
 vexing her usually sweet and serene nature ? Some mere 
 trifle may have put her out, — -a trifle exaggerated by her 
 fancy, which we, knowing of, may be able to set right in- 
 stantly — and surely that would be well ! '' 
 
 The generally dignified and rather austere looking lady 
 was quite softened into plaintiveness by her eager and 
 tender maternal solicitude, and I admired her for it. 
 Kissing her hand again, I promised to do as she asked. 
 
 ''' But cannot I see Pauline to-day ? " I inquired. 
 
 ^* No, Gaston,— it is better not ! " she answered. " The 
 poor little thing is quite worn out with crying, — she is 
 exhausted, and is now upon her bed asleep. I will give 
 her those roses when she wakes, — they are for her, are 
 they not?" 
 
 I assented eagerly, and brought them to her,— she took 
 them and bade me " au revoir ! '^ 
 
 " To-morrow come and see Pauline," she said. " I will 
 tell her to expect thee. We will prepare a pretty ' the k 
 i'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 mu^sC 
 tell her she is a foolish little girl, and frightens us all 
 without reason. A demain ! " 
 
 Carefully carrying the roses I had brought, she left the 
 room with a kindly nod of farewell, — and I went home to 
 get through some work I was bound to finish before the 
 next morning. I found Silvion Guidel awaiting me, and 
 I hailed his presence with a sense of relief, for my own 
 thoughts harassed me ; and, just to unburden my mind, 
 I told him all about Pauline and her tears. He moved 
 away to the window while I was speaking — we were in my 
 father's library — and looked out at the trees in front of 
 the house. As he had deliberately turned his back to 
 me, I took his action as a sign of indifference. 
 
 "Are you listening?" I asked, with some testiness. 
 
 *' Listening? With both ears and with the very spirit 
 of attention ! " he replied, changing his attitude abruptly 
 and confronting me. " What tlie devil would you have 
 me do ? " 
 
f6 WORMWOOD. 
 
 I almost bounced out of my chair, so startled was I at 
 this sort of language from his lips 1 Meeting my sur- 
 prised gaze, he laughed aloud, — a ringing laugh which, 
 though clear, seemed to me to have a touch of wildness 
 in it. 
 
 ^' Don't look so thunderstruck, Beauvais ! I said, ' the 
 devil ' 1 — and why should I 72ot say it ? The devil is as 
 important a personage as the Creator in our perpetiirvl 
 Divina Co7?i?nedia, The world, the flesh, and the devil ! 
 Three good things, Beauvais ! — three positively existent 
 tempting things ! — no chimeras !— three fightable enemies 
 that we have to WTcstle with and grapple at the throats of 
 till we get them down under our feet and kill them! — 
 aye, even if we kill ourselves in the struggle ! The 
 world, the flesh, and the devil ! Mon Dieu ! I Vi^onder 
 which is the strongest of the three ! " 
 
 I could not answer him for a moment, I was so com- 
 pletely taken aback by his strange manner. The soft 
 r/ay light of the deepening dusk fell on his face, min- 
 gling 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 v/as a preternaturally brilliant iiusli 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 narrowl}^ " You are not 
 yourself at all ! What's the matter ? Are you ill ? " 
 
 " 111 ? Ma foi I — not I ! I am w^ell, mon a^ni, — well, 
 and in astonishingly cheerful spirits 1 Don't you see 
 that I am ? Don't you see that I am almost too merry 
 for — for di priest? Listen, Beauvais!" — and, approach- 
 ing me, he laid his two hands on my shoulders,— such 
 burning hands ! — I felt more than ever certain that he 
 must be going to have some feverish malady-—" I have a 
 secret ! — and I will confide it to you ! It is this, — Paris 
 is making a fool of me ! I have got the city's madness 
 into my veins! — I am learning to love light and color 
 and gay music and song and dance, — and the ¥/ildly 
 beautiful eyes of women !- — eyes that are blue and 
 passionate and pleading and that make one's heart ache 
 for unuttered and 'ter^ble joys! You stare at me 
 
 amazed 1 — but is iiieMj piirvliiina: so wonderful in the fact 
 
WORMWOOD. 77 
 
 that I, — young, strong, and full of life — should all at once 
 feel myself turning renegade to the vocation I have been 
 trained to adopt? Do you know — can you imagine, 
 Beauvais, what it is to be a priest ? — to meditate on 
 things that human sight can never see, and human ears 
 never hear, — to shut oneself out utterly from the sweet 
 ways of the less devout existence, — to consecrate one's 
 entire body and soul to a vast Invisible that never 
 speaks, that never answers, that gives no sign of either 
 refusal or acquiescence to the most passionate prayers, to 
 resign a thousand actual joys for the far-oif dream of 
 heaven, — to sternly put aw^ay 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 profoundl}', — 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, fa.r above the ordinary calibre, 
 needs must wake up at one time or another to the fact 
 that the vocation of priest was at its best but a mel- 
 ancholy 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 
 front my shoulders, pressed them cordially in my own. 
 
 " Man chc)\ if these are 3'Our real feelings on the sub- 
 ject " — I said earnestly — " why not make a frank con- 
 fession of them, not only to me, but to everybody con- 
 cerned? Your uncle, for instance, is far too sensible and 
 broad-minded a man to w^ish to persuade you into the 
 Church against your true inclinations, — and if Paris has, 
 as you say, w^orked a change in you, depend upon it, it is 
 all for the best ! You are destined for greater things 
 than the preaching of old doctrines to people, -^'ho, 'n 
 these days of advanced thought, will, no matjev how 
 eloquent 3^ou are, never believe half of v\'hat you say. 
 Shake olT your shackles, Guidel, and be a free man ; — 
 shape your own future ! — with such splendid capabilities 
 SIS yours, it needs must be a fair and prosperous one ! " 
 
78 WORMWOOD. 
 
 He looked at me steadily and smiled. 
 
 " You are very kind, Beauvais ! " he said softly-—" as 
 kind and good a fellow as ever I have met ! I wish — I 
 wish to God I had your cleanness of conscience ! " 
 
 I was a little puzzled at this remark. Had he been 
 frequenting low company, and disporting himself with the 
 painted harridans in the common dancing-saloons of 
 Paris ? — and was he tormenting himself v/ith scruples born 
 of his strict education and religious discipline ? What- 
 ever the reason, it was evident he was very ill at ease. 
 Suddenly, as though making a resolved end of his mental 
 perplexity, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Bah ! what nonsense I have been talking ! It is a 
 foolish frenzy that has seized me, Beauvais, — nothing 
 more ! I 77ttisf be a priest ! — I look it, so people say ; 
 — my mother has set her heart upon it, — my father stakes 
 his eternal welfare on my sanctification !— the prior of 
 St. Xavier's at Rennes has written of me to the Holy 
 Father as one of the most promising scions of the Church ; 
 — all this preparation must not go for naught, mo^t ami! 
 If I know myself to be a whited sepulchre, what then ? 
 There are many like me, — what should I do with a 
 conscience ? ^' 
 
 These words pained me infinitely. 
 
 ^^ Guidel, you are indeed much changed ! " I said, 
 rather reproachfull}^ — " I cannot bear to hear you talk in 
 this reckless fashion ! Priest or no priest, be faithful to 
 whatever principles you finally take up. If you can 
 believe in nothing, why, then, believe in nothing stead- 
 fastly to the end, — if, on the contrary, you elect to fasten 
 your faith to somethings then win the respect of every one 
 as our good Pere Vaudron does, by clinging to that some- 
 thing till death relaxes your hold of it. No matter 
 what a man does, he should at least be consistent. If 
 you feel you cannot conscientiously fulfil the calling of a 
 priest, you ought to die rather than become one 1 " 
 
 " Tiens r^ 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, andmiy 
 heart ached for him. There could be no doubt that he 
 was suffering 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 farge bundle of financial reports awaited my 
 attention, — 1 was quite accustomed 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 1 paid 
 no heed to him for several minutes. All at once, though 
 my head was bent down over my writing, I became 
 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 untroubled as to be almost angelic. I laid 
 down my pen and surveyed him anxiously. 
 
 '' Silvion, mo7i ami^'^ I said gently — '' there is something 
 else on your mind, more than this feeling about the 
 priesthood. You have not told me everything ! " 
 
 Pie frowned. " What else should there be to tell ! '^ he 
 answered, with a certain quick h'lcsquerie^ — 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 un- 
 able to dissever or distinguish them separately 1 That is 
 my case ! I cannot tell you plainly what is the matter 
 with me, — for I hardly know myself." 
 
 *^ Miserable for nothing, then ! " I laughed, scribbhng 
 away again. " Just like my little Pauline ! It must be in 
 the air, this malady ! " 
 
 There w^as a pause, during which the clock seemed to 
 tick with an almost aggressive loudness. Then Guide] 
 spoke. 
 
 *^ Is she indeed miserable, do you think 1 " he asked, in 
 accents so hoarse and tremulous that I scarcely recognized 
 them as his. " She, that bright child of joy.^ — the little 
 * Sainte Vierge ' as I have sometimes called her t — Oh, 
 my GodP' 
 
 This last exclamation broke from him like a groan of 
 actual physical torture, and seeing him cover his face 
 with his hands, I sprang 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 J 
 
So WORMWOOD. 
 
 Only the straight-minded and pure oi: heart are fit for soli- 
 tude, — there being no solitude anywhere ! No solitude ! 
 —for every inch of space is occupied by some eyed germ 
 c£ lifcj — -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, Beauvais, 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 Vv^ill not bore you 
 any longer with my present dismal humor ! Do not be- 
 stow another thought on me, mo7t ami, — I am going ! No ! 
 — positively I cannot 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 1 ' ^' 
 He laughed drearily, and I watched him with increasing 
 concern and wonder. *' Really I do believe there are 
 strange influences in the air som.etimes ;' like seeds of 
 plants blown by the wind to places where they may besfe 
 take root and fructify, so the unseen yet living organic in- 
 fusions of hatred — or love, — joy or sorrow, may be, for all 
 we know, broadcast in the seemingly clear ether, ready to 
 sink sooner or later into the human hearts prepared to 
 receive and germinate them. It is a wonderful Universe \ 
 — and Vv^onderful things come of it ! " He paused again, 
 and then held out his hand. " Forgive my spleen, Beau- 
 vais ! Good-ni^ht 1 '' 
 
 '^ Good-night ! " I answered, feeling somewhat saddened 
 myself by his utter dejection. " But I wish you would 
 let me accompany you part of the way ! '' 
 
 " On the contrary, you vvill oblige me, mo7i cher, by 
 sticking to your work, and allowing me to saunter home in 
 my owm desultory fashion. I w^ant to think out a diffi-. 
 culty, and I must be by myself to do if 
 
 He walked across the room, I following him, and had 
 nearly reached the door when he turned sharply round 
 and confronted me. 
 
 " Supposing I had sinned greatly and irretrievabij, 
 Beauvais, could 370U forgive me ? '^ 
 
 I stared at him, astonished. 
 
 *' Sinned .^ You f Greatly and irretrievably 'i Non- 
 sease ! One might as well expect sin from the arch- 
 aia^el Raphael T' 
 
WOR'MWOGD. 61 
 
 He broke into a laugh, forced, harsh, and bitter. 
 
 ''^ Milks remercieinents ! Upon my word, Beauvais, 
 you flatter me 1 If / am like the archangel Raphael, 
 then Raphael has deserted Heaven for Hell quite re- 
 cently! 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 
 iast doubtfully — " and I have never borne any one a last- 
 ing grudge that I can remember. I do not profess par- 
 ticularly Christian principles either, because, like many 
 of my countrymen of to-day, I rather adhere to the 
 doctrines of a new Universal Religion springing solely 
 out of Human Social Unity, — but I think I could forgive 
 everything except " 
 
 " Except what ? '' he asked eagerly. 
 
 "Deliberate deceit," I answered, " wilful betrayal of 
 trust, — insidious tampering with honor, — this sort of 
 thing I do not fancy I could ever pardon.'' 
 
 "And suppose /deceived you in a great and impor- 
 tant matter .^ " persisted Gaidel, 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 wilfully 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 realite 
 Vaiit tiii beaiL 7?iensonge / ' 
 
 Oddly enough, the least strophe of poetry always reminds 
 6 
 
82 WORiMWeOD. 
 
 me @f 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 I ! " I agreed emphatically. " Pauline will 
 soon recover her good spirits in her cousin's company." 
 
 " No doubt, — no doubt ! " And lie 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, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 He seized me by both hands enthusiastically. 
 
 **Ah! Voila le ho7iheur qui vient vite!^'' And his 
 eyes flashed radiance into mine, — " I am ashamed, Beau- 
 vais ! — positively ashamed to have darkened your thresh- 
 old 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 I shall probably rise a wiser and more 
 cheerful man ! Think no more of my peevishness ; we 
 all grumble at fate now and then. Au rcvoir^ cher ami 1 
 and may your dreams be rose-lit with the glory of love 
 and the face of — Pauline ! " 
 
 With a bright smile, more dazzling than usual by con- 
 trast 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 quintessence of saintly serenity and 
 studious reserve ; — I was puzzled by it, and could not 
 make him out at all. However, after a little cogitation 
 wdth myself, I came to the conclusion that matters were 
 truly as he had said,— that Paris had unsettled him, and 
 that he was beginning to have serious doubts as to 
 whether after all it v/as his true vocation to be a priest. 
 I myself had doubted it ever since I had come to know 
 him intimately,— he was too fond of science and philos- 
 ophy,— too clever, too handsome, and too young to resign 
 all life's splendid opportunities for the service of a nar- 
 row and cramping religion. I could thoroughly under- 
 stand the difiiculty 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 1 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 jumble refused to clear itself up in any 
 sort of fashion, and bothered me all night long, though 
 now and then it dispersed itself out of numbers into 
 words, and became a monotonous refrain of the lines 
 
 ** Mie2{X que la rialiti 
 Vaut U7i beau ?nenson^e / "^ 
 
84 ^^' ^- 
 
 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 I myself Vvas only too eager 
 to fulfil. Remembering her extreme fondness for flowers, 
 I bought a basket of lilies-of-the-valiey at the establish- 
 ment of a famous horticulturist, noted for his exquisite 
 taste in floral designs, — it was tied with loops of white 
 and palest pink ribbon, and the delicate blossoms loved 
 by Christ of old were softly shaded over b}^ the fine 
 fronds of the prettiest fern known, the dainty maiden- 
 hair. Armed with this fragrant trophy of love, I entered 
 the little morning-room where the '' the a T Anglaise '' was 
 already prepared, and found Pauline awaiting me, look- 
 ing a perfect fairy vision of youthful grace, mirth, and 
 loveliness ! She sprang forward to greet me, — she took 
 the liUes 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 " mar?'07ts glace.'' 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. Drav/ing a 
 comfortable 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 presently — ■'' that you were crying, — that you 
 were unhappy. Was that true ? " 
 
 She looked up laughingly. 
 
 " Oh yes, quite true ! ^' she answered, with a droll lit- 
 
WORMWOOM. ' 85' 
 
 tie 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 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 sprang up and curtsied demurely. 
 
 *^ I am glad I am pretty still 1 '^ 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 
 eyes said despair, despair ! — always despair ! — and my 
 heart ached for her ! " 
 
 " But you must not think about these things, my dar- 
 ling," I said, taking her hand and drawing her towards 
 me. *^ There are many such sad sights in Paris and in 
 all large cities^ — but you must not dwell upon them. 
 And as for getting ugly ! " — I laughed — " you need have 
 no fear of that ! — you are growing more beautiful every 
 day!" 
 
 " You think so ? " she queried with a coquettish in- 
 quisitiveness. " That is well ! I am pleased, — for I 
 wish to be beautiful," 
 
 " You are beautiful ! " I re-asserted emphatically. 
 
 ** Not as beautiful as I should like to be ! " she mur- 
 mured 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 
 Greek 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 England, — 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. Bleu ! — Whom shall we ab-ucc^ '' 
 
 I laughed, — she looked so pretty and mischievous. 
 
 "Wait a little," I said, " you have not told me yet wh^ 
 
bO W©RMW®eB. 
 
 you cried s® much yesterday, Pauline ? You admit that 
 you did cry^ — well !— what was the reason ? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ^'Qiii salt! I cannot tell! It was pleasant — it did 
 me good ! '' 
 
 " Pleasant to cry ? " I queried amusedly. 
 
 «< Yery 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 fluttered 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. 
 
 " Come here, Pauline ! '^ 
 
 She came obediently. 
 
 I set her, like a little child, on my knee, and looked 
 earnestly 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 
 trust me ! You know how truly and ardently I love you ! 
 — you know that I would do anything in the world for 
 you, — you might set me any task, hov/ever diflicult, and 
 I would somehow manage to perform it ! My v^hole life 
 is yours, my dearest ! — will you not 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 mid- 
 summer sky ! '' 
 
 She met my searching gaze openly, — her breathing was 
 a little quicker than usual, but she gave no other sign of 
 disquietude. 
 
 " I have no griefs, Gaston," she said, in a low, rather 
 tremulous voice; "none at least that I can give Vv^ords to. 
 I think— perhaps, — I am a little tired ! — and — I have 
 missed Heloise '' 
 
 " 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 
 
WORMWOOD, 87 
 
 hftve you then ! " I kissed her. " And you are very, 
 very kind to me, Gaston ! and I promise you — — '' 
 
 ** What ? " I asked eagerly. 
 
 She hesitated a moment, then went on — " I promise 
 you I will tell you if I get sad again — yes ! — I will tell you 
 everything! — and you will be good and gentle with me, 
 ai:5d comfort me, will you not ? " 
 
 " Indeed I will, my darUng, my angel ! '^ I said, fondly 
 caressing her pretty hair. '' Who should console you in 
 any sorrow if not I ? 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 
 suddenly. " 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 
 slowly 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 1 She reminds me of a picture that used to. 
 hang in one of the chapels at the Convent of the Sacre 
 Coeur, — Santa Filomena it was, crowned with thorns and 
 lilies. And she is so very very good in every way that I 
 know I should never have courage to tell her if — if I had 
 been wicked ! " 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 " 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 Gas- 
 ton ! You are so food of me ] — and always kind ! I am 
 very very grateful ! " 
 
88 WORMWOOD, 
 
 Mestling down, she laid her head against my breast for 
 a second, — then springing up again, pushed back her 
 ricli 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 disagreeable things, Gaston, — of my crying, and all 
 that nonsense ! It was very stupid of me to cry, — you 
 must forget it, — for to-day I am quite well and merry, — 
 and — and — oh, do let us be happy while we can ! " 
 
 Whereupon she seated herself opposite to me, and be- 
 gan 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 circumistance. Just when I was about 
 to say good-bye, — for the excess of my work would not 
 allow me to stay v/ith 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 3^ou see him. He seems in a very melancholy 
 frame of mind ! Oddly enough, yesterday, Vv^hen you were 
 so sad, he was with me, giving utterance to the most 
 lugubrious sentiments. 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 Vv^as for going home with 
 him to see that he got there all right ; but he assured me 
 it was only a maladie de t?'istesse, 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 wdth such shaking fingers that I became 
 alarmed. " Why, you are shivering, my darling ! Are 
 you cold ? " 
 
 "A little!" she murmured. " I— I— " The sen- 
 tence died on her lips, and with a helpless swaying 
 movement she fell in a sudden swoon at my feet ! 
 .. Wild with fright, I caught her up in my arms, and rang 
 
WORMWOOD. 89 
 
 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. 
 
 '* She has fainted like this once before," said the Com- 
 tesse, 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 1 " 
 
 I nodded in the affirmative. I could not take my eyes 
 off the lovely little face that lay so pale and quiet on the 
 ^ofa pillows near me. 
 
 " And did she say anything ? '^ 
 
 " Nothing ! " I answered with a sigh. " Nothing, ex- 
 cept 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 
 nae everything ! " 
 
 A look of evident relief brightened the mother's watch- 
 ful face, and she smiled. 
 
 " That is well ! '' she said gently. " I am* glad she 
 promised that ! As for this little malaise^ I attach no 
 importance to it. Young and over-excitable 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 Maman 
 take care of me. My head aches — but that is nothing. 
 fl 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 then, — and the Comtesse told me in a soft 
 undertone, that she would now in all probability fall 
 
90 
 
 WOMMWQ-^B. 
 
 asleep and slumber away her temporary weakness, — so, 
 making my whispered adieux to the gentle and patiently 
 absorbed mother, I stole on tip-toe from the room, and in 
 another minute or two had left the house. 
 
 Once out in the open air, however, I became a prey 
 to the most extraordinary and violent anxiety. Every- 
 thing to my mind looked suddenly overcast v/ith 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 \vith 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 assumed the propor- 
 tion 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, regardless of the dead in the ground below them. 
 And, occupied with my miserable musings, I nearly ran 
 up against Silvion Guidel, who was coming in an opposite 
 direction, — he looked like the ghost of a fair Greek 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 P' 
 
 He turned sharply round as though he suddenly per- 
 ceived some one he knev/, — then hurriedly apologized. 
 
 " I thought I saw my old chiffo7iie7^^^' he said lightly. 
 " A friend and pensioner of mine, to whom for my soul's 
 sake I give many an odd sou. Mademoiselle de Char- 
 milles fainted, you say.^ Oh, but that is not a very 
 alarming symptom ! " 
 
 I considered that he treated the case wdth undue levity, 
 and told him so rather vexedly. He laughed a little. 
 
 ''^Afo7t cher, I will not encourage you in your morbid 
 humor any more than 3^ou encouraged me last night in 
 mine. You are — like all lovers — inclined to exaggerate 
 every trifling ailment affecting the well-being of the person 
 loved. If / loved J— if I could love.— -I suppose I should 
 
wo/aiiPvoB. 91 
 
 l3e the same ! But I have the hollow heart of a perpetual 
 cehbate, ino?i ami P' — and he laughed again — ''so I can 
 be merry rjid wise, both together. And oat 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 your fair 
 fiancee. 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. 
 
 ''AH in one minute "-—I persisted morosely — ''the 
 dear child fell in a dead swoon, — and I had just been 
 speaking to her about you I '' 
 
 " About me ! '' and he bit his lips hard. '''' Mon Dieu I 
 — 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 ! " 
 
 For he had seized my hand, shaking it, and v/as actu- 
 ally rushing off ! 
 
 "A thousand pardons, 7no7i cher T^ 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 time 1 Aic revoir I 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 lie had shown with regard to Pauline's ilh 
 ness. But I presentl)^ came to the conclusion that of 
 course he could not be expected to feel as / felt about it, 
 — and I resumed the nursing 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. Silvion Guidel did 
 not come " later on " as he had said, and I saw him na 
 more that night. Towards bed-time I got a telegram from 
 my father, announcing that he would return home on the 
 next day but one. This news was some slight consolation 
 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 iu Pauline's company. Yet, neveriheiess, 
 
^^ 
 
 /VORMIVCQB, 
 
 I remainea 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 shutting the shutters, I saw a dense black 
 rain-cloud creeping up from the western horizon, and I 
 at once took i-t 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 beginning to moan 
 softly among the near branches, I murmured to myself 
 almost unconsciously — 
 
 " Les antes dont faurais besoin 
 
 Et les etoiles sont trop loin I 
 Je vais mottrir sezil — dans it7t coiii i '* 
 
 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 m,e inexplicably wretched. Shiv- 
 ering 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 remem- 
 ber it thus particularly because it Vv^as the last time I ex- 
 perienced the blessing of sleep. The last, — the very last 
 time I say ! I have not slept at all since then, — I have 
 only dreamed 1 
 
WORMWOOD, ^^ 
 
 X. 
 
 With the morrow's daybreak came a complete change 
 m 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, disap- 
 peared as though it had never shone, and rain fell in tor- 
 rents. A wild wind blew round and round the city In 
 sweeping gusts, tearing off the delicate young leaves 
 from their parent branches and making pitiful havoc of 
 all the sweet-scented gayly-colored spring blossoms. 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 
 certain return, I was anxious he should find everythnig in 
 the most absolute order on his arrival, and thus be as« 
 sured 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 greal 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 mat- 
 ters to attend to w^hen 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 my- 
 self 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. I'he rain still continued pouring fiercely, — 
 Very few people were abroad in the streets, — and though 
 1 took the omnibus part of the way home, the few steps 
 that remained between that vehicle and my own door, 
 were sufficnent to drench me through. As soon as I got 
 in, 1 changed my clothes, had my solitary dinner, and 
 ordered a small wood fire to be lit in the librar],'^ v/hither 
 I presently repaired with my papers and account books, 
 and ws^s soon so busily engrossed that I almost forgot the 
 
94 
 
 WORMWeOB. 
 
 angry storm mat was raging without, save m 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 backwards and forwards in the increasing fury of 
 the gale. Presently, from the antique time-piece, that 
 stood on an equally antique secretaire yast 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 1 " I thought. " A night for demons to 
 stalk abroad, and witches to ride through the air on 
 broomsticks ! Dieii I how dull it is ! One must smoke 
 to keep the damp away.'' 
 
 And I opened my cigar-case. I was just about ro 
 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 windows jutted on the street, and as I 
 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 sheltering itself 
 from the pitiless rain. 
 
 " Some poor starving soul,'' I soliloquized, " who per- 
 haps 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 crossed the passage softly and opened the 
 door wide. As I did so, the figure started back in appar- 
 ent fear, — it was a veiled woman, — and through the veil I 
 felt her eyes looking at me. 
 
 *' What is it t " I asked, as gently as I eould. " What 
 do you want ? " 
 
 For all answer, two hands were stretched towards me 
 in wild appeal, and a sobbing voice cried — 
 
 " Gaston ! " 
 
 *'My God! Pauline!'' 
 
 Seized by a mortal terror, and with a convulsive effort 
 as though I were dragging forth some drov/ning creature 
 irom the sea, I caught her in my arms and almost lifted 
 
tVORMWOOB. 95 
 
 her across the threshold ; how I supported her, whether 
 [ carried her or led her, 1 never knew, — my senses w^ere 
 all in a whirl, and I realized nothing distinctly till I had 
 reached the library once more, and placed her, a shudder- 
 ing, drooping little creature, in the arm-chair I had but 
 just vacated near the fire. Then my dazed brain righted 
 itself, and 1 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 
 veils he wore, — and I uttered a stifled cry at the pale 
 misery imprinted 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 
 suffering ; *' and — I am not ill 1 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 some- 
 thing that must be told, — and to-night is my only chance, 
 — for they have gone, — papa and mamma— to the theatre, 
 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 crouch- 
 ing form in the chair beside me. I hastily considered 
 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 rata 
 
56 WORMWOOD. 
 
 ** Pauline, my little one,'' I said gravely, " whatever it 
 is you wish to tell me, could you not have waited tiH 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." 
 
 " Scand^al ! " she echoed, looking at me with a feverish 
 light in her blue eyes. '' It cannot say more evil of me 
 than I deserve ! — and I could not wait 1 — 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. 
 £ut, nevertheless, I resolved to carry out the notion I had 
 preconceived of keeping this nocturnal flight of hers a 
 profound secret. 
 
 " Stay here," I said, as calmly as I could for the shak- 
 ing dread that possessed me. " Try to get warm^— I 
 will bring 5^ou some wine. Take that wet cloak off and 
 be quite quiet,— I will return immediately." 
 
 She looked after me with a sort of beseeching won- 
 derment as I left her, but I dared not meet her eyes — 
 there was an expression in them that terrified me 1 1 
 went, as in a dream, to the dining-room ; got some wdne 
 and a glass, — carefully turned out the lights, and then 
 proceeded to the head of the basement stairs and called 
 our man-servant. 
 
 *'Dunois!" 
 
 " Oui, 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 dining-room. My father will be home to- 
 morrow, — so you will all have to be up early — call me 
 about seven. Do you hear ? " 
 
 " Oui, m^'sieu ! " 
 
 " Good night ! " 
 
 Dunois responded, — and I listened breathlessly -while 
 he repeated my orders to the other servants. I waited 
 yet a few minutes and presently heard them preparing to 
 acsend their own private stairway to tlie 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 
 3ae€d 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 exactly 
 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 w^ould burst its fleshly prison. 
 
 " Drink this, Pauline," I said authoritatively. " Come^ 
 you ;/2//^/ 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. 
 
 " I cannot 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 kneeling 
 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, mon ange^ 
 —are you 1 Plush, hush ! To see you in such unhap- 
 piness 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 
 tranquil. There ! — now you shall speak to me as long 
 7 
 
^8 tro/^A/iy'oQD. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Ohj poor Gaston !— but that is just what I 7niisf tell 
 3^ou ! ''' 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 cannot bear it I — it 
 will kill me 1 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 every- 
 thing. I — I do not love you, Gaston ! I have never 
 loved 3^ou as you ought to be loved ; I never knew the 
 meaning of love till now ! '^ 
 
 Tx// 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 embrace, and that perhaps — perhaps it was, 
 under the circumstances, embarrassing to her to see me 
 kneeling at her feet in such devout, adoring fashion, when, 
 . . . when she no lojiger loved me I She no longer loved 
 me ! — I could not realize it ; — and still less could t 
 realize that she never had loved me 1 I got up slowly and 
 stood beside her, resting one arm on the mantelpiece,—- 
 my limbs shook and my head swam round stupidly, — and 
 yet, through all my bev/ilderment, I was still conscious of 
 her misery, — conscious of her tear-spoilt eyes, — her 
 white face and quivering lips, — and of the unutterable 
 despair that m.ade 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 wretch- 
 edness 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 lan- 
 guage. _ 
 
 " This is strange, news ! " I then said, in hoarse unsteady 
 accents. "Very strange news, Pauline ! You no longer 
 love m^? — You have never loved me ? You never knew 
 the meg^Bang of love till now 1—Till 7wza /—Pardon me if 
 J do ncl^'understand,— I am, no doubt, dull of comprehen- 
 
WORMWOOD. 99 
 
 sion, — 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 no7a /" 
 
 She sprang 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 aqd 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 — so ! " — and she flung herself wildly down before 
 me — " to pray to you, as I 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 transformed ; — from a mere charm- 
 ing gracefully frivolous girl, she had developed into a 
 wild tragedy queen ; and the change had been effected 
 by — what 1 Love ! Love for what, — or whom t Not 
 for me ! — not for me — no ! — for some one else ! IVhi 
 was that some one else t This question gradually as 
 serted itself in my straying stupefied thoughts as t\% 
 chief thing to be answered, — the vital poison of the 
 whole bitter draught, — the final stab that was to com- 
 plete the murder. As I considered it, a new and awful 
 instinct rose up within me, — the thirst for revenge that 
 lurks in the soul of every man and beast — the silently 
 concentrated fury of the tiger that has lain so lono- in 
 waiting for its prey that its brute patience is well- 
 ni^h exhausted, — and involuntarily I clenched my hands 
 aud bit my lips hard in the sudden and insatiate eager* 
 
100 WORMIVOOB, 
 
 ness that possessed me, to know the name of my rival ! 
 Again I looked down on Pauline's slight shuddering 
 figure, and became hazily conscious 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 impul- 
 sively. Ah, Heaven 1 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 I have loved you, — with 
 what passionate fervor,— with what adoring tenderness 1 
 and what you say to me now is a shock, Pauline ! — a cruel 
 blov/ that will numb and incapacitate my 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 unexpected change in your feel- 
 ings. 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, — 
 ^ve I understood you thus far correctly ? " 
 
 She had sunk back again in the chair near the fire, and 
 ner pale lips whispered a faint affirmative, I waited a 
 minute, — then I asked- — 
 
 " And who, Pauline, — who is that some one else t " 
 
 " Oh, why should you know ! " she exclaimed, the tears 
 filling her eyes again. " Why should you even wish to 
 know ! It is not needful, — it would only add to 3^our 
 unhappiness ! I cannot 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 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 w^orld ! But I forced 
 myself to be gentle with her ; I even tried to persuade 
 myself into the idea that she v\^as perhaps exaggerating a 
 mere transient foolish flirtation into the tragic height of a 
 serious love affair — and I was under the influence of this 
 impression when I spoke again. 
 
 ^* Listen, Pauline ! You must not play with me any 
 longer'--"if you /^<^^^i? played with me^ I can endure n© more 
 
WORMWOOD. loi 
 
 of it ! I must know who it is that has usurped my right- 
 ful place in your affections. Do not try to conceal it 
 from me, — it will only be doing an injury to yourself and 
 to — kirn f 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 tenderness 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 7fmst^ Pau- 
 line ! — no love of lasting value was ever kindled with such 
 volcanic suddenness as this fickle fancy of yours ! Had 
 the famous lovers of Verona not died, they must have 
 quarrelled ! Your words, your manner, all spring from 
 impulse, not conviction,— and I should be wronging you, 
 — yes ! actually wronging your better nature, if I were to 
 hastily yield to your strange request and end the engage- 
 ment between us. Why should I end it ? for a wander- 
 ing fitful freak, that will no doubt die of itself as japidly 
 as it came into being ? No, Pauline ! — our contract is too 
 solemn and too binding to be broken for a mere girlish 
 whim 1 " 
 
 '' 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 1 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 tenderness as my 
 only chance of rescue ! I cannot — I dare not, tell them 
 at home, — I am even afraid to meet Heloise 1 Oh, 
 Gaston ! only you can shield me from disgrace, — you can 
 release me if you will, and give me the chance of freedom 
 m which to retrieve my fault ! — Gaston, you can ! — you can 
 do everything for me ! — 3^ou can save me by one generous 
 act — break off our engagement and say to all the world 
 tkat it is by our own mutual desire ! Oh, surely you can 
 understand 7ioiu / — you will not force me to confess ail my 
 sk^me — all my dishonor 1 '' 
 
 Shame / — dishonor ! — Those two words, and — Pauline 1 
 The air grew suddenly black around me, — black as black- 
 
I02 WORMWOOD. 
 
 est Right,-— -tlien bright red rings swam giddily before my 
 eyes, and I caught at something, I know not what, to save 
 myself from falling. A cold dev/ broke out on my brow 
 and hands, and I struggled for breath in deep panting 
 gasps, conscious of nothing for the moment, except th?^t 
 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, 
 forgive 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 1 " I muttered hoarsely. '' What 
 have you done, Pauline ? — Why nothing ! — but this, — you 
 have fallen from virtue to vileness ! — 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 him. I sprang 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 
 suffocating tightness in my throat, — my heart leaped to 
 and fro in my breast like a savage bird in a cage, — the 
 wrath that possessed 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 miy hold, — her head 
 drooped on hei bosom — her eyes closed in the very 
 languor of fear,— and her answering whisper stole on my 
 strained sense of hearing like the last sigh of the dying— 
 
 '' Sllvion Guideir' 
 
 Silvion Giiidel ! — God ! I burst into wild laughter, and 
 flung her from me with a gesture of fierce disdain. Sil- 
 vion Guidel ! — the saint ! — the angel ! — the would-be- 
 priest ! — the man with the face divine ! Silvion Guidel ! 
 ^Detestable hypocrite ! — accursed liar !— smiling devil ! 
 
W0RMWOOB. 103 
 
 Priest m no priest, he should cross swords with me, and 
 thereby probe a great mystery presently ! — not a church- 
 mystery, but a God-mystery — the mystery of death ! He 
 should die, I swore, if I in fair fight could kill him ! Sil- 
 vion Guidel ' — my friend ! — the *'good '' fellow I had act- 
 ually 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 he 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 Pauline 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 wTong ! /will pre- 
 vent 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 I 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 
 ever37thing 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 mourn- 
 ful exaltation, — her breath coming and going rapidly be- 
 tween 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 1 Do not boast of 
 your iniquity as though it were virtue ! — do not blazon 
 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 ! Pie shall die 
 for liis treachery! — he shall die, 1 say! — if the sv^ord of 
 honor can rid the world of so perfidious and dastardly a 
 liarT' 
 
I04 WORMWCrOS)^ 
 
 As I uttered these words sternly and resolvedly, a 
 change passed over her face, — she seemed for the mo- 
 ment to grow rigid 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 im- 
 plored. "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 Vv^ho has oroved 
 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 vou no 
 more ? Listen, Gaston ! Silvion trusts to your noble 
 nature and generous heart, even as I have done^ — he be- 
 lieves that you will have pity upon us both 1 We loved 
 each other from the first, — could we help that love, 
 Gaston ? — 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 reckless- 
 ness, 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 1 — be pitiful ! — it cannot 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 
 aching in my brows, — a cold chill at m.y heart. She 
 seemed removed from me bv immeasurable distance ; — • 
 she, the once innocent child — the pretty graceful girl, 
 all sweetness and purity, — what v/as she now 1 Nothing 
 but — the toy of Silvion Guidel ! No more ! — she had 
 
WORMWOOD. 105 
 
 entered Hie 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 unfailing 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 lover — 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 ! Pauline, 
 Pauline I — my love was honorably set upon you ! — I 
 would 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 convulsively. " Alas, you cannot 
 realize what you have done — not yet ! You cannot in the 
 blindness of your passion see how the world v/ill slowly 
 close upon you like a dark prison wherein to expiate 
 in tears and pain your sin, — you do not yet comprehend 
 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 
 wis 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 tempting, — and thinking of 
 this, Pauline, I can pity you ! pity you more, aye, a thou- 
 sand times more than I should pity you if you were 
 dead !^ I would rather you had died, unhappy child, 
 than lived to be dishonored 1 " 
 
 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 
 
Io6 W0EMW0@^. 
 
 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 T' I said. 
 
 She removed her hands from her eyes — such woeful 
 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 darkened 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 wa}^, I am afraid, — it will not 
 be wise to call a carriage up to this very house, — your 
 departure might be noticed." 
 
 She came dov/n the steps at once like a blind creature, 
 seeming scarcely to feel her way, and as I observed her 
 feebleness, and the tottering, swaying movement of her 
 limbs, my own wretchedness was suddenly submerged in 
 an overwhelming 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 shudder- 
 ing wail fled to my arms and clung there like a scared 
 bird, panting 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 sav/ a disengaged close carriage, I hailed its 
 driver, and, assisting Pauline into the vehicle, I took my 
 own place beside her. We w^ere soon borne along rapidly 
 in the direction of the Comte de Charmilles' residence 5 
 
WORMWOOD. 107 
 
 and then my trembling half-weeping companion seemed 
 to awake to new fears. 
 
 "What are you going to do, Gaston ? '' she asked, in a 
 nervous whisper. 
 
 " Nothing I " 
 
 " 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 
 afterwards 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 
 responded. " I must think out w^hat 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 
 " I could not finish the sentence — the word "dis- 
 honor " 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 cannot be 
 married ? " 
 
 I regarded her fixedly. 
 
 " I do not know that I shall put it in that way," I 
 answered. " To justify my own conduct in breaking off 
 our 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 
 wholesale 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 J he will-— he must ! He has sworn it ! 
 
I08 WORMIVOOD. 
 
 " Then bid him fulfil his oath at once," I rejoined* 
 ** Bid him set you right as far as he can in the eyes of the 
 world before 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 1 The fact of a private 
 marriage having been consummated between you and M. 
 Guidel will put an end to ail discussion, so far as / am 
 concerned ! " 
 
 A weary puzzled expression crossed her features, — and 
 I smiled bitterly. I knew — I 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 towards her and empha- 
 sizing my words impressively. ** I will release you from 
 your engagement to me if Silvion Guidel consents to wed 
 you immediately, 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 dismissed 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 pas- 
 sionate 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 v/ill ! God make you kind 
 to me ! " 
 
 And, with a faint sobbing sigh, she waved her hand 
 feebly in farewell, and entering the great armorial gates, 
 glided round 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, — and I was not clearly conscious of 
 either sleet or wind. Once I stared up at the black 
 sky where the scurrying, clouds were chasing eaoh other 
 
WORMWOOD. ■ :n9 
 
 in mountainous heaps of rapid and dark confusion, — - 
 and in that one glance, the Hghtning 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 bus- 
 iness of the daily routine of waking, eating, drinking, sleep- 
 ing, — a mere preservation of existence, when existence 
 had forever lost its charm ! I was roused from my stupefied 
 condition by the noise of wheels, and, looking up, saw the 
 Comte de Charmilles' carriage coming, — he and his wife 
 were returning from the theatre, — and in case they should 
 perceive me optside 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 Elysees, — 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 v/as wet through and 
 shivering, and try 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 surel}/ ! — 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 lire, — they burned m^y 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 v/as able to realize not only the extent 
 of my own cureless grief, but also that of the unhappy 
 girl v/hom 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 3'^outh, her impulsive- 
 ness, and her unutterable misery, my heart softened more 
 
no WORMWOOD, 
 
 and more towards 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 re- 
 pented ; — they sought my pardon, — and I — should I with- 
 hold it 1 or should I, like a brave man, make light of my 
 own v;rong, 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 wil- 
 fully wandered 'i I asked myself this question many times. 
 I now understood the strange demeanor of Guidel on that 
 night v/lien 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, I strove manfully to con- 
 sider the whole wretched story from the most merciful 
 point of view possible to my nature. I had been brought 
 up under my father's vigilant care, on lines of broad 
 thought, strict honor, and practical, not theoretical, phi- 
 losophy, — his chief idea of living nobly being this, — to do 
 good always when good could be done, and v/hen not, at 
 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 v/as easier. In 
 the first place I would go to the good Pere Vaudron, and 
 tell him all the truth, in confidence ; — I would ask him to 
 see that the civic rite of marriage Vv^as performed at once 
 between his nephew and Pauline secretly, — -I would aid 
 the wedded lovers with money, should they require it, to 
 leave Paris immediately, — and when once their departure 
 Vv^as safely assured, I would break the whole thing to the 
 Comte de Charmilles, and accept 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-lav/, — and 
 all would be well. I, — only I would be the lasting sufferer 
 — but should not a true man be ready and willing to 
 sacrifice himself, if by so doing, he can render the ooie 
 
wernan he loves in all the world, happy r 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 disgraced beyond recall, — I could then challenge Sil- 
 vion Guidel 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 together, while my 
 consciousness, like a separate watchful person 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 ov/n tormented 
 soul, — but through all, the plaintive voice of Pauline, — 
 Pauline whom I still loved, alas ! — rang in my ears with 
 that last sobbing 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 that 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 fixedh^ 
 — determining to pursue my plan for the re-establishment 
 of the honor and safety of the woman v/ho trusted me, 
 the very first thing the next day, — and I would say noth- 
 ing to any one, not even to my father, — till my work of 
 forgiveness and help was carried out and completed be- 
 yond recall ! 
 
 Mere let me pause. Do you understand, you, whoso- 
 ever 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 w^ould not have the 
 dullest wits misjudge me at this turning point of tim.e ! 
 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 ! — I cared to be remembered in her prayers !— 
 I who, in the hot fervor of my adoration for her beauty, 
 jh*i<i declared that I would die for her, was now willing to 
 
^12 WORMIVOOD. 
 
 carry out tliat 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 \ 
 Remember, I v/as willing — and not only willing, but ready ! 
 Not because I seek pity from you, do I ask it, — world's 
 pity is a weak thing that none but cowards need. I only 
 w^ant justice, — aye ! if it be but the mere glimmering jus- 
 tice 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 had prepared myself 
 to forgive the unhappy child who had wronged me, as 
 freely, as entirely, as I then hoped, before God, to be, ia 
 my turn, forgiven i 
 
1^1' Olv^U li/'UC^>. XIX 
 
 XIL 
 
 I DO not know how long I sat on that seat in the Champs 
 Elysees, with the tempestuous rain beating down upon 
 me, the desperate conflict I had had with my own won^ 
 self had rendered me insensible to the flight of time. So 
 numbed w^as I with outward cold and inward misery, — so 
 utterly blind to all external surroundings, that I was as 
 startled as though a pistol-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 rat in a relent- 
 less housekeeper's pail ! What the devil are you doing 
 here at this time of night, mo7i beau riche ? You, with 
 limidess francs at your command, and good luck shower- 
 ing 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 
 spoilt is actually yourself 1 " 
 
 I looked up, forced a smile, and held out my hand. I 
 recognized the speaker, — indeed he was too remark- 
 able a character in his way to be for an instant mis- 
 taken. All Paris knew Andre Gessonex, — a poor 
 wretch of an artist, who painted pictures that were 
 too extraordinary and risque for any respectable house- 
 holder to buy, and who eked out a bare living by his 
 dtcoUete sketches, in black and white, of all the noted 
 d^nseuses and burlesque actresses in the city. His 
 bizarre figure 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 attention. His pinched and 
 shrunken legs were covered with the narrowest possible 
 
414 ^^ " WORMV/OOn, 
 
 trousers, which, by frequent turning up to rnake the best 
 of the worn ends, had now become so short for him that 
 they left alm.ost a quarter of a yard of flaring red sock 
 exposed to view, — his thin jacket, the only one he had 
 for both winter and sum^mer, 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 as tie, — 
 he kept his hair long in strict adherence to true ar- 
 tistic tradition, and on these bushy, half-gray, always dis- 
 ordered locks he Vv'ore a very battered hat of the " brig- 
 and " shape, v^^hich 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. Unlucky 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 with- 
 out common-sense, and the perfectly natural result of 
 such an endowment was, that he starved. He was full 
 of good and even fine ideas,— there v/ere 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, "^or Andre 
 was one of Creation's incurables, — neither money nor 
 advice ever benefited him one iota. Give him the com- 
 mission 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 disporting themselves in such a frankly in- 
 delicate manner, that the intending purchaser v/ithdrew 
 his patronage in shuddering haste and alarm, and fled 
 without leaving so m^uch as the odor of a franc behind^ 
 Thus the poor fellow v/as always unfortunate, and vv^hen 
 taken to task and told that his ill-luck was entirely his 
 own fault, he would assume an air of the most naive 
 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 cannot paint Dutch interiors, 
 
WORMWOOD. 115 
 
 —the carrot waiting to be peeled on the table, — the fat 
 old woman cutting onions for the pot-aii-feu, — the cen- 
 tenarian gentleman with a perpetual cold in his headj> 
 who bends over a brazier to warm his aged nose, while a 
 dog and two kittens gaze up confidingly at his wrinkled 
 hands, — this is not in my line ! I can only produce 
 grand art ! — classical subjects, — Danae in her brazen 
 tower, — Theseus and Ariadne — the amours of Cybele with 
 Atys — or the triumphs of Venus ; — I cannot 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 ! " 
 
 ^uch was the man who now stood before me like a 
 gaunt spectre in the rain, his dull peering eyes brighten- 
 ing into a faint interest as he fixed them on mine. His 
 face betokened 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 minutes, and then clapped 
 me again on the shoulder. 
 
