 | Marjorie Daw, and other people |  |
6. A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
ONE morning as I was passing through Boston
Common, which lies between my home and
my office, I met a gentleman lounging along The
Mall. I am generally preoccupied when walking,
and often third my way through crowded streets
without distinctly observing any one. But this
man's face forced itself upon me, and a singular
face it was. His eyes were faded, and his hair,
which he wore long, was flecked with gray. His
hair and eyes, if I may say so, were sixty
years old, the rest of him not thirty. The youthfulness
of his figure, the elasticity of his gait, and
the venerable appearance of his head were incongruities
that drew more than one pair of curious
eyes towards him. He excited in me the painful
suspicion that he had either got somebody else's
head or somebody else's body. He was evidently
an American, at least so far as the upper part
of countenance is unmistakable,—evidently a
man who had seen something of the world,
but strangely young and old.
Before reaching the Park Street gate, I had
taken up the thread of thought which he had unconsciously
broken; yet throughout the day this
old young man, with his unwrinkled brow and
silvered locks, glided in like a phantom between
me and my duties.
The next morning I again encountered him on
The Mall. He was resting lazily on the green
rails, watching two little sloops in distress, which
two ragged ship-owners had consigned to the
mimic perils of the Pond. The vessels lay becalmed
in the middle of the ocean, displaying
a tantalizing lack of sympathy with the frantic
helplessness of the owners on shore. As the
gentleman observed their dilemma, a light came
into his faded eyes, then died out, leaving them
drearier than before. I wondered if he, too,
in his time, had sent out ships that drifted and
drifted and never came to port; and if these poor
toys were to him types of his own losses.
“That man has a story, and I should like to
those winding paths which branch off from the
pastoral quietness of the Pond, and end in the
rush and tumult of Tremont Street.
“Would you?” exclaimed a voice at my side.
I turned and faced Mr. H—, a neighbor of
mine, who laughed heartily at finding me talking
to myself. “Well,” he added, reflectingly, “I
can tell you this man's story; and if you will
match the narrative with anything as curious, I
shall be glad to hear it.”
“You know him then?”
“Yes and no. That is to say, I do not know
him personally; but I know a singular passage
in his life. I happened to be in Paris when
he was buried.”
“Buried!”
“Well, strictly speaking, not buried; but something
quite like it. If you've a spare half-hour,”
continued my friend H——, “we'll sit on this
bench, and I will tell you all I know of an affair
that made some noise in Paris a couple of years
ago. The gentleman himself, standing yonder,
will serve as a sort of frontispiece to the romance,
—a full-page illustration, as it were.”
The following pages contain the story which
Mr. H—— related to me. While he was telling
it, a gentle wind arose; the miniature sloops
drifted feebly about the ocean; the wretched
owners flew from point to point, as the deceptive
breeze promised to waft the barks to either shore;
the early robins trilled now and then from the
newly fringed elms; and the old young man
leaned on the rail in the sunshine, little dreaming
that two gossips were discussing his affairs
within twenty yards of him.
Three people were sitting in a chamber whose
one large window overlooked the Place Vendôme.
M. Dorine, with his back half turned on the
other two occupants of the apartment, was reading
the Journal des Débats in an alcove, pausing
from time to time to wipe his glasses, and taking
scrupulous pains not to glance towards the lounge
at his right, on which were seated Mlle. Dorine
and a young American gentleman, whose handsome
face rather frankly told his position in the
family. There was not a happier man in Paris
that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Life
had become so delicious to him that he shrunk
future add to his full heart? what might it not
take away? The deepest joy has always something
of melaneholy in it,—a presentiment, a
fleeting sadness, a feeling without a name. Wentworth
was conscious of this subtile shadow that
night, when he rose from the lounge and thoughtfully
held Julie's hand to his lip for a moment
before parting. A careless observer would not
have thought him, as he was, the happiest man
in Paris.
M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came forward.
“If the house,” he said, “is such as
M. Cherbonneau describes it, I advise you to
close with him at once. I would accompany
you, Philip, but the truth is, I am too sad at
losing this little bird to assist you in selecting
a cage for her. Remember, the last train for
town leaves at five. Be sure not to miss it;
for we have seats for Sardou's new comedy
to-morrow night. By to-morrow night,” he
added laughingly, “little Julie here will be an
old lady,— 't is such an age from now until
then.”
The next morning the train bore Philip to one
An hour's walk through green lanes brought him
to M. Cherbonneau's estate. In a kind of dream
the young man wandered from room to room, inspected
the conservatory, the stables, the lawns,
the strip of woodland through which a merry
brook sang to itself continually; and, after dining
with M. Cherbonneau, completed the purchase,
and turned his steps towards the station
just in time to catch the express train.
