The traitor's way

by S. Levett Yeats

He spoke truly enough, for even Marcilly, despite his iron endurance, looked pale and worn, and I—I was longing to be alone.

And at last I had my desire, and regretted it the instant it came. In the excitement of passing events I was taken out of myself; but here, in this huge bedroom, where the candles seemed but to make little circles of light, where the logs burned low on the hearth, where thoughts black as the shadows that flitted in the uneasy light over the heavy curtains of the bed, and thick tapestries on the walls, crowded round me, I dreaded my loneliness. For a moment I thought of seeking Badehorn to discuss with him arrangements for the morrow, and then I laughed at my weakness, and, undressing, flung myself into a large easy-chair by the fire, for I felt it was useless trying to sleep. My body was wearied, it is true, but my brain was working like a clock—it was the old story, that mania which I had fought so long, and thought defeated, come back again stronger, more insistent than ever.

Sometimes when I think of this period of my life, I try to delude myself into the belief that I was mad then; that it was not I, Gaspard de Vibrac, who walked the earth, but a fiend that had ousted my soul from its earthly tenement—else why was this hateful consciousness of a double presence within me? What was this impalpable, but resistless power, that was able to force me, despite my struggles, to follow its malign course?

But let this rest! Mad or sane, I have to answer for my past, and the scroll, with its damning record, is running red before my eyes as I write; but then, as I sat there, the things that were to come, the things that were to be of my own doing, seemed to quiver like uneasy phantoms before me, and to finally resolve themselves into the one devilish thing that made me what I am.

Listen! I had sought to injure Marcilly, therefore I hated him. I had lowered myself to play the traitor to him in all that man holds dearest. But that he stood between me and my love, this would not have been, and I hated him the more for that. I had tried to win my way back to honor, and all but succeeded, when, but a few hours ago, I found, as I thought—I jumped to conclusions as usual—that I had been made the victim of a coquette’s pastime. All my vanity, all my self-love, was wounded and in arms—I was filled with the rage that burns in a heart in which love is turned to anger. I was capable of anything, and I had paved the way for this total descent. It was no case—it never is—of one becoming at once supremely vile. I would have revenge, a full and complete revenge, for my abasement, and then came the whispered temptation that lost me my soul.

I started as the thought came to me, and then with it came a horror and loathing of the evil thing. I sprang from my chair and paced the room. It could not be. It was impossible. I looked around me like a guilty man, and then I clutched at a straw. I tried to pray, but my heart would not feel the words that my cold lips uttered, and for the first time I rose to my feet, without even that momentary strength that prayer had hitherto given me. As I glanced around me, I saw what I had not noticed before—a flagon of wine, and near it a cup, left there by the thoughtful care of Cipierre’s servants. Three times did I fill the cup to the brim and drain it. I wanted sleep, rest, forgetfulness—if it was but for a moment. I wanted to become oblivious of the new horror that had come upon me, to obtain in the Lethe of sleep that peace which cannot come even to those who die. For death is but the door which opens to lead us into another life. We know not if it brings rest, we know not if we leave behind us anything except the earthly shell of the soul. But sleep—there is rest in it—if only for a little while. And for a space it came to me, a deep and dreamless slumber, and when I awoke the morning was well advanced. I made my toilet, and looked out of the lattice window. The day was one in which sunlight and mist strove with each other, and the sun was winning, aided by a breeze, which shred the clouds into woolly wisps, that floated westward in long lines, with patches of blue sky between them.

The rest had done me good. I held my hand to the light, and it was steady, not trembling like an aspen leaf, as it was when I lay down to sleep; but the evil thing in my mind was still there, and, strange to say, I no longer looked at it with the horror and loathing of a few hours back.

As I turned from the window there was a knock at the door, and I heard Marcilly’s voice asking if he could come in.

“Come in!” I answered back, and my voice was gay and cordial, for a traitor must know to be a hypocrite.

Jean entered, looking refreshed and strong again, his slight, spare figure set off to advantage in the rich brown and yellow of his dress, while a short cloak of the same colors, fastened at the throat by a jewelled clasp, was hung carelessly over his shoulders.