 " Have you lost your speech, Beauvais, or your 
 strength, or your courage, or what ? You look alarm- 
 ingly 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 sympath}^, so destitute of all hope, 
 that 1 was glad of even this forlorn starveling's company, 
 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 night like this is certainly not amus- 
 ing. But — when one is in trouble " 
 
 " Trouble ! — Ah ! " exclaimed Gessonex, lifting his dis- 
 engaged hand, clenching 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 
 
Xl6 WGKMWOOD, 
 
 wliom few of ns want to know ! Down it drops, tkat 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 devour ! We are all little 
 gods down here, each in our own way,— and the great 
 One above (if there is one 1) 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, 771071 a77ii ? 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 
 accustomed 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 franc ! — the filet is 
 actually not missed ! And what a number of remarkable 
 cases we have had shown to us lately in the fieM of 
 science, of men existing for a long period of time, witliout 
 any nourishment save water ! I have been deeply inter- 
 ested 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 aerial in fact, and ready to 
 fly, as if one vvere disembodied ! — most curious and 
 charming ! " 
 
 My heart smote me,— the man was starving and my 
 purse was full. I pressed his meagre 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 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 Iiy 
 
 wlli take off the chill of this downpour, — I am positively 
 wet through ! '' 
 
 '* You are, man ami, — that is a lamentable fact ! " 
 rejoined Gessonex affably — *' and, — apart from the con- 
 dition of those excellent clothes of yours, which are 
 ruined, I regret to observe, — you will most likely v/ake 
 up to-morrow with a violent cold. And a cold is not 
 Decoming — it spoils the face of even a pretty woman. 
 So that if you really believe the hot soup will be bene- 
 ficial to 3^ou, — (as far as 1 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 boiiiUo7i — superb, I assure you ! — ■ 
 I have often inhaled the odor of it en passant I ^^ 
 
 And, quickening his steps unconsciously, out of the 
 mere natural impulse of the hungry craving he could not 
 quite repress, he walked with me out of the Champs 
 Elysdes and across the Place de la Concorde, — thence 
 over one of the bridges spanning the Seine, and so on, 
 till we reached a dingy little building in a side street, 
 over which, in faded paint, was inscribed " Grand Cafe 
 BoNHOMME. Restaurant pour tout le monde/' The 
 glass doors were shut, and draped with red curtains, 
 through which the interior lights flung a comfortable glow 
 on tlie sloppy roadway, and Gessonex pointed to this 
 with the most fervent admiration. 
 
 "What a charm there is about the color red!" lie 
 exclaimed enthusiastically. '' It is so suggestive of 
 warmth and brilliancy ! It is positively fascinating ! — 
 and in my great picture 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 contem 
 porary of mine has just done, — ha ha! Fig-leaves before 
 the fall ! Excellent ! — ah, very amusing ! '*' 
 
 Opening the cafe doors he .beckoned me to follow. 1 
 did so half mechanicall}^, 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 
 piaffe ; — a solitary waiter, wkom \ I ad perceived comb- 
 
^^H tvoi^Mivooix 
 
 ing his hair carefully in the background, eame forward 
 to receive instructionSj and cleared a table for us in a 
 rather retired corner where we at once sat down. I then 
 ordered soup, and Vv^hatever 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 precaution 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. 
 
 " Mo7i cher Beauvais,'' he said, '^ I feel as if there were 
 a mystical new bond between us ! I always liked you, 
 as you knov/, — but you were removed from me by an im- 
 mense gulf of difference, — this difference being that you 
 were never in trouble, and I, as you must be aware, 
 always mas and always am I But do not imagine that it 
 is pleasant to me to see you wriggling fish-like on the 
 hon Diei/s disagreeably sharp hook of calamity — an 
 contraire, it infinitely distresses me, — but still, if anything 
 can make men brothers it is surely a joint partnership 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 intently, stroking his peaked beard the while. 
 
 '^ Nothing financially wrong ? '' he hinted delicately, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " My good Andre !— Nothing ! '' 
 
 " I am glad of that ! " he rejoined sedately, " for nat- 
 urally I could be no sort of service to you in any ques- 
 tion of cash. A money difficulty always appeals to me 
 in vain ! But for any private vexation of a purely 
 emotional and yet excessively irritating nature, I think I 
 know a cure ! " 
 
 I forced a smile. " Indeed ! " 
 
 He nodded gravely, and his eyes dilated with a cer- 
 tain 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 inter- 
 nally ;— for the grief of a lost love v/hich can never be 
 ]Eegained," he said slowly and dreamily; ''for the sting 
 
tVORMVV@@J^. 119 
 
 of remorse, and the teasing persecutions of conscience, 
 — for all these, and more than these, I can find a rem- 
 edy ! For the poison of memory I can provide an an- 
 tidote, — a blessed balm that soothes the wronged 
 spirit into total forgetfulness of its injury, and opens 
 before the mind a fresh and wondrous iield of vision, 
 where are found glories that the world knows nothing of, 
 and for the enjoyment of which a man might be well con- 
 tent 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 be- 
 came centred in the food before him. Poor fellow ! — 
 how daintily he ate, 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 pretence, and he perceived this, though he re- 
 frained from any comment upon my behavior while the 
 meal was yet in progress. But as soon as it was ended, 
 and he was smoking the cigarette I had offered him, he 
 leaned across the table and addressed me once more in a 
 low confidential tone. 
 
 " Beauvais, you have eaten nothing 1 " 
 
 I sighed impatiently. "Moncher^ I have no appetite.'' 
 
 ^' Yet you are wet through, — you shiver ? " 
 / I shrugged my shoulders. " Soit? '' 
 
 " You will not even smoke 1 '' 
 
 " To oblige you, I will " — and I opened my case of 
 cigarettes and lit one forthwith, hoping by this com- 
 plaisance to satisfy his anxiety on my behalf. But he 
 rose suddenly, saying no word to me, and crossing over 
 t*^ where the waiter stood, talked with him very earnestly 
 aad emphatically for a minute or two. Then he returned 
 
i20 M^ORMPVOOD. 
 
 leisurely to his seat opposite me, and I looked at Mm 
 inquiringly. 
 
 " What have you been ordering ? A cognac ? ^* 
 
 " No," 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "Ohj nothing! only —absinthe.''^ 
 
 " Absinthe ! " 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. 
 " Moft Dieu I You, a born and bred Parisian, have never 
 tasted absinthe ? " 
 
 I smiled at his excitement. 
 
 " Never ! I have seen others draining it often, — but I 
 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 flacoit of the drink in question on 
 the table, together with the usual supply of water and 
 tumblers. Carefully preparing and stirring the opaline 
 mixture, Gessonex filled the glasses to the brim, and 
 pushed one across to me. I made a faint sign of rejec- 
 tion. He laughed again, in apparent amusement at my 
 hesitation, 
 
 " By Venus and Cupid, and all the dear old heathen 
 deities v/ho are such remarkably convenient myths to take 
 one's oath upon," he said, ^' I hope you ^vill not compel 
 me to consider you a fool, Beauvais ! What an idea that 
 is of 370urs, — * medicinal green ' ! Think of melted emer- 
 alds instead ! There, beside you, you have the most mar- 
 vellous cordial in all the world, — drink and you will find 
 your sorrows transmuted — yourself transformed ! Even 
 if no better result be obtained than escaping from the 
 chill you have incurred in this night's heavy drenching, 
 that is surely something ! Life without absinthe !— I 
 cannot imagine it ! For me it w^ould 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 povertyj as though these 
 
woRMvroar?. lat- 
 
 •were the merest bagatelles ! Come I — to your health, mon 
 hi ave I Drink with me ! '' 
 
 He raised his glass glimmering pallidly in the light, — 
 his words, his manner, fascinated me, and a curious thrili 
 ran through my veins. There was something spectral in 
 his expressipn 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 v/hose praises he thus sang — had it indeed such a 
 potent charm t 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 ? ¥/ould 
 it give me a brief respite from the inner fret of torment- 
 ing thought ? It might ! — and, slowly lifting the glass to 
 my lips, 1 tasted it. It w^as 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 smite. 
 ** Once again ! It is like vengeance, — bitter at first, but 
 sweet at last ! Mon cher^ if you were no%~as I see you 
 are, — a prey to affliction, I Vv^ould not offer you the knowl- 
 edge 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 by the ever present 
 memory of some wrong — some injury — gome 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 //^r^/ *" 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 v/as 
 in my blood, as though it had been suddenly touched by 
 an inward fire. 
 
 " You mean to tell me," I said incredulously, '* that 
 Absinthe, — 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 haunt- 
 ing trouble from the mind? Mo7i avii^ you rave ! — such 
 a thing is not possible I If it could quench mad passion, 
 • — if it could kill love ! — if it could make of my heart a 
 stone, instead of a tortured, palpitating sentient substance 
 - -there ! — forgive me ! I am talking at random of I 
 
3^2 WORMWOOD. 
 
 kn©w n©t 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 rea- 
 son for hesitating over such a trifle, — I would taste the 
 nauseous fluid again, I thought, if only to satisfy my com- 
 panion, — and I at once did so. Heavens ! — it was now 
 delicious to my palate — exquisitely fine and delicate as 
 \3alm, — and in my pleasurable amazement I swallowed 
 naif the tumblerful '^ readily, conscious of a new and in- 
 describably delightful sense of restorative v/armth and com- 
 fort pervading my whole system. I felt that Gessone^ 
 observed me intently, and, meeting his gaze I smiled. 
 
 " You are quite right, Andre ! '' I told him. " The 
 second trial is the test of flavor. It is excellent 1 '' 
 
 And without taking any more thought as to what I 
 was doing, I finished the entire draught, re-lit my cigar- 
 ette which had gone out, and began to smoke con- 
 tentedly, while Gessonex re-filled my glass. 
 
 *' Now you will soon be a man again ! '' he exclaimed 
 joyously. " To the devil with all the botherations of life, 
 say I ! You are too well off in this world's goods, mo?i 
 Cher^ to allow yourself to be seriously worried about any- 
 thing, — 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 ex- 
 quisite nectar has been poetically termed. It is a charm- 
 ing fairy ! — one wave of the opal wand, and sorrow is con- 
 veniently guillotined ! '' 
 
 I let him run on uninterruptedly, — I myself Vv^as too 
 drowsily comfortable to speak. I watched the smoke of 
 my cigarette curling up to the ceiling in little dusky 
 
 * A glass of Absinthe X2k.Q.Vifasti'yig is sufficient to cause tempofaa:y 
 delirium. 
 
WORMIVOOD. 123 
 
 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 baen 
 granted to me, — I had ceased to think of Pauline, — of 
 Silvion Guidel — or of any one incident of my life or sur- 
 roundings, — all my interest was centred in those rising 
 and disappearing smoky rings ! I drank more absinthe, 
 with increasing satisfaction and avidity, — previous to tast- 
 ing it I had been faint and cold and shivering, — now I 
 was thoroughly warm, agreeably languid, and a trifle 
 sleepy. I heard Gessonex talking to me now and then, 
 there were moments when beseemed to become eloquently 
 energetic in his denunciations of something or somebody, 
 — but his voice sounded far off, like a voice in a dream, 
 and I paid very little heed to him, only nodding occasion- 
 ally whenever he appeared to expect an ansv/er. I was 
 in that hazy condition of mind common to certain phases 
 of intoxication, when the drunkard is apt to think he is 
 thinking, — though really no distinctly comprehensible 
 thought is possible to 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 let himself 
 be 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 impulse 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 I ad®re a good hater ! 
 To hate well is the most manly of attributes, — 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. Far- 
 dieu! I swear to you, Beauvais, I have never known a 
 good woman ! " 
 
 " Helas ! " I sighed gently, and smiled. " Fauvre 
 Gessonex ! " 
 
 '' And you ? " he demanded eagerly. 
 
324 ' IVORMV/OOI), 
 
 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 calm 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 /" laughed Gessonex, with a touch of v/ild- 
 ness in his manner. '' You only think ! — you do not fear / 
 Yes ! — I S2.J fear ! Fear her, mofi mni, if she is truly good, 
 -—for as sure as death the time will come when she will 
 shame 5^ou ! There is no man pure enough to look upon 
 the face of an innocent 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 sank deeper and deeper into a maze of indolent 
 reverie. I was roused at last, however, by the respectful 
 appeals of the tired gargo7t, who mildly suggested that we 
 should now take our leave, as it was past midnight, and 
 they were desirous of closing the cafL I got up sleepily, 
 paid the reckoning, tipped our yawning attendant hand- 
 somely, and walked, or rather reeled out of the place arm 
 rn arm wdth 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. 
 
 '' SacrS diahle P^ he exclaimed, "What abominable 
 weather ! — Entirely unsuited to the constitution of a gentle- 
 man 1 Only rats, cats, and toads should be abroad on such 
 a night, — and yet I — I, Andre Gessonex, the only painter 
 in France with any genius, am actually compelled to 
 walk home 1 What vile injustice ! You, rnon cher 
 Beauvais, are more fortunate — ^^God, or the gods, will per- 
 mit you to drive ! The fiacre is at your service for one 
 franc, twenty centimes, — the voiture de place iox two francs 
 fifty 1 Which will you choose ? — though the hour is so late 
 that it is possible the brave cocker may not be '"ortlicoming 
 ev^n when called.'^ 
 
 And he S¥/aggered jauntily to the edge of the curostone 
 and looked no and down the nearlv deserted street, I 
 watching him curiously the v/liile. An odd calmness 
 possessed inej— -some previously active motion in my 
 
WORMWOOD, t2% 
 
 brain seemed suddenly stopped, — and I was vaguely in- 
 terested in trifles. For instance, there was a little pool in 
 a hollow of the pavement at my feet, and I found myself 
 dreamily counting the big raindrops that plashed into it 
 ^nih the force of small falling pebbles ; — then, a certain 
 change in the face of Gessonex excited my listless atten- 
 tion, — his eyes were so feverishly brilliant that for the 
 moment their lustre gave him a sort of haggard dare-devil 
 beauty, that though wild and starved and faded, was yet 
 strangely picturesque. I studied him coldly for a little 
 space, — then moved close up to him and slipped a twenty- 
 franc piece into his hand. His fingers closed on it 
 instantly." 
 
 *' Drive home yourself, mo?i cher, if you can get a 
 carriage," I said. " As for me I shall walk." 
 
 " Let the rich man trudge while the beggar rides ! '' 
 laughed Gessonex, pocketing his gold coin without re^ 
 mark, — he would have considered any expression of 
 gratitude in the Avorst possible 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 I — so then will I,— I can change mj 
 clothes when I get home ! " 
 
 Unfortunate devil ! — he had no clothes to change, — I 
 knew that well enough ! His road lay in an entirely 
 flifferent direction from mine, so I bade him good-night. 
 
 " ¥ou are a different man now, Beauvais, are you not ? " 
 he said, as he shook hands. ** The * green fairy ' has cured 
 you of your mind's distemper ? " 
 
 *' Was my mind distempered ? " I queried indifferently, 
 wandering as I spoke why the lately incessant pulsation 
 in my brain was now so stunned and still. " I forget !^ — 
 but I suppose it was ! Anyhow, whatever was the matter 
 with me, I am now quite myself again." 
 
 He laughed wildly. 
 
 " Good ! I am glad of that 1 As for me, I am never 
 myself, — 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 
 
126 W0RMWO0B. 
 
 and attended my own funeral ! Yes, truly ! Candles, 
 priests, black draperies, well-fed long-tailed horses, — toufe 
 la baraque^ — no sparing of expense, you understand 1 
 My corpse was in an open shell — I have a curious objec- 
 tion 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, mon a77ii ! — Never was 
 there such grief in a land before, — I wept myself for 
 sympathy with my lamenting countrymen ! 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, levelling 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 graveyard and became 
 from henceforth somebody else ! And do you know I 
 infinitely prefer to be somebody else 1 — it is so much less 
 troublesome 1 " 
 
 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 recoiled. His appellation of " mad '' painter 
 never seemed so entirely suited to him as now. But, 
 mad or not mad, he was quick enough to perceive the 
 instinctive shrinking movement I made, and laughing 
 again, he again shook my hand cordially, lifted his bat- 
 tered 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 fan- 
 tastic spectre vanishing in a nightmare, and then — then, 
 
WORMWOOD. t27 
 
 as though a flash of blinding fire had crossed my sight, it 
 suddenly became clear to my mind what he had dofie for 
 me ! And as I realized it I could have shouted aloud in 
 the semi-delirium of feverish intoxication that burnt 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 absorbed, 
 must and would cling to me forever ! Absintheiir ! I 
 have heard the name used, sometimes contemptuously, 
 sometimes compassionately, — it meant — oh ! so much ! — 
 and, like charity, covered such a multitude of sins ! Oxi 
 what a fine hair's-breadth of chance or opportunity one's 
 destiny hangs after all ! To think of that miserable 
 Andre Gessonex being an instrument of Fate seemed 
 absurd ! — a starved vaurieii and 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 t 
 
I2i W'QRMWOQI^. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I WENT home that night, not to sleep but to dream,--* 
 to dream, with eyes wide open and senses acutely con- 
 scious. 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 ceiling, — 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, 1 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 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 somethi?ig 
 swung to and rro, its vibrations 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 Vvdiite ceiling above me, 
 and vaguely wondering at all the sights I saw, and the 
 scenes in which I, as a sort of disembodied personality, 
 took active part without stirring ! Here, for instance, 
 was a field of scarlet 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 languid wind. And 
 between their brilliant clusters lay the dead 1 — -bodies oi 
 men with ghastly wounds in their hearts, and fragment^ 
 oi swords and guns in their stiffening hands, while round 
 labout them were strev/n torn flags and broken spears. A 
 battle has been lately fought, I mused as I passedjw-this 
 
WORMWOOD. 129 
 
 is wliat some folks call the " field of honor, and Might 
 has gotten the victory ever Right, as it ever does and as 
 it ever will ! .And the poppies wave and the birds sing, 
 — and the men wh 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 beautiful wanton 
 enough for at least one hour's joy ! Hark !— -she sings, 
 — and the tremulous richness of her silver-toned man- 
 doline quivers in accord with her voice across the bright 
 dividing wave ! 
 
 " Que mon dernier souffle, emporte 
 Dans less parfimis du vent d'' ete 
 Soit tin soupir de vohcpte ! \ 
 
 Qu^il vole, papilloji charme 
 Par Pattrait des roses de mat 
 Sur les levres dtt bien-aime / " 
 
 i listen in dumb rapt ecstasy, — when all at once the 
 ^Boon vanishes, — a loud clap of thunder reverberates 
 through earth 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 aerial phantom- 
 shape, I see Pauline ! — her thin garments wet, — her dark 
 locks dank and dripping, — her blue eyes fixed and 
 lustreless — 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 1 — Now I am at peace again, — I can watch to my 
 heart's content those little leaping flames that sparkle 
 Found me in lambent wreaths cf exquisitely brilliant 
 gr©eo, — I can thinJz / . . . 
 
 Ko sooner did this idea of thought force itself upon me 
 O 
 
130 IVORMWOOD. 
 
 than it became an urgent and paramount neeessity— 
 and I strove to steady that buzzing wheel in my brain 
 and compass it to some fixed end, but it was like a per- 
 petually shaken kaleidoscope, always forming itself 
 into a new pattern before one had time to resolve the 
 first. Though this was in a manner confusing, it did 
 not distress me, I patiently endeavored to set my wits 
 in order with that peculiar pleasure many persons find 
 in arranging a scientific puzzle, and by degrees I ar- 
 rived at an understanding with myself and gained a 
 full comprehension of my own intentions. And now 
 my perception became as exact and methodical as it 
 had been erratic and confused, I found I had acquired 
 new force, new logic, new views of principle, and I was 
 able to turn over quietly in my mind Pauline de Char- 
 milles' dishonor. Yes ! dishonor was the word, 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 the idea of forgiveness ! — ^what a 
 piece of wretched effeminancy it would be to put up 
 with my own betrayal and aid to make my betrayers 
 happy ! Such an act might suit the role of a saint, but 
 it would not suit me. I was no saint, I was a 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 I 
 laughed aloud as I remembered what a soft-hearted 
 weakling I had been before, — before I had learned 
 the wisdom of absinthe ! Oh, wonderful elixir ! — it had 
 given me courage, stern resolve, relentless justice! — 
 and the silly plan I had previously devised for the ben- 
 efit of the two miserable triflers was now completely 
 altered and reversed! Glorious absinthe! What is 
 it the poet sings?— 
 
 *^ Avec Valsinthe, avec lefeu 
 On pent se divertir un peu 
 Jouer son role en qiielque drame f ** 
 
 True enough! "Jouer son role en quel que drame!"^ 
 Why not? All things are possible to Absinthe, it can 
 
WORMWOOD, 131 
 
 «idcomplish more marvellous 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 together at its 
 touch, and he who drains it deeply and often, becomes a 
 brute-poet, a god-centaur, — a thing for angels to wonder 
 at, and devils to rejoice in ; — and such an one am I ! 
 Who is there living that can make me regret a single evil 
 deed I have committed, or prove to me at all satisfac- 
 torily that rny deeds are evil ? No one 1 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 unseen gods ! And, while we are 
 about it, let us not forget to thank the Ene progressive 
 science of to-day ! For we have learnt beyond a doubt, — 
 have we not ? — that v/e are merely physical organizations 
 of being, — that we have nothing purely spiritu?' or God- 
 born in us, — and thus, this Conscience that i^ so much 
 talked about, is nothing after all but a particular balance 
 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 ? Knowing 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 wise-acres 
 of the world, who with bitter words and chill satire make 
 a jest of their best poets and martyrize their noblest men. 
 Come, then, O 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 believers all ! — re-set the wrong and silly 
 balance of your brains, — reverse the inner dial of yc-^'- 
 lives, as I have done ! — steep your fine feelings in the 
 pale-green fire that enflames the soul, — and make of your- 
 selves ahsinthejcrs^ — the languid yet ferocious brutes ot 
 Paris, whose ferocity born of poison, yet leaves them 
 slaves ! 
 
 The night of wakeful vision past, I arose from my bed, 
 •—I reeled back as it were out of a devil's shadow-land^ 
 
r,'^.^ ivor.3nvooD. 
 
 and faced God's morning unafraid. It was tlie day of 
 liny father's expected return from England,— and I sur- 
 veyed myself curiously in the mirror to see if there was 
 anything noticeably strange or unsettled in my looks. 
 No 1— 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 hut one 
 answer. I give you- to-day to make your preparations^ — to- 
 morrow^ at whatever time and place I shall choose^ of which 
 1 will i7tform you through my seconds^ you will meet 7ne^ — 
 unless^ as is possible^ you are coward as well as liar, 
 
 " Gaston Beauvais.'' 
 
 I sealed this, and with it in my hand, sallied forth to the 
 house of the Cure, M. Vaudron. The day was chill and 
 cloudy, but the rain had entirely ceased, and the lately 
 boisterous wind had sunk to a mere cold breeze. I walked 
 leisurely ; — 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 vcl on the previous 
 night, — namely, that of actually pardoning the vile injury 
 done to me, and exerting myself to make the injuring par- 
 ties 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 wretchedness ! 
 
 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 Cure owned one of 
 those small houses wtih 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 surve3'^ed me with complete 
 astonishment at first — she was evidently cross about 
 something or other, for her smile was not encouraging^ 
 
WORMIVOOB. 133 
 
 *^ Ek hien^ M, Beauvais ! " she observed, setting her 
 aims aKimbo. "What can one do for you at this early 
 hour in the morning ? Not eight o'clock yet, and M. Vau- 
 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, M argot ! You must not look upon me as a vis- 
 itor,"' I said quietly. " My errand is soon done. This " 
 ■ — and I held out my sealed-up challenge — " is for M. Sil- 
 vion Guidel, voila toutT^ 
 
 " For M. Guidel ! " she exclaimed, with a toss of her 
 head and a quivering of her nostrils, which always be- 
 tokened rising temper, " Hein ! best send it after him, 
 then ! He is not here any longer — he is gone ! " 
 
 " Gone ! " I echoed stupidly. " Gon6 ! '' 
 
 " Gone ! Yes ! — and why should he not go, if you 
 please ? " she inquired testily. " / have had enough of 
 him I 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 
 M. Vaudron is grieving for the loss of his company like a 
 cat for a drowned kitten ! " 
 
 I was so confounded by this unexpected turn of af- 
 fairs, that for a moment I knew not what to say. 
 
 " Where has he gone ? " I asked presently, in a faint 
 unsteady voice. 
 
 " Back to Brittany, of course ! " shrilled Margot irritably- 
 " Where else should such a pretty babe be w^anted t 
 His father 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 I tell you, he left last night, v/ithout a word or a 
 look or a * Dieu vous benisse ' to me I — me, — who have 
 worked for him and waited upon him like a slave I — ah! 
 the wicked ingratitude of the young to the old ! " 
 
 I looked at her in vague surprise, — she was always 
 more or less touchy, but there was evidently some- 
 thing deeper than mere touchiness in her present humor. 
 
 " Margot, ygu are cross ! " I said, endeavoring to smile. 
 
134 
 
 WORMWOOD, 
 
 " Yes, I am cross ! " and she stamped her foot viciouslyj, 
 - — then all at once tears welled up in her hard old eyes,— - 
 *^ I ^m cross and sorry both together vGiIa I He was a bean 
 gar^on ; — 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 as he Vv^as in the house, voyez-vous ? 
 —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 look 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 vaurien^ in spite of all his 
 prayers and fasting ! '' 
 
 I laughed rather bitterly. 
 
 Far bleu I Did he pray 1 — did he fast ? " I inquired, with 
 a touch of sarcastic amusement. 
 
 ]\Iargot flared round upon me quite indignantly. 
 
 *' Did he pray ? — did he fast ? — Why, what else was he 
 made for ? " she snapped out. " He was always praying— 
 and he ate 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 ? And once — ah truly 1 
 where would he have been if I had not looked after him ! 
 • — I found him in a faint in the church itself — he had beer, 
 walking in the Bois as usual, and had come back to 
 pray without touching a morsel of food, — but what else 
 could 3^ou expect ? He was a great big innocent ! — the 
 holy saints were the same 1 '' 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders disdainfully. 
 
 " Do you know, Margot that there are several ways of 
 fighting the devils out of a man ? '' I said ; '' and starvation 
 is one ! Yet even then, it sometimes happens that th^ 
 devils still get the upper hand ! Can you tell me whether 
 M. Guidel is coming back to Paris ? " 
 
 " No- I cannot 1 " 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 l^etter speak 
 to M. le Cure. I have no time to stand talking li^re any 
 longer ! '' 
 
W&EMWOOD, 1^ 
 
 ^^Bim! BoMJdur^ Margot ! '' and I raised my hat to 
 fier playfully. 
 
 '-''Bon jour^ M. Gaston ! " she returned tartly ; '* and 
 try not to be jealous of young men whom God has made 
 better-looking than yourself ! '^ 
 
 And, with a bang, she shut the door upon me. I laughed, 
 and sauntered slowly away. Idiotic old woman ! She too, 
 withe-red 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 depreciate his value ! What 
 dolts women were, I thought! Caught by a charming 
 smile, — a pair of fine eyes, and a graceful 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 en- 
 chains 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 am- 
 orous 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 
 amo/ig the world's " romances," 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 paramount in human history, namely, 
 that this merely physical attraction between man and 
 women is of the briefest continuance, 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 Plell ! It is, perhaps, unjust that the punishment 
 should fall so heavily, — but fall it does, without question 
 — unless — unless one is an ahsiniheur [ Then, neither 
 crimenor punishment matter 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 Cure's house, — and to give myself time to think 
 quietly, 1 entered the Sois which was close by, and 
 
136 V/ORMWOOD. 
 
 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 challenge 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 inter- 
 views ; — the nervous presentiments of Helo'ise St. Cyr 
 had evidently been only too well founded ! Pauline, under 
 pretence of attending mass at M. Vaudron's church, had 
 really gone to meet her lover ; — while he, after assisting 
 his uncle at the first celebration, had hastened off to keep 
 the tryst at whatever part of the Bois they had secretly 
 appointed, — and so the a^nour had been cleverly carried 
 on in the early morning hours, without awakening any 
 suspicion of vv^rong in those whose simple belief in 
 woman's virtue and man's honor had been thus delib- 
 erately outraged. Other meetings elsewhere, too, might 
 easily have been arranged, — liars have a thousand 
 cunning ways of keeping up their lies ! What dnpes v\/e 
 had all been ! — what unsuspecting, blind, good-natured, 
 trusting fools! — fori felt certain that even H. .oi'se, 
 though she might have had her private fears of Pauline's 
 impulsiveness and Guidel's attractiveness, never imag- 
 ined her idolized cousin would have fallen so far as she 
 had fallen now. I meditated on the whole position for 
 a while, and finally returned home, — the result my 
 
 solitary reverie framing itself into the following letter :— 
 
 ^'To Mademoiselle Pauline de Charmilles. 
 ^' Mademoiselle, 
 
 " I hear this morning that M. 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 
 wlitch case I xndiy possibly 1 do not ^2.-^ 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-— -zxidi 
 allow the arrangements for our marriage to proceed un* 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 interruptedly. As time progresses some new course of 
 action may suggest itself to me, — but, till either definite 
 news is heard from M. 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 salutations ! 
 
 ' 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 1 I cannot 
 tell you ? I had, or seemed to have, an ulterior motive 
 lurking in the background of my thoughts, — but v/hat 
 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 1 The suggestions it offers are resistless 
 and implacable — no opposing effort will break its 
 bonds ! And it had placed an idea,— a diabolical con- 
 ception of revenge somewhere in my brain, — -but whatever 
 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 satis- 
 fied that I meant so7nething^ — something that would, I 
 suppose, evolve itself into action in due time, — and lor 
 that time I was languidly content to wait. 
 
l^% WORMWOOD. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Abottt a couple of hours after I had written my letter, 
 I 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 little blotted blurred note closely 
 sealed. 
 
 " I cannot, will not beheve he has gone ! '' — it ran™ 
 ** without a word to me ! — it would be too cruel ! What 
 shall I do ? — I am desolate and helpless. But / frus^ 
 you, Gascon, — and, as you wish it, I will say nothing, 
 though tL keep silence breaks my heart, — nothing — until 
 you give me leave to speak. 
 
 " Pauline.^' 
 
 This was all, but it satisfied me. I read it, stand- 
 ing on the doorstep with the femme-de-chambre watching 
 me somewhat curiously. Smiling unconcernedly, I in- 
 quired — 
 
 " 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 1 3 her the 
 expression of my deep solicitude ! By the way, have you 
 any news of Mademoiselle Heloise ? " 
 
 " Oh oui^ monsieur I She returns to-morrow after- 
 noon. '^ 
 
 With this information I retired,— and straightway pro- 
 ceeded to the Gare du Nord to m^et my father. He 
 arrived, punctual to time, and greeted me with the ut» 
 most affection. 
 
 " Gloire a la France !^^ he exclaimed, as he alighted on 
 the platform and clasped me by both hands. '' What a 
 
' WORMWOOD, 139 
 
 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 left Paris ! But thou art pale, 
 monftls ? Thou hast worked too hard ? '* 
 
 "Not at all,'' I assured him. 
 
 " The little Pauline has been cruel ? " 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 " Cruel ! She is an angel of sweetness, monplre! — too 
 kind, too virtuous and too true for such a worthless 
 fellow as I ! " 
 
 My father gave me a quick puzzled glance. 
 
 " You speak with a strange harshness in your voice, 
 Gaston," 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, ;;2<9;^ /^r^.^ — nothing! All is well. I have 
 lost a friend, that is all ; — the admirable Silvion Guidel 
 has gone back to Brittany." 
 
 '' Tie7is/ what a pity!" and my father looked quite 
 concerned about it. " He had become thy favorite com- 
 rade 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. 
 
 " 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 already quite sorry for the ladies, old and young, 
 who may need to have recourse to his spiritual coun- 
 sels ! " 
 
 " By my faith, so am I ! " I rejoined emphatically, in a 
 half sotio-voce^ which my Either, just then busy with his 
 luggage, 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 Paulino, Old Vaudron came disconso- 
 lately in at dinner-time, the forlorn expression of his 
 
J40 WORMWOOD. 
 
 countenance betokening how greatly he missed his 
 nephew, though he brightened up a Uttle in my father's 
 company. I watched him, — thinking of the secret I held 
 ^—yet saying nothing. 
 
 '' Who would have thought," he dismally complained, 
 " that the boy Silvion could have become so dear to 
 me 1 And to Margot also ! — she is inconsolable ! \¥hat 
 a warning it is against setting too much store by the 
 ties of earthly affection ! It is altogether very unfor- 
 tunate ; for now I suppose his parents will hardly bear 
 him out of their sight for months ! You see, mon ami^" 
 — 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 every- 
 body else. Yet, all the same, I think Paris scarcely 
 agreed with 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 1 " responded the gentle, unsuspect- 
 ing 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 presumption, 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 
 hved or what good or evil we committed ! ' Such a fright- 
 ful idea ! — a positive tempting of Divine justice !■ — it quite 
 alarmed me, I assure you ! '^ 
 
 *'And you answered— -what ? " I queried, vaguely inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " Why, mon cher gar^on, 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 distinct comprehension betwixt right and 
 wrong." 
 
WORMWOOD. 141 
 
 " But—pardon me — it is not always distinct," I in- 
 terposed ; " it is frequently very doubtful and uncer- 
 tain. If it were more plainly defined, right action would 
 perhaps be easier." 
 
 " Not so, mo?^, petit ^^^ declared Vaudron gently. " Be- 
 cause the unfortunate fact is that, though men have 
 this distinct 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 ^//natural," I said, " and also that it is useless to 
 oppose Nature ' " 
 
 The Cure'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 
 compass to the end of all worlds ! " 
 
 I made no reply ; — I thought I had begun to kno\/ the 
 meaning 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 ! 
 
 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 
 understood, 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 irritation which can only be 
 assuaged and pacified by fresh draughts of the ambrosial 
 poison. This was the sort of nervous restlessness that 
 shook me now, — and, as it was a fine night, I made my 
 way down to the Boulevard Montmartre, where I entered 
 one of the best and most brilliant cafes ^ 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 dreamland ! — with 
 what a lingering ecstasy I sipped to the uttermost dregs 
 two full glasses of it, — enough, let me tell yo:iJ, to un- 
 steady a far more slow and stolid brain than mine ! The 
 
142 WORMWOOD. 
 
 sensations wnicli followed were both physically and 
 mentally keener than on the previous evening, — and when 
 I at last left the cafe and v/alked home at about midnight, 
 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 
 Elysees, a bright green planet suddenly sv/ung into dusky 
 space, and showered its lustre full upon my path. Its 
 dazzling beams completely surrounded me, and made the 
 wet leaves of the trees overhead shine like jewels ; and I 
 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 Vitas ! — the 
 secret so ardently sought for by philosophers and alchem- 
 ists 1 — I had found it, even I ! — I was as a god in the 
 power I had obtained to create and enjoy the creations of 
 my own fertile brain, — for, truly, this is all that even high 
 Omnipotence can do, — namiely, to command worlds to be 
 borne by the action of His thought, — and again to bid 
 them die by an effort of His will 1 The huge creative 
 force of all time and all space can be no more than an end- 
 less and boundlessly immense Imagination. And one 
 spark of this Imagination 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 crim- 
 inal ends. But we of Paris care nothing as to whether 
 our thoughts run in v/holesome or morbid channels so 
 long as self-indulgence is satiated. My thoughts, for in- 
 stance, were poisoned,— but I was satisfied with their 
 poisonous tendency ! And I was in no wise disconcerted 
 or dismayed when, on reaching home and ascending the 
 steps, I found the door draped with solemn black, as if 
 for a funeral, and saw v/ritten across it in pale yet lustrpus 
 emerald scintillations — 
 
 '' La Mort haeite ici 1 " 
 
 Quietly I put out my hand and made as though I v/ould 
 touch these seemingly substantial sable hangings,— they 
 rolled away like rolling smoke,— -the dismal inscription 
 vanished, and all was clear again 1 Entering, I found ray 
 father sitting up for me. 
 
WORMWOOD. 14^ 
 
 "Thou art late, ©aston ! " he said, as I came towards 
 Mm, 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." 
 
 " Vrainient! A new sort of amusement for thee^ is it 
 not? Thou art not likely to become a boidevardier V 
 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 absence, and hov/ admirably 
 thou hast fulfilled them.'' 
 
 I received his praise passively without remiark, and he 
 continued — 
 
 " For the next week take holiday, Gaston, and for the 
 week after that again ! Then comes thy marriage, — and 
 I will strive to do vv^ithout thee for a full tvv^o months. 
 Where wilt thou spend thy lune-de-mid V^ 
 
 " Where ? In Paradise, of course ! " I ansv/eredj with 
 a forced smile. 
 
 My father laughed, — brushed his bearded ilps against 
 my cheek, an old French custom of his whenever he felt 
 particularly 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 re- 
 spectfully in response to his last cheerful nod and glance. 
 He would not see what / saw when I entered my ov/n 
 chamber! Pauhne 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 ! 
 Ah, 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 attempted to touch 
 that delicate recumbent figure^ — and lo ! — it melted into 
 
144 WORMWOOD. 
 
 Haught^-^my bed was once more smooth, bare, and empty,> 
 - — empty of even the spectre of delight ! I threw myself 
 down upon it, fatigued in body and mind, yet not unpleas- 
 antly so ; — closing my aching eyes, I wandered aw^ay into 
 a cloudy realm of confused phantasmal pageant and 
 laatastiii visi©ii, and, dreaming, fancied that I slept i 
 
WO/<MPVOOJJ. J45 
 
 XV. 
 
 That same week, Heioise St. Cyr returned from Nor- 
 mandy, and, two days after her arrival in Paris, my 
 fatiier and I were invited to dine with the De Char- 
 milles, our good friend the Cure being also of the party. 
 I was vaguely amused at the whole affair, — it went off 
 so well, and there were two such admirable actors at 
 table, namely, myself and Pauline. Trust a woman to 
 eclipse every one in the art of feigning ! She, Pauline, 
 was a mere brilliant scintillation of dazzling mirth and 
 eoquetterie from the beginning of the dinner to its end. 
 It w^as only pretence, I knew, but who would have 
 thought she could have pretended so w^ell! Now and 
 then 1 was smitten wdth a sudden amaze at her, — but ob- 
 serving her narrowly I noticed the feverish flush on her 
 cheeks, the almost delirous brilliancy of her eyes, the un- 
 natural scarlet of her lips,^ — and I realized that however 
 unconcerned she might appear in outward bearing, she 
 was inwardly enduring agonies of mental torture such as 
 few could imagine. This conviction filled me with a cer- 
 tain morbid satisfaction, though I often found my atten- 
 tion wandering from her to her cousin Heioise, whose 
 stay in Normandy certainly seemed to have freshened 
 and intensified her beauty. For she zvas beautiful, — I 
 who had formerly been loth to admit this acknowledged 
 it at last. There was more color in her face, — and she 
 possessed a tranquil, almost imperial stateliness of man- 
 ner that was singularly attractive. My gaze dwelt upon 
 her with a sort of fascination, — and occasionally I caught 
 her pure serious eyes regarding me with an anxious wist- 
 fulness and wonder. The Comte and Comtesse de Char- 
 milles were evidently delighted to have their 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 1 Of course the conversation turned 
 
146 WORMIVQOIX 
 
 frequently upon Silvion Guidel and iiis sudden depait- 
 ure ; and M. Vaudron told us he had received a tele- 
 gram announcing his nephew's safe arrival at his home in 
 Brittany, but no further nev/s than this. 
 
 " He will never come back to Paris again, I am sure ! ** 
 said Pauline, laughing quite hilariously. " Pie has gone 
 for good ! " 
 
 *' I am afraid he has, my child," returned the old 
 Cure regretfully. " But perhaps it is better so. Paris is 
 not the place for m.en 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 
 remarks,— 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, 1 
 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 position like honest 
 folk and take the consequences? Why.^^ — Well, why 
 does not every sinner make a clean breast of his secret 
 evil thoughts and misdeeds, and, bla,zoning them to the 
 world, abide calmly by the result 1 It would be noble — 
 it would be stern-principled, — but afterwards ? When we 
 had all frankly admitted ourselves to be more or less 
 liars and knaves not worth a hand-shake or a thank-you, 
 w^hat then ? Nothing but this, — society would be at an 
 end, and we might as will pull down our cities and re- 
 turn in howling nudity to the forests of primeval bar- 
 barism. 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 " 7idtr6 
 mere^^ and le tombeau de iiotre pere'''' — in fact, w^e gener- 
 ally 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,— /had the ruling 
 of the game, — I and my ^^ green-eyed fairy " whose magi- 
 cal advice I now followed unhesitatingly, and I did not 
 choose to speak,— j^/. I waited, and the miserable child 
 Pauline also waited on — my will. 
 
 There are some few uncomfortable people in the worl4. 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 14) 
 
 however, -^vviio cannot 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 difficult to deal with, as I found, when, 
 after dinner, I entered the drawing-room as usual with 
 the other gentlemen. It was a v/arm and beautiful even- 
 ing, — the windows stood wide open, — the garden was gay 
 with flowers, and across the small lawn in front strolled 
 Pauline, carolling softly to herself the refrain of a song. 
 Heioise, in one of those straight simple white gowns she 
 was so fond of wearing, stood within the windovz-embra- 
 sure looking out, but turned quickly round as soon as she 
 was aware of my entrance. 
 
 *^ M. Gaston,'' she said hurriedly, in a half whisper, 
 " tell rne !~what is wrong with Pauline ? '' 
 
 I met her eyes with a studied expression of complete 
 amazement. 
 
 *' Wrong with Pauline ? '' I echoed. " Why nothing ! 
 Hear how she sings 1 — like a lark in full sunshine ! — -See 
 how merry she is 1 — -how well she looks ! '' 
 
 *' Her merriment is y^r^^i?^," declared Heloise emphati- 
 cally. ^' And she is not well. Oh, cannot 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, M. Gaston 1 
 — did you think of the warning I gave you before I left ? 
 — or did it slip your memory ? Did 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 increas- 
 ingly conscious of her exceeding physical grace and 
 beauty. 
 
 '^ I always remember everything yoz^ say, Heloise," I 
 answered, 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 
 embarrassment gathered in her eyes. " But I never quite 
 
148 WORMWOOD. 
 
 comprehended why you should so greatly concern your- 
 self about the matter. Pauline can surely be trusted ! 
 Do you not think so ? " 
 
 " I do think so ! " she responded svi? if tly— -brave girl ! 
 ■ — true friend ! — '' but it is hardly fair to expect the dis- 
 cretion 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 dislikes, — and, as I told 
 3^ou once before, she hardly understands herself- " 
 
 Here she broke off and caught lier breath, while her 
 large eyes dwelt on me in a vague fear. " Why do you 
 look at me so strangely, M. Gaston ? " she faltered nerv- 
 ously. " What is it 1 '' 
 
 I laughed coldly. " What is it } Wh}/— nothing, ma 
 cJiere Heloise 1 — what should there be 1 It is you Vi^ho 
 seem to have vague ideas of something which you do not 
 express— and it is I who should ask, ' What is it ? ' '' 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 ^^ Can you doubt it ? '^ and I smiled. ^^ I love her, — 
 madly 1 " 
 
 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—'TiO sane mind would have ever indulged in such a 
 tumult of mingled desire and hatred, as burned in mine. 
 
