A Romance of Two Worlds by Marie Corelli (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📕

One evening a strange circumstance occurred which startled and deeply impressed me. Prince Ivan had dined with us; he was in extraordinarily high spirits—his gaiety was almost boisterous, and his face was deeply flushed. Zara glanced at him half indignantly more than once when his laughter became unusually uproarious, and I saw that Heliobas watched him closely and half-inquiringly, as if he thought there was something amiss.

The Prince, however, heedless of his host’s observant eye, tossed off glass after glass of wine, and talked incessantly. After dinner, when we all assembled in the drawing-room, he seated himself at the piano without being asked, and sang several songs. Whether he were influenced by drink or strong excitement, his voice at any rate showed no sign of weakness or deterioration. Never had I heard him sing so magnificently. He seemed possessed not by an angel but by a demon of song. It was impossible not to listen to him, and while listening, equally impossible not to admire him. Even Zara, who was generally indifferent to his music, became, on this particular night, fascinated into a sort of dreamy attention. He perceived this, and suddenly addressed himself to her in softened tones which bore no trace of their previous loudness.

“Madame, you honour me to-night by listening to my poor efforts. It is seldom I am thus rewarded!”

Zara flushed deeply, and then grew very pale.

“Indeed, Prince,” she answered quietly, “you mistake me. I always listen with pleasure to your singing—to-night, perhaps, my mood is more fitted to music than is usual with me, and thus I may appear to you to be more attentive. But your voice always delights me as it must delight everybody who hears it.”

“While you are in a musical mood then,” returned Prince Ivan, “let me sing you an English song—one of the loveliest ever penned. I have set it to music myself, as such words are not of the kind to suit ordinary composers or publishers; they are too much in earnest, too passionate, too full of real human love and sorrow. The songs that suit modern drawing-rooms and concert-halls, as a rule, are those that are full of sham sentiment—a real, strong, throbbing HEART pulsing through a song is too terribly exciting for lackadaisical society. Listen!” And, playing a dreamy, murmuring prelude like the sound of a brook flowing through a hollow cavern, he sang Swinburne’s “Leave-Taking,” surely one of the saddest and most beautiful poems in the English language.

He subdued his voice to suit the melancholy hopelessness of the lines, and rendered it with so much intensity of pathetic expression that it was difficult to keep tears from filling the eyes. When he came to the last verse, the anguish of a wasted life seemed to declare itself in the complete despair of his low vibrating tones:

“Let us go hence and rest; she will not love. She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love’s ways, how sore they are and steep. Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love!”

The deep melancholy of the music and the quivering pathos of the deep baritone voice were so affecting that it was almost a relief when the song ceased. I had been looking out of the window at the fantastic patterns of the moonlight on the garden walk, but now I turned to see in Zara’s face her appreciation of what we had just heard. To my surprise she had left the room. Heliobas reclined in his easy-chair, glancing up and down the columns of the Figaro; and the Prince still sat at the piano, moving his fingers idly up and down the keys without playing. The little page entered with a letter on a silver salver. It was for his master. Heliobas read it quickly, and rose, saying:

“I must leave you to entertain yourselves for ten minutes while I answer this letter. Will you excuse me?” and with the ever-courteous salute to us which was part of his manner, he left the room.

I still remained at the window. Prince Ivan still dumbly played the piano. There were a few minutes of absolute silence. Then the Prince hastily got up, shut the piano, and approached me.

“Do you know where Zara is?” he demanded in a low, fierce tone.

I looked at him in surprise and a little alarm—he spoke with so much suppressed anger, and his eyes glittered so strangely.

“No,” I answered frankly. “I never saw her leave the room.”

“I did,” he said. “She slipped out like a ghost, or a witch, or an angel, while I was singing the last verse of Swinburne’s song. Do you know Swinburne, mademoiselle?”

“No,” I replied, wondering at his manner more and more. “I only know him, as you do, to be a poet.”

“Poet, madman, or lover—all three should be one and the same thing,” muttered the Prince, clenching and unclenching that strong right hand of his on which sparkled a diamond like a star. “I have often wondered if poets feel what they write—whether Swinburne, for instance, ever felt the weight of a dead cold thing within him HERE,” slightly touching the region of his heart, “and realized that he had to drag that corpse of unburied love with him everywhere— even to the grave, and beyond—O God!—beyond the grave!” I touched him gently on the arm. I was full of pity for him—his despair was so bitter and keen.

