"For is it not true that every gem your round white limbs do bear,
And every star that shines in the night of your ebon hair,
Was bought with a good man's soul? Each is a trophy sweet
Of a noble life that was trampled under your delicate feet.
The wine of your mouth is poison unto the fool that sips;
Your fair white bosom is bruised, but not with a baby's lips,
Child never drew life from those breasts, no gentle mother thou art,
No, nor woman! warm blood of a woman ne'er fed such a pitiless heart.
"And now from the steps of the house I see her descending again,
Again after years, and there gnaws at my heart a twinge of an ancient pain:
See!—still she is fair! nay, yet fairer! I gaze, as she pauses awhile
To draw a delicate glove on a hand that has toyed with mine.
Lo, from the perfect lip there dies the last shade of a smile,
A smile for the fool she has left, drunk with gaming and wine.
Alas! for that lip and that hand, and those heavy-fringed, amorous eyes.
Oh, the days of passion that were—the days I believed in thy sighs—
The days when I loved thee so—as now, I hate and despise.
And, lo! I seek in vain to trace on thy mouth, in thine eyes,
A little remorse, a little of woman. Thou knowest well to hide
All feeling; but when awake, and thy lover sleeps by thy side,
Does a serpent gnaw at thy bosom, a shade chill thy heart? Is thy brow,
When thou sittest alone, as unruffled, as coldly tranquil as now?
... Fool to ask! Heart she has not. Had she ever so little a one,
'Twould have seared and wrinkled her beauty with thought of the ill she has done.
"She has gone! and I stand alone in the rainy, desolate street.
Is it famine or wine?—but never before did my heart so madly beat,
And this pain of my whirling brain: the keen, quick sense of my Now!
Unpitied—self-unpitying—I know my want is my guilt.
I feel no remorse for the past—the cup was wantonly spilt.
I do not want pity—I have no contrition. Knowing all that I know,
Had I aught—why, then, that—and my life—and my soul—I'd stake at a throw,
On the chance of winning once more sufficient to buy her kiss,
To buy the dear false smile—the sweet lies whispered low,
With the poisoned wine of her lips to drug the memories of this,
Till the lies seemed delicious truths....
"... I will forget all that I know,
Oh, my love! and only remember how wondrously sweet thou art.
Ah, yes! Thou lovest me well; let me die in one long embrace.
Draw thee closer, yet closer. Let me feel thy breath on my face;
Let us forget all things save our love—yes, even till we die
In dreams of impossible joys, of more than human delight,
Each sweet, passionate secret wringing from love, you and I.
Through the mystical garden of Eros, hand in hand we will go,
Plucking the magical fruits that poison the human heart.
And what if they do? Why we care not! While we live let us live!
We have ate of the magical fruit; we are drunk, and can no more strive.
So hail, mad excesses of pleasure! In spite of cold virtue; in spite
Of Hell, let us know once again, one hour as we used to know!
"... But why art thou gone in the darkness?... A dream!... My brain swims to-night.
Hunger may be, or madness.... Ah, this pain at my heart.... Let me go!
It is death ... death in the streets.... Well, I care not—it is better so."
"Very pretty indeed," said Susan to herself, when she had read this poem; "very pretty, though I can't help thinking some of the ideas are hardly original. I wonder if I am the heroine, if I am this lovely 'Fille de Marbre?' I'm afraid he's hit me off pretty well. Clever of him; yet, after all, he must be the greater fool to stick to me if he knows me so well. Yes, he is evidently beginning to understand me. I must look out."
She took the manuscript up again and re-read some of it. "Yes, my man! you were certainly thinking of yourself when you wrote this," she reflected; "you are just the weak, passionate fool described here. You are going to the dogs pretty fast. Who knows that you too will not die like a rat in the streets?"
She glanced at the clock and started to see how late it was. "Where can he be? I believe I am getting superstitious; sitting all alone in this dark room is enough to give one the jumps; but somehow I can't help feeling that there is something ominous in this ridiculous poem I have been reading. 'Death, death in the streets.... Well, I care not; it is better so.' Pooh! what nonsense! I am a fool," she shivered and looked uneasily around the room; then she rose from her chair, and, drawing aside the curtain, peered out of the window at the deserted court. "Where can he be? He has never been late like this before. He has been drinking like a madman for the last few days. Who knows?—perhaps he may have foretold his own end in those verses. He may even now be dying.... But this is sheer folly; he can look after himself. But I must get rid of these blues. Ah! here is his beloved brandy bottle."
With the aid of some spirits and water, she contrived to dispel her nervousness. But still he did not come. She fidgeted about the rooms vainly seeking something to amuse her. At intervals she would walk up to the mirror, and contemplate the image of her face with a close scrutiny to see how the wrinkles about her eyes were getting on—a common trick of this unfortunate being, whose whole pleasure in life, whose every interest hung on her youth and beauty, who was haunted by the perpetual dread of age and ugliness.
For six hours she waited in the chambers, but she would not go—she would see the end of this.