 ^'' I am going \.o her,'' I added more tranquilly, seeing 
 that Fleloise seemed alarmed as well as uneasy. " I shall 
 ask her for one of those roses she is gathering, as a gage 
 d^amourT I moved away, — then paused a moment. 
 ^^ Your trip to Normandy has done you good, Pleloi'se. 
 You are looking adorable ! '' 
 
 What a lightning-glance she gave rae ! — it swept ovet' 
 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, — ^v^hy did my heart-throbs send such clam- 
 orous 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 
 
^^ WORMWOOD. 149 
 
 one brief space of time all life seemed waiting 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, rescue ! 
 — I should have told her all, — given her my very soul to 
 keep, and so I might have missed perdition ! But it vv^as 
 ,,2i mere passing madness, — I could not account for it then, 
 land can hardly account for it now, — but whatever sliock 
 fit 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 stepping out into the garden 
 there joined Pauline. She looked up at me as I ap- 
 proached — her face wore an expression of extreme weari- 
 ness. 
 
 '' 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 1 I am so tired of it 1 — Oh God ! — so 
 tired 1 " 
 
 I walked silently by her side round among the shadows 
 of some tall trees to a spot where we were out of the ob- 
 servation 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 wili hear ? '' 
 
 biiC sighed. " I believe in him,'' she said. ** If my 
 i?elief is vain — then God help me 1 " 
 
 I 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 m.e cold as ice, — impervious as adamant, — ■ 
 Absinthe had numbed the tenderer 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 m.e ! ' 
 But God's assistance is not always to be relied upon, — it 
 frequently fails as 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 
 
150 WORAIWOOn. 
 
 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 feat is frequently too late in coming, if in- 
 deed 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 sud- 
 denly crumbled and fell in a shower of pale pink leaves 
 upon the ground. 
 
 "Yes! — He made them, — made them to perish I — for 
 which strange and unaccountable end He has seemingly 
 made all things, even you and me," I responded, taking 
 her cold passive 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 avert shame from those parents whose pride is centred 
 in you ? Think ! As yet 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. 
 
 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 v^as no power on 
 earth that could prevent her, if she chose, from deliber- 
 ately shutting out the world forever from her sight, and 
 finding peace in death's acceptable darkness. Yes— she 
 could die — even she ! 
 
 " Pauline, Pauline ! what a fate ! " I said at last. 
 '* How terrible to realize it ! — to think that you — you for 
 whom nothing 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 dishonor- 
 able cowardly villain " 
 
 " Stop ! " she exclaimed in a low fierce voice that 
 startled m'\. " You shall not blame him in mjy hearing t 
 
WORMWOOD. 15 
 
 I 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 any- 
 thing under the sun equal its strength, its taraelessness, 
 its marvellous tenacity ! This fragile girl — wronged, de- 
 serted, 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 ! — vmy could she not have 
 loved 77ie 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 unreason- 
 ing despair ', But pray compose yourself and listen to me. 
 1 am more cautious — perhaps more practical in the fore- 
 seeing of events than you can be. Of course it is well- 
 nigh impossible to calculate the social result of our un- 
 happy position tov/ards 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 1 " I paused, 
 and a tremor ran through her frame, — she knew, as I 
 knew, that her sin was one that her father, pipud of his 
 lineage and ancestral glories, would never rorgive and 
 never forget. ^^ You gave me credit once for generosity," 
 I continued, " and the most generous thing I could do 
 would be to still take you as my wife, and shield your name 
 from blemish under cover of mine. I'or 3/ our parents' 
 sake this would be best and kindest, — but for me, not so 
 well ! I doubt much whether I could ever reconcile ni}^- 
 self to such a course of action. It is therefore sincerely 
 to be hoped that M. 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 ;-*• 
 
152 WORMWOOD. 
 
 but liyou choose to make full confession to your parents 
 
 or to your cousin, 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 slighl'y. I knew she was of far too 
 shrinking and nervous a temperament to brave her father's 
 fierce wrath, her 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 expose. If Silvion v/rote 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 v/e returned to 
 the drawing-room. Heloise was there, reading aloud from 
 a newspaper an account of the triumphs of a celebrated 
 violinist Vv'hose name had recently become 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 tiiy violin, Heloise ; — it 
 is not every demoiselle who possesses a real undoubted 
 Stradivarius." 
 
 " Is it a Strad ? " I asked, with some interest, fixing 
 my eyes on Heloise, who for once avoided my direct gaze 
 as she replied — 
 
 " Yes. It is an heirloom, 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." 
 
 " 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 
 eM of the room, opened her violin-case and took out the 
 
WORMWOOD, 153 
 
 'instrument "But you must look at it carefully first. 
 Through the F holes you will see the sign-manual of 
 Straclivarius, and also something else. There are several 
 other words, — can you make them out ? " 
 
 We gathered round her, and each in turn examined the 
 interior of the violin, and finally managed to decipher the 
 following — 
 
 "y^ meurs parceque faime V amour plus que in a vie — - 
 Parle^ viol on, quandje suis mort^ de ma reine Marie P 
 
 Beneath these lines was a monogram of two letters 
 entwined 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 
 softly, " to one who in his time was considered the 
 greatest violinist in the world. His name no one knows, 
 —his monogram is there, but cannot, 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 v/hile, till suddenly, 
 out of some cruel and unaccountable 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 
 account, 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 eaual. 
 Listen ! " 
 
 And she drew the bow across the G string slowly, while 
 we involuntarily held our breath. It w^as 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 mort ! " Such had been the last prayer of its long- 
 ago dead master,- — and truly its eloquence had not ceased 
 to be convincing. The " reine Marie " had been careless 
 of love and capricious, as beautiful v/omen so often are, 
 but still the passionate tones of her lover's instrument 
 
154 
 
 WORMWOOD. 
 
 bore faithful witness to her beauty's conquering ©harm ! 
 We were all in expectation that Heloise would play some- 
 thing ; 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 1 " 
 
 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 agi- 
 tate us both. But it passed as it had passed before, 
 • — and just then M. Vaudron came up to us with some 
 ordinary remark that scattered our thoughts into all 
 sorts of different and commonplace directions. The 
 evening ended, to all appearances, as satisfactorily as it 
 had begun, — our elders evidently had no shadow of sus- 
 picion that anything was vv^rong, — and when I parted from 
 Pauline, it was with a carefully studied assumption of that 
 lover-like reluctance to say farewell which once had been 
 too real to need feigning. Pleloise, as she murmured 
 " good-night ! " gave 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 
 Jiave felt such a keen sense of delight as I saw the color 
 
WORMWOOD, 155 
 
 rush over her fair pale cheeks like a sudden glow of sunset 
 on alabaster ! I suppose it must have been the conscious- 
 ness of the growing" devil within me, — the devil that had 
 already begun to preach away conscience and make a 
 gibe of principle, and that in a short time was destined to 
 become so strong that whatever there was of true man- 
 hood in me would be utterly exterminated by its insidio as 
 power. The devil born of Absinthe ! — 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, voluntarily drifted 
 slowly yet steadily dowfi / 
 
I5§ WOJ^MVVOOD, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Time went on, and yet no sign from Silvion Guide!, 
 One letter only, from his mother to the Cure, thanking 
 him for all the care and kindness he had shown to " notre 
 cher et bien-aime Saint Silvion,'' and stating that this 
 same "saint" was in excellent health and progressing 
 admirably with his religious 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 betrayed would 
 be a swift and unexpected return to Paris, — unless, 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, 
 without any interference from either of the principal par- 
 ties concerned. It was settled that the civic registration 
 should take place first, in the grand drawing-room of the 
 Comte de Charmilles, before a large and brilliant assem- 
 blage of friends and guests, — the religious ceremony was to 
 follow afterwards 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 condition, it seemed just. 
 Why should not the wicked be punished for their wicked- 
 ness 1 Holy Writ supports the theory, — for did not 
 David, " a man after God's own heart," pray that 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, before you dare to utterly abhor me, who am 
 
WURMWX7VJJ. J57 
 
 your fello^-mGrtal ! 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 disappointed 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 circumstance ; one cannot be cer~ 
 tain Vv^hat will happen, and the present wise age does well 
 to seize its opportunities for good or for evil while it can, 
 here and 7tow ! 
 
 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, physi- 
 cally conscious. I can only explain it by saying that my 
 brain seemed dead. A stony weight lay behind my tem- 
 ples, cold and hard and heavy. I shall perhaps make 
 myself understood better if I analyze my sensations thus \ 
 — namely, that when my brain w^as in its former norma! 
 condition before the absinthe-ftiria had penetrated to its 
 every cell, it was like a group of sensitive fibres 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 fibres had snapped in some strange 
 w^ay, leaving in their place a steel reflector of im.ages.--a 
 hard bright substance on which emotion simply fiasxied 
 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 ap- 
 peared in a manner precise, still lacked entire consecu- 
 tiveness, — and not the least remarkable phase of my 
 transformation was this, — that good^ or what moralists 
 call good, presented itself to me as not only distinctly un- 
 nat-ural, but wholly absurd. In brief, the best and clear- 
 est expression I can give to my condition of mind for the 
 benefit of those medical experts who have perhaps not 
 thoroughly comprehended the swift and marvellous in-_ 
 
158 WORMWOOD. 
 
 fluence of the green nectar of Paris on the human neires' 
 and blood is, that my former ideas and habits of life were 
 completely and absolutely reversed. We are told 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 har- 
 moniously and in order, — but — and this is to be remem- 
 bered — 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, quickens them into hot con- 
 fused masses, and almost changes their very nature ? 
 Aye ! — this is so ! — and neither gods nor angels can pre- 
 vent 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 ahsintheur I and from 
 hero he shall change to coward, from saint to libertine, 
 from poet to brute. You doubt me 1 Come then to 
 Paris, — study our present absinthe-drinking generation, — 
 absmtheurs^ and children of ahshitheurs^ — 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 monkey,^ — 
 but he could not calculate man's desce?it to the monkey 
 again. He did not study the Parisians closely enough 
 for that ! If he had, he would most assuredly have 
 added a volume of prophecies for the future to his famous 
 pedigree of the past. 
 
 Curious and significant too, among my other sensa- 
 tions, was the dull aversion I had taken to the always 
 fair, though now sorrowful, face of Pauline. The girl in 
 her secret wretchedness 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 Stradivarius she owned, that he had volun- 
 teeredj for art's sake, to give her a lesson every day 
 
WORMWOOD. 159 
 
 during the brief time he remained in Paris. After some 
 little hesitation, and an anxious consultation 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 vv^hich was considerably 
 divided from ours. I never had a chance of either see- 
 ing or hearing the brilliant YXoVm-maestro v/hose triumphs 
 ■were in every one's mouth, — I only knew that he was not 
 old,— that some people considered him handsome, and 
 that he was entirely devoted to his art, — but no mo^e 
 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 pressing events, that he had crossed the 
 even tenor of her existence. 
 
 Three days before my intended marriage — only three 
 days ! — I received, to my utter amazement, a letter from 
 SilvioK. Guidel. It began abruptly, thus— 
 
 " i understand that you know everything, — therefore 
 you will realize that no explanation can make me more 
 of a villaii? than I acknowledge myself to be. / cannot 
 marry. I was ordained a priest of Holy Church yester- 
 day. Circumstances have moulded 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 cannot write to her — I 
 dare not ; I am weak-natured and afraid of woman's 
 grief. The only way left to me for the atonement of the 
 evil I have done is through a life of hard penitence and 
 prayer. This I have chosen, entreating you ail to pardon 
 me and to think of me as one dead, 
 
 SiLvioN Guidel.'* 
 
 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 perpetual celibacy, — and what was worsQ 
 
l6o WORMWOOD, 
 
 Still, exempt from the call of a duel ! If I could nave 
 seen him at that moment before 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 vv'ould be in a worse pre- 
 dicament 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 Silvion GuideFs cast- 
 off light-o'-love as my Vvdfe, 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 position 
 \vhicli appeared thus forced upon me, and in this I think 
 was no worse than an}^ other man might have been under 
 similar circumstances. Combined however with my 
 natural resentment, there was another and more cruel 
 feeling, — an insatiate longing to make Pauline understand 
 thoroughly the heinous enormity of her sin. For at pres- 
 ent, she seexTied to me to have merely the stagey senti- 
 ment of the French melodramatic heroine, who, after dis- 
 gracing herself, dishonoring her parents, and dealing 
 wholesale misery all round, scruples not to boast of her 
 " amour '' 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 resistlessly adorable. Yet with all my busy brooding 
 on the one subject, I cannot say I ever came to any de- 
 finitely 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 considered deeply as to 
 whether I should show the letter I had received 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;rH:hat 
 
WORMWOOD, l6l 
 
 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, according to the mood in which they were sever- 
 ally met and disposed of, and the eve of my marriage 
 •camCo All seemed well. I 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 
 fiancee^ 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. 
 
 " Yoii have not heard from Silvion 1 " she said at once, 
 in a low but earnestly inquiring tone. 
 
 *' I ! '' and I shrugged my shoulders as though in 
 amazement at the absurdity of such a question. 
 
 " No, — I suppose he would not write to you^^^ she mur- 
 mured sadly. " Then, he must be ill, or dead." 
 
 Strange tenacity of w^oman's faith ! She could not, 
 would not, believe he had deserted her. She resumed, 
 with a curious air of grave formality— 
 
 *' It seems you really intend to marry me, Monsieur 
 Beauvais ? '' 
 
 " It seems so, truly, mademoiselle ! '' I returned frigidly. 
 
 She looked at me steadfastly. 
 
 *' Listen 1 " she said. " I know why you do it, — fof 
 my father's sake — and for the sake of good M. Vau- 
 dron, — to save honor and prevent scandal, — you do it for 
 this, — and I — I do not know whether to thank you ot 
 curse you for your pity ! '' She paused, trembling \Aith 
 the excess of her emotion, then continued — ** But — un- 
 derstand 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 afterwards — after- 
 wards I will go away to die somewhere by myself, where 
 I shall trouble no one, and where not even dear good 
 xieloise will be able to find me. Disgraced, I will bear 
 
l62 IVORAflVOOD, 
 
 tlie solitude of disgrace^ — ruined^ I will abide by my 
 
 ruin ! " 
 
 I studied lier features with a cold scrutiny tiiat made 
 Iier cheeks flush and her limbs tremble, though her eyes 
 remained quietly fixed on mine. 
 
 *^ You have made your planSj I see/' I said. " But 
 I-—I also have plans 1 You say you will go away to 
 ^ die ' — not so ! — you mean you will go in search of 3/^our 
 lover ! Has it ever struck you that he ma}/ 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 tv/o families, and by ret- 
 ience we have fought off scandal,— but I must ask you 
 to remember that if I once bestov/ 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 from me as though an icy wind had touched her 
 with its breath. 
 
 '' How can the past be blotted out forever," she 
 
 faltered," when- *' Here she paused suddenly and drew 
 
 herself erect. " Gaston Beauvais, v/hen I came to you 
 and told you all that night, I placed my fate in your 
 hands. I asked you to break your engagement v/ith 
 me— and you made excuse and delay— you would not. 
 Nor would you let me speak. You told me you would act 
 for the best, and I trusted everything to you, — I thought 
 you would spare me, — I believed 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 some- 
 thing cruel in your eyes — something fatal in your smile 1 
 Tell me truly — w/iy do you marry me ? " 
 
 She regarded me with a touch of fear as she put the 
 question. 
 
 "Pardon, mademoiselle ; but you anticipate ! " I re« 
 plied calmly. " I have not married you — -yet ! " 
 
 " To-morrow—" she beean. 
 
 o 
 
 Springing to her side I grasped her suddenly by the 
 arm. I felt a strange fire pricking in ray veins,~one of 
 those accesses of heat and fury which were growing fre^ 
 quent with me of late. 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 163 
 
 " To-morrow has not come ! " I said in low fierce ac- 
 cents. " Wait till it does ! What do you take me for, 
 silly child ? Do you think you can play with a man's 
 heart as you have played with mine, and meet v/ith no 
 punishment ? Do you think you can wreck a whole lite 
 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 horrible secret of 
 your shame. But wait — wait ! — you are not married 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 M. Vaudron for the 
 latest news of his admirable nephew ! " 
 
 Her eyes dilated with terror, and she repeated the 
 words after me, hke a dull child learning some difficult 
 lesson. 
 
 " Ask M. Vaudron for the latest news of his nephew ! '' 
 — and her very lips turned white as she spoke — ^^the 
 latest news of Silvion ! You knov/ 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 
 otherwise, he is alive and well, and at this very momer. 
 he is probably at his holy prayers ! He has entered the 
 priesthood ! — and by that simple act, has escaped both 
 my sword and your embraces ! '' 
 
 She gave a smothered cry — staggered and seemeu 
 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 cannot be true ! " 
 
 *' Ask the Cure,'' I said. " He no doubt has the news 
 by this time. He is a good man, — not used, like h's 
 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 
 *ja the eyes. 
 
164 WORMWOOD. 
 
 " How do you know this ? " she asked, " Why should 
 vou, 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 ironicallyc 
 ^' Weil, perhaps you will accept your lover's own voucher 
 for the information. Here it is, — pray read it for yoursei/ 
 and be satisfied." 
 
 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 
 Vv'oman !■ — she covered 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 melodra- 
 matic 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 m.e 1 Oh, I shall die quite 
 bravely nov/ ! — there will be nothing to regret, even as 
 there is nothing to hope. But, Gaston, you are very cruel 
 to me 1 — you are not like your old kind self at all. I am 
 so poor and slight and miserable a thing — I cannot under- 
 stand how it can be worth your while to judge me so 
 harshly. Never mind — it does not matter — I shall not 
 trouble you long. I have been very wicked,— -yes — I 
 knovv^ that,- — and you, Gaston, you wish me to be pun- 
 ished ? Well then, does it not please you to know that my 
 heart is broken ? My heart— my heart ! — Silvion ! '^ 
 
 And, covering her face v/ith her hands, she suddenly 
 turned and fled from the room. I heard the door closr 
 behind her, — and I thought myself alone. Every nerve 
 in my body pulsated with the suppressed excitement of 
 my mind, and, leaning 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 shoulder startled me I iooked up, 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 H 
 
 •"^Heloise St. Cyr stood beside me, pale and grave as a 
 i^culptvired nun, and I stared at her in vague amazement. 
 
 *' What is the matter, M. Gaston ? " she inquired. 
 
 I forced a laugh. 
 
 " Matter, Heloise ? Truly,— nothing ! " 
 
 *' Nothing ! " she echoed incredulously. " Why, then, 
 wr^s 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, chere 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 1 " she queried coldly. 
 " It seems unnatural and unlikely. You are deceiving me, 
 M„ Gaston." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 " Possibly ! " I answered, " But v^rhat would you } I 
 fancy we were born into the world, all of us, for the sin- 
 gular purpose of deceiving each other ! " 
 
 Her eyes filled v/ith a vague fear and surprise. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she faltered nervously. 
 
 " Do not ask me, Heloise 1 " And, advancing a step 
 or two, I caught her shrinking hand, and held it prisoned 
 in my fevered clasp. ^' I cannot tell you what I mean ! I 
 do not know myself. There are certain phases of feeling 
 and passion — are there not? — which storm the soul at 
 times, — we are shaken, but we cannot explain the shock 
 even to our innermost consciences ! Do not speak to me 
 — do not look at me 1 — Your eves v^^ould draw out the 
 secret of a madman's misery ! Ask your ov/n heart if there 
 are not strange and complex emotions within it, as in mine, 
 which have never been uttered, and never laill be uttered 1 
 If we could only speak frankly, we men and women, at 
 certain moments when the better part of us is paramount, 
 — m,y God ! — if we could only dare to be ourselves, who 
 knows ! the v/orld might be happier ! " 
 
 With this incoherent outburst, the drift of which I my- 
 self scarcely understood, I hurriedly kissed the hand I 
 iield, released it, and left her. How she looked, I know 
 not, — something 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 <tne passion of my embrace, — and yet — did I love Jic;i t 
 
l66 WORMWOOD, 
 
 I crnnot tell,— I think not. It ¥/as only the indefinable 
 attraction of her personality 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 perfume 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 
 condition of brain nothing in the whole world appeared 
 decided, because the eventuality of death was always pres- 
 ent. 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-difficulty with many Frenchwomen. Or 
 — I might die ! That v/ould 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 change in my looks, but this was chiefly set 
 down to overwork. And my father had occasionally remon- 
 strated 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 sucessfuUy got through during 
 his absence 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 
 prepared, and drained each one off w4th insatiable and 
 ever-increasing appetite, — I drank till the solid walls of 
 my own room, when at last I found myself there, appeared 
 to me like transparent glass shot through with emerald 
 flame. Surrounded on all sides by phantoms5-™beautiful, 
 hideous, angelic, devilish, — I reeled to my couch in a sort 
 of wakins: swoon, conscious of strange sounds everywhere, 
 Bke the clanging of brazen bells and the silver fanfar 
 
WORMWOOD, l6^ 
 
 rotiade of the trumpets of war, — 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, I was perfectly con- 
 tent with the spectral march of ray own brain-pageantry. 
 And I quite forgot — as I always wish to forget—that there 
 are fools in the world for whom heart-freezing absinthe 
 has no charms, and who therefore still prate like chiidrerA 
 and idiotSj of God and Conscience ! 
 
S68 WORMWOOD. 
 
 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 v^^as av/are 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 without clearly recognizing their 
 nature. I took a long walk before breakfast, but though 
 the air and motion did me some amount of good, I never- 
 theless found myself totally unable to resist certain im- 
 pulses 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 phantasmagoria of 
 the past wild night. How sv/iftly 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 ex- 
 pose to view the mouldering skeletons within ! — the eye- 
 less skulls that, for all their lack of vision, had yet seemed 
 to stare upon us while w^e mocked their helpless deso- 
 lation ! 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 v/ings, and, finding 
 on our way a church-door standing open v/e had entered 
 in. There we had seen silver lamps steadily burning,— 
 there v/e had heard the organ pealing fordi strange 
 psalmody, and there v/e had discovered a prieyt kneeling 
 on the altar-st€ps with wondrous Raffaelle-like face up- 
 turned to the shining Host above him. " Siivion Gui- 
 del ! " we had shrieked loudly in his ears, my. elfin 
 comrade and I—" Die, Siivion Guidel ! " And " Die, 
 Siivion Guidel ! " was echoed back to us in a thunder of, 
 many voices, — while, as the chorus smote the air, lo ! the^ 
 Hosi' -J ..nished from sight, — the altar crumbled into dust, 
 there was no more sign of salvation, hope, or rescue for 
 that criminal there Vv^ho dared to kneel and pi ay, — there 
 was nothing — nothing but the yawning blackiiess of an 
 
V/0RMW007J. 169 
 
 open grave ! How my fair witch laughed as she pointed 
 to that dull deep hole in tlie ground ! — how I kissed her 
 on the rq3e red lips for the appropriateness of her death- 
 ful suggestion ! — hovvr I toyed with her fiery-gold hair i — ■ 
 and how we fled 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 me. Her whispers 
 buzzed continually in my brain and I never failed to list- 
 en ; — 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 watching me attentively, suddenly said — 
 
 '' Gaston, art thou well } " 
 
 I looked fall at him and laughed. 
 
 '^ Perfectly well, man Fere I Why ask such a ques- 
 tion ? " 
 
 *'Your eyes look feverish," he answered, "and I have 
 noticed that your hand shakes. If you were not my son, 
 I should say you had been drinking ! " 
 
 I bit my lips vexedly, — then forced a smile. 
 
 *-' Mercif But cannot you allov/ for a little unusual ex- 
 citement on one's wedding-day ? " 
 
 His countenance cleared, and he laid one hand affec- 
 tionately on my shoulder. 
 
 " Of course ! Still — to be quite honest with 3^ou, Gas- 
 ton, 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 Switzerland 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 honeymoon, my 
 bride and I, by the shores of the blue romantic lakes that 
 Byron loved and sang of. I had never seen the splendor 
 of the snow-mountains, — I have never yet seen them, and 
 it is very certain now that I never shall ! 
 
 I avoided any further converse with my father, and was 
 
XJO WORMWOOD. 
 
 glad that so little time was left us for the chance of a fife* 
 d'tete. Punctual \.o the hour appointed, we drove to the De 
 Charmilles' 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 ; \!\i was 
 exquisitely adorned with palms and flowers, and for one 
 dazed moment I saw nothing but a whirl of bright faces 
 magnificent bouquets tied with floating ends of white and 
 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 v/ith the bridesmaids, — all clad in palest pink, -all 
 ready for the church ceremony, vmich to them., as women, 
 was of course the most interesting part of the performance, 
 — and in the centre of this group stood Heloise St. Cyr, 
 looking strangely pale and grave. Whether it Vv^as 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 any- 
 thing, — v/hether Pauline, in a sudden fit of desperate 
 courage had told her all 1 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 
 ^ow tone, — "for, indeed, her fair and spiritual beauty exer- 
 used over m.e 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 bridesmaids and beckoned 
 me to follow her apart. I did so. 
 
 " Something terrible has happened,— I ami sure of it I " 
 she said with passionate emphasis. " You spoke so 
 strangely yesterday, and she has wept all night. Oh, why 
 '—why will you net tell me what it is ? The child is af'^aid 
 oi you 1 
 
 " Pauline afraid of r/ie/^^ I exclaimed, raising my ey^* 
 brows in simulated air.azement. " Really, Heloise, I can-' 
 not understand " 
 
 She made a movement of impatience and laid her ^ou- 
 
wormwood: 171 
 
 cjuet of flowers liglitly against he:: ilps, " Hush i we caiA • 
 not speak now, — it is too late ! But — if you meditate arx]/ 
 wrong or cruelty to Pauline — well ! — God may forgive you, 
 but /will not!'' 
 
 Her eyes flashed a positive menace^ — she looked em- 
 press-like in that moment of wrath, and ray admiring 
 glance must have told her as much, for the color 
 crimsoned her cheeks to a deeper hue than thsl 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 
 sufl:er as they make men suffer 1 — nothing less will bnng 
 down their wantonness or impress upon their arrogant 
 natures the value of humility ! I walked with a firm step 
 tip 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 w^as to be trans^ 
 acted 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 
 appealing. The Count himself had left the room ; nat- 
 urally, ail present knew his errand There was a hush of 
 expectation, — the bright eyes of the lovely and fashion- 
 able women assembled were turned eagerly towards the 
 door, — it opened, and Pauline entered, in full bridal 
 attire, leaning on her father's arm. White as a snowflake 
 — 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 
 mechanically as though the action v/ere the result of a 
 carefully-learned lesson. On she camo,~— and I heard 
 whispered observations on her deadly paleness ; but i was 
 too busy with my own rising frenzy to h^exl aught else. 
 I was enraged ! — what business had she., this fair, frail, 
 
172 WORMWOOD. 
 
 helpless-looking girl, to come to me as though she were i^ 
 white fawn being led up to have its tender throat slit ! — «• 
 how dare she pose before me like a statue of grief with 
 that look of quenchless unutterable despair vrozen on her 
 face !•— aye !— -how dare she^ knowing herseli so vile, thus 
 mutely : 'ivite compassion 1 One of those irresistible 
 sudden :x.shes of demoniacal impulse stronger than my° 
 self seized me ;- — I felt the blood surging in my ears 
 and burning at my frnger-tips^ — ^I was in the grasp of a 
 force more potent than fire to destroy, — and vvithout act- 
 ually realising quite what I meant to do or to say, I waited \ 
 waited till the stately Comte de Charmilles, — proud par- 
 ent! — reached me where I stood, — waited, till he, by a 
 gracefully courteous gesture, appeared to dumbly present 
 me with my bride 1 T/ien the clamorous devil in me 
 broke loose and had its way, — thc7i^ yielding to its subtle 
 suggestions, I tasted my revenge ! — the7t^ I had the satis 
 faction of seeing the haught}^ old aristocrat blench and 
 tremble like a leaf in the wind as he met my coldly scorn« 
 ful 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 — 
 
 " M. 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, refuse to marry her ! '' 
 
 For one moment there was horrified stillnesSe — the 
 old Count turned a ghastly vv^hite and seemed paralyzed 
 —Pauline moved not at all. Then my father's clear voice 
 rang through the hushed room sharply. 
 
 " Gaston, art thou mad 1 " 
 
 I looked at him calmly. 
 
 ^^ All contraif'e^ I am, quite sane, I assure you, monptref 
 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 her* 
 self who, Hke a veiled image^ mi^ht have been carved in 
 
WORMWOOD, 173 
 
 Stone for any sign of life she gave. Suddenly one of the 
 civic authorities turned round fro:ri the table on which the 
 books of registration lay prepared. He was an old man 
 of punctilious and severe manner, and he regarded me 
 ^ternly as he said — - 
 
 " Upon what grounds does Monsieur Gaston Beauvais 
 propose to break his plighted word to Mademoiselle De 
 Charmilles ? 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 
 hurriedly. " Truly it is a question that needs answering ! 
 — on what grounds .^ " 
 
 I fell rather than saw the instinctive movement of the 
 whole brillant assemblage of guests towards me, — every 
 one was bending forward to listen, — I caught a glimpse 
 of the pale horrified face of Heloise St. Cyr, and just then 
 Pauline raised her sorrowful 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 1 I 
 was mad, and I revelled in my madness ! What mattered 
 anything to me save the clutch of the fiend at my throat 
 — the devil that compelled me to fling aw^ay every thought 
 of gentleness, every merciful and chivalrous impulse to 
 the winds of hell ! 
 
 " On what grounds ? " I echoed bitterl)^ " Simply — • 
 dishonor ! — shame ! is this not enough ? Must I speak 
 still more plainly? Then take all the truth at once ! — I 
 cannot accept as my wife the cast-off mistress of Silvion 
 Guidbl I '' 
 
JP WOJ^MirOOIK 
 
 xnii. 
 
 The blew had fallen at last, and with crushing effect 
 
 " Oh vile accusation ! " cried the Count, shaking his 
 daughter from his arm. " Pauline ! — Speak ! Is this 
 true ? '' 
 
 Unsupported she stood, and feebly raised her hands, 
 clasping 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 miser)/' was written. No one looking 
 upon her then could have doubted her guilt for an in- 
 stant. 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, — aye, every one !— 
 for the Comtesse cle Charmilles had swooned in her chair, 
 and it was more coinvie ilfaitt to minister to her^ the 
 blameless wife and respectable matron, than to the 
 wretched child Vv^hose disgrace had been thus publicly 
 proclaimed ! E^.^ery 07ie hung back did I say 1 No, — not 
 every one ; for while I stood gazing at the scene, savagely 
 satisfied at the havoc I had wrought, Heloise St. Cyr 
 sprung forward like an enraged pythoness, her whole form 
 quivering with wrath and sorrow, and flinging herself on 
 her knees beside her unconscious cousin, she lifted her 
 partially from the ground, and held her to her breast wdth 
 passionate tenderness. 
 
 ^^Lache!^'' she cried, flashing her indignant eyes full 
 upon me, while the scornful word from her lips whipt me 
 a^ with a scourge. ^^ Coward ! Cruel, vile coward I 
 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 1 A 
 woman'' s life too !— a life that is powerless to do mora 
 
WORMWOOD. 275 
 
 ten suffer the wrongs inflicted upon a &y the wanton 
 wickedness of men ! Pauline ! Pauline ! Look at me, 
 darling ! Look at Ileloise, who loves thee, — who will 
 never forsake thee — -pauvre^ pauvre peiiie ! Leave her to 
 me ! ^' she exclaimed almost fiercely as one of the younger 
 bridesmaids, trembling and fearful, timidly came forv/ard 
 to volunteer her assistance, " Leave her — desert her^ as 
 every one will, now she is broken-hearted ; it is the way 
 of the world 1 Why do you wait here, Gaston Beauvais ? '' 
 — and her contemptuous glance fell so witheringly upon 
 me, that for the moment 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 ven« 
 geance for your wrong— enjoy it ! Had you been a true 
 man you might have wreaked your wrath on the chief 
 actor in this tragedy, — the murderer, not the victim ! '' She 
 paused, white and breathless ; then, seeming to sum.mon 
 all her forces together, she continued passionately, " May 
 your wickedness recoil on your own head ! — may the ruin 
 you have brought on others come down with tenfold vio- 
 lence upon yourself ! — oh 1 may God punish you !— He 
 must — He will — if Lleaven holds any justice ! " She 
 paused again, panting excitedly, and one of the lady 
 guests here touched her on the shoulder. 
 "Heloise I Heloise ! Be calm — be calm 1 '^ 
 " 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 the 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 Bom. 
 pard, when she was shown the graphic police-illustrations 
 of her own crime, — and even as it was, I smiled. \ 
 noticed several people looking at me in amazed disgust, 
 —but what did I care for that ! Lhe merest so up f on o\ 
 truth always disgusts society ! Meanwhile, the assem^ 
 blage 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 
 
176 WORMWOOD. 
 
 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 despatched with a 
 message to the Cure, M. Vaudron, to inform him that the 
 ceremony was broken off, — the Comtesse had been as- 
 sisted to her apartment, — servants were now lifting the 
 insensible figure of Pauline from the ground, — and amid 
 it allj I stood quietly looking on, vaguely 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 acquaint- 
 ance with me,— the departing guests made me no saluta- 
 tion, and I appeared to be held in sudden and singular 
 abhorrence. What a droll v/orld, I thought ! Always 
 prating about morality,— and yet vv^hen a man makes a 
 bold stand for morality and publicly declares he will not 
 marry a v\^oman who is the victim of an esclaiidre^ 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 .^ Hov/ are the in- 
 terests of ^^ morality '' to be served by hushing such 
 matters up among the exalted fev/ 1 I was still musing on 
 this, and on human inconsistency generally, when my 
 father touched me on the arm. 
 
 " Come away from this house of affliction," he said 
 Sternly. " Come away ! Your presence here now is 
 nothing but an insult 1 " 
 
 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. 
 ¥/e v/ere just about to leave the house, when a serv- 
 ant ran after us v/ith a card which she put into my 
 hands, departing instantly again without a word. A 
 challenge, I thought derisively? — ^v/ho 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 v/ords written across it in pencil : '* I re- 
 quest that Monsieur Gaston Beauvais will call upon me 
 to-morrow before noon." I thrust it in my pocket, and 
 walked after my iather who Lad preceded me, and who 
 was now waiting impatiently for me outside the great 
 ^orte-cocherc of the Count's residence^ keeping bis head 
 
WORMl^VOOB 177 
 
 carefully turned away from the gaze of the various 
 owners of the departing carriages, in order that he might 
 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 ?7iy son could have been capable of 
 such a coward's vengeance ! " 
 
 I looked at him, and shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 ** You are excited, pion pere I What have I done, save 
 speak the truth, and, as the bra^e English say, shame the 
 devil t '' 
 
 ** The truth — the truth ! " said my father passionately. 
 " Is it the truth 1 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 hh7i and have spared her ? God ! 
 I would as soon wTing the neck of a bird that trusted me, 
 as add any extra v/eight to the sorrows of an already 
 broken-hearted woman ! " 
 
 Gallant old preux-chev alter f 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 outburst ; I merely hummed the fragment of a tune 
 under my breath, my doing so causing him to stare at me 
 in indignant surprise. 
 
 " I 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 con- 
 cerned in it, I have no reason to doubt its accuracy ! " I 
 murmured coldly. 
 
 "Then you have known of it for some time .? " 
 
 I bent my head assentingly. 
 
 " Then why not have spoken 1 '' he cried wrathfully. 
 " Why not have told 7?ie? Why not have done everything, 
 — anythmg^ rather than proclaim the fact of the poor mis- 
 erable little girl's disgrace to all the world ? Why, above 
 '>il, did you not challenge Guidel .? '' 
 
 "I was prepared to do so when he suddenly left for 
 
asyS WORMWOOD. 
 
 Brittany/' 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 hib 
 walking=stick heaviiy on the ground. " Miserable pol> 
 troon !— sanctimonious young hypocrite ! " 
 
 " I am glad/' I interrupted, smiling slightly, " that you 
 at last send the current of your wrath in the right direc- 
 tion ! It is rather unjust of you to blame mc in the 
 affair — -" 
 
 ^'' Farbleul you are as much a villain as he 1 '' 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 scelerat of the tw^o ! " 
 
 I stopped in my walk and faced him. 
 
 "Are we to quarrel, sir.? '' I demanded composedly. 
 
 " Yes ! — we are to quarrel I '' he retorted hotly. " There 
 is something in my blood that rises at you ! — that sickens 
 at you, though you are my son 1 I do not excuse Guidel, 
 —I do not excuse 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 mean- 
 est creature living ! I tell you plainly that, after your 
 conduct of to-day, the same house cannot hold you and 
 me together in peace ! — there is nothing for it but that we 
 must part." 
 
 *^ As you please ! " I ansvv^ered coldly. " But you will 
 allow me to remark that it is very curious and unreason- 
 able of you to find such fault with me for publicly refus- 
 ing 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 unnatural. She had pity, tenderness, and patience 
 for every suffering thing ! She was an angel of grace and 
 charity 1 You cannot have much of ker nature ; and 
 truly you seem now to have little of mine 1 Some strange 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 17& 
 
 demon seems to inhabit your frame, — and the gener- 
 ous, warm-hearted young fellow I knew as my son might 
 be daad 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 waniier of your refusal ! Enough i 
 — 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 dis- 
 played tovv^ards a fallen and utterly defenceless girl. You 
 had best leave Paris and take a twelvemonth's sojourn in 
 some other land than this, — I will place plenty %i cash 
 at your disposal. It is impossible that you should stay on 
 here after what has occurred ; mon Dieic ! — ^a madman, 
 — a drunkard, — a delirious absiiitheur might be capable of 
 such useless ferocity ;• — but a man with all his senses about 
 him — pah ! it is the action of a beast rather than of 
 rational, reasoning human being ! " 
 
 I made no reply. The words " a delirious absintheur 
 might be capable of such useless ferocity," reiterated 
 themselves 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 i7i/i?iitu?n, from the 
 vantage-ground of that particular 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 in- 
 dignant to be argued with. 
 
 Arrived at our own house, our man-servant Dunois 
 greeted us with a surprised face, and the information that 
 the Cure, 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. " Ma- 
 demoiselle is not well ; it is postponed ! " 
 
 Oh, famous old courtier ! He w^ould 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 '' fair}?- 
 with the green e3''es " taught me more worldly wisdom ! 
 
 *' I will see poor Vaudron alone," he said, addressing me 
 stiffly as Dunois retired. " His grief must be beyond ex- 
 pression, — and he can dispense with more than qhq wit* 
 ness oi it/' 
 
l8o JFOJCA^JFOOI?. 
 
 I bowed— and ascended the staircase leisurely to my 
 0¥/ii room. Once shut in there alone, I was seized with 
 an uncontrollable lit of laughter ! How absurd it all' 
 seemed 1 What a triumph of pathos 1 To think of all those 
 fine birds of Parisian society flocking to see a grand 
 wedding, and comini^ 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 Aviiite and untarnished again i 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 spectre "without feeling, voice 
 or voluntary movement ! All the life she had was in her 
 eyes,- — great reproachful blue eyes ! — they haunted me 
 like twin burning sapphires liung in a vault of darkness ! 
 
 Sitting listlessly in an arm-chair at my window, I 
 looked out, doing nothing, but simply thinking, and try° 
 ing to disentangle the thronging images that rose one 
 after the other v^^ith such confusing haste in my brain. 1 
 Vv^ondered what my father and old Vaudron were talking 
 about belov/ ! Me ? Yes !— no doubt they were shaking 
 their gray heads mournfully over my strange wayward- 
 ness ! Smiling at the idea, I shut ray eyes — and straight- 
 wmy saw a wealth of green and gold and amber flame — 
 waves of color that seemed to rise heavingly tovi'-ards me, 
 while faces, lovelier far than mortal ones, floated forth 
 and smiled at me in wise approval of all that I had done ! 
 Opening miy 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 wedlock was consummated,—- an mdis» 
 soluble union with the fair wild Absinthe-witch of my 
 dreams !— -she and she alone should be part of my Jesh 
 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 ahsintheur I 
 
 Watching the street with drowsy unintelligent eyes i 
 presently saw my father and M. Vaudron come out of 
 the house and cross the road together. The old Cure's 
 
IVORMIVOOD. iaa 
 
 head was bent,— -he appeared to walk with difficulty, 
 and he was evidently more than half supported by my 
 father's stalwart arm. Respectable old fellows both 
 - — with warm hearts and clear consciences! — wonder- 
 ful! 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 towards one's fellow-men? Yet a faint sense 
 of admiration stirred me, as I looked after the slowly 
 retreating figures of the two old friends ; and a linger- 
 ing regret just touched my heart as with a pin's prick 
 to think that my father's indignation 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-wan- 
 derings took me so far, that when I started back to 
 commonplace reality at last, I was in total darkness. 
 I had not been asleep — - that I knew well enough! 
 
 Night had descended upon me all unawares, — 
 and suddenly seized with a nervous terror at the 
 silence and obscurity of my room, I groped about for 
 matches, trembling like a leaf and afraid of I knew 
 not what. I flung open the door wildly, and to my in- 
 tense 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 hazilyo What did 
 he want me for — me, the * 'pariah" of Parisian society, 
 rejected because I had dared to make a woman's vice 
 public ! 
 
 ''Gaston! Gaston!" he called for the second time, 
 
 Without reply, I descended the stairs,- — entered tha 
 
l82 WOI^MIVQOD. 
 
 library,-— and tnerCj to my amazement, came face to tac8 
 with Heloise St Cyr ! Pale, impassioned, wondrously 
 beaiUiful in grief, she stood beside my father whose fac3 
 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 sprang forward, extending her hands 
 appealinglyo 
 
 '• Oh. M. Gaston, help me ! " she cried sobbingly. 
 '* Help me — and I will forgive all your cruelty to poor 
 Pauline ! only help me to find her ! — she has left us I~ 
 she has gone 1 — and we know not where i '' 
 
V/O^MWQOJX 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I GAZED at her a moment in blank silence ; — then, re- 
 membering 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 diffi- 
 culty you can possibly have in tracing her, mademoiselle ! 
 She has only fled to her lover 1 ' 
 
 As I said this with freezing tranquillity, Heloi'se suddenly 
 gave way, and breaking into smothered sobbing, hid her 
 face on my father's arm. 
 
 ** Oh, I hope," she cried piteously. *^ I hope God i^ 
 more merciful than man ! Oh, what shall I do, ^\i2X 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, addressing herself to my 
 father, she drew from her bosom a little crumpled note 
 and unfolded it. " I had left her," she sobbed, '' lying on 
 her own bed, after we had carried her upstairs in her 
 swoon, — and when I came back after attending to my 
 aunt Vv^ho is ver}^, 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 
 sayL '' — here Heloise tried to master her tears, and, steady 
 ing her voice, she read — ^'Try to forgive me, darling 
 Heloise ; you are so good that you will even pit}^ 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 unconcernedly as ^ cynical critic looks on at a new 
 play. 
 
 ** Poor child-— -poor child ! " murmured my father 
 
^54 WOJ?MrVOOD. 
 
 huskily ; then he turned towards me. " Have you nothing 
 to say, Gaston ?— no suggestion to make ? " 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " Absohitely ; I am powerless in the matter," I said 
 Qoldly. " I am in a very peculiar position m^yself, — 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 m.y wrong,— all the compas- 
 sion and anxiety being, oddh^ enough, bestowed on the per- 
 petrators of the injury done to ?ne, I confess therefore, 
 that I am not particularly interested in the present denoue- 
 
 Heloise looked straight at me, and then, suddenly ap- 
 proaching 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 1 I hallowed her with a worship such 
 as she never dream.t of ! She was evervthins; to me — life, 
 love, hope, salvation 1 — -and you ask me if I loved her ! 
 Oh, foolish woman ! you cannot 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 He'loise did not flinch. Her gray 
 eyes shone upon me through the mist of tears as stead- 
 fastly as stars. 
 