As Paris stretched out before him, with its
lights twinkling in the early dusk, and its spires
and domes melting into the evening air, it
seemed to Philip as if years had elapsed since
he left the city. On reaching Paris he drove to
his hôtel, where he found several letters lying on
the table. He did not trouble himself even to
glance at their superscriptions as he threw
aside his travelling surtout for a more appropriate
dress.
If, in his impatience to return to Mlle. Dorine,
the cars had appeared to walk, the fiacre which
he had secured at the station appeared to creep.
At last it turned into the Place Vendôme, and
drew up before M. Dorine's hôtel. The door
The servant silently took his cloak and hat, with
a special deference, Philip thought; but was he
not now one of the family?
“M. Dorine,” said the servant slowly, “is unable
to see Monsieur at present. He wishes
Monsieur to be shown up to the salon.”
“Is Mademoiselle—”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Alone?”
“Alone, Monsieur,” repeated the man, looking
curiously at Philip, who could scarcely repress an
exclamation of pleasure.
It was the first time that such a privilege had
been accorded him. His interviews with Julie
had always taken place in the presence of M.
Dorine, or some member of the household. A
well-bred Parisian girl has but a formal acquaintance
with her lover.
Philip did not linger on the staircase; with
a light heart, he went up the steps, two at a
time, hastened through the softly lighted hall,
in which he detected the faint scent of her favorite
flowers, and stealthily opened the door of
the salon.
The room was darkened. Underneath the
chandelier stood a slim black casket on trestles.
A lighted candle, a crucifix, and some white
flowers were on a table near by. Julie Dorine
was dead.
When M. Dorine heard the sudden cry that
rang through the silent house, he hurried from
the library, and found Philip standing like a
ghost in the middle of the chamber.
It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth
learned the details of the calamity that
had befallen him. On the previous night Mlle.
Dorine had retired to her room in seemingly perfect
health, and had dismissed her maid with a
request to be awakened early the next morning.
At the appointed hour the girl entered the chamber.
Mlle. Dorine was sitting in an arm-chair,
apparently asleep. The candle in the bougeoir
had burnt down to the socket; a book lay half
open on the carpet at her feet. The girl started
when she saw that the bed had not been occupied,
and that her mistress still wore an evening
dress. She rushed to Mlle. Dorine's side.
It was not slumber; it was death.
Two messages were at once despatched to
his hôtel. The first missed him on the road, the
second he had neglected to open. On his arrival
at M. Dorine's house, the valet, under the
supposition that Wentworth had been advised
of Mlle. Dorine's death, broke the intelligence
with awkward cruelty, by showing him directly
to the salon.
Mlle. Dorine's wealth, her beauty, the suddenness
of her death, and the romance that had in
some way attached itself to her love for the
young American, drew crowds to witness the
funeral ceremonies, which took place in the
church in the rue d'Aguesseau. The body was
to be laid in M. Dorine's tomb, in the cemetery
of Montmartre.
This tomb requires a few words of description.
First there was a grating of filigraned iron;
through this you looked into a small vestibule
or hall, at the end of which was a massive door
of oak opening upon a short flight of stone steps
descending into the tomb. The vault was fifteen
or twenty feet square, ingeniously ventilated from
the ceiling, but unlighted. It contained two sarcophagi:
the first held the remains of Madame
bore on one side the letters J. D., in monogram,
interwoven with fleurs-de-lis.
The funeral train stopped at the gate of the
small garden that enclosed the place of burial,
only the immediate relatives following the bearers
into the tomb. A slender wax candle, such as
is used in Catholic churches, burnt at the foot of
the uncovered sarcophagus, casting a dim glow
over the centre of the apartment, and deepening
the shadows which seemed to huddle together in
the corners. By this flickering light the coffin
was placed in its granite shell, the heavy slab
laid over it reverently, and the oaken door revolved
on its rusty hinges, shutting out the
uncertain ray of sunshine that had ventured to
peep in on the darkness.
M. Dorine, muffled in his cloak, threw himself
on the back seat of the landau, too abstracted in
his grief to observe that he was the only occupant
of the vehicle. There was a sound of
wheels granting on the gravelled avenue, and then
all was silence again in the cemetery of Montmartre.
At the main entrance the carriages
parted company, dashing off into various streets
relief.
The rattle of wheels had died out of the air
when Philip opened his eyes, bewildered, like a
man abruptly roused from slumber. He raised
himself on one arm and stared into the surrounding
blackness. Where was he? In a second
the truth flashed upon him. He had been left
in the tomb! While kneeling on the farther
side of the stone box, perhaps he had fainted,
and during the last solemn rites his absence
had been unnoticed.
