I drew near the bed, and looked with fresh attention at that which
thus perplexed me. Shall I confess it? The perfection of her
beauty, though shadowed and sanctified by death, troubled my heart,
and that long rest of hers was wondrous like a living woman's sleep.
I forgot that I had come there to watch by a corpse, and I dreamed
that I was a young bridegroom entering the chamber of the veiled,
half-hidden bride. Broken with sorrow, wild with joy, shuddering
with dread and desire, I stooped toward the dead and raised a corner
of the sheet. Gently I raised it, holding my breath as though I
feared to waken her. My blood coursed so vehemently that I heard it
rushing and surging through the veins of my temples. My brow was
dank with drops of sweat, as if I had lifted no film of linen, but a
weighty gravestone of marble.
There lay Clarimonde, even as I had seen her on the day of mine
ordination; even so delightful was she, and death in Clarimonde
seemed but a wilful charm. The pallor of her cheeks, her dead lips
fading rose, her long downcast eyelids, with their brown lashes,
breaking the marble of her cheek, all gave her an air of melancholy,
and of purity, of pensive patience that had an inexpressible winning
magic. Her long loose hair, the small blue flowers yet scattered
through it, pillowed her head, and veiled the splendor of her
shoulders. Her fair hands, clear and pure as the consecrated wafer,
were crossed in an attitude of holy rest and silent prayer, that
suffered not the exquisite roundness and ivory polish of her pearled
arms to prove, even in death, too triumphant a lure of men.
Long did I wait and watch her silently, and still the more I gazed,
the less I could deem that life had left forever her beautiful body.
I knew not if it were an illusion, or a reflection from the lamp, but
it was as if the blood began to flow again beneath that dead white of
her flesh, and yet she lay eternally, immovably still. I touched her
arm; it was cold, but no colder than her hand had been on the day
when it met mine beneath the church porch. I fell into my old
attitude, stooping my face above her face, while down upon her rained
the warm dew of my tears. Oh, bitterness of impotence and of
despair; oh, wild agony of that death watch!
The night crept on, and as I felt that the eternal separation drew
near, I could not deny myself the sad last delight of one kiss on the
dead lips that held all my love.
Oh, miracle! A light breath mingled with my breath, and the mouth of
Clarimonde answered to the touch of mine! Her eyes opened, and
softly shone. She sighed, she uncrossed her arms, and, folding them
about my neck in a ravished ecstasy:
"Ah, Romuald, it is thou!" she said in a voice as sweet and
languishing as the last tremblings of a lyre. "Ah, Romuald, what
makest thou here? So long have I waited for thee that I am dead.
Yet now we are betrothed, now I may see thee, and visit thee.
Farewell, Romuald, farewell! I love thee. It is all that I had to
tell thee, and I give thee again that life which thou gavest me with
thy kiss. Soon shall we meet again."
Her head sank down, but still her arms clung to me as if they would
hold me forever. A wild gust of wind burst open the window and broke
into the room. The last leaf of the white rose fluttered like a
bird's wing on the stem, and then fell and flew through the open
casement, bearing with it the soul of Clarimonde.
The lamp went out, and I fell fainting on the breast of the beautiful
corpse.
When I came to myself I was lying on my own bed in the little chamber
of the priest's house; my hand had slipped from beneath the coverlet,
the old dog was licking it. Barbara hobbled and trembled about the
room, opening and shutting drawers, and shaking powders into glasses.
The old woman gave a cry of delight when she saw me open my eyes.
The dog yelped and wagged his tail, but I was too weak to utter a
word or make the slightest movement. Later, I learned that for three
days I had lain thus, with no sign of life but a scarce perceptible
breathing. These three days do not count in my life; I know not
where my spirit went wandering all that time, whereof I keep not the
slightest memory. Barbara told me that the same bronzed man who had
come for me at night brought me back in a closed litter next morning,
and instantly went his way. So soon as I could recall my thoughts, I
reviewed each incident of that fatal night. At first I deemed that I
had been duped by art magic, but presently actual, palpable
circumstances destroyed that belief. I could not suppose that I had
been dreaming, for Barbara, no less than myself, had seen the man
with the two coal-black steeds, and she described them accurately.
Yet no one knew of any castle in the neighborhood at all like that in
which I had found Clarimonde again.
One morning Sérapion entered my room; he had come with all haste in
answer to Barbara's message about my illness. Though this declared
his affection for me, none the more did his visit give me pleasure.
There was something inquisitive and piercing to my mind in the very
glance of Sérapion, and I felt like a criminal in his presence. He
it was who first discovered my secret disquiet, and I bore him a
grudge for being so clear-sighted.
While he was asking about my health, in accents of honeyed hypocrisy,
his eyes, as yellow as a lion's, were sounding the depths of my soul.
Presently--"The famous harlot Clarimonde is dead," says he, in a
piercing tone, "dead at the close of an eight days' revel. It was a
feast of Belshazzar or of Cleopatra. Good God, what an age is ours!
The guests were served by dusky slaves who spoke no tongue known
among men, and who seemed like spirits from the pit. The livery of
the least of them might have beseemed an emperor on a coronation day.
Wild tales are told of this same Clarimonde, and all her loves have
perished miserably or by violence. They say she was a ghost, a
female vampire, but I believe she was the devil himself."
He paused, watching me, who could not master a sudden movement at the
name of Clarimonde.
"Satan's claw is long," said Sérapion, with a stern glance, "and
tombs ere now have given up their dead. Threefold should be the seal
upon the grave of Clarimonde, for this is not, men say, the first
time she hath died. God be with thee, Romuald!"
So speaking, Sérapion departed with slow steps, and I saw him no more
as at that time.
Time passed and I was well again. Nay, I deemed that the fears of
Sérapion and my own terrors were too great, till, one night, I
dreamed a dream.