 " Such love is not love at all ! " she said. *'' It is selfish- 
 ness : — no more ! The injury done to you appears all par- 
 amount, — you have no thought, no pity for the injury done 
 to her. The world is still open to yoti ; but on he7' it is 
 shut forever. You 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 v^dll scorn 
 he?^ for the evil it endures in yoUr and in all men I Such is 
 humanity's scant justice ! If you had ever loved her truly, 
 you would have forgotten your own wrong in her misery ; 
 you would have raised her up, not crushed her clown lower 
 than she already was ; you would have saved her, not de- 
 stroyed her ! I warned you long ago that she Vv^as a creat- 
 ure of impulse, too young and too inexperienced to be 
 ©ertain of her own mind in the perplexities of love or xci2j' 
 
WORMWOOD 185 
 
 ;datge ; 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 1 re- 
 strained myself, 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 in- 
 stead 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 won- 
 dered 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 si- 
 v/ays 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 waiting. My uncle does not yet know of Pauline's 
 flight ; we are afraid to tell him ;— and we thought — 
 Biy aunt and I — that perhaps you might help us to some 
 clue " 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, yon shall know it at once. I will make 
 every possible private inquiry ; — alas, alas ! v;hat an un- 
 fortunate day it was for everybody when that nephew of 
 my poor old friend Vaudron came to Paris ! Who would 
 have thought it 1 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 de- 
 ception and cruelty. But whatever his grief, I know he 
 will assist us in the search for Pauline ; that you may be 
 s-^sie of. Try, try to take comfort my dear ; you musi 
 
't^ WORMWOOn. 
 
 not give way. There is always the hope that the pc >f 
 child may be terrified at her sudden lonelinesSj 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 nev/spapers, till I heard the carriage 
 drive away, and my father's returning steps echoed slov/ly 
 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 ! " 
 
 " Are you satisfied with the evil you have done ? '* 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 " Really, mon pere, you talk as if I were the only crim- 
 inal in the matter ! There are others — — " 
 
 " And they are punished ! '' he declared passionately. 
 ** Punished more bitterly than most people are for their 
 misdeeds ; and the heavist punishment has fallen on the 
 weakest offender, thanks to you ! As for Silvion Guidel, 
 you may depend 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 
 atonement for his sins in the muttering of an ' Ave^ or 
 Fater-7ioster,^^ 
 
 *' I tell you he suffers P^ 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 seif-torm.enting disposition \\&hich is always a curse 
 to its owner ! He has behaved like a coward and a villain^ 
 and he knovv^s 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 heart ? " 
 
 " None ! " and I fixed my eyes quietly upon him. 
 " How should you expect it ? I gave what heart I had 
 to my betrothed 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 ph^ • I am perfectly 
 
WORMWOOD. 187 
 
 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 presence 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 wilfully, through all my life, given you 
 a moment's cause for pain or reproach, — and secondly, 
 vhat in this rupture of a marriage which was to have been 
 the completion 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 olfence 
 you can charge against me is, a want of sympathy with a 
 dishonored woman, who has not only confessed, but 
 almost glories in her dishonor ! " 
 
 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 absifithezir / 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 ridic- 
 ulous wrong-sidedness with which everybody insisted 
 on viewing the whole affair. All the pity was for 
 Pauline ! and yet people would go on prating about 
 " morality ! '' Judged strictly, Pauline de Charmilles had 
 not a shadow of defence on her side ; but because she 
 was young, beautiful, and a woman, her fate excited 
 sympathy. Had she been ugly and misshapen, she 
 might have been scourged abnd 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 contirmed* 
 drinker of absinthe, want to be moral ! Not J ! I 
 should win scanty attenton from some of you, if I ddi,' 
 I only observe to you, en passant^ that, considering how 
 the barriers between vice and virtue are being fast 
 broken down in all great " civilized " countries ; how, 
 even in eminently virtuous and respectable '^ Albion " — • 
 women of known disreputable character are allowed to 
 2?iter ana mix witn the highest aristocratic circles, — and 
 flow it will most probably soon be necessary to establish 
 P3. church-going London and under the very nose of good 
 
j88 WORMIVOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Grundy, a recognized demi-monde after the fa^hk^* 
 of my dear Paris,— in the face of all these facts, I say 
 stirel}^ it is time to leave off sermonizing about dull house- 
 hold virtues ! — an age of Realism and Zola has no time iox 
 them ! But whatever you may think of my opinions,— ' 
 opinions bom of blessed absinthe; — sit in judgment on 
 yourselves, my readers, before you venture to judge me J 
 Believe me, I used, like many other young men, to have 
 my ideals of greatness and goodness; the beautiful, the 
 raystical, the impersonal and sublime had attractions 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 vari absintheur I enjoy a sneer at 
 virtue — now, like many of my class who wish to '*g© v/ith 
 the time," I 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 v/orld! 
 — the generation under which you groan as you roll silently 
 on in your fate-appointed orbit ; the generation of brute- 
 selfishness, littleness, and godlessness, — the generation of 
 the finite Ego opposed to infinite Eternities! I please 
 m3^self in the way I live, I am answerable to none other! 
 And, you, dear reader, whose languid eyes rest carelessly 
 on this printed page, — entre nous soit die! — 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 ultimate interest 
 and good? Of course! Excellent! Let us then meta- 
 phorically shake hand3 upon our declared brotherhood, — 
 for though you may be, and no doubt are, highly respect- 
 able, while I am altogether disreputable, — though you 
 may be everything that society approves, while I am 
 an absinthe-drinking outcast from polite life, a skulking 
 pariah of the slumps and back streets of Paris, we are both 
 at one — yes my dear friend, I assure you, — entirely at one! 
 — ^in the worship of Self. ! 
 
Bi^ojSMmxfOt m 
 
 JrLJkfl 
 
 Next day I remembered I had a visit to make. The 
 Comte de Charmilles expected m:e to call upon him be- 
 fore 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 indignation at the dis- 
 honor that was brought on his name. Certes, he 
 could not excuse his daughter or her partner in iniqui- 
 ty ; he might pour out his wrath upon me for making 
 the affair public to all his friends and acquaintance, 
 but that would be the utmost he could do. I deter- 
 mined to hear him out with the utmost courtesy, he had 
 never given me offence, save by his stupid Royalist 
 tendencies and bigoted Catholicism, — -and it was quite 
 enough for me, a nineteenth centur]^ Republican, to 
 have lowered his pride and broken it,— I wanted no- 
 thing more so far as /le was concerned! Before start- 
 ing 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 v^rent 
 m search of my father. He was just preparing to 
 leave the house for his usual duties at the Bank, and 
 lie looked fagged and wearied. He lifted his eyes and 
 regarded me steadily as I approached him~his lips 
 quivered, and, suddenly 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 embittered 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 conclusion,— -namely, that 
 it will be best for us both that we should separate for a 
 time. The whole position is too painful for evervbody 
 concerned ! And I am quite ready to admit that the 
 suffering you have personally undergone has been, 
 aiid IS, of a nature to chafe and exasperate your feel- 
 ings. Change of scene and different stirroundings will 
 ■do much for you. 
 
'9^ 
 
 WORMWOOD, 
 
 Mon gar^on, — and this miserable esclandre will possibly 
 die out during your absence. Choose your own time for 
 goiiig ^^ 
 
 *' I have chosen it/' — I interrupted him quietly—** \ 
 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 
 ifrom me in your desk in the library ; I have thought it 
 wisest to give you at once a round sum sufficient for pres-« 
 ent needs. Your share in the Bank as my partner natu- 
 -ally continues, — and shall be religiously set aside for yout 
 ^^se 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 
 to care for the British climate. No !— if, like a new Cain, 
 I am to be a vagabond on the face of the earth, I will 
 wander as far as my fancy takes me ; Africa, /^r examph 
 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 mine. 
 
 " Moil fils^ why speak so bitterly ? Is it necessary to 
 ajd an extra pang to my grief 1 " 
 
 A sudden impulse moved me to softer emotion, — 'jaking 
 Kis hand I kissed it respectfully, 
 
 " Mo7i ph^e^ I regret beyond all words that I am un= 
 happily 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 ther? 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 feiu 
 
 his fingers tremble as they clung for a moment to mine. 
 
 " God bless thee, Gaston ! " he murmured. " Andj, 
 s^ay ! — let me have time to think again 1 Do not leave 
 J-aris 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 
 
WORMWOOD. tgi 
 
 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 agair in the old frank familiarity 
 of intercourse that had made us more like comrades thac 
 father and son ? I doubted it ! Afy 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 
 containing 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, 
 v/hile, to satisfy him as to my destination, I added that it 
 was my immediate intention to visit Italy. A lie of course 1 
 « — I had no such intention ; 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 realizing, as I 
 afterwards realized, that I should never, never enter it 
 again ! 
 
 Hailing a passing carriage I bade the driver take me 
 to the Gare de FEst, Our man-servant Dunois, who put 
 my portmanteau into the vehicle and watched my depart- 
 ure 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 inten- 
 tion, and departed for Italy by the Lucerne and Chiasso 
 route to Milan. Arrived at the Ga7'e^ I put my portman- 
 teau in charge of the official to whom such baggage is 
 consigned for safekeeping — 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 striking in comparison with the 
 glitter and brilliancy that had surrounded it on the pre- 
 vious 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 master had been expecting me for 
 
i92 IVORMWOOD. ,,^ 
 
 some time^ she showed me into the Count's private study 
 and announced me by name. The Count himself was 
 sitting in his arm-chair, his back turned towards me,— his 
 figure rigidly erect — and he gave no sign of having heard 
 my entrance. 
 
 The servant departed noiselessly, closing the door be- 
 hind her, — and I stood irresolute, waiting for him to 
 speak. But he uttered not a v/ord. 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 
 me 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 resolved 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 
 defence 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 daitghter^s reputation ! — ■ 
 Dieu ! it was a freak worthy of laughter 1 Yet there was 
 a touch of the romantic and pathetic about it that moved 
 me vci spite of myself — -though of course I determined to 
 refuse his challengeo 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 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^ or so I imagined, 
 ^hat could not be killed ! — not yet ! 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of my musings remained im* 
 movabiy silent^— and I began rather to wonder at such 
 obstinate taciturnity. His indomitable pride had met 
 with a terrific fall, I reflected !— probably he found it 
 difficult to begin the conversation. I advanced a little. 
 
 " M. de Charmilles ! You bade me come to you, and 
 I am here ! " 
 
 He made no answer. His left hand, thin r.nd wrinkled, 
 rested on tlie carved oak arm of the chair, and I thought 
 I saw it tremble ever so slightly. Was his rage so great 
 
WORMWOOD, 193 
 
 that it had rendered him absolutely speechless ? I moved 
 a few steps nearer. 
 
 '^ M. de Charmilles ! " I repeated, raising my voice a 
 little — '' I am here — Gaston Beauvais. Have you an3^- 
 thing to say to me ? '' 
 
 No answer ! A vague awe seized me, and instinctively 
 hushing 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 wintry star. 
 
 " M. 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 res- 
 olutely forward and round, so that I could look him full 
 in the face. As I did so I recoiled wdth an involuntary 
 exclamation ; the old man's features were rigid and blood- 
 less, — 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 Vv^as 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 sate, surveying me, or so it 
 seemed, in speechless but majestic scorn ; while I, for 
 one amazed, breathless moment stood confronting him, 
 overpowered 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 myawe gave v;ay to the wildest nerv- 
 ous 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 lamenta- 
 tion. As in a dream I saw the Comtesse de 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 3'et warm hands — I heard the 
 sound of convulsive sobbing ; — and then I became dimly 
 aware of a physician's presence, and of the sudden hush 
 of suspense following his arrival. A brief examination 
 sufficed ; — the words " II est mort ! " though uttered in 
 the lowest whisper, reached the ears of the desolate 
 Countess who, with a long shuddering wail of agony. 
 ^3 
 
^4 
 
 WORMi^roOD, 
 
 sank senseless at the dead man's feet. It was all over 1 — 
 some little vessel in the heart had snapt, — some little 
 subtle chord in the brain had given way under the pres- 
 sure of strong indignation, grief, and excitement,-- -and 
 the proud old aristocrat had gowQ to that equalizing dust 
 where there is neither pride nor sh^pie 1 He was dead, 
 — and some narrow-minded fools may consider, if they 
 like, that / killed him. But how ? What crime had / 
 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 pleasure in regarding her as 2. parricide ! Why be- 
 cause 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 
 cannot see it even now ! No one can make me respon- 
 sible 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 
 w^orld of Paris when his death became generally known, 
 — namely, that his daughter's dishonor (not my proc- 
 lamation of it, observe !) had broken his heart ; — and 
 that even so, broken-hearted for her sake, he died. 
 
WORMWOOD. 195 
 
 XXI. 
 
 From this period I may begin to date my i^^pid down- 
 ward 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 
 your smug, hypocritical civilization, good Vv^orld ! — I 
 would rather be what I am, than play the double part 
 your rules of life enjoin ! I am an alien from all re- 
 spectability ; 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 h 
 the fault of my constitution, — a tendency to remember, 
 — I cannot forget, if I would, and whereas on some 
 temperaments the emerald nectar bestows oblivion, on 
 mine it sharpens and intensifies memory. Nevertheless 
 the feverish excitation of pleasure never dies out, and 
 my disposition is such that I am able to brood on things 
 that would appal most men with the keenest and most 
 appreciative delight 1 It is not perhaps agreeable, is it, 
 to peaceable and right-minded people to dwell gloating 
 on the harrowing details of a murder, for instance ? To 
 me, however, it is not only agreeable, but absolutely 
 fascinating, — 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 tenderly upon this picture 
 yet; — but it is difficult to me sometimes to keep my 
 thoughts in sequence. No ahsintheur can be always 
 
?96 
 
 WORMWOOD, 
 
 coherent ; it is too much to expect of the green fairy^s 
 votaries 1 
 
 Well ! the Comte de Charmilles was dead, — and a 
 whole fortnight had elapsed since his funeral had wound 
 its solemn black length through the streets of Paris to 
 Pere-la-Chaise, where the family vault had opened its 
 stone jaws to receive the mortal 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 Comtesse 
 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 
 probably have left the city, and sought in change of scene 
 a relaxation 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 I — I also was still in Paris. As I said before, 
 I had never for a moment intended to leave it. I had 
 formed certain plans of my own respecting the wild new 
 mode of life I purposed to follow, — and these plans I 
 was able to carry out 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 chance 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 absinthis7n, is that he 
 cannot absolutely 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 importance provided absinthe never failed. I 
 think, at this particular juncture, that if any one possess- 
 ing the power to deny me the full complement of the 
 nectar which was now as necessary to me as the blood in 
 tny veinSj had dQn\Qd it^ I should have killed him on thq 
 
WORMWOOD* 
 
 197 
 
 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 
 inquisitive 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 habituated 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 dis- 
 tipct gradations of action. Imagine, for the sake of meta- 
 phoi, the brain to be a musical instrument, well strung 
 and iti 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 feeble 
 glimmer of intelligence previously existed there, the result 
 in such a ca^e, being frequently cureless idiotcy. But 
 what does this matter ? Its charm is irresistible for both 
 wit and fool ; ^nd in this age, when to follow our own 
 immediate desires is the only accepted gospel, — the gos- 
 pel of Paris at kast, if of no other city, 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^ 
 perfectly contented with my lot, and doing nothing what- 
 ever but dreamily wawder about the byeways of the city, 
 looking for Pauline. Yet I could not have told any one 
 mhy I looked for her. I did not want her. Nevertheless, 
 reason or no reas;on, the impulse of search continued ; 
 and every woman ui youthful and shrinking appearance I 
 
igS iVORMlVOOD, 
 
 met, came in for my close and eager scrutiny. Once or 
 twice in my lonely walks I saw Heloise St. Cyr, robed in 
 d-eepest 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 pos- 
 sible 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 merely 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 regretted the loss of 
 my companionship t 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 once I had passed all 
 the cafes where the best form of that elixir was obtain- 
 able, I continued my road steadily and without interrup- 
 tion along the Champs Elysees. 
 
 It was a fine night ; the trees were in full foliage ; a 
 f-ew 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 samic old lies of love 
 and perpetual constancy that all wise men laugh at. I 
 walked slowl}^, — following, as I always follov^^ed, the flicker- 
 ing rays of green that trembled on my path, — -to-night they 
 took the shape of thin arrows that pointed forward, — ever 
 forward and straight on ! Neuilly at last ! — and a few min- 
 utes 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 careworn, — and for one brief second my heart smote 
 me. Troublesome conscience was not quite dead ; yon- 
 der old man's fine, placid yet weary face roused vol me a 
 Struggling passion of regret and remorse. It was a mere 
 
WORMWOOiy, 199 
 
 flash of pain ! — it soon passed, — I pressed my hand 
 heavily over my eyes to still their burning ache, — and 
 turning from the house, I looked down on the dark as- 
 phalte pavement at my feet. There were those little 
 flickering 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 ; sur- 
 rounded 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 imagi- 
 nary, seemed real ; nothing could have been more substan- 
 tial in appearance than the faces and forms that hovered 
 about me, — it was only when I strove to touch them that 
 things 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 phan- 
 toms 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 sang, 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 my feelings towards 
 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 propen- 
 sity to which he secretly panders, — this is a fact of which 
 we may be perfectly 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 sex- 
 ton, fully aware of, yet terrified by his moans, calmly 
 
200 lVUK3inuUJJ. 
 
 throws the earth over him all the same and levels k 
 down ; ^ — of lazar-houses and dissecting-rooms, and all 
 the realistic wonders of obscurity and crime, on which 
 the ^' cultured " Paris public dwells with rapt and ec- 
 static interest, — such beauteous things as these were 
 as vivid and sweet to me nov/ as they had once been 
 repulsive. And so I strolled along under the moon- 
 silvered sky, heedless of distance, careless of time, till 
 the more brilliant clustering lights of Paris w^ere left 
 behind mic, and I woke up with a start from my sinis- 
 ter musings, to find myself in the quiet little suburb of 
 Suresnes. 
 
 Do you know^ Suresnes ? On a fine summer's after- 
 noon it is Avorth while to journey thither, and walk 
 over the bridge, stopping half-way across to look up 
 and dovm at the quietly flowing river, that on the 
 right-hand parts with a broad shining ribbon-breadth 
 the Bois, and the opposite undulating hills. Down 
 almost to the brink of the w^ater 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, 
 onw^ard and out of sight like the silver robe of a queen 
 vanishing into stately distance. To the left is Paris ; 
 —a vision of aerial bridge, building and tower, — and at 
 tim.es when the sunset is like fire and the wind is still, 
 — vrhen 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, gleamiing aloft 
 rnirage-like, for one marvellous moment, only to disappear 
 the next. Once past the bridge you enter the Bois, 
 w^here the open road leads to Longchamps ; but there are 
 many nooky paths and quiet corners do\\Ti under the tali 
 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 imagine oneself miiles away from any city. 
 Often and often I had wandered hither in m_y boyhood, 
 reading som.e favorite book or giving myself up to pleas- 
 ant da3^-dreaming and air-castle-building ; yet to-night I 
 gazed upon the familiar scene entirely bewildered and with 
 
 ^ A case of this kind happened near Paris last year. 
 
WORMWOO%, 201 
 
 all the puzzled uncertainty of a stranger ignorant of his 
 ■whereabouts. Suresnes itself was quiet as a crypt; its 
 principal cafe was shut up and not a single lamp glimmered 
 in any window of any house that I could see, — the moon- 
 beams 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-parape't 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 land- 
 scape, — for this sort of comprehension was daily becoming 
 more difficult to me, — I moved on towards the Bois. The 
 great leaf-covered trees rustled mysteriously, and min- 
 gled their sighs with the liquid warbling of the waters ; — 
 there was no living soul to be seen.~this hour of sol- 
 emn quietude and rest seemed all for me, and for me 
 alone* 
 
 Once 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 cafe^ is the scene of many 
 a pleasant summer rendezvous ; and, for a moment I 
 thought I would walk thus far. Suddenly, v/ith 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 worship 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 service ; how, in every church, in every form of 
 creed, men, preaching one thing and openly practising 
 another, offered themselves as " Christian examples '' 
 forsooth to their less professing 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, religion was 
 rendered such a ghastly mockery by its very teachers, 
 that it was no wonder if some honest folk preferred to 
 believe in bo God at all, rather than accept a God ia 
 
2Q2 WORMWOOD, 
 
 whom His servants could profess to find such incon- 
 sistency and absolute lack of principle. 
 
 All at once my thoughts took flight like a flock of 
 scared birds, as they often did : a sick swim^ming sensa- 
 tion in my head made me clutch at the near branch of a 
 tree for support, — the Vv'hole 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 daz- 
 zlement before me for a moment, — and to master this un- 
 comfortable faintness which threatened to end in a swoon, 
 I moved unsteadily, feeling my v/ay as though I were 
 blind, down towards the river's brink. I had an idea 
 that I would rest there awhile on the cool grass till I re- 
 covered ; and I went towards 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 w^aters, 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 altogether ; I bent aside the 
 branches, and slipped between the closely-set and inter- 
 twisted trunks in order to gain as speedily as possible the 
 spot I sought, — when, as though I had received a par- 
 alyzing electric shock I stopped, staring ahead of me in 
 doubt, wrath, and w^onder ; — a rush of strength was hurled 
 into me — a superhuman force that strung up my every 
 ner^'C and sinev; to almost breaking tension, — and I 
 sprang furiously forward, 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 towards me as I came. 
 
 *' You — you ! ■'' I whispered hoarsely, for rage choked 
 my voice, — " You^ here^ — Silvion Guideli " 
 
WORMWOOD. 203 
 
 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 v/ell "^ " 
 1 stared at him, — too maddened by wrath and amaze- 
 ment 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 1 '' 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." 
 
 " Vbu 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 1 — 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 wdfe ? — have you not 
 married her 1 " 
 
 My hands clenched themselves involuntarily till the 
 nails dug into my flesh. 
 
 " Lache ! ^^ I cried furiously. '^ Da?^e 3/0U 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 vice. 
 
 " Do not say that, Gaston Beauvais ! " he muttered 
 
^04 WORMWOOD. 
 
 fiercely, his^ rich voice trembling with passion. ^* Do not 
 fling one word of opprobrium at the child whose very in- 
 nocence was her ruin I 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 passionate impulse of a 
 young girFs tenderness, and that often her very sin of 
 love looks white virtue compared to our black vice ! I 
 — I alone *am to blame for ray darling's misery ; — you 
 have not married her, you say, — -then where is she ? As 
 mine 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 mafi, 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 offend- 
 ed, and I the offender ! Had we been playing our life- 
 parts on the theatrical stage, the sympathy of the audi- 
 ence would have assuredly gone with him and away from 
 me, all because he looked handsome, and spoke fear- 
 lessly ! Such is the world's villainous inconsistency ! 
 He waited, as though to rally his forces ; — I waited too, 
 considering how best I could pierce that saintly exterior 
 down to the satyr heart within ! A curious nervous trem- 
 bling 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 per- 
 fect composure. 
 
 " Where is she ? " he again demanded. 
 
 " On the streets of Paris ! " I answered sneeringly. 
 
 "My God!^^ and he sprang towards me. "Her 
 father '' 
 
 "Is dead and buried 1 What next ? Ask ! — I shall 
 not scruple to tell you the result of your work, Silvion 
 Guidfel ! It is well that when you perform mass, you 
 should know for whom to pray ! '' 
 
 And I laughed bitterly. His head drocped on his 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 205 
 
 breast, — his features grew wan and rigid, and a deep sigh 
 shuddered through his frame. 
 
 *' Pauline ! Pauline 1 " I heard him mutter 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. 
 
 " What can you do ? '^ I exclaimed. " Nothing ! You 
 are too late ! You talk of reparation, — what reparation 
 is possible, now ? You had it in your power to makc> 
 amends, — you could at least have married the girl whose 
 mind you contaminated and whose life you wronged 1 
 But no ! — you slunk into the refuge of the priesthood like 
 a beaten cur ! — you proved yourself a betrayer, deserter, 
 and coward ! — and like a sanctimonious fool and hypo- 
 crite 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 feip:nin,2: .^ Listen ! Pauline de Charmilles 
 confessed her shame to me in secret, — / proclaimed it in 
 public ! I do not love dishonor, — I set no value on 
 flawed jewels ! I rejected her ! — mark you that, Siivion 
 Guidel, holy servant of the church as you are ! — I rejected 
 her on the very day appointed for our marriage, in pres- 
 ence of all those fine birds of fashion that came to see us 
 w^edded 1 — ah, it was a rare vengeance, and sweeter to me 
 than any fortune or fame ! What now ? Is there some- 
 thing unusual in my aspect to so arouse your pious won- 
 der ? You stare at me as if you saw a dead man moulder- 
 ing in his grave ! " 
 
 His eyes flashed forth a fierce and unutterable scorn. 
 
 ^' I see worse than that ! " he answered passionately. 
 " I 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 — 
 
 "■ 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 
 
2o6 WORMWOOD. 
 
 or two nearer I studied his agonized face as I would have 
 studied some rare or curious picture. He glanced at me 
 where I stood, and a strange smile curved his lips. 
 
 *' Why do you not kill me.? " he said, with an inviting 
 gesture. '^ I should be glad to die ! '^ 
 
 I made no immediate answer. Why did 1 7iot kill hi7n I 
 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 1 " I asked. 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 '' Because I was compelled," he answered wearily. " Of 
 course you will not believe me. But you do not under- 
 stand, — 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 crueller, 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 pretence of special favor and 
 protection I was kept in close attendance on cardinals and 
 monsignori ; — I prayed for news from home, — none ever 
 reached me, — till tired of v/aiting, 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 1 " — he sighed again, and looked upward to the 
 peaceful sky above him — " Because here the heavens 
 smiled upon the only happiness I ever knew ! Love, the 
 natiiral 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 else- 
 where ; — for though I was ignorant of all you have told 
 me, I avoided my uncle^s house— I know not v/hy— save 
 that I felt I could not bear to enter it, — ?i02u / " 
 
 I remained silent, Vv^atchino; him. 
 
 " Here was our secret trysting-place ! " he went on 
 dreamily. " Here under tht^se trees, beloved for her sake, 
 Pauline has wandered with me, her sweet eyes speaking 
 v»^hat her lips were afraid to utter— her little hand in mine 
 —her head resting on my heart 1 Here we two have 
 
WORMWOOD. 20> 
 
 tasted the divinest joy that life can ever give, or death 
 take away, — joy that yoii have never known, Gaston 
 Beauvais ! — no ! for my darhng never loved you ! Your 
 touch never wakened in her one responsive throb of pas- 
 sion ; — she loved 7ne, 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 ven- 
 geance 1 I thought I must have gone mad with fury as I 
 saw the expression 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 ! I boast of that ! It is something to be 
 proud of, to have been loved truly, once ! " 
 
 My hands clenched. 
 
 " Will you seek her out ? '' I asked breathlessly. 
 
 " I will ! '' 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " To-morrow : " 
 
 " To-night is not ended 1 " 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 hnd her, — what 
 then ? '' 
 
 *' What then ? " — and with a reckless gesture of mingled 
 defiance and passion, he lifted his eyes once more to the 
 observant stars — " Why, then it may be that I shall con- 
 demn 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 ten- 
 derly wise and pitiful than can be imagined by His subject- 
 creature Man, — I doubt not, if this be true, that when I 
 rescue and comfort the w^oman I have wronged as only 
 love can comfort her, — when I kneel at her feet and ask 
 her pardon for the evil I 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 pretence of piety ! Quick as a 
 lightning flash the suppressed ferocity of my soul broke 
 
2©^ jVORMWOOD. 
 
 forth,— ^«id wirnout v»^arning or premeditation I threw 
 myself savagely upon him. 
 
 " Best make peace with it now 1 ^' I cried. " For, by 
 God ! it is your last chance ! " 
 
 For one panting second we stared into each other's eyes, 
 — our faces almost touching, our very breaths commin- 
 gling : then, yielding to the natural impulse of self-defence, 
 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 sang, 
 shouted, and yelled in my ears " Kill 1 Kill ! Kill himf " 
 circles of hre swam before me, — and once as he swerved 
 back from my grasp and nearly fell, I laughed aloud, 
 laughed, as I sprang at him anew, and shook him furiously 
 to and fro as a wild beast shakes its prey. Closing with 
 me again, he managed to seize my arms in such wise that 
 for the moment I was rendered powerless ; and once 
 more his great dark eyes flamed into mine. 
 
 " Are you mad, Gaston Beauvais 1 " he gasped. " Do 
 you want to murder me t " 
 
 As he spoke, my rapid glance travelled 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 pretence of fall- 
 ing beneath his hold, — and involuntarily his grasp re- 
 laxed ; — 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 vice 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 ^i — 
 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 murderous task was easier, — my wrists had more 
 power, — and I 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 
 quenched 1 
 
 ^ 
 
WOI^MWOOD. 209 
 
 " 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 which 
 I crouched brute-like and watchful, — those pulsing veins 
 beneath my fingers stopped,— the head fell further back, 
 — the lips parted, showing a glimmer of pearly teeth 
 within, in the ghastly semblance of a smile, — and then, — 
 )hen came silence! Silence! — horror! What now? 
 What did it all mean ? What was this cold awfulness — this 
 dumb, rigid, staring thing ? — was this death 2 Seized by 
 a swift frenzied fear, I sprang up, — I looked about me 
 everywhere. Everywhere solitude ! — only the whisper- 
 ing of trees and shining of stars ! Only Nature, and tliat^ 
 — that strange still figure on the grass with arms out- 
 spread 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 ! liad 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 vv^ith 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, quaking in every limb, — why then — I 
 ;would shut those eyes ! My previous 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 con- 
 torted agony of their last expression were already freez- 
 ing under my very gaze into a marble-like rigidity .? I 
 touched the eyelids, — 1 pressed them firmly down over the 
 glassy balls beneath, ... so ! — -they could look at me no 
 longer ! 
 J With a sigh of relief I crawled away again, and once at 
 
2IO WORMWOOD. 
 
 arm's length from the corpse, stood upright wondering 
 what next I should do. I had killed Silvion Guidei ; — 
 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 1 
 But, after all, — had I not meant to kill him ? Had not the 
 idea slept in my brain for weeks without declaring itself ? 
 — and had it not become actively paramount 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 ! — I ! I looked awfully 
 round at my victim, — and looking, shrieked aloud . The 
 eyes — the eyes that I had shut so fast, were ope?i, — wide 
 open and protruding more than ever ! How 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 my fingers hard and heavily once 
 more upon the cold yet rebellious lids. But in vain !— 
 they curled upwards again from under my very touch, and 
 again left eyeballs glassy and bare ! I moaned and shivered 
 while the sweat poured from my forehead in the ex- 
 tremity 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 
 liad passed since I stood on the bridge, an evil-brooding 
 man, but not — not a mirrderer ! Only an hour ! — 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 I knew though I had killed him, 
 
WORMWOOD. 21 1 
 
 at the same time I could not comprehend 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 an- 
 guished, crystalline-looking things, — the eyes that had 
 darkned with thought and lightened with love, — the eyes 
 that had flashed their passionate prayer into the eyes of 
 Pauline ! — ha ! what would sAe say if she could see them 
 now ? Pauline's lover ! — Pauline's seducer ! — the liber- 
 tine, — the Priest !— there he lay, the holy chosen servant 
 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 Abel ! 
 And yet, you say, some of you, that God is '^ omnipotent." 
 Tell this to children if it please you, but spare me, an 
 absintheur^ from so unnecessary a Lie ! 
 
 For a time my brain reeled under its pressure of sicken- 
 ing thought ; but at last the idea came to me that I must 
 somehow 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, and from thence I could 
 fling it into the Seine. And the Seine 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 — unless 
 it should be found and dragged ashore ! — but I could not 
 suEer 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 hfe after all might 
 still be fluttering within this stiffening mass of clay. 
 Keeping my courage firm, I bent down and felt the heart ; 
 —it was stone-still ; but some small thing like a packet 
 lay pressed above it. An Agrms Dei? Oh no !— priests 
 do not always wear purely sacred symbols ! I took it out, 
 
212 IVORAIWOOD, 
 
 ^ — it was a folded paper which I opened, and found inside a 
 tliick curl of soft dark hair. Pauline's hair ! — I knew it 
 well 1 — the touch of it, the delicate scent of it, made me 
 tremble as with an ague-fit — and I hastily thrust it into my 
 ov/n 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 distort- 
 ed the features that their classic regularity and fairness 
 w^as 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, me s amis ! The pretty sentimentalists may im- 
 gine 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 mad- 
 man's fingers close on your windpipe, you may be sure 
 your countenance will not be a model for sculptors after- 
 wards ! 
 
 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 mechanism 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 lustreless ; — their reproachful 
 expression was mere seemmg I Quick ! — into the quiet 
 waters with such useless carrion ! — let it first sink like a 
 stone and then float, a disfigured blubber mass, on the 
 destroymg tide ! For w^ater, like earth, breeds hungry 
 corpse-devouring creatures, who will make short work c*i 
 even such sacred goods as a priest's dead body ! — besides, 
 ■ — there is no blood — no sign of violence anywhere, — no 
 proof of — of — murder ! Stay, though ! — there are marks 
 on the throat, — the marks of m.y throttling fingers — 
 but what of that ? Surely the river's quiet working will 
 efface these in an hour t 
 
 . Raising myself stiffly erect, I peered round about me 
 on all sides, and scanned the opposite bank of the 
 Seine scrutinizingly, lest haply some lonely musing soul 
 should be walking there and watching the water ripple 
 caressingly beneath the moonj — but there was no one visi- 
 
WORMWOOD. 213 
 
 ble* I might have been alone in a desert, so profoundly 
 still and solitary was the night ; — all nature seemed 
 gravely occupied in watching vie^ or so I fancied ; the 
 heavens leaned towards me with all their whirling stars, 
 as though I had drawn them down to stare wonderingly 
 at my slain man ! Once more 1 lifted the body ; — this 
 time the head fell back over my arm with sickening 
 suddenness, and a light wind fanned the clustering hair 
 backwards 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, — 
 whereupon a new fear assailed me. If found, would the 
 corpse be recognized by that scar ? — was there anything 
 else that might give a clue 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, v^hich I tore up, — an old breviary 
 and a purse containing about four hundred francs. 
 There was no name in the breviary, and I put it back 
 together with the purse, in 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, especially in France, deprived of valuables. 
 That sort of suspicion, — that idea of murder — how the 
 word chilled me ! — would in this case be averted ; — for I 
 attached no importance to the circumstance of the 
 priest's garb. Priests are as 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 wilh that scar on the temples, — I raised the rigid 
 weight, now grown heavier, once more, — the arms hung 
 downwards, stiff and inert, — one of the hands swinging 
 round as I moved, touched 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 Hung the corpse from me. f^r forward, with all 
 
214 WORMWOOD. 
 
 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 o" 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 widdi away. 
 No sound followed, — no cry of " Murder ! " startled the 
 night, — all was quiet as before, — all as watchfully ob- 
 servant of me as if each separate leaf on the branches of 
 the trees had eyes ! 
 
 I hurried back to the spot where the struggle had taken 
 place, and there v/ith 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 ; aye — I even overcame my 
 shuddering reluctance 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 in- 
 deed !--^such love as brought Pauline here in the dewy 
 hush of early mornings 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 hold no such burning flame ! I cursed the fair- 
 ness of the place, and Nature mocked my curses with her 
 smile ! The tranquil moon gazed downwards 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 deliver- 
 ing kisses from the blossoms 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 suddenly felt that T, 
 standing where I did, had all at once become a mere out- 
 cast and alien from the beautiful confidence of Nature,—- 
 that the dead body I had just thrown in the murmuring 
 
WORMWOOD. '215 
 
 waters was far more gathered into the heart of things 
 than I ! 
 
 Slowly and with an inexplicable reluctance I crept away, 
 —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 downwards, — 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, I hung over it, with beating 
 heart and straining sight— anon, I broke into a fit of de- 
 lirious laughter ! 
 
 " Silvion ! " I whispered. " Silvion Guidel 1 What ! 
 — are you there again 1 Not at rest yet ? Sleep, man 1 
 sleep ! Be satisfied with God now you have found Him 1 
 — Good-night, Guidel ; good-night ! " 
 
 Here my laughter suddenly spent itself in a fierce sob- 
 bing groan, — I shrank 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 
 flowing towards 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, — ^iled 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 !'' hissed 
 after me by the vindictive, upward-turning Seine, that 
 pursued me closely as I ran, bearing with it its av/ful wit- 
 ness to tlie black deed I had done ! 
 
2l6 PFWRMWOOJ^. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 For the next three or four days I lived in a sort ot 
 feverish delirium, hovering betwixt hope and terror, satis- 
 faction 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 account 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 brillant one — ^quite 
 dramatic in fact. The mistress of a famous 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 
 sorrow 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 stu- 
 pidity of the unofncial 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 block- 
 heads and their intentions are no doubt admirably just 
 and severe, — but they have too much routine, — too many 
 little absurd minutis of rule and etiquette out of which 
 they can seldom be persuaded to move. It follows there- 
 fore 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 away with in the task of 
 discovering a murderer, — there must be less v/riting 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 v/oman in a pool of blood on a doorstep, and 
 after much cogitation and reflection, decides that blood- 
 
WORMWOOD. 217 
 
 ViOtinds might be useful in tracking the murderer, he 
 would do well to got those bloodhounds at once, and not 
 wait till the next day when the scent will be more than 
 difficult to pursue. But /have no wish to complain of 
 the respectable muddlers who sit in their offices carefully 
 writing descriptive reports and compiling evidence, vvhile 
 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 " v^ould 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, renow?i I — 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 renov/n, you say ? I fail to see it I 
 There is a difference, if you like, in the character of the 
 person renowned, — but the renown itself — the dirty hand- 
 clapping of the many-tongued mob, — 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 a 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 Barabbas 1 " is 
 shouted all over the world to this day, — the crucifixion of 
 great natures and the setting free of known robbers is 
 the commxon and incessant custom of the crov/d. We are 
 told by the teachers of the present age, that Christianity 
 is a myth, — its Founder a legendary personage, — but by 
 all the creeds of this w^orld and the next, the story remains 
 and I fancy will continue to remain, a curiously true and 
 significant S3aiibol of Humanity ! 
 
 I suppose nearly a week must have passed since I had 
 sent Silvion Guidel to his account with that Deity he pro- 
 fessed to serve, when one day, straying down a back- 
 street which was a short cut to the obscure liotel I in- 
 habited, I saw Pauline 1 It was dusk, and she was hurry- 
 
2i8 W'OMMWjaOD, 
 
 ing along rapidly ; but for one instant I caught sight of 
 the young childish face, the soft bhie eyes, the dark curl- 
 ing clusters of hair. She did not perceive me, and I fol- 
 lowed her at a distance, wondering whither she was 
 bound and how she lived. She was miserably clad, — her 
 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 v/orld of Paris. Suddenly at a cor- 
 ner 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 stupidity, 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, mo7i cher ? " he 
 asked, with a half m.ock, 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 win- 
 dows broken. " Behold \—' Appartements Metibles I ' " 
 And true enough, this grandiose announcement was dis~ 
 tinctly 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 
 imagine they must be airy ! No doubt they also con2- 
 mand an open view from the roof, which would probably 
 be an attraction. But enter, cher Beauvais ! — enter ! — I 
 am delighted to welcome you !— the best I have of every- 
 thing is at your service ! " 
 
 And with the oddest gestures of fantastic courtesy, he 
 invited me to follow him. 
 
 I hesitated a moment, — he looked so v/ild about the 
 eyes, so gaunt and ghastly, that for the moment I won- 
 dered whether I was not perhaps entrusting myself to the 
 tender mercies of a madman. Then I quickly remem- 
 bered 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 ^. 
 
WORMWOOD. 219 
 
 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 towzled 
 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 
 hearing my smothered exclamation, turned round, spied 
 this object and laughed delightedly. 
 
 ^' Ak voila /" he cried. *' That is one of my models of 
 the Stone Period ! If you have kicked that charm.ingboy 
 by accident, Beauvais, do not trouble to ask his pardon 1 
 He will not appreciate the courtesy ! Two sentimentsv 
 alone inspire him— fear and ferocity ! " And r/ :zi: g the 
 mass of hair and rags by its neck, he shook it o and fro 
 violently, exclaiming, " Vieris id, bete! Montres tcs dents 
 et tcs angles ! Viens ! '' 
 
 The creature uttered some unintelligible sound, and 
 got on its feet, still biting the crust and snarling, — and 
 presently w^e all three stood in a low wide room, littered 
 about with painter's materials and various sorts of taw^- 
 dry rubbish, where the hrst thing that riveted the eye was 
 an enormous canvas stretched across the wall, on which 
 the body of a nude Venus was displayed in all its rotun- 
 dity, — the head, not yet being painted in was left to the 
 imagination of the spectator. Gessonex, still grasping 
 the bundle he called his '''betc^^'^ threw himself down in a 
 chair, after signing to me to take whatever seat I found 
 convenient, — a*nd, 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 continuously, regardless of his patron's atten- 
 tions. Presently, a countenance became visible — the 
 countenance of a mingled monkey and savage, — brutish, 
 repulsive, terrible in all respects save for the eyes, whicn 
 were magnificent, — jewel-like, clear and cruel as the ey-^s 
 of a wolf or a snake. 
 
 *' There ! '' said Gessonex triumphantly, turning ths 
 strange physiognomy round towards me, — "There's a boy 
 for you ! lie 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 
 
220 WORMWOOD, 
 
 ^ 
 
 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 
 iias 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, mo7i 
 ■slnge^^^ he went on, addressing the boy, and artistically 
 lilting up another of his matted curls with the paint-brush 
 handle,—" What is life ! It is a mystery to us I Will 
 you explain it ? " 
 
 The savage little creature glared from one to the other 
 of us in sullen curiosity and fear, — his breath came 
 quickly and he clenched his small grimy hands. He was 
 evidently trying to remember something and found the 
 effort exhausting. Presently between his set teeth came 
 the v/ords — 
 
 "Taifaim f' 
 
 " Bravo 1 '' said Gessonex approvingly, still arranging 
 the hair of his protege, " Very well said ! You see, 
 Beauvais, he understands life thoroughly, this child ! 'Jai 
 faim r 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 ac- 
 quired, through over-feeding, has never had enough, and 
 at morning, noon, and evening, propounds the hunger 
 problem afresh, and curses his chef for not providing 
 more novelties in the cuisine. Humanity is never satis- 
 fied, — 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 la- 
 boring universe, it turns its savage face towards Heaven 
 and apostrophizes Deity with a defiance. ' This world is 
 not enough for my needs ! ' it cries. * I will put Orion 
 m my pocket and wear the Pleiades in my buttonhole ! 
 • — I will have Eternity for my heritage and Thyself for my 
 comrade \—fai faith I ' '' 
 
 He laughed wildly, and opening a drawer near him, 
 took out a small apple and threw it playfully aloft. 
 " Catch 1 '' he cried, and the boy, tossing up his head 
 
WO/^MWOOD. 221 
 
 caught it between his teeth v/ith extraordinary precision 
 as it fell. " 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," v/ent 
 on Gessonex, eyeing him encouragingly. " Sharp as a 
 ferret and agile as a cat ! — he kills the vermin by scores, 
 and what is very human, eats them with infinite relish 
 afterwards ! " 
 
 I shuddered. 
 
 " Horrible ! '' I exclaimed involuntarily. " Does he 
 starve, then ? " 
 
 Gessonex regarded me wilii 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 instance, — consider food a vulgar super- 
 fluity ; and we take a certain honest pride in occasionally 
 being able to able to dispense with it altogether. It is 
 more a la mode in this neighborhood, which, however, is 
 quite aristocratic compared to some others close by ! All 
 the same I am really rather curious to know what has 
 brought 7^7/ here, mo7i cher I May I, without rudeness, ask 
 the question t " 
 
 '* I saw a woman I thought I knew," I answered eva- 
 sively. " And I followed her." 
 
 " Ah !— And the result 1 " 
 
 " No result at all. I lost sight of her suddenly, and do 
 not know how or where she disappeared." 
 
 " Ah 1 " 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 1 " 
 
 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 sub- 
 ject; I reverted once more to the " brute " child, who had 
 
222 WORMWOOD. 
 
 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 Gessonex affably. " He is a type of the Age of 
 Gtone ! But if 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 Absinthe ? " 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 state- 
 ment, whereupon Gessonex shook his head at me in 
 mock-solemn reproach. 
 
 " Never laugh, mo7t ami^ at a joke you do not entirely 
 understand. You cannot understand, and you never will 
 understand the awful witticisms of Mother Nature,— and 
 it is a phase of her enormous jesting that I am about to 
 relate to you. I 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 reference volumes at hand, he 
 set about prying into the innermost recesses of creation. 
 Through his lunettes he peered dubiously at the Shadow- 
 Brisflitness called God, and declared Him to be non 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, 
 Deaih . ent on, — he had little or nothing to do with any 
 of these, — his main object 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 jav/s. At last, — 
 one stormy night, — its hand roused him from sleep, and 
 showed him the exact spot where his razor lay. He took 
 
WORMWOOD. 223 
 
 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 hmettes are not worn, and 
 knowledge is imparted without the aid of printer's 
 ink. He was a very interesting individual, — great when 
 he was alive, according to the savants^ — forgotten 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 indi- 
 vidual, whose sole delight in life was to drink and dance the 
 hours away. A remarkable contrast to his father, as you 
 may imagine ! — and herein Dame Nature began her little 
 pyschological game of cross-purposes. This fellow, born 
 in Paris and a worshipper 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 afterwards, 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 vilLiiuy 
 in that lowest of all professions, the ape-like arc of Mim- 
 icry. He, unlike his reverend parent, never troubled him- 
 self concerning the deeper questions of life at all ; Chaos 
 was his faith, and Nonentity his principle ! His stage-ap- 
 pearance, 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 
 washerwoman, — and 7^6" was likewise smitten by her abun- 
 dant 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 considered a necessity to 
 people of their reputable standing, — it seldom is, in these 
 eases ! 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 cannot tell you, but for some 
 months after he had taken up his residence with the charm- 
 ing ' Fatima ' he was the victim of a singular and exceed- 
 ingly troublesome frenzy . This was neither more nor less 
 
224 WORMWOOD, 
 
 than the idea that his * ckere a^nie ' was a scaly serpent whose? 
 basilisk eyes attracted him in spite of his wdil, 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 asylum, 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 determined 
 method of strangulation must have been a most unpleasant 
 exit ! " 
 
 A tremor ran through me as he spoke, and I averted my 
 gaze from his. 
 
