Evening star. [volume], March 10, 1935, Page 4, Image 74

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
The
Butterfly
in the
Death
Chamber
Çeneral "Besser/ey Is Entrusted
With One JVomaris Secret
and Another s Honor
%
E. Phillips Oppenheim
The Face oj the Woman Wag Downcast. Her Handr Rose and Fell
Josephine, Marquise de Vaucluse St.
Pierre, the sweetest of women, but
always something of a poseuse, flattered
herself in those strange misty moments
that her passing from this world into the
nebulous future of eternity was a journey
exquisitely in keeping with the aesthetic
beauty of her own well-ordered life. She lay
upon a rosewood couch of the seventeenth
century drawn up before one of the high
oriel windows of the château, her face turned
towards the mysterious Estérels. There was a
delicate fragrance about the lace at her throat,
the lavender silk of her dressing gown, the
ancient leather-bound missal which rested by
her side. Her eyes, still blue, looked out upon
a scene she knew well — a landscape of green
pastures and olive trees, of flowering fruit
orchards, and a darker line of pine trees which
stretched in irregular fashion to that silver
streak of the sun-bathed Mediterranean. She
remembered the consoling words of the priest,
but found it hard to believe the world to
come could hold anything more beautiful.
Something woke her from a long day dream.
It may have been the appearance of a marvel
ously colored butterfly fluttering aimlessly in
and out of the window, resting now upon its
grey stone sill and preening its wings with
almost feminine vanity. She made the slight
est movement with her head. A nurse bent
over her.
"The Marquis." she whispered.
A moment later the husband of the dying
woman was at his wife's side — a long grey
man who moved with the help of a stick.
'Josephine?"
"It is you, dear Edouard," she murmured.
"There is a thing which I had forgotten. It
was the butterfly which made me think of it."
"Speak slowly, dear one." he begged
"What can we do?"
"There is a man," she said. "We knew him
better in our younger days, but I asked Louise
— they tell me that he still lives in Monaco.
His name is Besserley."
"I remember him well," the Marquis
answered. "Last time we were at the palace
you talked to him."
She inclined her head slowly.
"I should have sent for him before." she
regretted, with a little sigh. "The doctors tell
me, however, that the end will not come until
night. There is still time. Send a message,
dear, and see if he is to be found."
It seemed to the Marquis a strange request,
but he made no comment. He 9ent for his
secretary and gave the necessary orders.
"I shall sleep." the Marquise whispered to
the nurse, "but do not be afraid — I shall
wake again."
"You would like to speak to the doctor or
the Bishop?" the nurse enquired.
"Only to the man for whom I have sent,"
she answered, closing her eyes.
Besserley, in his grey tweed coat and white
flannels, sun-burnt and muscular, seemed to
supply a strange element of vitality in the
stately apartment of death. The wan-faced
Sisters, the gaunt figures of the Curé and the
Bishop, the Marquis himself — old and infirm
— all seemed rather like ghosts as he passed
through their midst in the anteroom. The
Bishop moved uneasily in his high-backed
chair. It was like the introduction of a flavor
of paganism into a sanctified corner of the
world. It seemed to Besserley himself that the
woman lying upon the couch, to
whom he was presently conducted,
was. notwithstanding her ebbing
tlame of life, still nearer to humanity
than the little group of watchers.
They placed him in a chair by her
side and left him. He lifted, with
reverent fingers, the Bible from the
arm of the seat to a place of safety,
and the glimmer of a smile parted
her lips.
"The Bishop has been reading to
me." she confided quietly. "I have
confessed all my sins to the Church.
One brief episode is a secret between
God and myself I wish to speak of
that to you.'
Besserley was troubled His
friendship with the household was a
slight one He wondered whether in
. her last moments the Marquise was
wandering. Perhaps she guessed his
thoughts.
"1 have sent for you," she went
on. speaking almost in a whisper,
"because I had a great wish to seek
the aid of a man of this world and
not one of my friends outside. They
would only say more prayers over me and it is
not prayers I need. It is service."
"Anything I can do." he assured her.
"It is not a very terrible thing I have to
confide to you. Fifty-five years ago I was
dancing in opera at St. Petersburg. I had
great success. I went to Vienna and Paris My
lifeat that time was very different. I hadalover
-all women had in those days- and a daughter. ' '
She paused. When she continued, the sad
depths of her eyes filled with memories
"They passed out of my life, when my
family took me back and forgave me. I was
married to the Marquis in St. Petersburg.
The Tzar himself and many of the court were
present. My brief period of wandering was
forgotten. Money was plentiful and I took
care that my daughter was provided for I
have scarcely thought of her until these last
few weeks, since I have been lying here
looking back on many years of happiness. It is
these butterflies which fly in aind out of my
window, live in today's sunshine and die on
the morrow, made me think
There was a slight change in her voice and
breathing. Besserley leaned forward, alarmed.
With trembling fingers she placed a packet in
his hand.
"You live in a world where I suffered,
though only for a few years," she whispered.
"If you see another prisoner who is good at
heart as I was set her free before — it is
too late." She waved her hand towards the
other room. "They are all good," she mur
mured, "but they would not understand. I
sent for you because everyone says you are
a man with a great heart. The money that is
there is for your disposal. . . . Dear friend
ilease go — my husband his hand
The Marquis was lingering upon the
threshold and he came hobbling across the
room, tears streaming down his withered
cheeks. Besserley crept away. I it fore he had
left the château grounds he heard the tolling
of the bell in the private chapel.
Seated upon the window sill of a rude barn
Besserley by the caprice of a sensation-loving
hostess, passed on one evening a few weeks
later to the second scene of the little drama
into which the dying legacy of the Marquise
had directed him. There were oil lamps hang
ing from the walls, some rude benches on
which thirty or forty people were seated, a
muffled whispering of curious voices. No one
quite knew what it was all about. The house
party with whom Besserley had come were
themselves mystified
"It is like a séance of some sort." their
hostess murmured.
From behind a shabby curtain of black
velvet came the sound of softly struck chords
upon an ancient but carefully tuned piano.
The melody nad a strange fascination.
The room was suddenly in darkness. With
a creaking sound the curtain rose. At first it
seemed as if there was nothing but empty
space, then lights from some illusionary back
ground. the figure of a living woman dressed
in white, her hands upraised, her features
al most indistinguishable. Whatever the strange
music meant to the audience, it was readily ι
interpreted by the single performer who ;
slowly, in rhythmical effortless movements. .»
her body turned now as though in pain when >
the music sank to the minor, cruder chords, ι
now in the smoother joy of content when a *
wave of fuller melody filled the room. There ;
was a harsh interlude. The girl swayed and r
rocked upon her feet as though seeking
passionately for guidance. A long suffering t
cry in a strange tone broke from her lips. Her y
body writhed as though in agony. The cry g
which still ebbed and flowed from her lips
seemed to turn from a prayer to a curse, then ;
died away in sweet but inhuman notes. So a s
priestess might have called from the altar on e
which she was sacrificing her own child. So s
she might have sobbed when the sacrifice was :t
accepted. ... k
When half an hour later the dance was η
ended, the audience stole out like ghosts. :r
Voices were hushed. Hidden footsteps fell ir
softly upon the cobble stones. By degrees d
they began to talk but not a single voice was k
raised. ir
"If only one knew what it meant." one it
woman almost sobbed. at
Everyone confessed to having become con- it
scious of the same sense of mental disturbance.
Besserley alone amongst the little party
finding their places in the row of cars re- s.
mained silent. Lady Grace touched Ins hand d
as they stepped into the car and found it cold.
"My dear," she murmured. "I had no idea
you were so impressionable."