It is a tale which they narrate in Poictesme, telling how love began
between Florian de Puysange and Adelaide de la Foret. They tell also how
young Florian had earlier fancied other women for one reason or another;
but that this, he knew, was the great love of his life, and a love which
would endure unchanged as long as his life lasted.
And the tale tells how the Comte de la Foret stroked a gray beard and
said:
"Well, after all, Puysange is a good fief--"
"As if that mattered!" cried his daughter, indignantly. "My father, you
are a deplorably sordid person."
"My dear," replied the old gentleman, "it does matter. Fiefs last."
So he gave his consent to the match, and the two young people were
married on Walburga's eve, on the last day of April.
And they narrate how Florian de Puysange was vexed by a thought that was
in his mind. He did not know what this thought was. But something he had
overlooked; something there was he had meant to do, and had not done;
and a troubling consciousness of this lurked at the back of his mind
like a small formless cloud. All day, while bustling about other
matters, he had groped toward this unapprehended thought.
Now he had it: Tiburce.
The young Vicomte de Puysange stood in the doorway, looking back into
the bright hall where they of Storisende were dancing at his marriage
feast. His wife, for a whole half-hour his wife, was dancing with
handsome Etienne de Nerac. Her glance met Florian's, and Adelaide
flashed him an especial smile. Her hand went out as though to touch him,
for all that the width of the hall severed them.
Florian remembered presently to smile back at her. Then he went out of
the castle into a starless night that was as quiet as an unvoiced
menace. A small and hard and gnarled-looking moon ruled over the dusk's
secrecy. The moon this night, afloat in a luminous, gray void, somehow
reminded Florian of a glistening and unripe huge apple.
The foliage about him moved at most as a sleeper breathes as Florian
descended eastward through the walled gardens, and so came to the
graveyard. White mists were rising, such mists as the witches of Amneran
notoriously evoked in these parts on each Walburga's eve to purchase
recreations which squeamishness leaves undescribed.
For five years now Tiburce d'Arnaye had lain there. Florian thought of
his dead comrade and of the love which had been between them--a love
more perfect and deeper and higher than commonly exists between men; and
the thought came to Florian, and was petulantly thrust away, that
Adelaide loved ignorantly where Tiburce d'Arnaye had loved with
comprehension. Yes, he had known almost the worst of Florian de
Puysange, this dear lad who, none the less, had flung himself between
Black Torrismond's sword and the breast of Florian de Puysange. And it
seemed to Florian unfair that all should prosper with him, and Tiburce
lie there imprisoned in dirt which shut away the color and variousness
of things and the drollness of things, wherein Tiburce d'Arnaye had
taken such joy. And Tiburce, it seemed to Florian--for this was a
strange night--was struggling futilely under all that dirt, which shut
out movement, and clogged the mouth of Tiburce, and would not let him
speak, and was struggling to voice a desire which was unsatisfied and
hopeless.
"O comrade dear," said Florian, "you who loved merriment, there is a
feast afoot on this strange night, and my heart is sad that you are not
here to share in the feasting. Come, come, Tiburce, a right trusty
friend you were to me; and, living or dead, you should not fail to make
merry at my wedding."
Thus he spoke. White mists were rising, and it was Walburga's eve.
So a queer thing happened, and it was that the earth upon the grave
began to heave and to break in fissures, as when a mole passes through
the ground. And other queer things happened after that, and presently
Tiburce d'Arnaye was standing there, gray and vague in the moonlight as
he stood there brushing the mold from his brows, and as he stood there
blinking bright, wild eyes. And he was not greatly changed, it seemed to
Florian; only the brows and nose of Tiburce cast no shadows upon his
face, nor did his moving hand cast any shadow there, either, though the
moon was naked overhead.
"You had forgotten the promise that was between us," said Tiburce; and
his voice had not changed much, though it was smaller.
"It is true. I had forgotten. I remember now." And Florian shivered a
little, not with fear, but with distaste.
"A man prefers to forget these things when he marries. It is natural
enough. But are you not afraid of me who come from yonder?"