 " It w^as a most unfortunate affair altogether," con- 
 tmued Gessonex reflectively — " and I'm afraid it must be 
 set down chiefly to the fault of Absinthe, which though a 
 most delightful and admirable slave, is an exceedingly bad 
 master ! Yes ! " and he mused over this a little to him- 
 self — " an exceedingly bad master ! If people would only 
 imitate my example, and take ail its pleasures without its 
 tyranny, how much wiser and better that vv^ouid be 1 '' 
 
 I forced myself to speak, — to sm.ile. 
 
 *^ The ''passion verte ' never subdues you, then ? You 
 subdue // ? " 
 
 Our eyes met. A yellowish-red flush crept through the 
 sickly pallor of his skin, but he laughed and gave a care- 
 less gesture of indifference. 
 
 " Of course ! Fancy a man being mastered and con- 
 trolled by a mere liqueur I The idea is sublimely ridic- 
 ulous ! To complete my story ; — this boy here, — this ex- 
 ponent of the Stone Age, — is the child of the absintheur 
 and his ^ serpent,' — begotten of mania and born of apathy, 
 the result is sufficiently remarkable ! I knew the parents, 
 also, the savaiit grandpapa, — and I have always taken a 
 scientific interest in this their only descendant. 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 1 '^ 
 
 " But are you not a lover of Absinthe ? " I queried half 
 playfully. " A positive epicure in the flavor of the green 
 iieclai? — Why then, do you judge so ill of its effects ?"' 
 
WORMWOOD. 225 
 
 He looked at me in the n'^c^st naive 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 hindrance 
 to freedom. Man was born a savage, and he is still hap- 
 piest in a state of savagery. He has been civilised over 
 and over again, believe me, through immovable cycles of 
 time, — but the savage cannot be gotten out of him, and if 
 allowed to do so, he returns to his pristine condition of 
 lawless liberty with the most astonishing ease ! Civilized, 
 YsiQ are shackled and bound in a thousand ways when we 
 wish to give the rein to our natural impulses ; we should 
 be mucli more contented in our orig-inal state of brutish- 
 ness and nudity. And contentment is what we want, — 
 and what in our present modes of constrained culture we 
 never get. For example, /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 consequence I am much happier ! The Me who 
 died was a painfully 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 c ovement of my hand 
 towards the headless undraped Venus. 
 
 " That ! — oh no ! That is a mere study of flesh-tints 
 i la Rubens. This is what I call my * chef-d'oeuvre ! ' " 
 
 And springing up from his chair excitedly, he went 
 towards 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 windov/, thus allowing the light 
 
§26 WORMIVOOD. 
 
 to fall fully on the canvas displayed. I stared at it fasci« 
 nated, 3'et appalled, — it v^as so sombrely grounded, that for 
 a moment 1 could not grasp the meaning of the weird and 
 awful thing. Then it gre¥/ upon me by degrees, and I 
 understood the story it told. It was the interior of a vast 
 church or cathedral, gloomy and unillumined save hy one 
 or two lamps v/hicli were burning low. In front of the 
 altar knel^ a priest, his countenance distorted with mingled 
 rage ana grief, wrenching open, by the sheer force of his 
 hands, a colnn. Fart 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. 
 Underneath the picture was written in distinct letters 
 painted blood-red—" O Dieu qiief abjure! Rends-moi cette 
 femme! " 
 
 A whole life's torture w^as expressed in the dark and 
 dreadful 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 came, and pointing to the picture, muttered-— 
 
 '''' Joli I Joli I II 7neurt ! — n^est-ce-pas qu'll meurt ? '' 
 
 Gessonex heard him and laughed. 
 
 ** Qui chere brute, il meiirtf He dies of disappointed 
 passion, as we all die of disappointed something or other, 
 if it only be of a disappointment in one's powers of breath- 
 ing. What do you think of it, Beauvais ? " 
 
 " It is a magnificent work I " I said, and spoke truly. 
 
 '^ It is !— I know it is 1 " he responded proudly, " But 
 all the same I will starve like a rat in a hole rather than 
 sell it 1 " 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. 
 
 " Why ? Because I want my name properly advertised 
 when I arp dead, — and the only way to get that done 
 royally is to bequeath the picture to France ! FrancCj 
 having nothing to pay for it, will be liberal of praise,— 
 and the art-critics knowing my bones cannot profit by 
 what they say, will storm the world with loud eulogium 1 '' 
 
 He dropped the curtain over tliQ painting and turnec* 
 upon me abruptly. 
 
WORMWOOD, 227 
 
 ^^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 
 Vidth great fervor. 
 
 " That is right ! I am glad ! Only don't let the charm- 
 ing 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 in- 
 fatuated a prey to the fatal passion as myself. No on 3 
 loves absinthe lukewarmly, but always entirely and 
 absorbingly. 
 
 " Come 1 " he cried presently. " Let us do something 
 amusing ! Let us go to the Morgue 1 " 
 
 "To the Morgue 1 " 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 grace the dead ! If you havd 
 never been there at this hour, it v^/ill 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 theatre ! 
 — 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, mo?i singer' he said, patting 
 its towzled mane, — " Kill rats and eat them if thou wilt, — 
 I have at present nothing else for thee." 
 
 Hearing these words 1 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 sprang 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 tv/o silver coins, — he 
 knows how to bargain so well that he will get double what 
 i should get with the same amcunt,-'-moreover the p-^ople 
 
228 WORMWOOD. 
 
 aboui here are afraid of hi J looks and his savag«- jabber- 
 ing, and will give him anything to be rid of him. Yet the 
 nature of the animal is such that he will put all his pur- 
 chases on this table, and sit and glare at the whole me7tu 
 without touching a morsel till I come back ! He is like 
 '^ dog, fond of me because I feed him,^ — and in this, 
 though a barbarian, he resembles the rich man's civilized 
 poor relations I " 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 899 
 
 We left the house together and walked throtigh 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 dreari- 
 ly at different doorways, there was any one like Paul- 
 ine. But no, — they were all ugly, old, disfigured by 
 illness or wasted by starvation, — and they scarcely 
 glanced at us, though the f autistic 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, returned his salutation. We soon 
 traversed the streets that lay between the quarter we 
 had left and the Morgue, and arrived at the long, low 
 gruesome looking building just as a covered stretcher 
 was being carried into it. Gessonex touched the 
 stretcher in a pleasantly familiar style. 
 
 *'Qui va la?** he inquired playfully. 
 
 **Only a boy, m*sieu!~Crushed on the railway/* 
 
 ** Is that all ! " and Gessonex shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 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 over them from the roof 
 above. There were only two there at the immediate 
 moment, — the crushed boy had to be carried away 
 *'pour faire sa toilette'' before he could be exposed to 
 public view. And not more than five or six morbid 
 persons besides ourselves were looking with a fascina- 
 ted inquisitiveness at a couple of rigid forms on the 
 slab, — the emptied receptacles of that mysterious life- 
 principle which comes we know not whence, and goes 
 we know not where. The light was ditUj, it was diffi* 
 
2$Q WORMlVOOn. 
 
 cult to discern even the outlines of these two corpses,— 
 and Gessonex loudly complained of this inconveience. 
 
 " Sacre-bleu! We are not in the catacombs ! " he 
 exclaimed. "' 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 
 i a sedate official-looking personage made his sudden ap- 
 pearance from a side-door^ and recognizing Gessonex 
 bowed politely. 
 
 " Fardoji vi^sieit ! '' said this individual — " The light 
 shall be turned on instantl}^ The spectators are not 
 many ! " This apologetically. 
 
 Gessonex laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. 
 
 " Ha ! Thou art the man of little economies, nion 
 ami ! " he said. " Thou dost grudge even the dead their 
 last lantern on the road to Styx ! Didst never hear of the 
 Styx ? — no matter ! 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 ijiassive, — a positively herculean mon- 
 ster ! " 
 
 The official smiled. 
 
 " A monster truly I That body was found in the 
 river two days ago, and m'sieu is perhaps aware that the 
 water distends a corpse somewhat unpleasantly.'' 
 
 With these v/ords and an affable nod he disappeared, 
 ■ — and something — I know not what, caused me to care- 
 lessly hum a tune, as I pressed my face against the glass 
 screen, and peered in at the death-slab before me. Sud- 
 denly the light flashed up with a white glare,- — hot, bril- 
 liant, 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 1 Death by poison is evidently more 
 soothing to the muscles than death by drowning ! " 
 
 I looked, — and gradually my aching sense of vision 
 took in the scene. — The first corpse, the one nearest to 
 me, was that of the wom.an 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-poisoii. , Her features Vv'ere quite placid— -the 
 
w vKinyvuviy^ 231 
 
 poof old Withered body was decently composed and rigid, 
 and the little drops of trickling water rolled o^ 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 conscious of a 
 pecuhar straining, choking sensation in my throat that 
 rendered speech difficult. 
 
 " ^ That ' was a man, but is so no longer ! " returned 
 Gessonex lightly. " He is now an It, — and as an It is 
 remarkably hideous ! — so hideous that I am quite fasci- 
 nated ! I really must have a closer look at death's handi- 
 work this time, — come, Beauvais I — M. Jeteaux knows 
 me very well, and v/ill 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 particular corpse is that the eyes have not been de- 
 stroyed. 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 impossible to straighten 
 them, so said the imperturbable M. Jeteaux, — in fact a 
 " toilette " for this tv/isted 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 o-reat protrudino- eves, — 
 God ! — I could hardly save myself from uttering a shriel^ 
 
232 WORMWOOD. 
 
 as the man Jeteaux, desirous 6i being civil to Gessonex, 
 lifted the unnaturally swollen head into an upright posi- 
 tion, and those stony yet wet-glistening eyes stared 
 vacantly at me out of their purple sockets ! 7 kjiew them / 
 ■ — truth to tell I had known this repulsive 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 Silvioji Guidel lay there 
 before me, wdthin touch of my hand,— I the murderer stood 
 by the side of the murdered ! — and as far as I could con- 
 trol myself, I 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 ac- 
 cent of contempt — ''' the clothes prove that,'' — and he in- 
 dicated by a gesture a set of garments (/recognized them 
 well enough !) hanging up, as is the Morgue custom, im- 
 mediately 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 nam^ inside, — he has not been identified and he 
 will not keep any longer, — so to-morrow he will be re- 
 moved," 
 
 " Where to ? " I inquired, — my voice sounding thick 
 and f?ir away, and I coughed violently, as a sort of excuse 
 for huskiness. 
 
 Gessonex laughed. He was busy making a rapid 
 pencil sketch of the corpse. 
 
 " Vv' here to ? My dear friend, to the comfortable 
 ^''josse^ — the ditch of death wherein we all drown in the 
 'srid. ®f 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 h^ obliging. The public 
 
WORMIVOOB. 
 
 233 
 
 'fosse ' is really the most sensible sort of grave, and the 
 most truly religious because it is the most equalizing. 
 This man '' — and he gave a few artistic finishing touches 
 t: his sketch — '' was evidently good-looking once." 
 
 Jeteau 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 rap- 
 idly with his pencil. " This body is certainly very much 
 jiVi^ollen by the water, but one can guess the original 
 natural outlines. The limbs v/ere finely moulded, — the 
 shoulders and chest were strong and nobly fonned, — the 
 face — 3^es ! — 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 j^ou 1 " 
 
 For I had broken out into an uproarious fit of laughter, 
 — laughter that I could no more restrain than an hyster- 
 ical 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 Dieu r' I said. "Would you have m.e play 
 tragedian over such a spectacle as this.? M. Jeteaux 
 says he was a priest! — well, look at him nov/, 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 ex- 
 pression of sanctimonious holiness so ingeniously prac- 
 ticed by all of his crafty calling ? — A priest, you. say ! — a 
 worshipper 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 
 tht only way out of it was suiciiCo' 
 
 I laughed again. 
 
 " Oh ! you think him a suicide ? " 
 
 *' Assuredly ! There are no marks of violence, — and 
 besideSj lie was not robbed of his money." 
 
234 WORMWOOD. 
 
 These foolish officials I Always the same ideas and 
 the same routine ! Inwardly I congratulated myself on 
 my own cunning, — and turning to Gessonex, asked him 
 if he had finished his sketch. 
 
 ^' Though what you want it for I cannot imagine ! " I 
 added irritably, 
 
 Gessonex shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Only for the sake of study/' he returned. " Just to 
 see what Death can do for a man's anatomy 1 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 
 meagreness, but from having made a powerful effort, — a 
 struggle for life. Here the sinevv^s 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 
 3^ou, life did not go easily or willingly out of this priest, 
 — he was probably murdered." 
 
 Curse him and his knov/ledge of anatomy, I thought ! — 
 why the devil could he not hold his tongue ! M. Jeteaux 
 however only smiled, shrugged his slx)ulders 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 rehef to us all 1 " 
 
 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 " 
 Siivion 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 
 
V/ORMWOOD. 235 
 
 to humanity and civilization ! But v;e 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 ob- 
 structs 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^ certaineme7it^ m'sieu ! — it 
 could not be kept another day ! '' 
 
 This idea diverted me extremely. ^' It " could not be 
 kept another day ! Here was this brave Silvion Guidel, 
 ■ — once beautiful as Antinous, brilliant, witty, amorous, 
 — he was no more than so much tainted flesh that 
 could not be kept above ground another day ! And I 
 had brought about this pleasant end for him — even I ! 
 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 I laughed wildly again, when we went 
 out of the Morgue, though I did not venture to give an- 
 other 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 1 ' Bon Dieu I ' they 
 seem to say — '' Rends-7noi la grace d^etrc amoicratx pour 
 line fois^ qiwiqiie je suis prctre ! Qii'' est-cc-que la vie sans 
 aimer tmefemme P " 
 
 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. 
 
 " Sacre-bleu ! Do you know what you have done, 
 Beauvais ? " 
 
 I looked at him blankly. 
 
 "No! What?'* 
 
2^6 WORMWOOD. 
 
 " You have torn up my sketch ! '^ 
 
 ^^ Have I ? Positively I was not aware of it I I 
 tiiought it was a bit of waste paper ! Forgive me 1— I 
 often get frightfully abstracted every now and th.Qn,—ever 
 lince I took to drmking absinthe / '^ 
 
 He turned upon me ¥/ith nervous suddenness. 
 
 ^' Dieu I Have you taken to drinking it then, as a 
 matter of course ? " 
 
 *^ As a matter of life I— -and death ! " I replied curtly. 
 
 He stared at me, and seemed to tremble, — then he 
 smiled, 
 
 " Good I Then— you must also take the conse- 
 quences 1 " 
 
 " I find the consequences fairly agreeable, — at pres- 
 ent." 
 
 <' 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 those quick glances 
 backwards 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 t '' I queried amazed. 
 
 He laughed lightly. 
 
 "A friend, — or rather I should say, a creditor! He 
 wants his bill paid, — and I am not disposed to settle with 
 him — not just yet 1 '' 
 
 We were standing at the quiet corner of a quiet street, 
 — -I looked from right to left, and round and about every- 
 where, but not a soul could I perceive but our two selves, 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " Pshaw 1 You are dreaming, Gessonex 1 " He smiled, 
 ——very strangely, I thought. 
 
 *' So are you ! '' he responded calmly. **' Dreaming 
 heavily,~a fiery, drunken dream 1 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 slov^^ly— " I am 
 sorry you tore up my sketch ! " 
 
 '' I also regret it, mo7i cker T^ I declared, puffing away 
 at my cigarette—^' But it was an ugly memory,— wliv did 
 you want to keep such a thin^ t " 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 237 
 
 "To remind me of death** — he replied,— '* to teach 
 me how hideous and repulsive and loathsome the fair- 
 est of us may become 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 ! " 
 
 ** 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 dream- 
 ily- — *'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 some- 
 thing more than life— it is Spirit. And imagine it, 
 Beauvais !— we have it in our ovvn power to release that 
 subtle thing, whatever it is,— vvre can kill a man and 
 lo!— there is a lump of clay and that strange essence 
 has gone! — or, we can kill ourselves, — Ynth the same 
 result. Only, one wonders,— what becomes of us?" 
 
 ** Nirvana!— -Nothingness!" I responded airily. 
 **That is the Buddhist idea of eternal bliss— -an idea 
 that is very fashionable 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 
 city 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 
 p/tench and mind-malaria ! — faugh ! Do not accept Paris 
 opinions, Beauvais! — there is something more than 
 •nothingness* 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 un- 
 pleasing 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 persist* 
 
238 WORMWOOD. 
 
 ently "-— I saidj with mingled irritation and contrition^— 
 the la.tter feeling I feigned as best I could — " I am really 
 very sorry 1 Shall we go back to the Morgue and ask 
 permission to take another view ? '' 
 
 " N05 no ! ''—and Gessonex shuddered slightly—*^ I 
 could not look at that dead priest again ! — There was 
 something clamorous in his eyes, — they v/ere alive with 
 some ghastly accusation ! " 
 
 I forced a smile. 
 
 " How unpleasantly grim, you are this evening, Ges- 
 sonex ! " I said carelessly. '^ I think I will leave you 
 to your ov/n reflections. A21 revoir P'^ 
 
 '-'• 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 hon viveur^ I assure 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 cafe on the Boulevard Montmartre,^— a 
 favorite resort for many a sworn ahs'mtheur, 
 
 " 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 1 — I will join you there some evening. 
 Expect me ! '' 
 
 '' When .? " I asked. 
 
 " Soon ! When my creditors v/ill allow me to appear 
 in public 1 Bon soir ! " 
 
 He lifted his hat with his usual fantastic flourish,— 
 smiled, and was gone. I drew a deep breath of relief, 
 For some moments the strain on my nerves had been 
 terrific, — I could scarcely have endured his companion- 
 ship a moment longer. I looked about me. I was in 
 a very quiet thoroughfare, — there were trees, and seats 
 under the trees, — but I vv^as near the river, — too near 1 
 I turned resolutely away from it, and walked onward,™ 
 walked till I found myself in the lively and brilliant 
 Avenue de I'Opera. Here I presently saw a man pacing 
 slowly ahead of me, clad in a priest's close black gar- 
 ments. He annoyed me terribly,.— I had no desire to be 
 
WORMWOOD, 239 
 
 reminded of priestcraft 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 Silvion Guidel . . . Sil- 
 vion 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 clenched fist passed through his 
 seeming substance ! — he vanished into impalpable noth- 
 ingness before my eyes ! I stamped and swore, — a 
 hand seized and swung me to one side. 
 
 " Va-t-en bete/^^ said a rough voice. " Tu te grises trop 
 fortr' 
 
 Drunk ! I ! I reeled back from the push this insolent 
 passer-by had given me, and rallying my forces took to 
 walking again as rapidly as possible, concentrating all 
 my energies on speed of movement ; and refusing to 
 allow myself to think, 
 
 I soon reached a cafe 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, 
 I rushed out into the calm and chilly night, maddened 
 with a sort of furious, evil ecstasy that was perfectly in- 
 describable ! The spirit of a mocking devil possess i 
 me, — a devil proud as Milton's Satan, insicic :s . :i 
 Byron's Lucifer, and malevolently cunning as Goethe's 
 Mephistopheles, — 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 shov/er 
 of rain ! Yes — I was maddened — gloriously maddened ! 
 maddened into a temporary forgetfulness of my crime of 
 Murder 1 — 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 a while, so as to be sure, quite sure that 
 I should not again meet that pale yet leering shadow of 
 Silviou Guidel ? 
 
240 WORMWOOD. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Pausing for a moment, while the pavement rocked 
 unsteadily 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 I 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. Intel- 
 ligence, culture, scholarship — these seemed lost to me, — 
 they occupied no place in my drugged mernory. 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 con- 
 sider my owm condition there Vv^here I was, close by the 
 Avenue de FOpera, with the stream of passers-by coming 
 and going like grinning ghosts in a dream, — I hurled my- 
 self, 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, — ringing of bells, beating and crashing 
 of hammers,— it seemed to my fancy that there, spread 
 out before me w^as a clear green piece of water with a great 
 ship upon it ; — the ship was in process of building and I 
 heard the finishing blows on her iron keel, — the throbbing 
 sound, of her panting engines ; — I saw her launched, when 
 low ! — 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 entwined 
 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 dis- 
 traction and almost unconscious that I moved, — but burn- 
 ing with a sort of rapturous rage to the finger-tips,— a 
 
A^ORMWOOB, 241* 
 
 sensation that would easily have prompted and persuaded 
 me to any deed of outrage or violence. 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 Absinthe, 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 
 ensnare the merest child in woman's shape, and not oriy 
 outrage her, but murder and mutilate her afterwards, — 
 and then, when all is done, and they are by some happy 
 accident, caught and condemned for the crime, will smoke 
 a cigar on the way to the guillotine and cut a joke with 
 the executioner as the knife descends ! 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 pretence ? — why keep up such a game of 
 Sham ? Paris is described as a brilliant centre of civili- 
 zation, — 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 fastidiousl}^ 
 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 Baby- 
 lon. 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 and ennoble it ; — but we 
 in our day are so thoroughly alive to our own ridiculous- 
 ness generally, that v^^e spare neither time nor trouble in 
 impressing ourselves v/ith 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 rant and most hypocrisy. And so we whirl along 
 from hour to hour, — and the heavens do not crack, and 
 no divine thunderbolt slays us for our misdeeds — if they 
 arc misdeeds ! Assuicdiv the Greek Zeus was a far more 
 t6 
 
242 PVOJ^JIirOOI?. 
 
 interesting i_)eity than the present strange Immensit}^ ot 
 Eternal Silence, in which some people perchance feel the 
 thought-throbbings of a vast Force which broods and 
 broods and waits, — waits maybe for a fixed appointed time 
 \Yhen the whole universe as it nov; is. shall disperse like 
 a fleece of film, and leave space clear and clean for the 
 working out of another Creation. 
 
 As I tell YOU, if I had w^anted monev that ni2'ht, I 
 would have murdered even an aged and feeble man to 
 obtain it ! If I had wanted love, — or Vvdiat is caUed 
 love in Paris, I woifid have v;on it. either by fiattery 
 or force. But I needed neither gold nor woman's 
 kisses, — of the first I still had sufficient, — of the sec- 
 ond, whv ! — in Paris thev can ahvavs be secured at the 
 cost of a few napoleons and a champagne supper. 1\ o ! 
 — 'I wanted somethino^ that 2;old could not buv nor 
 woman's lips persuade, — Forgetfulness ! — and it en- 
 rap;ed me to think that this was the one, the onlv thins: 
 that my Absinthe-witch Avould not give me in all its 
 completeness. Some drinkers of the Green Elixir there 
 are w'ho 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 /do this ? Whv could I not strike into frag;- 
 ments at one blow, as it were, this burning, refiecting, 
 quivering dial-plate of mem.ory that seared and scorched 
 mv brain ? Aimlesslv hurrvins: on as thousfh bound 
 on some swift errand, yet without any definite object 
 in view. I arrived all at once in front of a gatevray 
 over which a 2:arish arch of electric li2;ht fiashed its 
 wavering red. blue, and green, — a sort of turnstile 
 wicket marked the side-entrance, with an inscription 
 above it in large letters — " Bal ^L\sovt I Extree 
 Libre ! ! '' There are plenty of such places in Paris of 
 course, though I had never set foot in one of them,— 
 dancin2:-saloons of the lowest tvpe where the •• Entree 
 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 ahvays understood. It is the same 
 rule wdth all the ca/es chanta?iU — one enters gratis^ — 
 but one pays for having entered. The sound of miusic 
 reached me where I stood, — wild, harsh music such 
 as devils might dance to, — and without taking a 
 
WORMWOOD. 243 
 
 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 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 salk, tawdry with bright paint and common 
 gilding, whirled a crowd of men and women fantasti- 
 cally attired in all sorts of motley costumes, — some as 
 clowns, others as sheeted corpses, — others as laun- 
 dresses, fishermen, sailors, soldiers, vivandieres^ — here 
 was a strutting caricature of Boulanger, — there an ex- 
 aggerated double of the President of the Republic — 
 altogether a wild and furious crew, shrieking, howling, 
 and dancing like lunatics just escaped from detention. 
 Some few wore masks and dominos, — but the greater 
 part of the assemblage were unmasked, — and my en- 
 trance, clad merely as a plain civilian excited no sort 
 of notice. I was to the full as de rigeiir for such an 
 entertainment as any one else present. I flung my- 
 self 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 fanci- 
 ful impression would have time to write itself across 
 my brain, — here it was better than being in a wilder- 
 ness,- — one could yell and scream and caper with the 
 rest of one's fellow-apes and be as merry as one chose ! 
 I elbowed my way along, and promised an officious 
 but very dirty waiter my custom presently, — and while 
 I tried to urge my muddled intelligence into a clearer 
 comprehension of all that was going on, the crowed 
 suddenly parted asunder wdth laughter and shouts of 
 applause, and standing back in closely pressed ranks 
 ,made an open space in their centre for the approach 
 ,of two women discreetly masked, — one arrayed in very 
 short black gauze skirts, the other in blood-red. At- 
 titudinizing for a moment in that theatrical pose wdiich 
 all dancers assume before commencing the revolutions, 
 •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 '' ca?i- 
 fan^'' — which though immodest, vile, vulgar, and licen* 
 
244 :70R3IIVC0D. 
 
 iiGv..z, Irz pcrliaps 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 ilireateniiig gesture and amorous invitation^— and 
 if the dancers be a couple of heavy Paris laundresses 
 or {jcirokt^ses^ it will probably be rendered so ridiculously 
 as to be harmless. But, clanced by v/omen with lithej 
 strong, sinuous limbs— v/ith 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 throur-h the black eye-holes of a conspirator-like 
 mask, — and with utter, reckless, audacious disregard of 
 all pretence at modesty, — its effect is terrible, enraging 1 
 — inciting to deeds of rapine, pillage and slaughter! 
 And why ? Why, in Heaven's name, should a mere 
 dance make men mad ? Why ?— -Mild questioner, who- 
 ever you are, I cannot answer you ! Why are men made 
 as they are ? — will you tell me that ? Why does an Eng- 
 lish 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 mo this incongruity, — and I will 
 explain to you then why it is that the sight of the "-Uan- 
 ca?t '' 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 Vv^earing the color of 
 the grave, the other the color of blood, acted as a sort 
 of exhilarating charm., — and I howled, stamped, shrieked, 
 and applauded as furiously as the rest of the onlookers. 
 More than this, when the dance was over, I approached 
 the black siren and besought her to honor me with her 
 hand in a waltz — an invitation which I accompanied by a. 
 v/hisper in her ear — a whisper that had in it 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 coif 
 manded her, as I was paymaster for the evening, to 
 
■ WORiynVOOD. 245 
 
 remove her mask. She did so, — and displayed a hand- 
 some coarse visage, — badly rouged and whitened with 
 pearl powdv ' — her v\^ay of life had rendered her old be- 
 fore her time, — but the youth and wickedness in her 
 magnificent eyes made amends for her premature 
 wrinkles. 
 
 '•* Tiens, Madame ! Comme tu es laide ! '" I said with 
 brusque candor. " Mais c'est une jolie laideur ! '^ 
 
 She laughed harshly. 
 
 " Oui 1 je suis laide — je le sais ! " she responded indif- 
 ferently. " Que veux-tu, mon jeune farouche ? fai 
 vecii I 
 
 It was my turn to laugh now, and I did so uproariously. 
 She had lived — she ! 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 knowl- 
 edge of the most despicable side of despicable' men's 
 characters ; — she had lived^ which was tantamount to say- 
 ing that she comprehended the object and intention of 
 living !' What a fool she was ! — what a shallow-brained 
 fool ! — and yet, it is for such women as she that men 
 occasionally ruin themselves and their families. The 
 painted successful wanton of the stage never lacks dia- 
 monds 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 improve it. What an impas- 
 sively dumb spectator of things He is in His vast, clear 
 empyrean ! Why does He not " rend the heavens and 
 come down " — as the old Psalmist implored Him to ^o^ — 
 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 pre- 
 cise explanation ? 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 female 
 iiend who had " lived,'' as she said, — I gave her cham- 
 pagne, ices, bonbons, — all that her greedy appetite de- 
 mo nded, and I watched her with a certain vague amuse- 
 ment, as she ate and drank and laughed and jested, while 
 the wine flushed be^ cheeks and lent an extra devihsh 
 
246 WORMWOOIX 
 
 sparkle to her eyes. Between the dances, we sat ftgether 
 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 sang 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 dancing 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- 
 colored 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 curiously out of place and incongruous, 
 so I fancied, — and I turned to my siren of the " can-can," 
 who with both her muscular white arms folded on the 
 table, was staring hard at me with, as I thought, an ex- 
 pression of intense inquisitiveness, not unmixed with 
 fear. 
 
 *^ Voila ! " I said laughing. " A priest at a hal masque/ 
 Does he not look droll } See v/hat temptations these 
 gentlemen of the Church yield to I " 
 
 She turned her black eyes in the direction I indicated, 
 
 " What priest 1 '*' she asked. — '' Where ? '' 
 
 '^ There ! '' 
 
 And I pointed straight before me into the salle, where I 
 plainly saw the individual I meant, — a man, wearing the 
 closely buttoned-up clerical black garment I had learned 
 to abominate so heartily. " I do not see him 1 '' 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 always 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 
 
WORMWOOD. 247 
 
 enough champagne. There he is ! — there, with his back 
 turned to us ! Don't you see him now ? '' 
 
 She stared and stared, — then shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " No ! '' 
 
 A sudden horrible fear froze my blood. I sprang up 
 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 /:elerity 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 ! Look ! — he does not move ! " 
 
 Under her rouge her face grew very pale. ^'Ou done ? '* 
 she murmured nervously. " /e m vols rie?i ? " 
 
 Closer and closer we waltzed towards that motionless 
 shape of a man, and I sav/ the dark outline 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 ? " — And I uttered a furi- 
 ous cry as the figure turned its face upon me, Silvioii 
 GuidU 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 v^rith my tv/o hands to force a 
 passage between the foolish flocks of dancing masquer- 
 aders,— I heard shrieks of terror and amazement, — shouts 
 of '' II est fou I — // est foil ! " — 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 down- 
 wards to the ground, — he gazed straight at- me\vith v/ist- 
 ful, beautiful, impassioned eyes, — but no smile crossed 
 
243 WORMWOOD, 
 
 the quiet pailor of his countenance. He looked — yes !--- 
 exactly as he had looked before I murdered him ! . . . 
 Perhaps — perhaps, I thought vaguely — there was some 
 mistake ? — perhaps I had 7tot killed him after all ! he 
 seevud still to be alive ! 
 
 '' Silvion ! '' I whispered. " What now ? Silvion'! '' 
 A light breeze rustled the branches overhead, — the 
 moonbeams appeared to gather* and melt into a silvery 
 sea — and I sprang forv/ard, resolvedly intent on grasping 
 that substantial-looking form in such a manner as to es- 
 tablish for myself the fact of its actual existence, — it rose 
 upvv^ard 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 ac- 
 cursed phantom of my own brain had confronted me, fell 
 heavily forward on the ground^ stunned and iuseusible 1 
 
WOI^MWOOD. 249 
 
 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, v/ho grasped and shook me to and fro as if I 
 were a bag of wheat. 
 
 *^ Leve-toi ! Get up, beast ! " he growled, his rough 
 provincial accent making the smooth French tongue 
 sound like the ugly snarl of a savage bull-dog. " Drunk 
 at nine in the morning ! 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 ! " 
 
 And 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, — everytliing 
 seemed to flicker and dance to and fro before my eyes, 
 — -but I remembered I had some money left in my pock- 
 ets. 1 searched, — and drew out a piece of twenty 
 francs. 
 
 " What do yoic know about gentlemen or aristocrats ? " 
 I said. " Do you not measure them all by this t '^ — 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 I 
 dropped the piece into his quickly outstretched palm — 
 '' Cest autre chose, n'est ce pas, mon a?7ii? " 
 
 He touched his hat, — and the laughter was all on ray 
 side now ! He looked such a ridiculous puppet of offi- 
 •cialism ! 
 
 '''' Mais oui, monsieur ! — niais oui/^^ he murmured con- 
 fusedly, pocketing his gold. '' Mille pardoiis / , . , c'est le 
 devoir, — vous le savcz .... enfin — monsieur . j ai T ?i07ineur 
 de vous saluer r^ 
 
s^o woMMwaou. 
 
 And he ,aged himself away wifh as tiitich dignity as 
 
 was possible in the very undignified position he occu- 
 pied, — -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 tc 
 say, — ''' Monsieur^ fai rhojuieiir de vous sahier^' — Foot 
 devil ! — Only one out of thousands like him in this droK 
 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 reahzed that I was close to the 
 Champs Elysees, I could not imagine how I had come 
 there, nor could I remember precisely where I had been 
 during the past night. I was aware of a deadly sense of 
 sickness, and I was very unsteady on my feet, so that I 
 was obliged to walk slowly. My hat v/as damaged be- 
 yond repair, — I put it on as it was, all crushed and 
 beaten in, — and what with my soiled linen, disoraered 
 garments and unkempt hair, I felt that my appearance 
 was not, on this fine bright morning in Paris, altogether 
 prepossessing. But what did I care for that ? — Who was 
 to see me i* — 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 a 
 while, and try to recover a firmer hold of my physical 
 faculties. I staggered blindly towards a bench under the 
 trees, and almost fell upon it, thereby knocking heavily 
 against an upright dignifixcd-looking old gentleman 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 con- 
 dition more successfully than any cold douche 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, respect- 
 able, elderly personage who, pale as death, regarded me 
 with the terror-stricken air of one who sees some sudden 
 spectral prodigy ? 
 
 " Gaston I '' he cried again. 
 
WORMWOOD, 251 
 
 Ab!-— Of course! I knew him now! My father I 
 Actually my father ! — who would have thought it ! I felt 
 in a dim sort of way that I had no further claim to re- 
 lationship with this worthy 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 
 meeting, mon pere ? I rejoice to see yoi: looking so well 1 " 
 
 White to the lips, he still stood, staring at me, one hand 
 grasping his gold-headed cane, — the other nervously 
 clenching and unclenching itself. Had I had any sense 
 of filial compassion or decency left, which I had not, I 
 should have understood that the old man w^as 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 con- 
 dition I was, I only felt a kind of grim amusem.ent to 
 think what a horrible disappointment I must be to him ! 
 His son ! 1/ I laughed again in a stupid sort of 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 
 supreme effort, he made a stride towards me. 
 
 " Gaston ! " he exclaimed sharply, " what does this 
 mean ? Why are you here 1 What has happened to you ? 
 Why have you never written to me ? — what is the reason 
 of this disgraceful plight in which I find you ? Mo?t Dieif ' 
 — what have I done to deserve this shame ? '^ 
 
 His voice shook, — and his wrath seemed close up^^Ki 
 the verge of tears. 
 
 " What have you done, mon ph^e ? — why, nothing ! " I 
 responded tranquilly. "Nothing, I assure you I 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 " 
 
 His face softened and changed in an instant, and he 
 advanced 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 reliei. 
 and solicitude. " Is it indeed so, my poor Gaston 1 — wh^ 
 
2^f WORMWOOD. 
 
 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 I dimly understood I owed my 
 being! He was ready to offer me his arm^ — -he, the 
 cleanly respectable honorable banker whose method- 
 ical regularity of habits and almost fastidious punc- 
 tilio were known to his friends and acquainta^nce,— 
 he would, — if I had made illness m^y sole excuse,— he 
 would have actually escorted my dirty, slouching fig- 
 ure through the streets with more than the tenderness 
 of the Good Samaritan! I! — a, murderer? — I smiled. 
 
 *'You mistake!" I said, speaking harshly and with 
 difficulty. ''I am not ill,— not with the sort of ill- 
 ness 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? Enfin!—I do not ^ee why you shotiid be 
 surprised !— On va avec son siecle!" 
 
 He retreated from me, with a deep frown, 
 indignation and scorn darkened his fine features. 
 
 *' If this is a jest," he said sternly, *4t is a poor one 
 and in very bad taste ! ^ Perhaps you will explain—" 
 
 *'0h, certainly!" and I passed my hand in and out 
 my rough, uncombed hair— '*Voyons! where shall I 
 begin? Let me consider the questions. Imprimis, — • 
 what does this mean? Well, it means that the major- 
 ity of men are beasts and the minority respectable ; — 
 needless to add that I belong to the majority. It is 
 the strongest side, you know !— it always wins ! Next, 
 ' — ^why am I here? I really can't tell you— -I forget, 
 my wits have gone v/ool-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, I have not intruded my objectionable pre* 
 sence upon any of our mutual friends. I did not 
 write to you, because— welll— because I imagined it 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 253 
 
 Was better for you to try and forget me. To finish — you 
 ask what has happened to me, — and v/hat the reason is of 
 this my present condition. I have taken to a new pro- 
 fession — that is all ! " 
 
 " A new profession ! " echoed my father blankly. " What 
 profession ? " 
 
 I looked at him steadfastly, dimly pitying him, yet feel- 
 ing no inclination to spare him the hnal blow. 
 
 " Oh, a common one among men in Paris ! " I re- 
 sponded with forced lightness — " well known, well ap- 
 preciated,- — 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 
 idee fixe in its brain ! " 
 
 The old man drew himself up a little more stiffly erect 
 and eyed me with an indignant yet sorrowful wonder. 
 
 " 1 do not understand you," he said curtly. '* To me 
 you seem foolis^ , — drunk, — disgraced i I cannot believe 
 you are my son ! '' 
 
 " I am not ! '' I replied calmly. " Do not recognize me 
 as such any longer 1 In the way I have chosen to live 
 one cuts all the ties of mere relationship. I should be no 
 use to you, — nor would you — pardon me for saying so ! — • 
 be any use to me ! What should I do v/ith a home or 
 home associations ? — Ij — an absintheur T"^ 
 
 As tlie word left my lips, he seemed to stagger and sway 
 forward a little, — I thought he v/ould have fallen, and in- 
 voluntarily I made a hasty movement to assist him ; — but 
 he waved me back with a feeble yet eloquent gesture, — ■ 
 his eyes flashed, — his w^hole form seemed to dilate with 
 the passion of his wrath and pain. 
 
 " Back ! Do not touch me 1" he said in low fierce 
 accents. " How dare you face me with such an hideous 
 avowal! An absi?itke7ir ? 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, — '\vould I had laid 
 you in the grave, a little innocent lad as I remember 
 you, than have lived to see you come to this ! An 
 absirithcur I In that one word is comprised all the worst 
 poijsibijities of crime ! Why — why in Heaven'.s naroa 
 have you fallen so low ? " 
 
254 
 
 WOI^MWOOD. 
 
 "Low?"l 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 sacrificing 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 fash- 
 ion — the fashion of absinthe, I am perfectly happy, — why 
 trouble about 3e ? " 
 
 His eyes met mine, — the brave honest eyes that had 
 never known how to play a treachery, — and the look of 
 imcpeakable reproach in them went to my very heart. 
 "^>' I gave no outward sign of feeling. 
 
 ^^ Is this all you have to say ? " he asked at last, 
 
 '• All ! '' I echoed carelessly. " Is it not enough ? " 
 
 He waited as if to gather force for his next utterance, 
 ^ > and when he spoke again, his voice was sharp and re- 
 sonant, almost metallic in its measured distinctness. 
 
 *^ Enough, certainly ! '' he said. " And more than 
 enough ! Enough to convince me without further argu- 
 ment, 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 that has arisen to confront me in 
 his disfigured likeness ! You — you were once Gaston 
 Beauvais, — a gentleman in name and position, — yoa who 
 now avow yourself an ahsiiitheur^ 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 wilful 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 eye- 
 lids. He had really a very distinguished air 1 — he was 
 altogether such a noble-looking old man ! 
 
 " Good ! " I murmured affably. " Very good ! Very well 
 said ! Platitudes of course, — yet admirably expressed r '^ 
 
 tIIs face flushed, — he grasped his stick convulsively. 
 
 -* By Heaven ! " he muttered, " I am tempted to strike 
 /ou!" 
 
 " Do not ! " I answered, smiling a little — " you ivould 
 soil that handsome cane of yours, and possibly hurt your 
 hand. I really am not worth the risk of these two contin- 
 gencies ! " 
 
WORMWOOD. 255 
 
 rle 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 
 comfortable ! It seems to me that you are the madman 
 in this case, mon perc I — forgive me for the hrusquerie of 
 the observation ! " 
 
 *^ I ! " 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 respect- 
 able 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 jot, 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 1 
 practice is aic fond ^x^q\s^\^ the same as is follow^ed under 
 different auspices throughout society ; nam.ely : I please 
 myself I — which, after all, is the chief object of each man's 
 existence." 
 
 Thus I rambled on half incoherent!}^, indifferent as to 
 whether my father stayed to listen to me or went away in 
 disgust. He had however nov/ regained all his ordinary 
 composure, and he held up his hand with an authoritative 
 gesture. 
 
 *^ Silence ! " hb said. " You shame the very air you 
 breathe ! Listen to me, — understand well what I say, — 
 and answer plainly if you can. You tell me you have 
 become an absinthenr^—dLO 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 passion- 
 ately. *' 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 hava 
 you never thought thus far ? " 
 
 I gave a gesture of weariness. 
 
 " Mon pere^ 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 
 
255 WOEMWOOjD. 
 
 I use the past tense though you have not forioally dis* 
 missed me); now what a trouble and worry it is to con- 
 sume one's days in looking after other people's money ! 
 To consider another profession, — the hackneyed one of 
 jSighting for ^ La Patrie/ What does ' La Patrie ' care for 
 all the blood shed oa her battle-fields? She is such a 
 droll ' Patrie 1 " — one week, she shrieks out ' Alsace-Zor- 
 rainel En revanche/^— the next, she talks calmly through 
 her printing-presses of making friends with Germany, and 
 even condescends to flatter the new German Emperor 1 
 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 cafe, drinking absifzthe comfortably instead ! Ah, bah 1 
 Do not look so indignant, — the da^^s 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 
 finished speaking — 
 
 " That is your answer ? '' he demanded. 
 
 "Answer to what? Oh, as to whether I undeistand 
 the meaning of being an absintheu7\ 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^f 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 v/ith 
 such a coldness of unutterable scorn in them, as for the 
 moment gave me a dim sense of shame, — *' I want to hear no 
 more special pleadings for the most degrading and loath- 
 some vice of this our city and age. No more, I tell you 1 
 — not a word ! What / 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 \dli cease to bear my name.'' 
 
 I bowed, smilingly serenely. 
 
 " Ca imsans dire! I have already ceased to bear it,'' I 
 answered him, " Your honor is safe with me, sir, I assure 
 you,, though I care nothing for my own 1 " 
 
 He went on as though he had not heard me. 
 
 " Yoii will no longer have any connection with the Bank, 
 
WOI^MlVOOn. 25? 
 
 --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 
 opening for him, 1 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 relationship must be now a thing dissolved and 
 broken forever. From this day henceforth I disown you, 
 ■ — for I know that the hideous vice you pander to, allcv/s 
 for no future repentance or redemption. I had a son 1 '' 
 ' — and his voice quivered a little, — '' a son of whom I was 
 too fondly, foolishly proud, — but he is lost 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 ? " 
 
 ** Aye, 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 v/ith grief 
 and desolation. Like the poor child Pauline, he has van- 
 ished, leaving no trace, — and though pity and forgiveness 
 would await them both were they to return to their homes, 
 as yet no sign has been obtained of either." 
 
 " They are probably together ! " I 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 ! '' 
 
 With an impetuous movement my father raised his cane, 
 — and I certainly thought that this time he would have 
 struck me, — but he restrained himself. 
 