“Prince Ivan,” I said, “you are excited and overwrought. Zara meant no slight to you in leaving the room before your song was finished. I am quite sure of that. She is kindness itself—her nature is all sweetness and gentleness. She would not willingly offend you—”

“Offend me!” he exclaimed; “she could not offend me if she tried. She could tread upon me, stab me, slay me, but never offend me. I see you are sorry for me—and I thank you. I kiss your hand for your gentle pity, mademoiselle.”

And he did so, with a knightly grace that became him well. I thought his momentary anger was passing, but I was mistaken. Suddenly he raised his arm with a fierce gesture, and exclaimed:

“By heaven! I will wait no longer. I am a fool to hesitate. I may wait a century before I draw out of Casimir the secret that would enable me to measure swords with my rival. Listen!” and he grasped my shoulder roughly. “Stay here, you! If Casimir returns, tell him I have gone for a walk of half an hour. Play to him—keep him occupied—be my friend in this one thing—I trust you. Let him not seek for Zara, or for me. I shall not be long absent.”

“Stay!” I whispered hurriedly, “What are you going to do? Surely you know the power of Heliobas. He is supreme here. He could find out anything he chose. He could–”

Prince Ivan looked at me fixedly.

“Will you swear to me that you actually do not know?”

“Know what?” I asked, perplexed.

He laughed bitterly, sarcastically.

“Did you ever hear that line of poetry which speaks of ‘A woman wailing for her demon-lover’? That is what Zara does. Of one thing I am certain—she does not wail or wait long; he comes quickly.”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, utterly mystified. “Who comes quickly? I am sure you do not know what you are talking about.”

“I DO know,” he replied firmly; “and I am going to prove my knowledge. Remember what I have asked you.” And without another word or look, he threw open the velvet curtains of the portiere, and disappeared behind them.

Left to myself, I felt very nervous and excited. All sorts of odd fancies came into my head, and would not go away, but danced about like Will-o’-the-wisps on a morass. What did Prince Ivan mean? Was he mad? or had he drunk too much wine? What strange illusion had he in his mind about Zara and a demon? Suddenly a thought flashed upon me that made me tremble from head to foot. I remembered what Heliobas had said about twin flames and dual affinities; and I also reflected that he had declared Zara to be dominated by a more powerful force than his own. But then, I had accepted it as a matter of course that, whatever the force was, it must be for good, not evil, over a being so pure, so lovely and so intelligent as Zara.

I knew and felt that there were good and evil forces. Now, suppose Zara were commanded by some strange evil thing, unguessed at, undreamt of in the wildest night-mare? I shuddered as with icy cold. It could not be. I resolutely refused to admit such a fearful conjecture. Why, I thought to myself, with a faint smile, I was no better in my imaginings than the so virtuous and ever-respectable Suzanne Michot of whom Madame Denise had spoken. Still the hateful thought came back again and again, and refused to go away.

I went to my old place at the window and looked out. The moonlight fell in cold slanting rays; but an army of dark clouds were hurrying up from the horizon, looking in their weird shapes like the mounted Walkyres in Wagner’s “Niebelungen Ring,” galloping to Walhalla with the bodies of dead warriors slung before them. A low moaning wind had arisen, and was beginning to sob round the house like the Banshee. Hark! what was that? I started violently. Surely that was a faint shriek? I listened intently. Nothing but the wind rustling among some creaking branches.

“A woman wailing for her demon-lover.”

How that line haunted me! And with, it there slowly grew up in my mind a black looming horror; an idea, vague and ghastly, that froze my blood and turned me faint and giddy. Suppose, when I had consented to be experimented upon by Heliobas—when my soul in the electric trance was lifted up to the unseen world—suppose an evil force, terrible and all-compelling, were to dominate ME and hold me forever and ever! I gasped for breath! Oh, so much the more need of prayer!

“Pray much and often, with as unselfish a heart as you can prepare.”

Thus Heliobas had said; and I thought to myself, if all those who were on the brink of great sin or crime could only be brought to feel beforehand what I felt when facing the spectral dread of unknown evil, then surely sins would be fewer and crimes never committed. And I murmured softly, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

The mere utterance of these words seemed to calm and encourage me; and as I gazed up at the sky again, with its gathering clouds, one star, like a bright consoling eye, looked at me, glittering cheerfully amid the surrounding darkness.

More than ten minutes had elapsed since Prince Ivan had left the room, and there was no sound of returning footsteps. And where was Zara? I determined to seek her. I was free to go anywhere in the house, only avoiding her studio during her hours of work; and she never worked at night. I would go to her and confide all my strange thoughts and terrors to her friendly sympathy. I hurried through the hall and up the staircase quickly, and should have gone straight into Zara’s boudoir had I not heard a sound of voices which caused me to stop precipitately outside the door. Zara was speaking. Her