"Why should I be afraid of you, Tiburce, who gave your life for mine?"
"I do not say. But we change yonder."
"And does love change, Tiburce? For surely love is immortal."
"Living or dead, love changes. I do not say love dies in us who may hope
to gain nothing more from love. Still, lying alone in the dark clay,
there is nothing to do as yet save to think of what life was, and of
what sunlight was, and of what we sang and whispered in dark places when
we had lips; and of how young grass and murmuring waters and the high
stars beget fine follies even now; and to think of how merry our loved
ones still contrive to be even now with their new playfellows. Such
reflections are not always conducive to philanthropy."
"Tell me," said Florian then, "and is there no way in which we who are
still alive may aid you to be happier yonder?"
"Oh, but assuredly," replied Tiburce d'Arnaye, and he discoursed of
curious matters; and as he talked, the mists about the graveyard
thickened. "And so," Tiburce said, in concluding his tale, "it is not
permitted that I make merry at your wedding after the fashion of those
who are still in the warm flesh. But now that you recall our ancient
compact, it is permitted I have my peculiar share in the merriment, and
I drink with you to the bride's welfare."
"I drink," said Florian as he took the proffered cup, "to the welfare of
my beloved Adelaide, whom alone of women I have really loved, and whom I
shall love always."
"I perceive," replied the other, "that you must still be having your
joke."
Then Florian drank, and after him Tiburce. And Florian said:
"But it is a strange drink, Tiburce, and now that you have tasted it you
are changed."
"You have not changed, at least," Tiburce answered, and for the first
time he smiled, a little perturbingly by reason of the change in him.
"Tell me," said Florian, "of how you fare yonder."
So Tiburce told him of yet more curious matters. Now the augmenting
mists had shut off all the rest of the world. Florian could see only
vague, rolling graynesses and a gray and changed Tiburce sitting there,
with bright, wild eyes, and discoursing in a small chill voice. The
appearance of a woman came, and sat beside him on the right. She, too,
was gray, as became Eve's senior; and she made a sign which Florian
remembered, and it troubled him. Tiburce said then:
"And now, young Florian, you who were once so dear to me, it is to your
welfare I drink."
"I drink to yours, Tiburce."
Tiburce drank first; and Florian, having drunk in turn, cried out: "You
have changed beyond recognition!"
"You have not changed," Tiburce d'Arnaye replied again. "Now let me tell
you of our pastimes yonder."
With that he talked of exceedingly curious matters. And Florian began to
grow dissatisfied, for Tiburce was no longer recognizable, and Tiburce
whispered things uncomfortable to believe; and other eyes, as wild as
his, but lit with red flarings from behind, like a beast's eyes, showed
in the mists to this side and to that side, and unhappy beings were
passing through the mists upon secret errands which they discharged
unwillingly. Then, too, the appearance of a gray man now sat to the left
of that which had been Tiburce d'Arnaye, and this new-comer was marked
so that all might know who he was; and Florian's heart was troubled to
note how handsome and how admirable was that desecrated face even now.
"But I must go," said Florian, "lest they miss me at Storisende and
Adelaide be worried."
"Surely it will not take long to toss off a third cup. Nay, comrade, who
were once so dear, let us two now drink our last toast together. Then
go, in Sclaug's name, and celebrate your marriage. But before that let
us drink to the continuance of human mirth-making everywhere."
Florian drank first. Then Tiburce took his turn, looking at Florian as
Tiburce drank slowly. As he drank, Tiburce d'Arnaye was changed even
more, and the shape of him altered, and the shape of him trickled as
though Tiburce were builded of sliding fine white sand. So Tiburce
d'Arnaye returned to his own place. The appearances that had sat to his
left and to his right were no longer there to trouble Florian with
memories. And Florian saw that the mists of Walburga's eve had departed,
and that the sun was rising, and that the graveyard was all overgrown
with nettles and tall grass.
He had not remembered the place being thus, and it seemed to him the
night had passed with unnatural quickness. But he thought more of the
fact that he had been beguiled into spending his wedding-night in a
graveyard in such questionable company, and of what explanation he could
make to Adelaide.