 ^^ Oh callous devil ! '' he cried wrathfuUy — "is it pos- 
 sible '' 
 
 " Is what possible ? '' I demanded, my rage also rising in 
 a tumult. '' Nay, is it possible you can speak of ' pity and 
 I 17 
 
2^S IFO/^MirOOD. 
 
 forgiveness' for those two guilty fools ? Pity and f orgive^^' 
 ness 1— the prodigal son with the prodigal daughter wel- 
 come 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 — / am dis- 
 owned— /am cast out and spurned at, — while she, Pauline 
 the v/anton, and he, Guidel, the seducer, are being searched, 
 for tenderly, high and low, to be brought back vvdien 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 a hould we exchange more words ? You 
 have chosen your path,— I mine! and you may depend 
 upon it, 'he m_uch admired and regretted Silvion Guidel 
 has chosen /j/i"/ Go !— -v/hy 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 Elysees, and from the broader avenues came 
 ringing between-whiles the laughter and chatter of chil- 
 dren at play. He, — my father- -looked at me v/ith the 
 strained startled gaze of a brave man wounded to the 
 death. 
 
 " Can sorroY/ 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 v/ither 
 to nothingness your whole career ? Are you not man 
 enoudi to live it down ? '' 
 
 '^ I am living it down," I responded harshly. " But, in 
 my own v/ay ! I am forgetting the world and its smug- 
 hypocrisies and canting mocker}/ of virtue ! I am ceasing 
 to care v/hether women are faithful or m.en 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 (v/hich is but seldom !), 
 I spring at its throat and strangle it, before it has time to 
 breathe ! ]?0i lam aware that noble thoughts or fine ideas 
 are the laughing-stock o^ thi'^ r^ntur)^, and that the stupid 
 dreamers who indulge in them are liiadc th^ dupes of t^^- 
 age ! You look startled l-— well you may 1— to yo^, mo^n^ 
 
WORMWOOD, 259 
 
 fere, I am dangerous^ — for — I loved you ! and what I 
 once loved is nov/ become a mere . reproach to me, — a 
 blackness 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 v/iil not have, — 
 1 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 de?.d always are 
 forgotten — in spite of the monuments raised to thei'^ 
 memory. 
 
 He gave a despairing cresture. 
 
 ^'Gaston ! " he cried. ^'' You kill me I '' 
 
 I surveyed him tranquilly. 
 
 ** Not so, mon pere — 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 nev/ ties and nev/ surroundings. Foi 
 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, 
 — I do my best to blunt its edge ! Blame me no more, — • 
 think of me no more, — I am not worth a single regret, and 
 I do not seek to be regretted. I loved you once, moii 
 pere, as I told you — -but now, if I saw much of you, — of 
 your independent air, your proud step, your sincere 
 eyes — I dare say, I should hate you ! — for I hate all things 
 honest ! It is part of my new profession to do so " — and 
 I laughed wildly—-" Honesty is a mortal affront to an 
 absintheur I — did you not know that 1 However, though 
 the offence is great, I wall not fight you for it — we will part 
 friends ! Adieu i " 
 
 I held out my hand. He looked at it, — but did not 
 touch it, — but deliberately put his cane behind his back, 
 and folded his ow^n two hands across it. His face v/as 
 paler than before and his lips w^ere set. His glance 
 swept over me with unutterable reproach and scorn, — I 
 smiled at his expression of dignified disgust, — and as I 
 smiled, he turned away. 
 
 " Adieu, mon pPere! '''' I said again. 
 
 He gave no Vv^ord or sign in answer, but with a :?iow, 
 quiet, composed step paced onward^ —his head erects—ins 
 
26o WOJ^MWOOD. 
 
 shoulders squared,~his whole manner as irreproachable 
 as ever. No one could have thought he carried worse 
 than a bullet-wound in his heart ! / knew it — but I did 
 not car^. I watched his tali figure disappear through the 
 arching foliage of the trees without regret,— without 
 remorse — indeed with rather a sense of relief than other- 
 wise. 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 1 It was tire- 
 some to think of him, — and it was better to lose him, for 
 the infinitely more precious sake oi— Absinthe/ 
 
WORMWOOD. a6l 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I PASSED the rest of that day in a strange sort of semi- 
 somnolence, — a state of stupid dull indifferentism as to 
 what next should happen to me. I cannot say that I 
 even thought, — for the powers of thinking in me were 
 curiously inert, almost paralyzed. The interview I had 
 had with my father faded away into a sort of pale and 
 blurred remembrance — it seemed to have taken place 
 years ago instead of hours. That is one of the special 
 charms of the Absinthe-furia ; it makes a confused chaos 
 of all impressions, so that it is frequently impossible to 
 distinguish between one event occurring long ago and 
 one that has happened quite recently. True, there are 
 times when certain faces and certain scenes dart out 
 vividly from this semi-obscure neutrality of color, and 
 take such startling shape and movement as to almost dis- 
 tract the brain they haunt and intimidate, — but these 
 alarms to the seat of reason are not frequent, — at least, 
 
 not at first. Afterwards ~ But why should I offer you 
 
 too close an explanation of these subtle problems of 
 mind-attack and overwhelmment t I tell you my own ex- 
 perience ; — you can, and I dare say you will, pooh-pooh 
 it as an impossible one, — the mere distraught fancy of an 
 excited imagination, — but, — if you would find out and 
 prove how truly I am dissecting my own heart and soul 
 for your benefit, why take to Absinthe yourself and see ! — 
 and describe the result thereafter more coherently than I 
 — if you can ! 
 
 All day long, as I have said, I roamed about Paris in a 
 dream, — a dream wherein hazy reflections, dubious won- 
 derments, vague speculations, hovered to and fro without 
 my clearly perceiving their drift or meaning. I laughed 
 a little as I tried to imagine what my father would have 
 said, had he known v/hat had truly become of Silvion 
 Guidel 1 If he could have guessed that I had murdered 
 
^'^Sl IVORMPVGO-D, 
 
 him ! What v/ould he have donej I wondei^ed ? Prob- 
 ably he would have given me up to the police ;— he had 
 a frightfully strained idea of honor, and he v^^ould 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 aime Silvion ; " and 
 making every sort of inquiry about him, v;hen all the 
 while he was lying in the coxGxvLon 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 ex- 
 pected to see him, — it seemed quite likely that he might 
 meet me at any corner of any street. This circumstance 
 and others similar to it, make me at times doubtful as to 
 whether Death is really the conclusion of things the posi- 
 tivists tell us it is. True, the body dies — but there is 
 something in us more than body. And how is it that 
 whien we look at the corpse of one whom we knew and 
 loved, we always feel that the actual being who held our 
 affections is no longer there ? If not there, then — where ? 
 Silvion 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 and very persistent way, 
 — so that when he was not actually visible in spectral 
 ahpe, he was almost palpable in invisibility. This im- 
 pression was so pronounced with me, that it is possible, 
 had Ibeen taken unawares and asked some sudden 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 
 positively, — and knowing, still vaguely refused to believe 
 it 1 Everything was misty and indefinite with me,--- 
 and the interview I had just had v/ith my father soon be^ 
 came a part of the shadowy chiaroscuro of events uncep 
 tain 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 inten- 
 tion of buying. I took a sort of fantastic pleasure in 
 turning over various costly trifles of feminine adornment, 
 such as bracelets, necklets, dangling chatelaines^ and use- 
 less fripperies of all possible design,,—- things that catch 
 
WORMWOOD, 263 
 
 the eye iind ciiarm the soul of almost evet'y simpering 
 daughter of Eve that clicks her high Louis Quinze heels 
 along the asphalte of our Lutetian pavements and avenues. 
 Why was it, I mused, that Pauline de Charmilles had not 
 been quite like the rest of her sex in such matters ? I 
 had given her costly gifts in abundance, — but she had 
 preferred the fire of Silvion's passionate glance ; and his 
 kiss had outweighed in her mind any trinket of flawless 
 pearl or glistening diamond ! Strange ! — Yet she was the 
 child who laughed up in my eyes the iirst night 1 met her, 
 and had talked in foolish school-girl fashion of her favo- 
 rite " marrons glaces '^ / Heavens ! — what odd material 
 women are made of ! Then, one would have thought a 
 box of bon-bons sufficient to give her supremest delight, — a 
 string of gems would surely have sent her into an ecstasy ! 
 — and yet this dimpling, babyish^ frivolous, prattling 
 feminine thing had dared the fatal plunge into the ocean 
 of passion, — and there, — sinking, struggling, dying, — lost, 
 — with fevered pulses and parched lips, — still clung to the 
 frail spar of her own self-centred hope and drifted, — 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 so, — proud, thank- 
 ful, even boastful to perish so, because such death was 
 for Love's sweet-bitter sake ! It was remarkable to find 
 such a phase of character in a creature as young as Pau- 
 line ; or so I thought, — and I wondered dimly whether / 
 had loved he?'' as much as she had loved Guidel. No 
 sooner did I begin to meditate on this subject than I 
 felt that cold and creeping thrill of brain-horror which I 
 know now (for it comes often and I fight as well as I 
 can against it) to be the hint, — the far forewarning of 
 madness, — wild, shrieking, untameable madness such as 
 makes the strongest keepers of maniac-men recoil and 
 cower ! I tell 3^ou, doubt it as you will, tha^ my love for 
 Pauline de Charmilles — the silly child who tortured and 
 betrayed me, — was immeasurably greater than I myself 
 had deemed it, — and I dare not even nov\r 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 I — and as I thought upon 
 it, it drove me into a paroxysm of impotent ferocity to re- 
 call what 1 had lost^ — how I liad been tiicked and fooledi 
 
264 WORMWOOD. 
 
 and mocked and robbed of all life's dearest joys! At 
 one time, as I wandered aimlessly about the streets, I had 
 a vague idea of setting myself steadily to track out the 
 lost girl by some practical detective method, — of finding 
 her, prcbaoly in a state of dire poverty and need, — and of 
 forcing her still to be mine, — but this, like all other plans 
 or suggestions of plans, lacked clearness or certainty in 
 my brain, and I merely played with it in my fancy as a 
 thing that possibly might and still more possibly might 
 not be done ere long. 
 
 I ate very little food all that day, and when the 
 evening came I was conscious of a heavy depression 
 and sense of great loneliness. This feeling was of course 
 getting more and more common with me, — it is the 
 deadly stupor of the absintheur which frequently precedes 
 some startling phase of nightmare fantasy. I had a crav- 
 ing, similar to that of the previous night for the rush of 
 crowds, for light and noise, — so I made my way to the 
 Boulevard Montmartre. Here throngs of people swept 
 forward and backward like the ebb and flow of an ocean- 
 tide, — it was fine weather, and the little tables in front 
 of the cafes v/ere pushed far out, some almost to the edge 
 of the curbstone,— while the perpetual shriek and chatter 
 of the Boulevard monkeys, male and female, surged 
 through the quiet air with incessant reverberations of 
 shrill discord. Here and there one chanced on the 
 provincial British paterfamilias nev\r to Paris, v/ith his 
 coffee in front of him, his meek fat-faced partner beside 
 him, and his olive-branches spreading around, — and it is 
 always to a certain extent amusing to watch the various 
 expressions of wonder, offence, severity and general 
 superiority which pass over the good stupid features of 
 such men when they first find themselves in a crowd of 
 Parisian idlers, — men who are so aggressively respectable 
 in their own estimation that they imagine all the rest of 
 the w^orld, especially the Continental world, must be 
 scoundrels. Once, however, by chance I saw a British 
 " papa," the happy father of ten, coming out of a place of 
 amusement in Paris where ce?'tes he had no business to 
 be, — but I afterw^ards heard that he was a very good man, 
 and always went regularly to church o' Sundays when he 
 was at home I I suppose he made it all right with his 
 conscience in that way. It i^ a droll circumstancCj by the 
 
WORMWOOD, 265 
 
 hy^.^- ^that steady going-to-church of the English folk in 
 ordfcf' to keep up appearances in their respective neighbor- 
 hoods. 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 v/hich 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 unbecom- 
 igg 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 common with all Frenchmen 
 worthy the name, — but now I am not so sure. I saw an 
 English woman the other day, — -young and fair, with 
 serious sweet eyes, — she walked in the Champs Elysees, 
 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 w^omen of France 
 have little or nothing of,— an air which made 7?t^, the 
 ahsintheur^ slink back as she passed, — slink and crouch 
 in hiding till she, the breathing incarnation of sweet and 
 stainless womanhood, had taken her beauty out of sight, 
 — beauty which was to me a stinging silent reproach, 
 reminding me of the dignity of life, — a dignity which I 
 had trampled in the dust and lost forever ! 
 
 Yes ! — it was merry enough on the bright Boulevards 
 that evening, — there were many people, — numbers of 
 strangers and visitors to Paris among them. I strolled 
 leisurely to the cafe 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 approach- 
 ing. I remembered then that I had told him to meet me 
 some evening at this very place on the Boulevard Mont- 
 martre, though I had scarcely expected to see him quite 
 30 soon. He looked tidier than usual, — he had evidently 
 
266 WORMWOOD. 
 
 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,— Hf ting his hat with the usual flourish. He 
 glanced at my tumbler. 
 
 " The old cordial ! " he said with a laugh. *' What a 
 blessed remedy for all the ills of life it is, to be sure ! 
 Almost as excellent as death, — only not quite so certain 
 in its effects. Have you been here long ? " 
 
 *' Not long," I responded, setting a chair for him beside 
 my ov/n. ^' Shall I order your portion of the nectar?" 
 
 " Ah ! — do so ! " — and he stroked his pointed beard 
 absently, while he stared at me with an unseeing, vague, 
 yet smiling regard — "I am going to purchase a ^Journal 
 pour Rire ' / — it has a cartoon that, — but perhaps you have 
 seen it t " 
 
 I had seen it — a pictured political skit, — but its ob- 
 scenity had disgusted even me. I say '' even " me, — be- 
 cause now I was not easily shocked or repelled. But 
 this particular thing was so gratuitously indecent that, 
 though I was accustomed to see Parisians enjoy both 
 pictorial and literary garbage with the zest of vultures 
 tearing carrion, I was somewhat surprised at their toler- 
 ating so marked an instance of absolute grossness without 
 wit. It astonished me too to hear Gessonex speak of it, 
 — I should not have thought it in his line. However I 
 assented briefly to his query. 
 
 " It is clever " — he went on, still thoughtfully stroking 
 his beard — ^' and it is a reflex of the age we live in. Its 
 sale to-day will bring in much more money than I ask for 
 one of my pictures. And that is another reflex of the 
 age ! I admire the cartoon, — and I envy the artist who 
 designed it ! " 
 
 I burst out laughing. 
 
 " You I Yon envy the foul-minded wretch who pol- 
 luted his pencil with such a thing as that 1 " 
 
 *' 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, — mine is empty !— 
 and strangest anomaly of all, because he pays liis way he 
 is considered respectable, — while I, not being able to pay 
 my way, am judged as quite the reverse ! Foul-minded ? 
 Polluted ? Tut, V1071 cher / there is no foul-raiudednes^ 
 
WORMWOOD. 267 
 
 nowadays except lack of cash, — and the only pollution 
 possible to the modern artist's pencil is to use it on worl^ 
 that does not pay ! ^' 
 
 With these words he turned from mc and went towards 
 the little kiosque at the corner close by where the journals 
 of the day were sold by the usual sort of painted and 
 betrinketed female whom one generally sees presiding over 
 these street-stalls of the cheap press, — and I watched him 
 curiously, not knowing why I did so. He was always 
 affected in his walk, — but on this particular evening his 
 swaggering gait seemed to be intensified. I saw him take 
 the '' Journal pour Rire^'' in his hand, — and I heard him 
 give a loud harsh guffaw of laughter at the wretched 
 cartoon it contained, — laughter in which the woman who 
 sold it to him joined heartily with the ready appreciation 
 nearly all low-class Frenchwomen exhibit for the question- 
 able 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, — \vhen, all at once, — ■ 
 the sharp report of a pistol-shot hissed through the air, — ' 
 there was a flash of flame — a puff of smoke, — then came 
 a fearful scream from the woman at the kiosque, followed 
 by a sudden rush of people, — and I sprang up just in 
 time to see Gessonex reel forward and fall heavily to the 
 ground 1 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 
 clone 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 alwa3^s very indifferent about these matters, — and 
 Gessonex had taken all law^sboth human and superhuman 
 into his own hands for the nonce, — he had shot himself ! 
 He had coolly and deliberately sent a bullet whizzing 
 through his brain, — his fingers still convulsively grasped 
 the weapon vvdth which he had done the deed — his moaf^ 
 was streaming with blood — and the '"Journal pou.r jRireJ' 
 with its detestable cartoon, lay near him, spotted and 
 stained with the same deadly crimson hue. A ghastly 
 
268 ' WORMWOOD. 
 
 sight !— a horrible end ! — and yet — there was something 
 indescribably beautiful in the expression of the v/ide- 
 open, fast-glazing eyes 1 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^ — - 
 d c^e3t fi7ti !^^ 
 
 Gessonex heard, and made a slight movement to and 
 fro with one hand on his breast. 
 
 *' Oui, e'est fini 1 '' he muttered thickly. " Le dernier 
 mot du Christ ! — le dernier mot de tout le monde !— c^est 
 fini ! Enfin — j'ai paye . . . tout ! ^' 
 
 And stretching out his limbs with a long and terrible 
 shudder he expired. The features whitened slowly and 
 grew rigid — the jav^ fell, — all was over! I rose from my 
 kneeling attitude on the pavement like one in a dream, — 
 scarcely noting the av/ed and pitying faces of the crowed 
 of by-standers, — and found myself 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 acquaint- 
 
 ance.'* 
 
 " Ah ! But you can give us his name ? " 
 
 "Assuredly! Andre Gessonex.'^ 
 
 " What ? The artist t " exclaimed some one near me. 
 
 *^Yes. The artist." 
 
 ^^ Mon Dieu / What a calamity ! Andre Gessonex \ 
 A genius ! — and v^re have so few geniuses ? Messieurs^ 
 c'est Andre Gessonex 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 bewil- 
 dered I heard the name run from mouth to mouth, — -peo- 
 ple who had never known it before, caught it up like a 
 watch-word, and in a moment the fever of French enthu- 
 siasm had spread all along the Boulevards. The man vv^ho 
 had first started it. talked louder and louder, growing 
 
WORMWOOD, '269 
 
 more and more eloquent with every bombasMc shower of 
 words he flung to his eager and attentive audience, — the 
 excitement increased, — the virtues of the dead man were 
 proclaimed and exalted, and his worth found out sud- 
 denly 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 mis- 
 erable room where the .poor forlorn wTetch had struggled 
 for bare existence, — and in a very few minutes a proces- 
 sion 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 1 incredulous 
 stupor which utterly darkened all my capability of reason- 
 ing out the mingled 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 un- 
 requented church, and there in full view of the sculpt- 
 fured 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 
 woeful 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, hurried out 
 of existence by his ow^n act, w^as in a trice of time dis- 
 covered to be ^' gra?id komme de France !^^ Ah, ye 
 cruel beasts that call yourselves men and women ! 
 — cruel and wanton defacers 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 com- 
 mon is a sufhcient 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 
 piece-meal by the red-hot flaying-irons of public spite, 
 derision, or neglect. Surely there shall be an atone- 
 ment ? If not, then there is a figure set wrong in the 
 mathematical balance of Creation, — a line awry, — a flaw 
 
2JO 
 
 WOElvIlVOOD. 
 
 in the round jewel,~and God Himself cannot be Per-- 
 feet ! 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 the capricious, weeping, laughing^ 
 frivolous crowds of Paris that had let him die, self-slain I 
 
WORMWOOD. fjl 
 
 XXVIIIc 
 
 A FEW days elapsed, and the rest of the little miserable 
 farce of Fame was played out with all the pomp and cir- 
 cumstance of a great tragedy. The wretched attic 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 abun- 
 dance 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 I " 
 
 And the fame of it went through all the land, — e\7ery- 
 body spoke of " Le Pretre " — as it was called, — ail the 
 newspapers were full of it, — it was borne reverently to the 
 Musee du Luxembourg, 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 v/as to 
 visit the blossom-scented garret from time to time to see 
 the '^ brute,'' — the strange, uncouth little boy, whom Ges- 
 scnex had designated as his " model for the Stone Period," 
 ■ — and " a production of Absinthe." This elvish creature 
 would not believe his patron was dead, — he could not bs 
 brought to understand it in any sort of Vv^ay,~neither could 
 be persuaded to touch a morsel of food. Night after night. 
 
ata WORMWOGB, 
 
 day after da3^,..he kept watch by the mortal remains of his 
 
 only friend, like a faithful hound, — his whole soul concen- 
 trated as it seemed in his large bright eyes which rested 
 on the set waxen features of the dead man with a tender- 
 ness 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 all the honors due to 
 departed greatness, — and it was then that the poor ^'- brute ^ 
 began to be troublesome. He clung to the coffin with 
 more thc'n human strength and tenacity, — and when 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 av/ay 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 centre of these 
 heaped-up floral offerings, the coffin stood, — the lid partly 
 off, for the little savage guardian of it Vv^ould never allow 
 it to be actually shut. The face of Gessonex was just 
 visible, — it had changed from meagreness to beauty, — a 
 great peace was settled and engraved upon it, — and fra- 
 grant lilies lay all about his throat and brow, hiding the 
 wound in his temple and covering up ail disfigurement. 
 The boy sat beside the coffin immovable, — watchfully in- 
 tent as usual, — apparently waiting for his friend to awake. 
 On an impulse I spoke to him,—- 
 
 " Til as fahn^ mon enfant ? " 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 *^ A^07i I " 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 v/ords with 
 careful distinctness, for I knew his comprehension of 
 language was limited, — " You v/ait for what will not 
 happen. He is not asleep — so he cannot wake* Try 
 to understand me, — he is not here^ 
 
WORMWOOV, 273 
 
 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 personage is not he ! — he is gone ! " 
 
 Some glimmer of my meaning seemed to enter the 
 boy's 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 clenched his 
 hands and set his teeth. 
 
 '' Oui^ — oiii!^' he murmured rapidly. '' /e vais le cher- 
 cher — 7non Dieu I mais , , , ou done ? '' 
 
 Now v/as my opportunity, if he would only suffer him- 
 self 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 treachery. 
 
 "yVb;2./" he muttered resolutely — ^'/e vais le cJierchcr 
 sail/ . . . II n' est pas ici P ^^ 
 
 And with this query addressed more to himself than 
 i8 
 
^'/4 •■ tVORMWOOD, 
 
 to mCj lie sprang 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 ap- 
 peared to strike him. 
 
 '^ C'est vrai ! " he said amazedly. " II n'est pas ici I 
 ce n'est pas liii ! J'ai perdu le temps ;-— je vais le chep 
 cher 1— mais, seul ! — seul ! '' 
 
 And without another moment's delay he crept past 
 me like the strange, stealthy creature he was, and running 
 swiftly down the stairs, disappeared. I 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 owq had much relished 
 the idea of a tussle with the wild, devilish-looking little 
 creature whose natural ferocity was so declared and so 
 untameable ; and all the arrangements for the last obse- 
 quies of Andre Gessonex were now completed without 
 any further delay or interruption. As for me, I knew I 
 had sent the child into a wilderness of perplexities that 
 w^ould never be cleared up,— he would search and search 
 for his patron probably till he died of sheer fatigue and 
 disappointment, — but what then ? As w^ell die that way as 
 any other, — -I could not befriend him, — besides, even had 
 I wished to do so, the chances were that he would not 
 he ve trusted me. Anyway I saw him no more,— -whatever 
 ^' fate I never knew it. 
 
 And so it came about that the funeral of the starved, 
 unhappy, half-mad painter of ''' Le Pretre '^ was the finest 
 thing that had been seen in Paris for many a long day 1 
 Such pomp and solemnity,— such prancing of black steeds 
 —such glare of blessed candles — such odorous cars of 
 flowers 1 Once upon a time a suicide was not entitled to 
 any religious rites of burial, — but we, v/ith our glorious 
 Republic which keeps such a strong coercing hand on the 
 priests and will hear as little of God as may be, — we have 
 thanged all that ! We do as seemeth good unto ourselves, 
 and v/e do not despise a man for having sent himself 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 
 
WORMWOOD, 275 
 
 the last lofig 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 incoherent, 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 caus^ht Fame like a shootine^-star and 
 turned into a torch to shed strange brilliancy on his grave. 
 All was vv^eil 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 transformation 
 of his being, — his genius was everything, and he w^as 
 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 Pere-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 than usually 
 acute, — painfully so at 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 w^as a 
 dappled gray color, flecked here and there with gold, — 
 for the setting of the sun was nigh, — then I looked again 
 lat the white violets that lay, fragrant and pure, on the top 
 of all the other wreaths of laurel and myrtle that covered 
 iGessonex's grave. There w^as to be a fair monument 
 raised above it, so the people said, — but I doubted it ! 
 Dore's last resting-place remains unmarked to this day ! 
 My countrymen promise much more than they perform, 
 — it is charming '' politesse '* on their part, so we do not 
 call it lying ! 
 
 Presently my eyes begain to wander round and about 
 \ he cemetery which is beautiful in its wa}^, — a veritable 
 City of the Dead, where no rough rumors stir the air,— 
 and by-and-bye I caught sight of the name '' De Char- 
 
276 WORMM^OOD, 
 
 milles " 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 famil}^ Pauline (not 1 1) had dis-' 
 graced and ruined, — and acting on a sudden instinct 
 which I could not explain to myself, I rose and went to- 
 wards it. It w^as 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 v/as a figure in front of it kneeling at the closed 
 door that was no angel,— but merely a v/oman. 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 fol- 
 low her stealthily and track her out to whatever home she 
 had found in the wilderness of the city ? I pondered a 
 moment and decided on the latter course, — then, crouch- 
 ing behind one of the gravestones hard by, I watched her 
 and kept still. How long she knelt there 1— and what 
 patience women have ! They never seem to tire of ask- 
 ing favors of the God who never hears,— or if He does 
 hear, never answers 1 It must be dull work, — and yet 
 they do it ! The sun went dov/n — 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. I followed, 
 walking on the grass that my footsteps might not be 
 heard. Once she turned 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 v^ant and anxiety, — it was still the face that had cap- 
 tivated my soul and made me mad ! — though I had now 
 discarded that form of madness for another more lasting ! 
 Out into the public thoroughfare we passed, she and I, 
 one following 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- 
 
WORMWOOD, 277 
 
 pa3sengers,-—then, — all suddenly I lost her ! With a mut* 
 tered curse, I stood still, searching about me eagerly on 
 ill sides, — but vainly, — she was gone ! Was she a phan- 
 tom too, like Silvion Guidel ? What a fool I had been 
 tiot to at once attack her with a rough speech while she 
 was kneeling at her father's grave ! It was no sentiment 
 of pity that had held me back from so doing, — v/hy had I 
 'set her go ? Heartily enraged at my own stupidity, I 
 sauntered discontentedly homeward. I had changed resi- 
 dence of late, — for my money was not inexhaustible, — ■ 
 and as I had refused the additional funds I might have 
 had by right at my father's hands, it was well I had al- 
 ready decided to exercise econom.y, 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 absinthe !-^it leads one down in the social 
 scale so gently, step by step, — so insidiously, — so care- 
 fully — that one cannot see the eadc And even for me^ 
 the end is not yet \ 
 
H^g tVOEMlVaO:^. 
 
 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 gently 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 gotcver7ia7ites, willing 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 shovv^^ to ensnare them 
 into the marriage-market ! I strolled into bosky dellc, 
 rendered sweeter by the luxury of solitude, — I, though I 
 had the stain of murder on my soul, for once felt almost 
 at peace ! I v/andered about dream^ily and listlessly, — 
 the ahsintheur has his occasional 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 I was scarcely startled 
 when, pushing aside the boughs that screened a mossy 
 turn in the pathway, I came upon what at first seemed 
 like the picture of a vvoman reading, — till at last it re- 
 solved itself into substantial fact and form, and I recog- 
 nized Heloi'se 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 ha'r- Y^Qr he^^d was bent attentively 
 
WORMWOOD, 279 
 
 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, — I speak of men, — cling to bad women, and 
 give them our ungrudging admiration — and why.? Be- 
 cause they help us to be vile ! — because they laugh at our 
 vices and foster them, — and we love them for that 1 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, v/e shrink and 
 are ashamed, — aye ! 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, bur 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 
 of the German conquest, — nor because she has had fool- 
 ish rulers, that she has fallen and is still falling, — it is be- 
 cause the new morals and opinions of the age, pro- 
 pounded and accepted by narrow-minded, superficial, and 
 materialistic tliinkers, breed in her a nest of vipers and, 
 scorpions instead of 7nen ; and your ordinary modern 
 Frenchman has too low an estimate of all hioh ideals to 
 risk his life in fighting for any one of them. There are 
 exceptions to the rule certainly, — there are always excep- 
 tions ;~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 
 
^8o WORMWOOlj, 
 
 would no more accept M. Carnot as a representative of 
 the French national intellect, than one would accept Mr. 
 Gladstone and his contradictions as a representative of 
 £nglish stability. 
 
 Th@ wind rustled the boughs, — a bird sang softly among 
 the upper cool bunches of leaves,- — and I stood, screened 
 by the foliage, nervously hesitating and looking at Heloise, 
 the svv^eetest and best woman I had ever known. Alwa3^s 
 fond of reading she was ! — and my restless mind flew off 
 to a hazy consideration 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 
 cf 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 1 '* I said again. 
 
 She rose nervously from her seat, and glanced about 
 her from right to left, apparently searching for some way 
 of escape, — it was evident she took me for some drunRen 
 or impertinent stranger. I had forgotten how changed ^ 
 was, — I had forgotten that I looked more like a tramp 
 than a gentleman 1 I laughed a little confusedly, and 
 lifted my hat. 
 
 " You do not seem to recognize me, Heloise 1 " I said 
 carelessly, " Yet Gaston Beauvais was once no stranger 
 to you ! " 
 
 Oh, what a wondering, piteous look she gave me 1 — 
 what a speechless sorrow swam suddenly into the large, 
 lovely gray eyes I 
 
 "Gaston Beauvais!" she faltered — "oh no; — not 
 possible ! You, — you — Gaston ? Oh no 1 — no ! " 
 
 And covering her face with her two fair white hands, 
 she broke into sudden weeping ! . . . My God !— it would 
 have been well if I could have killed myself then I 'EckX 
 
WORMWOOD. 281 r 
 
 my heart was touched ^—my hard, hard heart that I 
 thought had turned to stone ! Her tears, the sincere out- 
 flov/ of a pure woman's womanly grief, fell like dew on my 
 burnt and callous soul, and for a moment I was stricken 
 dumb with an aching remorse- — remorse that I should have 
 voluntarily placed such a chasm of eternal separation 
 between all good things and the accursed Me that nov/ 
 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. 
 
 ■* Heloi'se ! Mademoiselle St. Cyr ! '"' — I said unsteadily 
 — " Pray — pray do not distress yourself like this ! I v/as 
 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 ! '^ 
 
 She checked her sobs,— and uncovering her tear-v/et 
 eyes, turned their humid lustre full upon me. I shrank 
 a little backward,— but she stretched ) out her trembling 
 hand«. 
 
 " It is really you, M, Gaston ? '' she murmured nerv- 
 ously, " Oh, have you been very ill .? You look so 
 strange and pale 1 — you have greatly changed ! '' 
 
 ^' Yes, for the worse ! — I know that ! '' I interrupted 
 Iier quietly. " You could scarcely expect me to improve, 
 could you, Heloi'se ? Nay^ did you not yourself curse me, 
 not so very long ago ? — and are you surprised to find the 
 curse fulfilled } " 
 
 She sank on the rustic bench she had just quitted and 
 regarded 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 
 disgrace 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 I have prayed for you 
 always — for you and my lost Pauline ! " 
 
 The tenderness her presence had aroused in me, froze 
 suddenly into chill cynicism. 
 
 ^' Fardie/u I Women are curious creatures ! '' I said, 
 with a bitter laugh. " They curse a man at nocr^ day,™ 
 
282 WORMWOOD. 
 
 and pray for nim at midnight ! That is aroli 1 But be- 
 ware how you couple 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 in- 
 stance^ you see how He has taken care of me T^ 
 
 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 conscientiously, ran into no 
 debts, acted honorably to all men and stood w^ell with the 
 world. He was the stupidest creature extant ; he believed 
 in the possibility of happiness 1— 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 
 iearnt 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 / am to answer for the truth of his success ! 
 I am very happy ! — one does not v/ant 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 lacquey. I look ill you tell me, — but I am not 
 ill ; — the face is alv/ays a tell-tale in matters of dissi- 
 pation, — and I do not deny that I am dissipated,'' — here 
 I laughed harshly as I met her grieved and wondering 
 gaze, — " I live a fast life, — T consort Vvith evil men and 
 evil women,— that is, people who do not, like the hypocrit- 
 ical higher classes of society, waste valuable time in 
 pretending to be good. I am a gamester, — an idler — a 
 faineaitt of the Paris cafes ^ — 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 ahsinihtu7% by which term, if 
 you understand it at all, you will obtain the whole clue to 
 
IVORMV/OOD, 283 
 
 the mystery of my present existence. Absinthe-drink- 
 ing is a sort of profession as well as amusement in Paris, 
 • — it is followed by 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 behavior, and 
 compare it with my present freedom from all restraint 
 and responsibility, I have nothing^ — positively nothing to 
 regret ! " 
 
 During this tirade, the fair woman's face beside m.e 
 had grown paler and paler,— her hps v/ere firmly pressed 
 together, — her eyes cast down. When I had finished, I 
 v/aited, expecting to hear some passionate burst of re- 
 '"■'^preach from her, but none came. She took up her 
 L.>jk, methodically marked the place in it where she had 
 left off reading, — put on her hat, (though I noticed her 
 iiands trembled) and then rising, she said simply — 
 
 ''Adieu/'' 
 
 I stared at her amazed. 
 
 " Adieu r' 1 echoed — " What do you mean ? Do you 
 '^.hink I can let you go without more words than these 
 after so many weeks of separation .f* It Vvas in June I 
 last saw you, — and it is now close upon the end of Sep- 
 tember, — and what a host of tragedies have been en- 
 acted since then 1 Tragedies 1 — aye I — murders and sui- 
 cides ! '^ — and with an involuntary gesture of appea.1 I 
 stretched out my hand, — '' Do not go, lieloise — not yet! 
 I want to speak to you ! — I v/ant to ask you a thousand 
 things 1 " 
 
 " Why ? " she queried m 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 dis- 
 turbed me greatly. 
 
 * You have nothing to regret," — she repeated list- 
 lessly — "Old days are over for you — as they are for me! 
 In the space of a few months, the best, the happiest part 
 of our lives has ended. Only" — aixi slie caught her 
 breath hard — " before I m — I Vvill say one thin:'- — it is 
 that I am sorry I cursed you or seemed to curse you. It 
 v/as wrong, — though indeed it is not I that would hive 
 driven you to spoil your life as you yourself have spoiled 
 
2^4 WORMWOOD. 
 
 it, I 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 de- 
 ceit. 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,— -butj as she uttered 
 itj I smiled. 
 
 " True, quite true, Heloise ! '' I said quietly—" I am a 
 coward ! I glory in it ! Tlie 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 permitted to share. I avoid all this trouble ! 
 I am ' coward ' enough to wish comfort and safety for 
 myself,— I leave the question of Hojior to the arguing 
 tongues and clashing swords of those who care about it^ 
 —I do not 1 " 
 
 She looked at me indignantly, and her large eyes 
 flashed. 
 
 " Oh God ! " she cried. " Is it possible you can have 
 fallen so lov/ ! 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 malicious act of yours, — even the wretched 
 Silvion Guidel has disappeared mysteriously — no trace of 
 him can be found, — and not content v/itli 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 simply 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 v^hen it came, she fell 
 a victim to it — it was too strong for her slight resistance. 
 I warned you as well as I could, — I foresaw 't all, — I 
 dreaded it — for no v/oman as young and impressionable as 
 Pauline could have been long in Silvion Guidel's com- 
 pany without being powerfully attracted, I warned you, — 
 but you would see nothing— men are so blind ! They 
 cannot — 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 
 
WORMWOOD. 285 
 
 "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 hun- 
 dreds of other v/omen who not only win the v/orld's pardon, 
 but also Ihe exoneration of the sternest judges, — and yet 
 I am sure she has suffered with a sharper intensity than 
 many less innocent ! But you — you have nothing to regret, 
 you say — no ! — not though two homes lie wasted and de- 
 serted by your pitilessness ! — and, nov/ 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. 1 
 
 " You need not "-—she went on pathetically — " have 
 given me cause to-day to even imagine that perhaps my 
 foolish curse did harm to you. It is a vague reproach 
 that I shall think of often ! And yet I know I spoke in 
 haste only — and without any malicious intent, — I could 
 not," — here her voice sank 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 I What she once loved I Had she, then, 
 loved 77ie ? — Certes, a glimmering guess, — a sort of in- 
 stinctive feeling that she might h^iYO^ 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 v/ith a strange pale lTgFt~on 
 her face such as I had never seen there, — I amazed, yet 
 conscious-ol immense, irreparable loss, — loss w^hicJi those 
 words of hers— "what I once loved " made absolute 
 and eternal ! Both vaguely conscience-smitten, we gazed 
 into one another'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 between them, gaze wistfully and 
 wonder at their own froward fate,— aye ! — and such, if 
 such there be, may lean far out from ekher sphere, stretch 
 
286 WORMPVOOn, 
 
 hands, waft kisses, smile, weep, cry alou€i each other's 
 names,— and yet no bridge shall ever span the dark 
 division, — no ray of light connect those self-severed souls 1 
 
 " Heloise ! '^ I stammered, — and then, my voice failing 
 me, I was silent. 
 
 She, moving restlessly where she sat on the rustic seat 
 v/ith the shadows of the green leaves flickering over her, 
 entwined her white hands one within the other, and lifted 
 her large solemn eyes towards 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 blame- 
 able. 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 dispassionately— 
 because it is past. The old heart-ache 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 Pauline, — she was much worthier love than I, 
 —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 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 1 " I muttered v^^ildly. " We men 
 never do see anything ! We are bats, — moths ! — flying; 
 desperately into all sorts of light and fire and getting, 
 burnt and withered up for our pains ! Heloise ! Heloise ! 
 — Yoti loved me, you say — you ? — Why, just for the merest 
 hair's-breadth of mercy extended 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 intervention } 
 He could have done so had He willed it I— and I shc^uM 
 
WORMWOOD, 287 
 
 have believed in him then ! And you — why d^'d you no^, 
 give me one look — one word ! — why did you not employ all 
 the thousand charms of your loveliness to attract me? — 
 why we-re you alvv^ays so silent and cold ?■ — was that your 
 mode of defence 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 coquetteries and unmistakable 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 — v/hat ? Con- 
 ventionality, — 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 7tow /- — why have you told me 7iow, you beau- 
 tiful, 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 Piad 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 some- 
 thing in the whim of chance and circumstance, w^e had 
 wilfully let love go beyond all possible recall ! And she, 
 • — oh, 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 1 Her face was quite 
 colorless, — she looked 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 
 
288 WORMIVOOJ?.^ 
 
 should knov; that it once lived. If there were the small- 
 est pulse of life stirring in it novv^, 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 
 yovi how impossible it was that I could even seriously and 
 maliciously have wished you ill, — and to ask you, for the 
 sake of the past, to refrain from perpetrating fresh injuries 
 on your life and soul. Surely, however much a man has 
 been wronged by others, he need not v/rong 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-voiis 1 I tell you, 
 Heloise, I have gone too far for remedy, — -even if you 
 loved me nov/, 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 with mingled indignation and sorrow. 
 
 " I thank God my love for you has perished then ! " 
 she exclaimed 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. 
 
 " Chere Heloise, do not talk of degradation ! " I niur- 
 mured. " Or if we must talk of it,-— let us consider the 
 fate of— Pauline ! " 
 
 She started, as though I had stabbed her with a dagger's 
 point. 
 
 ** Have you seen her ? Do you know where she is ? " 
 she demanded eagerly. 
 
 " Yes — and no," I replied. " I have seen her twice, — 
 but I have not spoken to her, nor do I know where she 
 lives. I saw her, the first time, wandering shabbily clad* 
 
WORMWOOD, 289 
 
 in thv. \P-ck streets of Paris '' — Heloise uttered a faint cry 
 and t$L. fs sprang into her eyes, — '' and when I beheld her 
 for the second time, she was kneeling outside her father's 
 grave at Pere-la-Chaise. But I intend to track her out ; 
 — I will find her, wherever she is T' 
 
 Oh, what a happy hopeful light swept over the fair pale 
 face beside me ! 
 
 " You will " she cried. '' You will find her ? — you 
 will restore 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 chere^ there is time enough for that ! Monsieur 
 le don Dieii and I have not quarrelled that I am aware of, 
 — and if we had, we should perhaps not be very anxious 
 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— neve \'' she said shudderingly. 
 " Never ! What power cai. revive a perished passion, 
 Gaston Beauvais ? Once dec, j — it is dead forever. You 
 are to me the merest phantons of the man I once adored 
 in secret,— I 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 v^^ith a smarting 
 sense of anger against her. I felt that though she had as 
 she said, once loved me, she now regarded me with some- 
 thing 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 organ- 
 ization had been wrenched and twisted awry by disap- 
 pointed passion quite as much as mine had, — and I could 
 read and analyze her emotion — I saw she instinctively 
 despised herself for ever having bestowed a single tender 
 thought on such a piece of unworthiness as I ! No mat- 
 ter 1 — I would meet her on her own ground ! — if she could 
 not love me, she should fear me ! 
 
 " Merci, chere et' belle amie/^^ I said satirically, *^ We 
 have — for no reason that I can see — played a veritable 
 ga:Tie of cat and mouse together. You have caught me 
 19 
 
\go 
 
 tVO.RMWOOD. 
 
 in your pearly claws— and you have purred prettily coneerti* 
 :ng your past affection for nie, — and now you settle on me 
 tooth and nai]^ and tear me into shreds of hopelessness 
 and despair. Soit I It is the way of vvornen^— I do not 
 complain. I shallj as I told you, seek out Pauline, — but 
 if I find her=, do not imagine I shall restore her to your 
 arms 1 I^as si Mte I I shall keep her for myself. I would 
 not have her for rny wife— no !— but there is no earthly 
 objection to my taking her as my mistress 1 The idea will 
 not shock or shame her — now /^^ 
 
 With one swift movement Heloise sprang 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 
 woman as your too-much-loved young cousin ! She has 
 of her own free-will descended several steps of the ladder 
 of perdition — no force v/ill be needed to persuade her 
 down to the end ! You overrate the case '' 
 
 *^ 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 yo7i I Oh, I v/ill be near you when you least think 
 it ! — I will track jF<?^/, I will ioV^o^^ yoic ! — I will do anything 
 to save her from the additional vileness of your touch ! — 
 your— ^ — '' 
 
 She paused, breathless. 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 "Do not be melodramatic, ma chtre I^'^ 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 zuill follov/ me and 
 track me out, as you say— but, — you will find it difficult ! 
 You cannot save what is hopelessly lost, — and for 
 * daring ' \—Dieii I how little you know me 1 — there is noth- 
 ing I dare not do, — nothing, save one thing ! '^ 
 
 She stood still, — her eyes dilated, — her breath coming 
 and going quickly, her hands clenched, — but she said not 
 a word. 
 
 ^ You do not ask what that one thing is," I went oa^ 
 
WORMWOOD. 29J 
 
 keeping my gaze upon her. ^'^ But I will tell you. The 
 limit of my courage— such as it is, — stops with you. 1 
 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 volun- 
 tarily resigned home and kindred — my father has dis- 
 owned me, as completely as I ha.ve disowned him — and 
 only the memory of your beauty will cling to me hence- 
 forth, as something just a little less valuable and sweet 
 than —-A hsiii the, ' ' 
 
 I laughed, and she surveyed me amazedly. 
 
 " Than absinthe ! " she repeated mechanicall}^ *^ I do 
 not understand -" 
 
 " No, I suppose you do not," I went on quietly, *^ you 
 will probably never understand how absinthe can becomxe 
 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 
 ail 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 afterwards ! Do not look so fright- 
 ened, — 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 ! " 
 
 She was silent, — I think from sheer terror this time, — 
 and a restless inquisitiveness stirred in me, — an anxietj^ 
 to find out how much she knew concerning the mysteri- 
 ous disappearance of that once holy saint of the Churclr 
 whom I had sent to find out in other worlds the causes of 
 his creed ! 
 
 *' What has become of him, do you think t " I said sud- 
 denly. " Perhaps he is dead? " 
 
 How pale she looked 1 — how scared and strange I 
 Perhaps ! " she murmured half inaudibly. 
 
 " Perhaps " — I went on recklessly, — and laughing as 1 
 spoke,— ^^ Perhaps he is viurdcj'ed I Have you ever 
 thought of that ? It is quite possible 1 " 
 
292 WORMWOOD. 
 
 And at that instant our eyes met ! What 1— 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 
 handsj as though she thrust some hideous object from her, 
 she turned and fled 1 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 v/ith a swift shudder- 
 ing 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 mechani- 
 cally. It was a translation of Plato, — it opened of its 
 own accord at a passage she had marked. 
 