His first emotion was one of natural terror.
But this passed as quickly as it came. Life had
ceased to be so very precious to him; and if it
were his fate to die at Julie's side, was not
that the fulfilment of the desire which he had expressed
to himself a hundred times that morning?
What did it matter, a few years sooner or later?
He must lay down the burden at last. Why not
then? A pang of self-reproach followed the
thought. Could he so lightly throw aside the
love that had bent over his cradle? The sacred
name of mother rose involuntarily to his lips.
Was it not cowardly to yield up without a struggle
Was it not his duty to the living and the dead to
face the difficulties of his position, and overcome
them if it were within human power?
With an organization as delicate as a woman's,
he had that spirit which, however sluggish in
repose, leaps with a kind of exultation to measure
its strength with disaster. The vague fear
of the supernatural, that would affect most men
in a similar situation, found no room in his
heart. He was simply shut in a chamber from
which it was necessary that he should obtain
release within a given period. That this chamber
contained the body of the woman he loved, so far
from adding to the terror of the case, was a
circumstance from which he drew consolation.
She was a beautiful white statue now. Her soul
was far hence; and if that pure spirit could
return, would it not be to shield him with her
love? It was impossible that the place should
not engender some thought of the kind. He did
not put the thought entirely from him as he rose
to his feet and stretched out his hands in the
darkness; but his mind was too healthy and
practical to indulge long in such speculations.
Philip, being a smoker, chanced to have in his
pocket a box of allumettes. After several ineffectual
essays, he succeeded in igniting one
against the dank wall, and by its momentary
glare perceived that the candle had been left
in the tomb. This would serve him in examining
the fastenings of the vault. If he could force the
inner door by any means, and reach the grating,
of which he had an indistinct recollection, he
might hope to make himself heard. But the
oaken door was immovable, as solid as the wall
itself, into which it fitted air-tight. Even if he
had had the requisite tools, there were no fastenings
to be removed; the hinges were set on the
outside.
Having ascertained this, Philip replaced the
candle on the floor, and leaned against the wall
thoughtfully, watching the blue fan of flame that
wavered to and fro, threatening to detach itself
from the wick. “At all events,” he thought,
“the place is ventilated.” Suddenly he sprang
forward and extinguished the light.
His existence depended on that candle!
He had read somewhere, in some account
of shipwreck, how the survivors had lived for
had insanely thrown into the long-boat.
And here he had been burning away his very
life!
By the transient illumination of one of the
tapers, he looked at his watch. It had stopped at
eleven, — but eleven that day, or the preceding
night? The funeral, he knew, had left the
church at ten. How many hours had passed
since then? Of what duration had been his
swoon? Alas! it was no longer possible for
him to measure those hours which crawl like
snails by the wretched, and fly like swallows over
the happy.
He picked up the candle, and seated himself
on the stone steps. He was a sanguine man,
but, as he weighed the chances of escape, the
prospect appalled him. Of course he would
be missed. His disappearance under the circumstances
would surely alarm his friends; they
would instigate a search for him; but who would
think of searching for a live man in the cemetery
of Montmartre? The préfet of police would set
a hundred intelligences at work to find him; the
Seine might be dragged, les misérables turned
would be in every detective's pocket; and he —
in M. Dorine's family tomb!
Yet, on the other hand, it was here he was last
seen; from this point a keen detective would
naturally work up the case. Then might not the
undertaker return for the candlestick, probably
not left by design? Or, again, might not M.
Dorine send fresh wreaths of flowers, to take the
place of those which now diffused a pungent,
aromatic odor throughout the chamber? Ah!
what unlikely chances! But if one of these
things did not happen speedily, it had better
never happen. How long could he keep life in
himself?
With his pocket-knife Wentworth cut the
half-burned candle into four equal parts. “Tonight,”
he meditated, “I will eat the first of
these pieces; to-morrow, the second; to-morrow
evening, the third; the next day, the fourth;
and then — then I'll wait!”
He had taken no breakfast that morning, unless
a cup of coffee can be called a breakfast.
He had never been very hungry before. He was
ravenously hungry now. But he postponed the
near midnight, according to his calculation, when
he determined to try the first of his four singular
repasts. The bit of white-wax was tasteless; but
it served its purpose.
His appetite for the time appeased, he found a
new discomfort. The humidity of the walls, and
the wind that crept through the unseen ventilator,
chilled him to the bone. To keep walking
was his only resource. A kind of drowsiness,
too, occasionally came over him. It took all his
will to fight it off. To sleep, he felt, was to die;
and he had made up his mind to live.