Scarce had I tasted the first drops of the cup of sleep when I heard
the curtains of my bed open and the rings ring. I raised myself
suddenly on my arm and saw the shadow of a woman standing by me.
Straightway I knew her for Clarimonde.
She held in her hand a little lamp, such as are placed in tombs, and
the light touched her slim fingers to a rosy hue, that faded away in
the milk-white of her arms. She was clad with naught on but the
linen shroud that veiled her when she lay in state; the folds were
clasped about her breast, as it were in pudency, by a hand all too
small. So white she was that her shroud and her body were blended in
the pallid glow of the lamp.
Swathed thus in the fine tissue that betrayed every line of her
figure, she seemed a marble image of some lady at the bath rather
than a living woman. Dead or living, statue or woman, spirit or
flesh, her beauty was the same; only the glitter of her dull
sea-green eyes was dulled--only the mouth, so red of old, wore but a
tender tint of rose, like the white rose of her cheeks. The little
blue flowers that I had seen in her hair were sere now, and all but
bloomless; yet so winning was she, so winning that, despite the
strangeness of the adventure and her inexplicable invasion of my
chamber, I was not afraid for one moment.
She placed the lamp on the table, and sat down by my bed-foot. Then,
in those soft and silver accents which I never heard from any lips
but hers--"Long have I made thee wait for me," she said, "and thou
must have deemed that I had forgotten thee quite. But lo! I come
from far, very far--even from that land whence no traveler has
returned. There is no sunlight nor moon in the country whence I
wander, only shadow and space. There the foot finds no rest, nor the
wandering wing any way; yet here am I; behold me, for Love can
conquer Death. Ah, what sad faces and terrible eyes have I seen in
my voyaging, and in what labor hath my soul been to find my body and
to make her home therein again! How hard to lift was the stone that
they had laid on me for a covering! Lo, my hands are sorely wounded
in that toil! Kiss them, my love, and heal them." And she laid her
chill palms, on my mouth, that I kissed many times, she smiling on me
with an inexpressible sweetness of delight.
To my shame be it spoken, I had wholly forgotten the counsels of the
Abbé Sérapion, and the sacred character of my ministry. I fell
unresisting at the first attack. Nay, I did not even try to bid the
tempter avaunt, but succumbed without a struggle before the sweet
freshness of Clarimonde's fair body. Poor child! for all that is
come and gone, I can scarce believe that she was indeed a devil;
surely there was naught of the devil in her aspect. Never hath Satan
better concealed his claws and his horns!
She was crouching on the side of my bed, her heels drawn up beneath
her in an attitude of careless and provoking grace. Once and again
she would pass her little hands among my locks, and curl them, as if
to try what style best suited my face. It is worth noting that I
felt no astonishment at an adventure so marvelous--nay, as in a dream
the strangest events fail to surprise us, even so the whole encounter
seemed to me perfectly natural.
"I loved thee long before I saw thee, Romuald, my love, and I sought
for thee everywhere. Thou wert my dream, and I beheld thee in the
church at that fatal hour. 'It is he,' I whispered to myself, and
cast on thee a glance fulfilled of all the love wherewith I had
loved, and did love, and shall love thee; a glance that would have
ruined the soul of a cardinal or brought a king with all his court to
my feet.
"But thou wert not moved, and before my love thou didst place the
love of God.
"Ah, 'tis of God that I am jealous--God whom thou hast loved and
lovest more than me.
"Miserable woman that I am! Never shall I have all thy heart for
myself alone--for me, whom thou didst awaken with one kiss; for me,
Clarimonde, the dead; for me, who for thy sake have broken the
portals of the grave, and am come to offer to thee a life that hath
been taken up again for this one end to make thee happy."
So she spoke; and every word was broken in on by maddening caresses,
till my brain swam, and I feared not to console her by this awful
blasphemy, namely--_That my love of her passed my love of God!_
Then the fire of her eyes was rekindled, and they blazed as it had
been the chrysoprase stone.
"Verily thou lovest me with a love like thy love of God," she cried,
making her fair arms a girdle for my body. "Then thou shalt come
with me, and whithersoever I go wilt thou follow. Thou wilt leave
thine ugly black robes, thou wilt be of all knights the proudest and
the most envied. The acknowledged lover of Clarimonde shalt thou be,
of her who refused a Pope! Ah, happy life, oh, golden days that
shall be ours! When do we mount and ride, _mon gentilhomme_?"
"To-morrow," I cried in my madness.
"To-morrow," she answered, "I shall have time to change this robe of
mine that is somewhat scant, nor fit for voyaging. Also must I speak
with my retainers, that think me dead in good earnest, and lament me,
as well they may. Money, carriages, change of raiment, all shall be
ready for thee; at this hour to-morrow will I seek thee. Good-by,
sweetheart."
She touched my brow with her lips, the lamp faded into darkness, the
curtains closed, a sleep like lead came down on me, sleep without a
dream.
I wakened late, troubled by the memory of my dream, which at length I
made myself believe was but a vision of the night. Yet it was not
without dread that I sought rest again, praying Heaven to guard the
purity of my slumber.
Anon I fell again into a deep sleep, and my dream began again. The
curtains opened, and there stood Clarimonde, not pale in her pale
shroud, nor with the violets of death upon her cheek; but gay,
bright, splendid, in a traveling robe of green velvet with trappings
of gold, and kilted up on one side to show a satin undercoat. Her
fair, curled locks fell in great masses from under a large black
beaver hat, with strange white plumes; in her hand she held a little
riding-whip, topped with a golden whistle. With this she touched me
gently, saying:
"Awake, fair sleeper! Is it thus you prepare for your voyage? I had
thought to find you alert. Rise, quickly; we have no time to lose!"