 " Whe?t 0726 is attempting noble tlmigs^ it is surely noble 
 also to suffer whatever it may befall us to suffer y 
 
 Aye 1— for the grand old Greeks this was truth, — but 
 for modern men wdiat does it avail ? Who attempts 
 •^ noble things " nowadays without being deemed half mad 
 for his or her effort ? And as for suffering there is surely 
 enough of that without going out of one's way in search 
 of it I Good Plato ! — you are not in favor at this period 
 of time, — your philosophies are as unacceptable to our 
 ^' advanced ^' condition as Christ's Christianity 1 So I 
 thought ; — but I took the volum.e with me all the same, — ■ 
 it had the signature of " Heloise St. Cyr " — Vv^ritten on its 
 fly4eaf in a firm characteristic w^oman's hand, — -and I had 
 a superstitious idea that it might act like a talisman to 
 shield me from evil. Folly of course ! — for there is no 
 talisman on earth or in heaven that can defend a man 
 from the baser part of himself. And to that baser part I 
 iiad succumbed, — and I had no repentance- — no 1— 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 mysell: had 
 turned into hatred. And yet,— yet — I was m-ore av/ake to 
 the knowledge of my own utter vileness than I 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 byeways out of the Bois like the accursed thing 
 I waSj accursed^ and ^'^*' oncej fully conscious of my 
 
WORMWOOD, 293 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Weeks went past ; with me their progress was scarcely 
 noticed, for I lived in a sort of wild nightmare of de- 
 lirium 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 pen- 
 alties 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 stupe- 
 fying 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 Y\^as not so 
 much of visions I had to complain as imp7^essions. These 
 were forcible, singular, and alarmingly realistic. For ex- 
 ample, I vv^ould be all at once seized by the notion that 
 everything about me was of absurdly abnormal propor- 
 tions, 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, would reduce 
 themselves in the twinkling of an eye to the merest 
 pigmies. This happened frequently, — I knew -it was only 
 an hnpression or distortion of the brain-images, 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 t]ie head of ^'visions/' — but, 
 whereas once there was a certain order and method in 
 the manner of their appearance, there w^as now none, — 
 they rushed before me in disorderly masses, with faces 
 and gestures that were indescribably hideous and revolt- 
 ing. Therefore my chief aim now w^as 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 lit vie distraction by searching everywhere 
 {or PauliuC;,— thLj iva:i> the only object apart from- AbsiulUe 
 
294 
 
 WORMWOOD, 
 
 that interested me in the least. The rest of the world 
 was the most tiresome pageantry-show, — sometimes dim 
 and indistinct- — sometimes lucidly brilliant — -but always 
 spectral,— 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 sumptu- 
 ously 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 cafes were moved within, and the sombre- 
 ness 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 per- 
 haps than in any other city in the world. You are certain 
 to have lively coloring about you — for no little ^'appartcv 
 meat " lii Paris but is cheerful with painted floral designs, 
 gilciing, and mirrors, — if you be a woman your admirers 
 will bring you white lilac and orchids in the middle of 
 December, arranged v/ith that perfectly fine French taste 
 which is unequalled throughout the globe, — and on a 
 frosty day your cinsiniere v/ili make you a '' hoinUo7i ^' such 
 as no English cook has any idea of, — while, no m.atter 
 whether you be on the topmost floor of the tallest house, 
 you need only look out of v/indow to see some piece of 
 merriment or other afoot, — for we Parisians, whatever 
 our faults, are merry enough, — and even when, monkey- 
 like, we tear some grand ideal to bits and throw it in the 
 gutter, we ahvays 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 ! " — 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 L 
 have met many English people, and on the whole I am 
 inclined to admire "• pe^fde Aroion.'' Iler people ale so 
 wise in their generation, ""^'hen 3'Our English lord is con- 
 
WORMWOOD. 295 
 
 SCious 01 having more vices in his composition than there 
 are days in the year, he builds a church and endows a 
 hospital — can anything be more excellent ? He becomes 
 virtuous at once in the eyes of the v/orld at large, and yet 
 he need never resign one of his favorite little peccadilloes! 
 We do 7tot manage these things quite so well in France, — 
 we are blaguetws — even if Vv^e are vicious, noiLS blaguoiis 
 la chose I How much better it is to be secretive 
 a r Anglais e ! — to appear good no matter how bad we are, — 
 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 m.y story, ought I not, dear critics on the 
 press ? — you who treat every narrative, true or im- 
 aginative, that goes into print, as a gourmet treats 
 a quail, leaving nothing on the plate but a fragment 
 of picked bone which 3^ou present to the public and 
 call it a ^"^ review ! '' Ah mes gargons / — take care 1 
 Do not indulge your small private spites and jeal- 
 ousies too openly or you may lose your occu.paiion, 
 which though it only pay you at the rate of half-a- 
 guinea a column, and sometimes less, is still an occupa- 
 tion. The Public itself is the Supreme Critic now,— its 
 "** review'' does not appear 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. Digression again ? 
 Yes ! — what else do you expect of an abslntheur ? I do 
 not think I am more discursive than Gladstone of 
 Hawarden, or more flighty than Boulanger of Jersey 1 
 Allo?ts, — I will try to be explicit and tell you how pretty 
 schoolgirl 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 lovins; and with loathins^, — be- 
 cause it makes me laugh v/ith ecstasy — and anon, weep 
 and tremble and implore ! — though zuhal I implore, and 
 to v^/hom I address any sort of appeal, I cannot explain 
 to yoUo Sometimes cowering on the ground I wail aloud 
 — " Oh God — God ! " half credulous, half despairing,--- 
 and then when the w^eak paroxysm is past, and the pitiless 
 tjiaak Silence of thii^igs hurls itself down on my soul aa 
 
g^S PrORMWOOD, 
 
 the crushitig ^nswer 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 tort- 
 ure 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 wander- 
 ing home in my usual desultory fashion, a little more 
 heavily drugged than usual, and in a state of sublime in- 
 difference to the weather, which was wet and gust}^, when 
 I heard a woman's voice singing in one of the b3^e-streets 
 down which I generally took my wa3^ There was some- 
 thing sweet and liquid in the thrill of the notes as they 
 rose upward softly though 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 
 nowadays ! 
 
 " Viens sur ton aile, Ange fidele 
 
 Prendre mon cceur ! 
 \ C'est le plus ardent de mes vosux ;— 
 Pres de Marie 
 Place-moi bientot dans les cieux I 
 O guide aimablCj sois favorable 
 A mon desir 
 Et viens finir 
 Ma triste vie 
 Avec Marie 1 " 
 
 A wavering child-like pathos in the enunciation of the 
 last lines struck me with a sense of familiarity ; — involun- 
 tarily, I thought of Heloise and of the way she used to 
 play the violin, and of the pleasant musical evenings we 
 used to pass all together at the house of the De Char- 
 milles, I sauntered into the street and down it lazily 
 — the woman who sang w^as standing 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 sprang to her side. 
 
 ^^ Pauline r'' I exclaimed. 
 
 She started, and shuddered back from me, her face 
 grovvdng paler than ever, her eyes opening wide in wistful 
 wonder and fear. The little group that had listened to 
 
WORMWOOD, 
 
 297 
 
 her song broke up and dispersed, — they had no particuial 
 interest in her more than in any other wandering street- 
 vocalist, and in less than a minute ¥/e were almost alone. 
 
 " Pauline ! '' I said again, — then, breaking into a de- 
 risive laugh, I went on — " Vi^hat ! — has it come to this? 
 —you, the sole daughter of a proud and ancient house, 
 singing in the highways and the byeways for bread! 
 Dieu ! — one would have thought there were more com- 
 fortable ways of earning a living — for you at any rate ! — - 
 you, v/ith 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 v;^ith a swift yet intent scrutiny — I noticed her 
 shabby, almost threadbare 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, — beau- 
 tiful 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 seeros ! 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 pa- 
 tient uplifting of the eyes ! 
 
 '* My lover 1 '^ she echoed after me softly and with sur- 
 prise. " If you are, as I suppose you must be, Gaston 
 Eeauvais, 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 ccrpse can 
 give no caresses, — and le bemi 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 extrem- 
 ity of her fear. 
 
 ''Dead!'^ she gasped. ^'^ No — no! That could not 
 be ! Dead I Silvion t N03 no 1 — you are cruel — you 
 
298 WORMWOOD. 
 
 always were cruel — you are Gaston Beauvais, the cruel- 
 lest of all cruel men, and you tell me lies to torture me I 
 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 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 1 Too 
 good 1 — 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 v/ill be the worse for you 1 One look at my 
 face will tell you what I have become, — as vile a man as 
 5''ou 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 v/ill 
 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 corner of which 
 could be perceived the shimmer of the Seine and the 
 lights on the Pont Neuf. 
 
 " Now ! " I said hoarsely, drawing her by force up so 
 near to me that our faces were close together, and our 
 eyes, peering into each other's, seemed to ravage out as 
 by fire the secrets hidden in our hearts — -^^ nov/ let us speak 
 the truth, you and I, — and since you were ahvays 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 v/ounds of your soul! 
 — tell me how you have lived all this while and what you 
 have been doing? I know your past, — -I can imagine 
 
WORMWOOD. 299 
 
 j^our present ! — but— speak out ! Tell me h^. vv Paris 
 has treated you, — what you were I can remember^ — and 
 all I want to know now, is what you are I^'^ 
 
 How strangely quiet she had become ! — this one play- 
 ful, childish, coquettish creature I had loved ! She nevet 
 flinched beneath my gaze, — she never tried to draw hei' 
 hands away from mine — her features were colorless, but 
 her lips were firmly set, and no tears dimmed the feverish 
 lustre 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 ! " 
 
 Faithful ! I flung her hands from me in derision,- — I 
 stared at her, amazed at her effrontery. 
 
 " Faithful," I echoed. " Yoii^ I You, who sported with 
 a man's heart as though it were a toy, — you, who ruined 
 an honest 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 370U do not understand, — it is seldom men can 
 understand 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, I would have made any possible reparation. And 
 I repeat it, I am faithful ! You cannot, you dare not call 
 the woman false who is true to the memory of the only 
 love she ever yielded herself to, body and soul ! She 
 who surrenders her life to many lovers — she it is who is 
 unfaithful — she it is w^ho is base, — but not such an one as 
 I ! For I have had but one passion, — one thought — one 
 hope— one thread to bind me to existence, — Silvion ! 
 You knov/, for I told you all the truth, that my love was 
 never centred 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 are 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 faithful- 
 ness ! Ah, Gaston Beauvais ! — if ever any w^oman in the 
 world was faithful, / 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 
 
300 W0R3IW00D, 
 
 touched mine with the lightest caress— then,— then yoo 
 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 myself ! But I am as one vowed and con- 
 secrated — yes ! consecrated to love, and to love's com- 
 panion, 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 impas- 
 sioned 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 1 My God ! — for one wild fleeting moment I 
 thought her so, — for a comparison between her life and 
 mine passed over me and caused me to recoil 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 throv/n long ago into the common 
 grave of nameless suicides ! What a jest 1 — 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 sometimes I have starved,— but I have alv/ays hoped 
 and waited- '' 
 
 " For what ? " I cried. " Oh, most foolish of all fool- 
 ish women, — v/aited and hoped for what? " 
 
 " For one glimpse of Silvion 1 '' 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 wouli come to Paris,— and that I should see 
 
WORMWOOjD. 301 
 
 his face once more ! I would ask him for nothing but a 
 word of ble3sing, — I would not call him from the life he 
 has been compelled to choose, and I v/ould not reproach 
 him for choosing it, — I should be quite, quite happy just 
 to kiss his hand and l^t him go — but — I should have seen 
 him ! Then I would go into some quiet convent of the 
 
 poor and end my days,— I would pray for him '^ 
 
 " Aye ! — as though he were another Abelard 1 " I inter- 
 rupted her harshly. " Your prayers would probably take 
 the form of Colardeau's poesy — '' 
 
 " * Un Dieu parle h mon coeur, 
 ^ De ce Dieu, ton rivals sois encore le vainqueur l"* 
 
 We all understand the ulterior meaning of such pretty 
 sentiment ! 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 ? " 
 
 She did not speak; but she made a sign of patient 
 assent. 
 
 I burst into laughter, loud, long and irresistible. 
 
 "x\nd they say that God exists 1 '' 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 fidelity which nowadays is counted 
 as a mere dog's virtue, — listen, and learn from me what a 
 spendthrift you have been cf 3^our time, and how you 
 have wasted your prayers ! Listen— listen 1 " and again 
 I caught her hands in mine and bent my face downwards 
 to hers — " Listen, for I am in the humor to tell you every- 
 thing, — 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 1 That is 
 a proper legal oath, — it sufnces for a court of justice where 
 not a man believes in the God adjured,— -it must suffice for 
 you who do believe — or so you say 1 Well then^ by that 
 oath, and by everything holy and blasphemous in this sacred 
 and profane world of ours I swear to you Silvion Guidel 
 is dead 1 You can think his soul is in heaven if you like, 
 —if it consoles you to think,~but wherever his soul is, 
 bis body is dead, — and it was his fine, fair body you knew, 
 
302 ■ WORA^ 'oon. 
 
 —his body you so loved, — ^you Jurely will not be such a 
 hypocrite as to deny that 1 Well that body is dead,— 
 dead and turned to hideous corruption ! — Ha I— you shud- 
 der ? — you struggle " — for she was striving to tear her hands 
 from my grip. " Perhaps you can guess hov/ he died ? 
 Not willingly, I assure you !— he was not by any means 
 glad to go to the paradise whose perfect joys he pro- 
 claimed 1 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 con- 
 quered ! — he gave in at last- Silence ! — do not scream 
 
 or I shall kill you! He is dead, I say! — stone dead I 
 
 who should know it better than I, seeing that I — murdered 
 Mm!" 
 
WORMWQ^B, 303 
 
 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 dictionary. " Miirder,^^ for exam- 
 ple, — a word of six letters, — it has a ludicrously appall- 
 ing effect on human nerves. On the silly Pauline it fell 
 like a thunderbolt 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 figure there, huddled in a motionless heap, made me 
 angry,— she looked as though she v/ere dead. I was not 
 sorry for her ; no ! — I was sorry for nothing nov/ : — 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 consciousness. 
 
 " Poor pretty little toy ! " I thought, as I chafed one 
 of her limp cold hands, — and then— hardly knovvang 
 what I did, I kissed her. Some subtle honey or poison, 
 or both, was surely on her lips, for as I touched them I 
 grew mad ! What ! — only 07ie 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 cold. But she breathed, — her heart against 
 mine, — I could feel its faint pulsations : and I renewed 
 my kisses v/itli the ardor, not of love, but of hatred ! You 
 do not think it possible to kiss a woman you hate ? Fair 
 lady ! — (for it cannot be one of 77ty sex that suggests the 
 doubt !) you know little of men ! We are, when roused, 
 tigers in our loves and hatreds, — and we are quite capa- 
 ble of embracing a woman whom we _nentally loathe, so 
 long as she has physical attraction, — -aye ! — the very fact 
 
3^4 
 
 WORMWOOD, 
 
 of otir loathing will often redouble the fascination we 
 have for her company! Oh, we are not all lath-and- 
 plaster men, with a stereotyped smile and company man- 
 ners ! 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 
 w^as 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 re- 
 garded me, first v/ith 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 
 Pauline was in my power — I could make her mine if I 
 choose ! — she had been faithful to Silvion living, but she 
 should not remain 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 sud- 
 den 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 I '' she muttered, — " dead ! — and I 
 never knew ! No warning given — no message— no spirit- 
 voice in the night to tell me — Oh no ! — God v/ould not be 
 so cruel! Dead! — and — ?nurdered! Ah no!'' and her 
 accents rose to a shrill wail — " it cannot 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 1 How wild and brilliant w^ere those lovely 
 eyes !— I took a fierce delight in pricking her on to such 
 adorable frenzy I 
 
 " I said, Pauline, wdiat I will say again, that your lover 
 Silvion Guidel is dead, and that it was I who killed him ! 
 Without 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. 
 
WORMWOOD. 305 
 
 Tlien a light flashed over her face — her lips partea in a 
 shrill scream. 
 
 " Murderer ! " she cried, clapping her hands wildly, 
 -^ — " murderer ! You have confessed — you shall atone \ 
 Yoa shall die for your crime — I will have jusitice 1 au 
 secotirs I au secours! " 
 
 I sprang upon her swiftly — I covered her mouth — I 
 grasped her slim throat and stifled her shrieks. 
 
 •' Silence, fool ! " I whispered hoarsely. " I k)ld yoisi 
 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 
 Ijuidel 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 different story and 
 your denunciation of me will seem mere hysterical raving ! 
 Be still ! '' Here, as I felt her swaying unsteadily be- 
 neath my touch, I took my hands from her mouth and 
 throat and let her go. She tottered and sank dov/n on 
 the pavement, shuddering in every limb, and crouching 
 there, moaned to herself 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 ! — noth- 
 ing 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 370urs, 
 — ^you did well to keep them from the touch of other 
 men, — they were reserved for me ! Fragrant as roses I 
 I found them, but somewhat cold ! 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 
 shivering 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 I There are 
 grassy nooks, and the birds build their nesls to the sound 
 
 2.0 \ :■■'.. \--'^ 
 
3o6 WORMWOOD. 
 
 of their own singing,— the river flows softly, and in the 
 early morning when the beils are ringing for mass, the 
 scene is fair enough to tempt even a prude to v/an- 
 tonness. Are you weeping ? Ah !— we always grow 
 sentimental over the scene of our pleasantest sins ! Y^q 
 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 returned/' 
 
 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 trystes,— 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 sun- 
 shine and soft wind for you, — but for m.e — 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 con- 
 stant moaning 1 — 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 1 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 ; — I 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 been rendered useless by Divine interpo- 
 sition ! Now in France thev sc^iinotine criminals, — m 
 
WORMWOOD, 307 
 
 England they hang them, — in the East they strangle them 
 ■ — it is all one, so long as the business of breathing is 
 stopped. I remembered this — and adopted the eastern 
 method — it was hard work I can assure you, to strangle a 
 man, without rope or bowstring ! — it took me time to 
 do it and was difficult, — also, it was very difficult for him 
 to die ! " 
 
 " Oh God/ '' 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 every- 
 thing else — and his were soon terminated. He died at 
 last. I flung his body in the Seine, — well, what now ? '* 
 for she suddenly sprang erect, and stared at me with a 
 curiously vague yet hunted look, like some trapped wild 
 animal meditating an escape. " You must not leave me 
 yet, — you have not heard all. So ! — stand still as you 
 are, — you look like a young tragic muse ! — 3^ou are beau- 
 tiful, — 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 httle while afterwards I saw it in 
 the Morgue ! " — here I begun to laugh involuntarily. '' I 
 swear I should scarcely have known the Raffaelle-like 
 Silvion again ! Imagine those curved red lips that used to 
 smile at shadows like another Narcissus, all twisted and 
 blue ! — think of the supple, straight limbs, livid and swol- 
 len to twice their natural size 1 — by Heaven, it was aston' 
 ishing — amusing ! — the grossest caricature of manhood, — 
 all save the eyes. They remained 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, — ' Love ! — Love and Pauline ! ' '' 
 
 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 mechanically. 
 
 " Love and Pauline ! " I repeated, with a sort of sat- 
 isfaction 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 
 
joS IVORAnVOOD. 
 
 time possessed both, — at present it is m}^ turn f For Ii<^ 
 is lost in the comm.on fosse, among crowds of other self- 
 £layers^-™-and you cannot find even his grave to weep 
 over 1 Yet — strange to say— I have seen him many times 
 since then — —" 
 
 The passive form before me stirred and swayed Kke a 
 slender sapling in a gust of wind— -and a voice spoke 
 hoarsely and feebly. 
 
 *^ Seen what ? — seen whom ? '' 
 
 " Silvion ! '' I answered, — my brain suddenly darkening 
 with phantasmal recollections as I spoke, — and, yielding 
 to an involuntary 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 coward on some base 
 errand ! I have not killed him after all 1 There I- — there 1 
 Look ! He is beckoning you ! " 
 
 She sprang forward,— her eyes blazing, her arms out- 
 stretched, her lips apart. 
 
 " Where ? where ? '' she wailed. " Silvion ! Silvion ! 
 Oh no, no 1 You torture me ! — all is silence— blackness 
 ■ — death ! ( Oh God — God ! — is there ?io mercy 1 " 
 
 And suddenly flinging up her hands above her head^ 
 she broke into a loud peal of discordant delirious laugh- 
 ter and rushed violently past me out of the court. 
 Horror or madness 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 enfold 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 toOy 
 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 onv/ards 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 sprang on the parapet I 
 
 '' Pauline 1 '' I cried. " Wait 1 Pauline ! '' 
 
WORMWOOD. 
 
 309 
 
 She never turned her head, — she raised her hands ta 
 heaven and clasped them as though in suppHcationj-^ — 
 then — she threw herself forv/ard, as sv/iftly as a bird pinion- 
 ing its way into space. One small, dull splash echoed on 
 the silence, — she was gone ! I reached the spot a mo- 
 ment after she had vanished, — I leaned over the parapet, 
 — I peered down into the gloomy water; — nothing there ! 
 Nothing but blank stillness — blank obscurity ! 
 
 '' Pauline 1 " I muttered. " Little Pauline ! " 
 
 Then, as I strained my sight over the monotonous 
 width of the river, I sav^r a something lift itself into view, — ^ 
 a woman's robe blew upwards and outwards like a dark, 
 wet sail— it swirled round once — twice — thdce, — and then 
 it sank again ! . . . My teeth chattered, — I clung to the 
 stone parapet to prevent myself from falling. And yet a 
 horrible sense of amusement stirred within nie, — the 
 satirical amusement of a fiend ! — it seemed such a ludi- 
 crous thing to consider that, after all, this weak, fragile 
 child had esca.ped me, — had actually gone quietly away 
 where I could not, dared not follov/ ! 
 
 '* Pauline ! " I whispered. *' Tell me,— Vv^hat is death 
 like .^ Is it easy ? Do you know anything about love 
 down there in the cold ? Remember ?ny kisses were the 
 last on your lips, — mine, not Silvion's 1 God Kimself 
 cannot undo that I — all Eternity cannot d^tox that / They 
 will burn you in hell, they v^^ill taint you in heaven, those 
 kisses of mine, Pauline ! They wdll part you from Silvion ! 
 — ah ! — there is their cliiefest 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 there love and v/ere happy together forever. " May 
 the W'hole 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 em.pty, and 
 all immortality worthless and w^earisome — every kiss of 
 mine on your lips be a curse, Pauline — a curse by vrhich 
 I shall claim, your spirit hereafter 1 '^ 
 
 Gasping for articulate speech, the wild imprecation .eft 
 my lips without my realizing my own utterance ; I v/as 
 giddy and faint, — my temples throbbed heavily — liie blood 
 rushed to my brain, — the sky, the trees, ihe houses, the 
 
gtO WORMWOOD, 
 
 bndge riislied round and round me in dark whirling riog^. 
 All at once my throat lilled with a cold sense of suffoca- 
 tion, — 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 1 Pauline ! 
 Pauline 1 I loved you ! " 
 
 The wind filled my ears with a dull roaring noise, — ' 
 something black and cloudy seemed to rise palpably out 
 of the river and sway towards me,— the pale, stern face of 
 Silvion Guidel came between me and the murky skies,— 
 and w^ith a faint groan, and a savor as of blood in my 
 mouth, I lost my hold on thought and action and reeled 
 down into utter darkness, insensible. 
 
W0KMWOOD, 311 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 BtiLL gray lines with flecks of fire between them, — fire 
 that radiated into ail 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 morning — and I 
 was still on the Pont Neuf, lying crouched close to the 
 parapet like any hunted, suffering animal. The mist 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 unravelled my knotted thoughts, and grasped at the cen- 
 tral solution of their perplexity, — namely, this : Paulijte 
 was drowned I Pauline, — even she !— the little fairy thing 
 that had danced and sung and flirted and prattled of her 
 school at Lausanne and her love of mai'rons glach — • 
 even she had become a tragic heroine, wild as any Julit^. 
 oi Francesca ! How strange it seemed ! — as the critics 
 w^ould say — how fne-Io dramatic I For we are supposed to 
 be living in very commonplace days, — though truly this 
 is one of the greatest errors the modern wise-acres 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 v/omen were so prone 
 to analyze themselves 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 marvellous accuracy of per« 
 ception, such discontent, such keen yet careless valuation. 
 kA life at its best^ tliat more romances and tragedies are 
 
^^^ 
 
 WOBMJVOOD, 
 
 enacted now than Sophocles ever dreamed of. They aK, 
 performed without any very gTeat eclat or stage-effects,— 
 for we latter-day philosophers hate to give grand names 
 to anything, our chief object of study being to destroy ail 
 ideals,— -hence, we put down a suicide to temporary in- 
 sanity, 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 are murders ; and love and 
 revenge and hatred and jealousy run on in their old pre- 
 destined 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 casuists, however, 
 Pauline would but seem " temporarily insane '' — and 
 during that fit of temporary insanity she had drowned her- 
 self — voila tout ! 
 
 Any w^ay she was dead ; — that was the chief thing 1 nad 
 to realize and to remember, — but v/ith its usual obstinacy 
 my brain refused to credit it ! The mists rose slowly up 
 from the river — the church bells ceased ringing ; a chili 
 wind blew. I shuddered 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 1 
 
 Meanwhile, I w^as 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 Absinthe ! — that would soon put fire into my veins and 
 warm the numbness 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, — 
 on awful premonition that something terrible w^as 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 vv'hile the sensation I 
 speak of mastered me, I dared not look behind. Presently 
 I distinctly heard a low panting near me like the breath- 
 inr of same heavy creaturej—-and my nervous dread grew 
 
WORMWOOD. 313 
 
 stronger. For a moment I felt that I wouia rather fling 
 myself into the Seine than turn my head ! It Vv^as 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, irres- 
 olutely looked back over my own shoulder, — then, un- 
 speakably startled and amazed at what I saw, I turned my 
 whole body round involuntarily and confronted the formi- 
 dable beast that lay crouched there on the Pont Neuf, watch- 
 ing 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 hid- 
 eously 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 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 terror-stricken, I heard 
 steps approaching, and a laborer appeared carrying some 
 tin cans which clinked together merrily, — he whistled as 
 he came alongj 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 1 Onward he marched 
 indifferently,— and my heart almost ceased to beat for a 
 second as I saw^ him coming nearer and nearer to the 
 horrible creature. . . . What ! — was he blind 1 — Could 
 he not see the danger 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 fascinated 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 v/as 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 s^low 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 
 
314 WORMWOaD, 
 
 walk rapidly, — and another peculiarity ©f my hallucination 
 discovered itself, — namely, that ^^^r^ me as I looked I saw 
 nothing but the usual surroundings of the streets and the 
 passing people, — but behind me I knew, I felt the horrible 
 monster at my heels,— the monster created by my own 
 poisoned thought, — a creature from whom there was no 
 possible escape. The enemies of the body vv^e can physi- 
 cally attack, and often physically repel, — but the enemies 
 of the mind, — the frightful phantoms of a disordered in> 
 agination—these no m^edicines can cure, no subtle touch 
 disperse. 
 
 And yet I could not quite accept the fact of the nerv- 
 ous havoc wrought upon me. I saw a boy carrying a 
 parcel of Figaros to a neighboring kiosque — and stop- 
 ping him, I purchased one of his papers. 
 
 *^ Tell me," I then said, lightly and with a feigned in- 
 difference. " Do you see a — a great dog following me ? 
 I chanced upon a stray one on the Pont Neuf just now^ 
 ''>ut I don't want it at my lodgings. Can you see it ? '^ 
 
 The boy looked up and down and smiled. 
 
 "y^ ne vois 7'ie?i^ monsieur P^ 
 
 " Merci I " 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 tlrrew 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 appeal, — 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 coherency 
 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 had a strange dream in which it seemed as: 
 though I had frightened Pauline into drowning her- 
 self ? No ! — I would wait : — I would wait and watch the 
 
WORMWOOD, 315' 
 
 Morgue,— for till I saw her there I could not be sure she 
 was dead. Anon, a fragment of that old Breton song H^loise 
 used to recite repeated itself monotonously in my ears — 
 
 "Mon etoile est fatale 
 Mon etat est contre nature, 
 Je n'ai eu dans ce monde 
 Que des peines a endurer; 
 Nul Chretien 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 OAvn wretched con- 
 dition ; I had brought myself to it, — but what of that ? — 
 the knowledge did not ameliorate matters. If you htow 
 you have done ill, say the moralists, you have gained 
 the greatest possible advantage, because knov/ing your 
 evil you can amend it. Very wise in theory no doubt ! — 
 but no use in practice, /could not eliminate the poison- 
 ous wormwood from my blood, — I was powerless to ob- 
 literate 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 drivel- 
 ing 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 v/as 
 a Charcot in Paris — no man wiser, — no man kinder. 
 But suppose I went to him, what would be the result. 
 He would tell me to give up absinthe. Give up ab- 
 sinthe 1 — 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 centre and pivot of my be- 
 ing !— anything but that I would do gladly ! — but not thai, 
 — never, never that ! Pah ! how that leopard stared at 
 me as I sat glowering and thinking, and pulling at the 
 ends of my moustache, in a sort of dull stupor,— the 
 stupor of mingled illness and starvation. For I had 
 eaten nothing since the previous day, and though I was 
 
316 
 
 WORMIVOOD. 
 
 faint, it was not the faintness of natural litinger. That is 
 another peculiarity of my favorite cordial, — taken in 
 small doses it may provoke appetite, — -but taken in large 
 and frequent draughts, it invariably kills it. The thought 
 of food attracted yet nauseated me, and so I remained 
 huddled up in my chair engrossed in my own reflections, 
 the nervous tears still now and then tricklinp- from my 
 eyes and dropping like slow hot rain on my closely 
 clenched hands. 
 
 The sound of a bugle-note otartled me for a moment, 
 and sent my thoughts flying off among fragmentary sug- 
 gestions of national pride and military glory, France ! 
 France 1 — -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 ! — v/hat w^hite 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, O France, who hast suffered 
 thyself to be despoiled by conquerors and art almost for» 
 gettrog thy vows of vengeance ! Paris, steeped in vice 
 and drowned in luxury, feeds her brain on such loath- 
 some literature as might make even coarse-mouthed 
 Rabelais and Swift recoil, — day after day, night after 
 night, the absinthe-drinkers crowd the cafes ^ and swill the 
 pernicious drug that of all accursed spirits r.ver brev/ed 
 to make of man a beast, does most swiftly fly to the seat 
 of reason to there attack and dethrone it ; — and yet, the 
 rulers do nothing to check the spreading evil,-— the world 
 looks on purblind as ever and selfishly indifferent, — and 
 the hateful cancer eats on into the breast of France, 
 bringing death closer every day. France \~—my France 1 
 degraded, lost, and cowardly as I am,—- too degraded, too 
 lost, too cowardly to even fight in the lo'west 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 ! — loi^e tliee with the foolish, powerless 
 love that chained and beaten slaves may feel for their 
 native land when exiled from it^^-a love that cannot pro^S 
 
■^ IIMWOOD, ^ ^tj 
 
 ^0.3 strength by any great or noble act, — that can do noth- 
 ing, — nothing but look on and watch thee slipping like a 
 loosened jewel out of the blazing tiara of proud nntions, 
 ' — and watching, know most surely that /, and such as I^ 
 have shaken thee from what thou wert, and what thou 
 still shouldst be ! ^' Aux armes, citoyens ! " /cry stupidly, 
 as my patriotic reverie breaks in my brain like a soap- 
 bubble in air, — " Formez vos hataillons !^'' 
 
 Ah God ! — I start 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 absin- 
 theur in the city of Absinthe, and glory is neither for me, 
 nor for thee, Paris, thou frivolous, lovely, godless, las- 
 civious dominion of Sin ! Godless ! — and why not ?■ — 
 sinful ! — and why not ? God did not answer us when we 
 prayed,— He was on the side of the Teutons. And we 
 have found out that when v/e try to be good, life is hard 
 and disagreeable ; when w^e are wicked, or what moralists 
 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 advantages. I loved a ¥/oman honestly^ 
 and w^as betrayed ; another man loved the same woman 
 ///i-honestly and— kept her faith 1 This v/as God's doing 
 (because everything is done by the will of God) therefore 
 you see it was no use my striving to be honest 1 False 
 arguments ? specious reasoning ?— not at all ! I have the 
 logic of an ahsmtheur I voila tout ! 
 
 That leopard again !~By-and-bye I began to find a 
 certain wTetched amusement in watching the sunlight play 
 on the smooth skin of this undesired spectral attendant, 
 and I endeavored to accept its presence with resignation. 
 After a while 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 v/alked or 
 was otherwise in rapid motion it was only to be seen 
 hehmd me. Let scientists explain this if they can, by 
 learned dissertations on the nerve-connections between the 
 spine and brain-cells, the fact remains that the impression 
 created upon me of the actual palpable presence of 
 the animal w^as distinct and terribly real^ — and though 
 ^Mto on I found Ippuld pass my hand through its shiu* 
 
^fg W0RMW003. 
 
 feg substance, the conviction of its reality never leflm^ 
 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 cafes and it lies down in front of me 
 and we — -the spectre 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 ; — v/ell ! — 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 ! Andrd' 
 Gessonex used to peer behind him in just the same' 
 fashion, — I remembered it now, and understood it. And I 
 idly wondered what sort of creature the Absinthe-fairy 
 had sent to him so persistently that he should have seei\ 
 no way out of it but suicide. Now 7" had the courage oi 
 endurance, — or let us say, the cowardice ; for I could not 
 bear the thought of death,— it was the one thing that ap- 
 palled 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. Anc] 
 on that other existence I dared not ponder ! Oh, if therq 
 is one thing I rate at in the Universe more than another, 
 it is the uncertainty of Creation's meaning. Nature is ^ 
 great mathematician, so the scientists declare— then why 
 is the chief number in the calculation always missing t 
 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 ta 
 wbieh He Himseli may have f orgptteu the Answer I 
 
 t 
 
WOMM^VOQB* 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 DimiNG 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 mar- 
 ble 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 re- 
 warded. An afternoon came when I saw the stretcher 
 carried in from the river's bank with mxOre than usual 
 pit}^ and reverence, —and I, pressing in with the rest of 
 the morbid spectators, saw the fair, soft, white body of 
 the woma.n I had loved and hated and maddened and 
 driven to her death, laid out on the dull hard slab of 
 stone like a beautiful 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 spoilt her pretty face,— she looked so wise, so 
 sweet and calm, that I fancied the cold and m.uddy 
 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 hey 
 lips and closed them in a childlike happy smile,-— lix'ad 
 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 clo^sed 
 the gentle eyes and deftly pointed the long dark lashes 
 in a dov/nward sleepy fringe-~and had made of one lit- 
 tle 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 a^ 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 enamel forget- 
 me-not in gold, and seemed about to draw it off, but 
 on second thoughts left it where it was. I knew that 
 
po 
 
 WORMWOOD, 
 
 ring well,— Heloi'se 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 little corpse without a mo*> 
 mentis delay, 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 inter- 
 val, 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 deformed and warped intelli- 
 gence found a vivid pleasure in the contemplation of such 
 petty and unnecessary cruelty,— it seemed good to me to 
 wreak spite upon the dead, — and as I have already told 
 you, the brain of a confirmed ahsiiitheiir 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 
 ^f svdums in France, — ask to be told some of the aberrations 
 of a.L .sinthe-maniacs, who form the largest percentage of 
 brain:l 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 
 blocid and killed his conscience "t You may talk of the 
 Soul as you will — ^but the Soul can only make itself mani* 
 test 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 
 ijie, I held my peace and gave no sign as to the iden^- 
 /tity of Pauline ;— but I went to the Morgue so frequently, 
 nearly every hour in fact, and stared so long and persist- 
 ently at her dead body that my conduct at last attractea 
 some attention from the authorities in charge. One even'^ 
 
WOkitlWOOD. 'i2%\ 
 
 Big, the tiaird, I think, after she had been laid there, an 
 offical tapped me on the arm. 
 
 " Pardoit ! Monsieur seems to know the corpse ? "^ 
 
 I looked at him angrily, and though there were ? ie'> 
 ;^3eople standing about us, I gave him the lie direct. 
 
 " You mistake. 1 know nothing ! '^ 
 
 He eyeoi me with suspicion and disfavor. i 
 
 " You seem to take a strange interest in the sight ui: 
 the poor creature, all the same ! " 
 
 '' Well, what of that ? " I retorted. " The girl, though 
 dead, is beautiful ! I a man 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, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders and still looking at me askance. "Only 
 there is just this one little thing that I would say. If we 
 could obtain any idea, however slight,— any small clue 
 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 na 
 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 difficultv. 
 
 " What sort of locket ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh a mere trifle, — of no value whatever. We openea 
 it, of course, — it had nothing inside but a withered rose 
 leaf and a small slip of paper, on which was written one 
 word, ^ SlvionJ 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/ — heipee 
 me to keep my puny rage more firmly fixed upon th.-t help 
 less smiling, waxen-looking thing that lay before j-e in 
 such solemn and chilly fairness. A withered ros leai^ 
 and the name of that accursed priest — these were her : ole 
 treasures, were they ? — all she cared to save from the 
 wreckage of her brief summer time ] Well, well, womeri 
 are strange fools at best and the wisest man that ever 
 lived cannot unravel the mystery of their complex mech- 
 anisrii. Half puppets, half angels ! — and one never knows 
 to which side of their natures to appeal I 
 
 ** We have given a ver^ t^recise and particular d^ 
 z% 
 
2^3 IVORMU^OOD, 
 
 scription of the corpse in our anno7tces'^^----i^ent on the 
 official meditatively—*' but at present it has led to notbiiig. 
 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 French- 
 men have hearts ! La pauvre petite there is too delicate 
 and pretty to lie in the common y^j-^-c? / '' 
 
 Good God ! What an absurd influence the loveliness 
 of a woman can exert on the weak minds of men ! Here 
 v/as a girl dead and incapable of knowing whether she 
 was lying in the commony^^j-^ or any other place of inter- 
 ment, and yet this stern officer of the Morgue, touched by 
 her looks, regretted the necessity of burying her thus 
 harshly and without reverence. 
 
 I laughed carelessly. 
 
 " You are very gallant, Monsieur ! I wish I could assist 
 you ! This girl-suicide is beautiful as you say, — I have 
 contemplated her face and figure with much pleas- 
 ure -" 
 
 " 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, 
 something, and wanted to startle me into confessing it ! 
 Cunning rogue ! — But I was a match for him 1 
 
 '- 1 shall be charmed to do so I '' I responded with 
 easy indifference. " It v^ili be a privilege !-— a lesson in 
 art ! '' 
 
 He said nothing, but simply led the way within. One 
 minute morej, and the electric light flashed in a dazzling 
 white effulgence over the drowned girl,— I felt the official's 
 eye upon 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 stifl 
 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 she ! — 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, . o < 
 il thought I should have shrieked aloud 1 
 
IVORMWOOB, 3? 3 
 
 ^* Do not touch her ! '' I exclaimed in a hoarse wlii n - 
 ^ It is a — sacrilege ! '' 
 
 He looked at me steadily, quite unmoved by ,. j 
 words. 
 
 " You are sure you cannot identify the body ? — yoi 
 have no idea who she Vv^as when living ?" he demanded, 
 in measured accents. I shrank backward. As he held 
 the dead girl in that upright attitude I was afraid sh( 
 might open her eyes 1 
 
 " 1 tell you, no / ^^ I answered wdth a sort of sullen 
 ferocity. " No, no, no I Lay her down ! Why the devi; 
 can you not let her be ? " 
 
 He gave me another searching, distrustful look. Then 
 he slov/ly and with a certain tenderness laid the body 
 back in its former recumbent positicn, 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 kmd. 
 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 ? Far 
 exe77tple, will you swear that you know absolutely nothing 
 of the woman's identity?'' 
 
 Persistent fool 1 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 such value nowadays in 
 France!" I answered carelessly. "Our teachers have 
 left us no God, so what am I to swear by ? By your head 
 or my own 1 '' 
 
 He was patient, this man of the Morgue, and though I 
 spoke loudly, and there w^ere people standing about, he 
 took no offence at my levity. 
 
 *' Swear by your honor, Monsieur ! — that is enough." 
 
 My honor ! Ha ! — that was excellent ! — I, who had no 
 ^ore sense of honor than a carrion crow ! 
 
 *^ By my honor, then ! '' I said, laughing — " I swear I 
 know nothing of your pretty dead Magdalen in there ! A 
 fillede joie^ no doubt ! Strange that so many men have pity 
 for such ; even the amiable Christ had a good v>'ord to 
 say on behalf of these naughty ones ! What was it ? — Yc^s 
 —1 remember J — 'Ilcr s/^is, -ijIiicJi arc rr.an^^ :.rc forgiven 
 
324 WC.JWOOD^ 
 
 her, for she loved much / ' True—love excuses many fot 
 lies. And she,— the little drowned one, — is charming— I 
 admire her with all my heart ! — but I cannot tell you who 
 3he is or,— to speak more correctly~who she was 1 '* 
 
 As I uttered the deliberate lie, a sort of electric shock 
 ran through me— m.3^ heart leaped violently and the blood 
 rushed to my brows, — a pair of steadfast, sorrov^^ful lus- 
 trous eyes flashed wondering reproach at me over the 
 heads of the little throng of spectators,— //^<:k were the eyes 
 of Helo'ise St. Cyr I 
 
 Yes 1 — 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 cousin, — her hands tremblingly out- 
 stretched ! As in a dream I sav/ the press of people 
 make v/ay for her, — I saw men take off their hats and re- 
 main uncovered as though a prayer w^ere being spoken,-— 
 I sav/ the official in charge approach her and murmur 
 some respectful inquir3%— and then — then I 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 
 herself to the official. "- She is my cousin, Pauline de 
 Charmilles, — only daughter of the late Count de Charmilles. 
 We have lost her— long ! ''—and a half sob escaped her 
 lips — "'Give her tome now, — and I will take her — -oh, 
 poor Pauline I — I will take her . . , home I ^' 
 
 Her strength gave way— -she hid her face in her banc . — 
 and some v/omen near her began crying for sympathy. It 
 -^vas what cynical people would call a '' sc^ite " — and yet- 
 somehow, I could not mock at it as I would fain have done. 
 The spirit of Humanity v/as here — even here among the 
 morbid frequenters of the Morgue,- — the ^^ touch of nature 
 i^/hich makes the Vv^hole world Idn '' was not backing any- 
 -where — save in me ! — and more than all, Heloise was 
 here,—?:!!-! in her presence one could not jest. One 
 believed in God ;— one always believes in Gcd,~by Va^ 
 side of a good woman 1 
 
 1 raised my eyes,— I was resolved to look at her straight, 
 —•and I did so-- >but only for one second i For her glance 
 i^wept ovtF m© with guch unutterable hmrmt loathings and 
 
WORMIVOOD. 325 
 
 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 hideous 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 1 — while she 
 ' — the angel Heloise, whose love 1 had once possessed 
 unknowingly, bore home her sacred dead, — home to a 
 maiden funeral-couch of flowers, sanctified by tears ancj 
 hallowed by prayers, — home, — to receive the last soiema 
 honors due to Innocence and—Frailty 1 
 
3sQ 
 
 WORMWOOD. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 What was there to do nov/ ? Nothing,~but to drink 
 Absinthe ! 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 I had 
 apparently left no blank. You cannot 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 beeii 
 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 dis- 
 tance. 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 w^as covered with a white pall, and al*' 
 the flowers upon it were white ; — and when the big vauli 
 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 ana 
 thin as a shadow that afternoon ; — she walked by the side 
 of the widowed Comtesse de CharniilieSj who appeared 
 very feeble of tread, and was draped in black from head 
 to foot. I gazed at the solemn cortege from an obscure 
 Corner in the cemetery,— and smiled as I thought that I 
 '^ — I only had wrought all the misery on this once proud 
 and now broken-dov/n, bereaved family !— I, and — Ab- 
 sinthe ! Ifl had remained the same Gaston Beauvais that 
 I once had been, — if on the night Pauline had raade her 
 wild confession of shame to me, I had listened to the 
 voice of mercy in my heart, — if I had never met Andre 
 Gessonex . . . imagine 1-— -so much Imn^'s on an "if! 
 Now and then a kind of remorse stung me, — but it was a 
 \\QXQ passing emotioiij-— i:nd it only troubled me when I 
 
woRimvooD, 327 
 
 thought Ov or saw Heloi'se. She was, as she now is, the 
 one reproach of my Hfe, — the only glimpse of God I have 
 ever known ! When Pauline 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 Lausanne, — this same sweet, pale 
 Heloise lost all her self-control fvr 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 mau- 
 soleum, 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 remiained behind ! 
 Hidden among the trees I lay quiet, in undiscovered 
 safety, so that when the night came I was still there. 
 The guardians of Pere-la Chaise, patrolled the place as 
 usual and locked the gates — but I was left a prisoner 
 within, whiUi 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 mouldering corpses 
 in the play ! I was sole ruler of this wide domain of 
 graves ! I rushed to the shut-up marble prison of Pau- 
 line — 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 I 
 — -she would never answer any call again ! Grovelling in 
 the dust I looked up despairingly — the word " Amour ! '' 
 with its silvery glisten on Heloise's rose-garland, flashed on 
 my eyes hke 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 1 Can we not get at the truth of this } If we can, 
 then we shall know the secret of life's riddle. 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 
 liave a God to deal with ! And I fear me much it is a G(4 
 
9.2S IVGRMWOOD. ~^ 
 
 after ill !— -I shudder to think it, — but I am afraid-« 
 afraid ^ For if God exists, then they — all the dead 
 creatures I know, vdiose spirits haunt me, — the}'' are happ}^, 
 wise, victorious and immoriai. — while I — I am lower than 
 the veriest insect that breeds in the mould and is blind to 
 the sun ! 
 