The strangest fancies flitted through his head
as he groped up and down the stone floor of
the dungeon, feeling his way along the wall
to avoid the sepulchres. Voices that had long
been silent spoke words that had long been forgotten;
faces he had known in childhood grew
palpable against the dark. His whole life in detail
was unrolled before him like a panorama; the
changes of a year, with its burden of love and
death, its sweets and its bitternesses, were epitomized
in a single second. The desire to sleep
had left him, but the keen hunger came again.
It must be near morning now, he mused; perhaps
the sun is just gilding the pinnacles and
domes of the city; or, may be, a dull, drizzling
rain is beating on Paris, sobbing on these mounds
above me. Paris! it seems like a dream. Did
I ever walk in its gay boulevards in the golden
air? O the delight and pain and passion of that
sweet human life!
Philip became conscious that the gloom, the
silence, and the cold were gradually conquering
him. The feverish activity of his brain brought
on a reaction. He grew lethargic, he sunk down
on the steps, and thought of nothing. His hand
fell by chance on one of the pieces of candle; he
grasped it and devoured it mechanically. This
revived him. “How strange,” he thought, “that
I am not thirsty. Is it possible that the dampness
of the walls, which I must inhale with every
breath, has supplied the need of water? Not a
drop has passed my lips for two days, and still I
experience no thirst. That drowsiness, thank
Heaven, has gone. I think I was never wide
awake until this hour. It would be an anodyne
like poison that could weigh down my eyelids.
No doubt the dread of sleep has something to do
with this.”
The minutes were like hours. Now he walked
as briskly as he dared up and down the tomb;
now he rested against the door. More than once
he was tempted to throw himself upon the stone
coffin that held Julie, and make no further struggle
for his life.
Only one piece of candle remained. He had
eaten the third portion, not to satisfy hunger,
but from a precautionary motive. He had taken
it as a man takes some disagreeable drug upon
the result of which hangs safety. The time was
rapidly approaching when even this poor substitute
for nourishment would be exhausted. He
delayed that moment. He gave himself a long
fast this time. The half-inch of candle which he
held in his hand was a sacred thing to him. It
was his last defence against death.
At length, with such a sinking at heart as he
had not known before, he raised it to his lips.
Then he paused, then he hurled the fragment
across the tomb, then the oaken door was flung
open, and Philip, with dazzled eyes, saw M.
Dorine's form sharply defined against the blue
sky.
When they led him out, half blinded, into the
hair, which a short time since was as black as a
crow's wing, had actually turned gray in places.
The man's eyes, too, had faded; the darkness
had dimmed their lustre.
“And how long was he really confined in the
tomb?” I asked, as Mr. H—— concluded the
story.
“Just one hour and twenty minutes!” replied
Mr. H——, smiling blandly.
As he spoke, the Lilliputian sloops, with their
sails all blown out like white roses, came floating
bravely into port, and Philip Wentworth lounged
by us, wearily, in the pleasant April sunshine.
Mr. H——'s narrative haunted me. Here was
a man who had undergone a strange ordeal.
Here was a man whose sufferings were unique.
His was no threadbare experience. Eighty minutes
had seemed like two days to him! If he had
really been immured two days in the tomb, the
story, from my point of view, would have lost its
tragic element.
After this it was but natural I should regard
I met him from day to day, passing through
the Common with that same introspective air,
there was something in his loneliness which
touched me. I wondered that I had not read
before in his pale, meditative face some such sad
history as Mr. H—— had confided to me. I
formed the resolution of speaking to him, though
with no very lucid purpose. One morning we
came face to face at the intersection of two
paths. He halted courteously to allow me the
precedence.
“Mr. Wentworth,” I began, “I—”
He interrupted me.
“My name, sir,” he said, in an off-hand manner,
“is Jones.”
“Jo-Jo-Jones!” I gasped.
“No, not Joseph Jones,” he returned, with a
glacial air, “Frederick.”
A dim light, in which the perfidy of my friend
H—— was becoming discernible, began to break
upon my mind.
It will probably be a standing wonder to Mr.
Frederick Jones why a strange man accosted him
one morning on the Common as “Mr. Wentworth,”
foot-path and disappeared in the crowd.
The fact is, I had been duped by Mr. H——,
who is a gentleman of literary proclivities, and
has, it is whispered, become somewhat demented
in brooding over the Great American Novel, —
not yet hatched. He had actually tried the effect
of one of his chapters on me!
My hero, as I subsequently learned, is a commonplace
young person who had some connection,
I do not know what, with the building of
that graceful granite bridge which spans the
crooked silver lake in the Public Garden.
When I think of the readiness with which Mr.
H—— built up his airy fabric on my credulity, I
feel half inclined to laugh, though I am deeply
mortified at having been the unresisting victim
of his Black Art.
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