 I must not dwell on this ; — I must not look back cO 
 those hours passed outside Pauline's tomb. For they were 
 horrible ! Once, as the night weaned, I saw Silvion Gui- 
 del, — 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 impo- 
 tent fuiy ! He had won the day, I felt — Pauline was his 
 ■ — not mine 1 God had been on his side, and Death, in- 
 stead of conquering him, had given him the victory 1 
 
 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 stran2:e weaJ^-ness and sick fever beset raethat I did 
 nothing but weep for sheer helplessness. It was a sort of 
 temporary paralysis — it passed av;ay after a vvhile, but it 
 left me terrified and unstrung. When I got better, a droll 
 idea entered my brain. I would go to confession 1 I, 
 who hated priests, would see w^hat they could tell me for 
 once. — I would find out whether Religion, or w^hat w^as 
 called rehsion. had anv mvstical saving ofrace for an 
 absintheicr ! I was abjectly miserable 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 v/alking along vrlth his new partner, — the m.an 
 he had adopted in my place, — a fine, handsome, pleasant, 
 dashing-lookino; fellovA — and he. — mv father, — had seemed 
 perfectly happy : — \ es, perfectly happy ! He had not 
 .seen nie, — 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 de- 
 termined to appear as though he had. I thought him 
 cruel, — callous : — ^I blamed faith, and ever}^thing and 
 ever}-body except myself who had wrought my own un- 
 doing. That is the way vrith many of us, — we get wilfully 
 and deliberately into mischief, — then w^e look about to see 
 on which one of our fellow-creatures w-e can lav the fault 1 
 
WORMWOOD, 3«9 
 
 ^ Open confession is good for the soul ! " says some 
 moralist or other. I determined to try it — for a change ! 
 And my confessor should be good old Pere Vaudron ! — I 
 wondered I had never thought of him before. He might 
 have been some comfort to me, — for he was an honest 
 Christian, and therefore he would not be likely to turn 
 away from any penitent, however fallen and degraded. 
 
 But was I penitent } Of course not ! I was miserable 
 I tell you ; — and I wanted the relief of unburdening my- 
 self to some one who would not repeat what I said. I 
 was not sorry for anything — I was only tired, and made 
 nervous by the spectral beast that followed me, as v/ell 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,— whirl- 
 pools of green in the ground into which it seemed I must 
 fall headlong as I walked — these were common 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 Pere 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 smoothly, 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 woman was sweeping 
 out the chancel, — I recognized her at once, — it was old 
 Margot. She did not know me ; she looked up as I en- 
 tered, 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 waiting a little I went up and spoke to her. 
 
 " Does M. the cure hear confessions this eveninp- ? " 
 
 She stared at me and crossed herself,-— then pointed to 
 the sacristy bell. 
 
 " Sonnez^ s*il vous plait I '* 
 
 She was always curt and cross, this old Margot ! — I 
 tried her again. 
 
 " It is not the usual hour, perhaps ? " 
 
 She made no reply j — so, smiling a little at her acerbity 
 
330 WORMIVCGB, 
 
 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 
 evening ? '' 
 
 "Yes. He will be in the church almost immedi- 
 ately." 
 
 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 ! Meanwhile old Margot took her 
 departure with her broom and all her cleansing para- 
 phernalia — and left me alone in the church. She banged 
 the big door behind her noisily, — and the deep silence 
 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 grue- 
 some ; what a foolish fond enthusiast He was, I thought, 
 to perish for such a delusive idea as the higher spirit- 
 ualization of Man ! We shall never become spiritual ; — 
 we are of the earth earthy — our desires are base, — our 
 passions contemptible; but as w^e have been created so 
 we shall lemain, selo7z 7noi ; — others may hold a different 
 opinion if they choose. 
 
 A slow step sounded on the marble floor, and I hast- 
 ily bent m.y head as penitents do, looking between my 
 clasped fingers at good old Vaudron as he came through 
 the sacristy and paced gently towards 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, carev/orn, and pale. He had 
 suffered, even he, this poor old man, — and his suffering 
 w^as 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 penitent's corner. As I knelt I heard him mutter the 
 usual Latin formula, — -he deemed me also at my prayers, 
 but I said nothing. 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. 
 
 ''' Mg7z plre^'' I ixiunnuredj courrolling myself with an 
 
tVORMlVOOiJ, 331 
 
 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 accent* 
 there was only just the faintest touch of sternness as he 
 replied — 
 
 " I am prepared. Commend yourself to God — to Hin? 
 Vou 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 usual ! " I said con- 
 temptuously. " 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 ma7i ! This and no less is my crime ! 
 —can you give me absolution ? " 
 
 I heard a sudden agitated movement inside the confes- 
 sional. 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 ! 
 Unless you at once confess yourself to the authorities and 
 give yourself up to justice, there is no forgiveness either 
 in earth or heaven for such an evil deed. Who was the 
 man ? " 
 
 " My enemy ! " 
 
 " You should have pardoned him ! '^ 
 
 " Good father, you are not consistent ! According 
 to your own account, God Himself does not pardon till 
 justice is done. I — like Deity— wanted justice ! I killed 
 a deceiver, a liar, a seducer, — a priest who robbed me of 
 the woman I loved 1 " 
 
 A shuddering sigh — half a groan escaped him. 
 
 " A priest !— oh God ! '' 
 
 " Yes, a priest,'' I went on recklessly. " What then ? 
 Priests are worse than laymen. Their vocation deprives 
 them of love, — they crave for it because it is forbidden 
 and will have it at all risks. And he, the man I killed — 
 had it, — he won it by a mere look, a mere smile ; he had 
 fine eyes and a graceful trick of manner. He was happy 
 for a time at any rate. He was as beautiful as an angel 
 — as gifted as a Marcus Aurelius ! — Did you never know 
 any one like him 1 He had the best of all the world could 
 give him in the love of a woman as fair as the morning. 
 
33^ 
 
 WORMWOOD. 
 
 She is dead too now. She drowned herself as soon 2B 
 she knew he was gone— and that I had killed him I So 
 he keeps her love to the end you see,— and I am baffled 
 of it all. That is why I have come to you— just because 
 I am baffled, — I want you to comfort me — I want a victory 
 somewhere 1 I v/ant you to tell me that the man I mur- 
 dered is damned to all eternity, because he had no time to 
 repent of his sins before he died ! I want you to tell m.e 
 that she — the woman, — is damned also, because she killed 
 herself without God's permission ! Tell me any lies the 
 Church will allow you to tell ! Tell me that I am safe 
 because I endure! — because though loaded with sin and 
 vice, I still live 07t, waiting for God to kill me rather than 
 myself ! Tell me all this and I will read all the Peniten- 
 tial Psalms in the cafe this evening instead of the * Fetit 
 Journal! ' '' I paused for lack of breath, — I could see 
 Vaudron start up from his seat in horror as I uttered my 
 reckless tirade — and now, when I gave him time to speak, 
 his voice trembled with righteous indignation. 
 
 " Blasphemer, be silent ! " he said — " Wretched, un- 
 happy man — how dare you presume to enter God's house 
 in such a condition ? You are mad or drunk — you af- 
 front the Sacrament of Confession by ribald language !— 
 you insult the Church ! Pray for true contrition if yoiB 
 eau pray — and go ! — I will hear no more ! '' 
 
 " But you sliall hear ! " I said wildly. " Yon musf heart 
 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 Guidel ! " 
 
 Hardly had the words left my lips when the confc- 
 sional doors flew open, and Vaudron rushed upon me, — ■ 
 he clutched me by the arm, his fine old face burning with 
 wrath. 
 
 " You murdered him !— you— -you ! '' he gasped, his eyes 
 glittering, his hand uplifted as though he would have 
 struck me down before him. 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 " Even so, good father ! I,— simply I ! And here I 
 am, — at your mercy-— only remember this,-— what I have 
 said to you is under the seal of confession /" 
 
 His upraised arm dropped nerveless at his side—he 
 
WORMWOOD. 333 
 
 stared fixedly at me, his breath coming and going rapidly 
 as though he had been running a race. Then, still hold- 
 ing me in a fast grip, he dragged me to the front of the 
 altar where the light shed by the swinging lamps could fall 
 directly upon my features. There, like one in some fever- 
 ish dream, he scanned me up and down, doubtfully at 
 first, then with gradually dav/ning, horrified recognition. 
 
 " God have mercy upon me ! '' he ejaculated tremu- 
 lously ; " it is Gaston Beauvais ! '* 
 
 " Precisely so, mon cher Vaudron ! '■ I replied com- 
 posedly. *^ It is Gaston Beauvais ! It is the Gaston 
 Beauvais who was duped and betrayed, — and who has 
 avenged his wrong in the good old Biblical fashion, by 
 killing his betrayer ! More than this — it is the Gaston 
 Beauvais who drove Pauline de Charmilles to her self- 
 sought death, by telling her the fate of her lover, — what 
 could 370U expect ! — she was a silly girl ahvays ! And now 
 I unburden myself to you that you may knov/ me ; and 
 that I also may know if there is any truth in the religion 
 you profess. I think not, — for you, an ordained serv- 
 ant of the Church, have already shown something of un- 
 seemly violence ! Your grip on my arm is not of the 
 lightest, I assure you 1 — you have given way to anger, — • 
 fie, pere Vaudron 1 Wrath in the sanctuary is not becom- 
 ing to your order ! What ! — did you fancy you v/ere a 
 ma7i for once, — instead of a priest ? '' 
 
 I did not mean to offer him this insult, — the bitter jest 
 escaped my lips before I was aware of it. But it made no 
 visible effect on him, — he merely loosened his hold of me 
 and stood a step or tv/o apart, looking at me with strained 
 anguished eyes. 
 
 " You can break your vows, if you like," I went on care* 
 lessly. " Vows of every kind are brittle ware nov/adays. 
 You can tell my father I am a murderer,— the murderer 
 of Silvion Guidel- — and so give him fresh cause to con- 
 gratulate his foresight in having disov/ned me, — you can 
 tell Helo'ise St. Cyr that I goaded her cousin to madness, 
 — you can betray me to the guillotine. All this is in your 
 povv^er, and by doing it you will only prove, like many 
 another of your craft, hov/ lightly a Creed weighs in the 
 balance against personal passion, . . . you will be wiae 
 in your generation like the Pharisees of ©Id — — " 
 
 *^ Stop-'-'gtop 1 ■• to ark4 ixQars^l^j flinging up his.kaa^ 
 
334 WORMWOOD. 
 
 and clasping them above his bead. " I cannot bear it-— 
 oh God ! 1 cannot bear it 1 Wretched man, what have 
 /done to you that you should so torture me ! '^ 
 
 I was silent What had lie 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 man- 
 hood, — it seemed surprising to me that he should deem it 
 worth his while to engage in such a struggle. A few 
 minutes passed thus, — ^no one entered the church — we 
 were alone with all the familiar things of religion about 
 us, the lamps above us shedding a blood-like hue on the 
 figure of the Christ crucified. Presently, as though 
 drawn by some compelling instinct he turned towards 
 this Image of his Faith,- — a great sigh broke from his lips, 
 — -and, tottering feebly forward, he fell upon his knees 
 and hid his face^— I saw tears trickling slowly betv/een 
 his vmnkled fingers. Foolish old man ! His simplicity 
 vexed me — he looked like the picture of a praying 
 apostle, with the faint glow from the light above the 
 cross falling in the shape of a halo round his silvery 
 hair! 
 
 And I— I stood irresolute,— half abashed, w^holly em- 
 barrassed, — inclined to laugh or weep, I knew not which ; 
 — when all at once a horrible sensation overwhelmed me, 
 — something snapt asunder in my temples like a suddenly 
 cut vare, — the whole nave of the church grew black as 
 pitch, and I threw out my hands to keep myself from fall- 
 ing. Then came masses of pale green vapor that twisted 
 and twirled, and sent shafts of lambent hre, or lightning 
 as it seemed, into the very centre of my brain ! — but 
 through it all, though I seemed caught up and devoured 
 by flame, I saw 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 I clutched at his garment. "Do you not see? 
 —I am going mad !- — mad ! " 
 
 And I burst into a peal of delirious laughter that woke 
 loud eches from the vaulted roof and startled mv own 
 ears with a sense of horror. But with that laughter, the 
 paroxysm passed,— my brain cleared, and I regained mj 
 self-control as by an electric shock that only left my limbs 
 trembling. Pere Vaudron meanwhile had risen from his 
 
WORMWOOD. 331* 
 
 knees and now confronted me, his features pallid with 
 woe and wonder. 
 
 *' Pardon me ! '' I said, and forced a smile. *^ I am not 
 well ! I have nervous delusions, — I suffer from too much 
 dissipation — I am a victim to pleasure ! Self-indulgence 
 is an agreeable thing, — but it has its consequences which 
 are not always agreeable. It is nothing — a mere passing 
 ailment ! But now, good father, — as you have said you) 
 prayers — (and I hope gained much benefit thereby !) 
 may I ask if you have no word for me ? It is the duty ot 
 a priest, I believe, if he cannot give absolution, to at 
 least enjoin penance ! " 
 
 He met my satirical glance with a stern sorrow in his 
 own ej^es — 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, — yoUy — 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 knowl- 
 edge ! 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 dis- 
 missal. 
 
 "And I~do you not think /am miserable.^" I said 
 angrily. " What a set of egotists you are — you and my 
 father, and the whole baraqtte ! Fine Christians truly !~- 
 always pitying yourselves ! Have you no pity for me? " 
 
 The old cure drew himself up, the dignity and pathos 
 of his grief making his homely figure for the moment 
 majestic, 
 
336 WOKMIVOOD. 
 
 ^'^ 1 pity you, God knows ! " he said solemnly, " I pity 
 you more than the ]owest pitiable thing that breathes I 
 A man with the curse of Cain upon his soul,— -a man with- 
 out a heart, without a conscience, without peace in this 
 world or hope in the next ; — as Christ lives, I pity you ! 
 But do not expect more of me than pity ! I am a poor 
 frail old man, — lacking in all the virtues of the saints — 
 and I cannot — Heaven help me ! I cannot forgive you 1 " 
 — and his voice shook as, waving me back, with one hand, 
 he walked feebly to the door of the sacristy — " I cannot ! 
 —Christ have mercy upon me ! — I cannot 1 I have no 
 strength for that, — the poor child Pauline — the wretched 
 Silvion ! — no, no ! I cannot forgive ! — not yet ! God 
 must teach me to do that — God must help me,— of my 
 own accord I ca?inot ! " 
 
 On a sudden impulse I flung myself on my knees be- 
 fore him. 
 
 " Pere Vaudron 1 " 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 quiver- 
 ing. The struggle within him was very bitter — ^his breath 
 came hard and fast, — he too had loved that accursedly 
 beautif ul. Silvion ! After a pause, he raised his shaking 
 hand and pointed to the crucifix. 
 
 *' There — there T^ he Hiuttered brokenly— '^ Go //^^r.e — 
 and — pray ! As a man I dare say nothing to you— -as '^ 
 priest I say, God help you ! " 
 
 Poor old man ! His Christian heroism was sorely 
 tried ! He drew his garment from my touch,-™the sac- 
 risty-door opened and shut,— he was gone. 
 
 I sprang to my feet and looked about me. I was alone 
 in the church, — ^alone and face to face with the crucifix, — 
 the great, gaunt, bleeding Figure with the down-dropped 
 Head and thorny crown. " Go the?'e — and pray ! '' What 
 ~I ? — I an ahsmtheiir ? Kneel at a crucifix 1 — Never ? 
 It could do me no good, I knew,— whatever miracle it 
 might vv^ork on others ! 
 
 Poor old Vaudron ! I had made him miserable™ 
 poor, simple, sill}^, feeble soul ! " God help you ! '^ he 
 had said— not " God, pardon you ! '' He knew the Kt^r- 
 nai Code of Justice better thau to use the word " pardon.'* 
 
WORMWOOD 33«^ 
 
 1 should scarcely have thought he had so much firmness 
 in him — so much staunch man?iood. It was not in human 
 nature to easily forgive such a criminal as I, — and ne, 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 Creation it 
 is ! — and though so human, how full (at odd intervals) of 
 the Divine ! The crucifix is its Symbol, — ^for Man at his 
 best is an Ideal, — and when he reaches this point of per- 
 fection, the rest of his race hang him up on a cross like a 
 criminal in the sight of the centuries, to mock at, to v/or- 
 ship now and then, and to sneer at still more frequently, 
 for says the world — " Look at this fool ! He professed to 
 be able to live a nobler life than we, and see where we 
 have nailed him ! " 
 
 And I passed the dead Christ with an indifferent shrug 
 and smile as I stumbled out of the quiet church into the 
 chill air of the night, and thought how little the Christian 
 creed had done for me. It had (perhaps) persuaded 
 Vaudron to "pity " me, and to say, " God help '' me, — but 
 what cared I for pity or a vaguely divine assistance .f* I 
 had better material wherewith to deal ! — and, humming the 
 fragment of a tune, I sauntered drowsily down to the 
 J^oulevards, and there, as a suitable wind-up to my 
 '^'religious" evening, got dead drunk, — ^on Absinthe i 
 
 22 
 
^ WOKMPVOOm 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The time that immediately followed that night is- a \Ant 
 to me ;— I have no recollection at all of anything that 
 happened. For I was very ill. Dm'ing the space of a 
 whole month I lay in my bed, a prey to violent fever and 
 delirium. So I was told afterwards; — -I knew nothing. 
 The people at my lodgings got alarmed and sent for a 
 doctor, — he was a good fellow in his way, and took an 
 amiably scientific interest in me. When I recovered my 
 senses he told me what I knew very well before, — -namely^ 
 that all my sufferings were due to excessive indulgence in 
 Absinthe. 
 
 " You must give it up," he said decisively, " at once, 
 —and 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 v;ill be, I dread to think ! I know 
 it is a difficult business to break off anything to which 
 the system has grown accustomed,— but you are still 
 a young mian and you cannot be too strongly warned 
 against the danger of continuing in your present course 
 of life. Moral force is necessary,-—and you must exert 
 it. I have a large medical practice, and cases like yours 
 are alarmingly common, and as much on the increase as 
 morphinomania amongst women, — but I tell you frankly 
 no medicine can do good, where the patient refuses to 
 employ his own power of resistance. I must ask you 
 therefore, for your own sake, to bring ail your will to bear 
 on the effort to overcome this fatal habit of yours, as a 
 matter of duty and conscience." 
 
 Duty and conscience 1 I smiled,— and, turning on my 
 pillows, stared at him curiously. He was a quiet, self- 
 possessed man of middle age, rather good-looking, with 
 ■ft calm voice and a reserved manner. 
 
 ** Duty and consciencel/' I murmured languidly. ^^ How 
 
WORMWOOD. 339 
 
 jrell thejr sound—those good little words ! And so, doc- 
 tor, 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, 1 cjhould be inclined to pronounce you as incurable. 
 Were I to analyze your state—- — " 
 
 ^' Do so, I beg of you ! '* I interrupted him eagerly. 
 ** Analyze me by all means ! — I am fond of science ! '' He 
 looked at me dubiously and felt my pulse, watch in hand. 
 
 " Science is in its infancy," he said meditatively, " es- 
 pecially medical science. But some few facts it has en- 
 tirely mastered. And so, speaking without any reserve, 
 I must inform you that if you persist in drinking absimM 
 you will become a hopeless maniac. Your illness has 
 been a sort of God-send, — it has forced you to live a 
 month under my care without tasting a drop of that in- 
 fernal liquid. And a certain benefit has been the result, 
 so that in a way you 2x0. prepared to be cured. But your 
 brain-cells are still heavily char ed 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, 
 swooning, and fits of delirium which resemble strong 
 epilepsy. Such a condition might make you subject to 
 hallucinations of an unpleasant kind " 
 
 " Just so ! " I interposed lazily. " And with all your 
 skill, doctor, you have not got rid of that brute down 
 there 1 " 
 
 He started, — and gazed inquiringly in the direction to 
 which I pointed, where plain and tangible to my eyes, the 
 tawny spectral leopard lay on my bed, not below it, its great 
 yellow forepaws resting close to my feet. 
 
 " What brute ? " he demanded, bringing his calm glance 
 to bear upon me once more, and again pressing his cool, 
 firm fingers on my throbbing pulse. 
 
 I explained in a few words the hateful delusion that 
 had troubled me so long. His brows knitted, and he 
 seemed perplexed. 
 
 "No cure for rae?^' I asked indifferently, noting the 
 expression of his face. 
 
 "I do not know — I cannot tell," he answered hup 
 
340 WORSiWOOD. 
 
 riedly. **Such persistently marked speeim ig gener- 
 ally the symptom of disease, I had hoped but—" 
 
 **You had hoped it was merely temporary," I said. 
 
 ** But if disease has actually begun, what is the 
 remedy?" 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 ''Come, speak !" I raised myself on my pillows impa- 
 tiently. * * You need not be afraid to give an opinion ! ' ' 
 
 *'There is no remedy," he replied reluctantly. *'Dis- 
 ease of the brain is incurable, — ^it can only be retarded. 
 Care, good food, quiet, and total abstinence from any 
 sort of spirituous poison, — this regime can avert, and 
 probably check any fresh symptoms, — in some cases a 
 normal condition can be attained which very nearly 
 approaches complete cure." 
 
 *'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 world!" 
 
 He moved away from me to the table where he sat 
 down and wrote a prescription. I noted his appear- 
 ance drowsily, — his sleek head, his well-fitting clothes, 
 the clean, business-looking hand that guided the pen. 
 
 **Voyons!" I said, with a laugh, — *'In all the range 
 of your experience, did you ever know an absintheur 
 give up Absinthe? — even for the sake of *duty and con- 
 science'?" 
 
 He made no answer— he merely took up his hat, 
 ilooked into its crown, bowed, and took his departure. 
 
 A couple of weeks later on I was able to rise from my 
 bed and crawl about again, and then it was that I 
 found I was getting very short of money. My illness 
 had cost me dear ; — -and I soon recognized that I should 
 have to vacate my already poor apartment for one in 
 some still cheaper and lower quarter. And I should 
 have to do something for a living, — something, if it 
 were but to beg for pence, — something even to 
 obtain the necessary coins wherewith to purchase 
 Absinthe. And one day I wandered into the 
 Tuileries gardens and sat there, drowsily pondering on 
 
Woj^MiVOOD 34^. f 
 
 iuy own fate,™tuming over Xhopros aiid com of my miser- 
 able existence, and wondering what I should do to enable 
 'myseii to live on. For worthless as my life v^as, — v^^ortk- 
 less as I knew it to be, I did not want to die,— I had not 
 the necessary cd arage for that. 
 
 All at once like a rainbow of hope in a dark sky, there 
 came to me the thought of Heloise St. Cyr. Her fair 
 and saintly presence seemed to pass, a holy vision, before 
 my sight,— and in my weak and debilitated state, the tears 
 rushed to my eyes at the mere remembrance of her 
 womanly truth and sweetness. Her voice, vv^ith its soft 
 musical cadence seemed to float invitingly towards me, — > 
 nay,— I even fancied 1 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 ilkiess, 
 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 v/ished— if she commanded 
 it — I would,— yes ! I v/ould actually give up absinthe for 
 her sake, — -she should do with me what she would, — -mf 
 wrecked life should be hers to dominate as she chose ! 
 
 I rose up hastily, the tears still in my eyes, — and, le.ari* 
 ing on a stick, for I was unable to walk without this sup- 
 port, I made my way with painfully slow step stowards 
 the house of the De Charm iiles. For all I knew the 
 Countess and her niece might not be there,— they might 
 liave gone south for the winter. Still I felt that I musi^. 
 *nake an attempt, however futile, to see the only creature 
 In the world who could, just at this juncture in my life, 
 possibly even now be my saviour 1 
 
 There were a great many people in the streets ; every* 
 thing looked bright and suggestive of pleasure— the sun- 
 shine was brilliant, and the Champs Elysees were crowded 
 with happy children sporting in the merry-go-rounds, and 
 driving in the pretty goat-carriages, while their nurses 
 and governesses mounted tender guard over their innocent 
 pastimes. I thought I had never seen Paris wear such 
 a beautiful aspect ; — a gentle mood v/as upon me,— I 
 was sorrowful yet not despairing, — and though I w^as not 
 actually cognizant of any poignant remorse for all the evil 
 I hftd wrought I was conscious of a faint, yearning desire 
 
342 WORMWOOD. 
 
 to atone. The last little spark of my better nature had 
 roused itself into a feeble glow, and it kindled within me 
 a sense of shame, a touch of late — and useless — -penitence. 
 I little knew how soon this nobler fire was to be quenched 
 in darkness !— -I little guessed what swift vengeance the 
 wild Absinthe- witch can take on any one of her servitors 
 who dares to dream of disputing her inexorable authority ! 
 And by-and-by my laggard, faltering movements brought 
 me to the familiar street,— -the well-known stately mansion 
 v/here 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 v/onder, — -what dark 
 delusion had seized upon me now ? The gates stood open, 
 as I said,— -and the circumstance that awoke in me such 
 dull confusion and amazement Vv^as, that the portals of the 
 hall-door were also flung wide apart, and the whole en- 
 trance was hung with draperies of black festooned with 
 white ; heavy draperies that trailed mournfully like droop- 
 ing banners, down to the ground below. Again I rubbed 
 my eyes violently — I could not beUeve their testimony — • 
 they had so often deceived me. Was this a spectral 
 hallucination ? I advanced hesitatingly — -I ascended the 
 steps — I approached those dreary black hangings and 
 touched them ;— they were real,— and the hall beyond 
 them was dark and solemn, the gleam of a few tall candles 
 sparkling here and there like tapers in a tomb. No one 
 noticed me, though there were many people passing in 
 and out — they were dressed in black and moved softly,— 
 they pressed handkerchiefs to their eyes and wept as they 
 went to and fro ; — many of them carried flowers. Gradu- 
 ally the meaning of the sombre scene dawned upon me^ 
 —this was what is called in France a ^^ chap elk ardent e^^ 
 ^— a laying -out of the dead in state, — an opening of the ,. 
 doors to all comers, friends or foes, that they may be en« j 
 abled to look their last on the face they loved or hated ! ' 
 K '''' chapelle arde7ite''— yes \-~hut for whom .^ V/ko was 
 dead } The ansv/er flashed upon me at once,-- -it was the 
 widowed and unhappy Comtesse de Charmilles v/ho had 
 gone the way of all flesh,, —of course !— it must be she I 
 Bereft of husband and child, what more natural than that 
 she should have wearied of life, a-^d longed to join h--^ 
 lost loved ones i—and fresh tears -s^^ -^^^^ to my eyes ai, «, 
 
WORMWOOD. 343 
 
 realized the certainty that this was so. Poor sou! !' — 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 1 ^' I thought, as I leaned 
 feebly against the great staircase, up and down which the 
 visitors were going and returning. " I am accursed !— 
 arxd 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 1 '^ 
 
 And the girl broke into tears as she spoke, and hurried 
 away. 
 
 1 awaited another minute or two, — then gathering up 
 my strength, I ascended the stairs slowly with the rest of 
 the silent, tip- toe treading mourners. The smell of fresh 
 incense, mingling with the heavy perfume of lilies, v/as 
 wafted towards me as I came nearer and nearer the 
 chamber which was now turned into a high altar of death's 
 service, — a glimmer of v^rhite hangings caught my eyes, — 
 white flowers, — all white ! Strange !- — white, pure white, 
 was for those who died young ! And the pretty phraseol- 
 ogy of an old French madrigal passed through my memory 
 involuntarily : 
 
 "Comme la rose quitte la branche du rosier 
 La jeunesse quitte la vie ; 
 Celies qui mourront jeune, 
 
 Onles couvrira de fleurs nouvelles; 
 Et du milieu de ces fieurs 
 Elles s'eleveront vers le ciel, 
 Comrae le passe-vole du calice des roses! " 
 
 Another step — another— hush — hush ! What beautous 
 still-faced angel was that, pillowed among pale cyclamens 
 and tranced in frozen sleep ? . . . 
 
 I dashed aside the silken hangings, — like a madman Z 
 rushed forward. . . . 
 
 '' Heloise r' I shrieked. " Heloise I '' 
 
 ^ ^ ■^' ^ -Jin ^ 
 
344 WORMWOOD. 
 
 Dead— dead ! Grovelling on the ground in wild agony^ 
 I clutched handf Ills of the fiov/ers with which her funeral 
 couch v/as strewn — I groaned— I sobbed— I raved !— -I 
 could have killed myself then in the furious frenzy of my 
 horror and despair ! 
 
 ^* Heloise ! " I cried again and again. " Heloise I 
 Wake ! Speak to me ! Curse me ! Love me ! Oh 
 God, God ! you are not dead !— not dead I Heloise I-— 
 Heloise 1 '' 
 
 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 touchy— -your look — your voice — and all the bitter- 
 ness of ever having known you ! And being now growr^ 
 wise in death I pardon— I pity you ! — Leave me to rest in 
 peace ! ^^ 
 
 Shaken by tearless sobs of mortal agony, I gazed dis. 
 tractedly 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 
 v/indow~pane,— the fringed white eyelids fast closed in 
 eternal sleep were delicately indented as though some 
 angeFs finger-tips had pressed them doWn caressingly, — ' 
 the w^axen-hands were folded meekly across the bosom^ 
 where a knot of virgin lilies wept out fragrance in lieu of 
 tears. Dead— dead ! Why had Death taken her? — why 
 had God wanted her— God, who has so many saints — ^ 
 why could Fie not have spared her to the earth v/hich has 
 so few ! Dead ! — and with her had died my last hope ox 
 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 v/eep again ! 
 
 Suddenly a hand touched me gently on the shoulder. 
 
 " Senor ! '' 
 
 The voice was that of a stranger,— the accent Spanish 
 — -and I looked up in sullen wrath, — -who was it that dared 
 thus to intrude upon my misery ? . . . A man stood be^ 
 side mcj — a lithe, dark creature v/ith 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, '^ L-et me en- 
 
WORMWOOD. 34S 
 
 treat of you to restrain your grief ! It alarms the people 
 who come to render their last homage — it unnerves them ! 
 See you ! — we are alone in this room. — the others are 
 afraid to enter. Pray, pray do not give way to such dis- 
 traction ! — she v/as happy in dying, — her health had de^ 
 clined for some time and she was glad to go^ — and hef 
 death was beautiful, — it was the quiet falling asleep of in- 
 nocence ! " 
 
 His look, his words, his manner bewildered me. 
 
 " You saw her die t " I muttered confusedly. " You 
 
 " Helas ! pauvre enfa?it I she passed away with her 
 hand in mine ! " he answered softly, and as he spoke, he 
 took up a cluster of flowers from the couch, and, kissing 
 them, laid them again in their former position, 
 
 I rose to my feet trembling violently, a sombre wrath 
 gaining possession of my souL 
 
 " And who are you ? " I said. ^^ Why are you here ? '' 
 
 *^ I am Valdez, the violinist,'' he replied,™-and then I 
 recollected,— -this v/as the very ''^ maestro '"^ ?hout whose 
 performances Heloise had used to be so enthusiastic. 
 '* I came hither because she sent for me/' he continued. 
 ''^ I travelled all the ¥/ay from Russia. She wanted me, — - 
 At was to give me this, before she died.'' 
 
 And he touched the violin he held,— /z<?r violin ! — her 
 '^hiefest treasure 1 — and she had bestowed it upon him ! 
 
 A sickening suspicion arose in me and almost choked 
 my utterance. What bond had there been between her 
 '—the dead Heloise — and this man, the musical puppet of 
 a mob's capricious favor 1 What if she had not died in- 
 nocent after all ! , . . 
 
 ** W^ere you her lover ? " I demanded breathlessly. 
 
 He drew back amazed, with a gesture of mingled Dain 
 and hauteur. 
 
 " Her lover ? — I ? You can jest in the presence of 
 death, monsieur ? . . . I love art, — not women.'' 
 
 I stared at him in dubious anger. The dead girl be- 
 fore us held some secret hidden behind her closed eyes 
 and set, smiling lips, — a secret I feverishly craved to 
 fathom ! 
 
 " But she," I said. " She must have loved you- *to 
 have given you that I ^^ 
 
 And I pointed to the violin. 
 
346 mORMWOOD, 
 
 His dark face lightened into a grave smile,-— a new 
 and sudden interest flashed in his eyes. But he was 
 ©therv^dse unmoved. 
 
 '^ I do not see that at all '- — he murmured. '' She 
 knew I v/ouid value such a gift, — that it would be more 
 precious to me than to any one else in the world, — and 
 that is why she was so anxious I should have it. Still, 
 . „ . she may have loved me,— secretly, as many other 
 women have loved me,- — I never thought of that ! — yet — 
 it is possible ! It v/as 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 presence, and make its tone more deep^ 
 more thrilling, more absolutely perfect and pure ! '' 
 
 I advanced upon him in rough haste, — something in my 
 eyes must have startled him, for he recoiled slightly— 
 but I went close up and laid my burning hands upon his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Be silent I " I gasped hoarsely. " Is this the place or 
 time to talk your art- jargon ? Have you no soul, except 
 for sound ? She loved you ! — I feel it,— I know it — I 
 am sure of it— she loved you, — yes ! — you never knew 
 it I dare say, — men never do know these things ! But 
 see what she has done for you !— she has left her spirit 
 with you— there— in that violin you hold !— her graceful 
 fancies, her noble thoughts, her tenderness, her sweet- 
 ness — 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, com- 
 fort you !— and I — I hate you for it — I hate you ! For 
 now I know she never would have pitied me, — never 
 would have loved me again as she loved me once,— -for in 
 dying, she had no thought for me-— she only thought of 
 you — youj on whom Fortune smiles from day to day! 
 Judge then how I hate you !— how I cannot do otherv/ise 
 than hate you I— for she has given you ail— and left me 
 nothing 1 Nothing ! » . « my God ! — nothing ! " 
 
 And with a savage cry I flung him from me and rushed 
 from the room, not daring to look again on the white 
 angel-face of that dead woman who smiled with such 
 triumphant sweetness, with such indifferent coldness., on 
 
34f 
 
 my desperate despair : 1 saw people make terrified way 
 for me as I ran, — I heard some one exclaim that I was 
 mad with grief ! — but I paid no heed, — whether I w^as rec- 
 ognized or not I neither knew nor cared ! Out into the, 
 street I plunged, as it were, into the thick of the passers- 
 by .. . could I not lose myself, I wildly thought ! — could 
 I not obliterate myself from sight and sense and speech 
 and action ? — was there not some deep wide open grave 
 into which I could fall swooningly and there be covered 
 in before I had time to suffer or struggle ? Oh, for a sud- 
 den 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 v/as blind, des- 
 perate, hopeless, helpless, cureless 1 What spectres stood 
 beside me then ! — v/hat horrid voices shouted in my ears 1 
 - — how strange and loathly the half-formed creatures that 
 followed me and mouthed at me, gibbering in uncouth 
 speech scarcely intelligible ! — how the murdered m.an 
 Silvion came and looked at m.e as at some foul thing ! — - 
 how Pauline, fair and pale., Vv^ith a dying sweetness in her 
 smile drifted by me, fmely fairy-like as a fleecy cloud in 
 summer-time 1 — and, ah God ! how the soft large eyes of 
 Heloise beamed piteous w^cnder and reproach upon me 
 like bland stars shining solemnly on a criminal in his 
 cell 1 Those eyes—those eyes ! — they tortured me,— their 
 mildness chilled me ! — their pure and unimpassioned 
 lustre shamed me 1 — they were angels' eyes, and their 
 holy innocence scared and shook me to the soul ! Oh, 
 that horrible time ! — oh, those dreary, w^ild dark days and 
 nights of utter loss and blank wretchedness ! — that fright- 
 ful space of torment in which every nerve in my body 
 seemed torn and wrenched by devils 1— hov/ I was able 
 to live through it, I cannot tell ! 
 
 And when, like all other things, it wore itself out at 
 last, — when I grew calm, with the dreadful calmness of 
 sheer stupefaction and exhaustion,— -then — then I realized 
 it all, and my Absinthe-witch gave me a due to tlie whole 
 mystery ! there zvas a God/—y^s ! actually a God — a 
 great, terrific, cruel nnforgivnig, -iwfrJ Bemg^ and He m 
 all His omnipotence had set Himself against me! He 
 whose^ proud Will evolved the growing Universe, — He 
 had arrayed His mighty forces^ ci Heaven and Heli 
 
J48 WORMWOOD. 
 
 against one miserable atom of earth 1— -and the Titanic 
 wheels of Life, Time and Eternity were all v/hirled into 
 motion to grind me, a worm, down to destruction ! One 
 would think it a waste of power on God's part 1 — but He 
 would seem to be most particular in trifles. Note how 
 carefully He tints the rose, from deepest crimson to ten- 
 derest 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 pea- 
 cock'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 miseries are my own fault. What have I done, I 
 pray you, save drink Absinthe ? I have poisoned my 
 brain and blood ! — well — but how ridiculously small thei 
 seed from which such grim results have sprung! /am 
 not to blame if the Creator has done His work badly, — if 
 He has made the brain so delicate and the spirit so vola.- 
 tile that its quality and comprehension vanish at the touch 
 of— JVonnwood. Nothing but wormwood, — it is a plant 
 as vvell 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 1 Every- 
 thing is God's work — even evil,~and v/hen, with the aid 
 of my life's elixir, I grasped this fact thoroughly, I saw it 
 was no use offering any more resif.tance to fate. For I 
 was left without the smallest vestige of hope, — the little 
 spark of penitence in me had been revived too late,— and 
 throughout the whole drama^ no one had thought of me I 
 Silvion Guidel had died thinking of Pauline, — Pauline had 
 drowned, with the name of her lover on her lips,~and 
 Heloise, even H^loise, had bestowed her last v/ord, her 
 last looks, not on me, but on a comparative stranger- — a 
 mere musical virtuoso ! God's meaning was made plain ! 
 I was left to my own devices,— it was shown me distinctly 
 that my life was without interest to any one but myself. 
 I accepted the hint. As it was decreed so it must be,— 
 and I did as Andre Gessonex had done before me,— -killed 
 the last vestige of my flickering conscience in me wAth ^ 
 
 final blov^,—- and htc^mQ-— what I am/ 
 
 4^ # # # ^ ,# 
 
¥/ORMVVOOD.^ 349 
 
 L'ENVOL 
 
 And mh^t am I ? My dear friends, I have tolti yot!,-«- 
 an absintheur I Absintheur^ pur et simple !~voila tout/ 
 I am a thing more abject than the lowest beggar that 
 crawls through Paris whining for a soul 1-— I am a slirk- 
 ing, shuffling beast, half monkey, half man, whose aspect 
 is so vile, whose body is so shaken with delirium, whose 
 eyes are so murderous, that if you met me by chance 
 in the day-time, you would probably shriek for sheer 
 alarm 1 But you will not see me thus — daylight and I 
 are not friends, I have become like a bat or an owl 
 in my hatred of the sun !— it shone gloriously when 
 lieioise was lying dead,— I have not forgotten that ! • . • 
 At night I live ; at night I creep out with the other ob- 
 scure things of ' Paris, and by my very presence, add 
 Iresh pollution to the mored poisons in the air I I gain 
 pence by the meanest errands,— I help others to vicCj-— * 
 jmd whenever I have the opportunity I draw down 
 weak youths, mothers' darlings, to the brink of ruin^ 
 und topple them over— if I can. For twenty francs, 
 you can purchase me body and soul,— for twenty francs 
 \ will murder or steal,— all true absiniheurs are pur- 
 chasable! 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 
 wq pov/er and yet—I cannot die ! Strange, is it not ? 
 • . o A little while ago I came upon one of m^y class in 
 dire distress,™ he had been a noted chemist in his day,— - 
 but he is nothing now— nothing but an absi?tt/ietiry 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 rag^, 
 rolling in his garret and howling imprecations en all 
 mankind—he was just in the mood to do what I askf^d 
 
350 WORMWOOD. 
 
 of him. It was a trifle ! — a mere friendly exchange a! 
 poisons ! I gave him the absinthe for which he craved 
 so desperately,~and in return, he prepared for me a 
 little phial of liquid, crystal-clear as a diamond, harmless- 
 looking as spring-water— a small draught, which if once I 
 have the courage to swallow, will give me an instant exit 
 from the world 1 Imagine it !- — I shall not suffer I am 
 told,— first a giddiness— then a darkness,— and that is 
 all. I take it out often- — that little glittering flask ot 
 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 
 I dare not, I tell you ! — I am afraid— horribly afraid 1— 
 any condemned criminal is braver than I ! For the 
 longer I live, the more I realize that this death is not 
 the actual ^z^^,— there is something afterwards ! — and 
 it is the Afterwards that appals me. Life is precious I 
 —yes, even my life, surrounded with phantoms, dark- 
 ened with delirium, enfeebled by vice and misery as it is, 
 it is precious 1 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 v/ith its torn and bleeding prey !— and 
 knowing it, I cling to it — I do not want to be hurled into 
 what I do 7iot know ! Some day perhaps—when a blind, 
 dark fury overcomes my brain,— when spectres 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 life in Paris !-— 
 I love to think that I and my compeers in Absinthe are 
 a blot and a disgrace on the fairest city under the sun I 
 —I love to meditate on the crass stupidity of our rulers, 
 who though gravely forbidding the sale of poisons to the 
 general public, permit the free enjoyment of Absinthe 
 everywhere !— I watch with a scientific interest the 
 mental and moral deterioration of our young men, and I 
 take a pride in helping them on to their downfall !— I 
 love to pervert ideas, to argue falsely, to mock at virtue*, 
 to jeer at faith, and to instil morbid sentiments into the 
 minds of those who listen to me;— and I smile as I see 
 bow ''La revanche'' is dying outj and how content tte 
 
pyXPRMWOOD, 
 
 351 
 
 absinthe-drinker is to crouch before the stalwart, honest, 
 beer-bred Teuton ! It is a grand sight ! — and Vv-e are a 
 glorious people !- — just the sort of beings who are con- 
 stituted to caper and make mouths at ^'perfide Albion " — 
 and capture mild EngHsh tourists in mistake for German 
 spies ! All is for 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 spark- 
 hng witticisms against purity, — let us encourage our 
 writers and dramatists to pen obscenities,— our painters 
 Ko depict repulsive nudities — our public men to talk loud 
 inanities— our women to practise all the wiles of wan- 
 tons and cocottes ! But with this, let us never forget to 
 been thusiastic when we are called upon to sing the 
 *' Marseillaise/' How does it go ? — 
 
 " Amour sacre de la patrie 
 
 Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs,— • 
 X/iberte, liberty cherie 
 
 Combats avec tes defenseurs! 
 Sous nos drapeaux que la Victoire 
 
 Accoure a tes males accents 
 Que tes ennemis expirants 
 
 Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire I '* 
 
 Just SO ! Let us always glorify Liberty, though we are 
 slaves to a vice 1 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 trumpets, with team and emotional embraces, 
 and we shall perhaps by noise and blague^ if by nothing 
 else, convince ourselves if we cannot 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 o^^r 
 eyes to her decaying intelligence, her beaten condition^ — 
 her cheap cynicism, her passive atheism, her gross ma- 
 terialism, — -we can cheat ourselves into believing that a 
 nation can thrive on Poison, — we can do anything so 
 long as we hold fast to the Marseillaise and the Tricolor ! 
 Mere symbols ! — and we scarcely trust them,~but never 
 
S5^ 
 
 iVORMWVOi}. 
 
 tlieless they are Ou/ last chance of safety! France 1% 
 France still,— but tLe conqueror^s tread is on her soil— ^ 
 and we— we have borne it and still can bear it — we hav^ 
 forgotten-™we forget ! Wh^t should we want witii 
 Victor J ?™We have Absinthe! 
 
I 
 
i 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 MAR 27 TO 
 
 6 2008 
 
 315 
 
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