Bellefleur (68 page)

For several minutes afterward Norst remained leaning against the railing, his heavy-lidded eyes closed, as if he were suddenly drained of all strength. And afterward, escorting her back to the manor house, he said very little, and walked feebly, like an aged man; in parting he did no more than murmur a gentle, melancholy goodbye, and failed even to lift his gaze to hers. “But Ragnar,” Veronica asked, bold with desperation, “are you angry with me?—why have you turned away from me?” Still he did not look her in the face. He sighed, and said in a weary voice, “My dear, perhaps it would be for the best—for
you
, I am thinking only of
you
—if we never met again.”

That night she dreamt of him once again, far more vividly: she saw him more vividly, it seemed, than she had seen him in the flesh. He seized both her hands and squeezed them so hard she cried out in pain and surprise, and then he pulled her to him, to his breast, and closed her in his strong arms. She would have fainted, she would have fallen, had he not held her so tight. . . . He kissed her full on the lips, and then buried his face in her neck, and then, while the swooning girl tried with feeble hands to prevent him, he tore open her bodice and began to kiss her breasts, all the while holding her still, and murmuring lulling commanding words of love. It excited him all the more, that she was wearing the bloodstone around her neck (for indeed Veronica was wearing it in bed, beneath her nightgown). You must stop, Ragnar, she whispered, her face crimson with shame, you must stop, you must
stop
—

By day she only half-recalled her tempestuous dreams, though she was still under their spell. Strange emotions washed over her, and left her so drained of energy that her mother asked more than once if she were ill: she was by turns fearful, and disgusted, and wildly exhilarated, and ashamed, and defiant, and impatient (for when,
when,
would he see her again?—he’d left word with a servant that the embassy in Washington had called him), and delighted as a child (for she was certain he
would
see her again). Sometimes she ate ravenously, but most of the time she had no appetite at all—she simply sat at the dining room table, oblivious of the others, staring into space, sighing, her head aswim with languorous wraithlike images of her lover.

You must stop, Ragnar, a voice rose shrilly, you must, you must, you
must
stop before it’s too late. . . .

AND THEN A
tragic accident befell poor Aaron, and it was Ragnar Norst himself who comforted the stricken young woman.

Unwisely, against his father’s reiterated wishes, Aaron went out hunting alone in the woods above Bloody Run, accompanied only by one of his dogs. While crossing a white-water stream he evidently lost his footing, fell, and was carried hundreds of yards downstream, over a seven-foot falls, to his death in a swirling shallow rapids in which rocks and logs lay in manic profusion. The poor young man’s throat was slashed by a protruding branch, and it was estimated that he must have bled to death, mercifully, in a matter of minutes. By the time the search party discovered him (he had been missing then two days) his body, so large, once so intimidating, was bled white, trapped in a tight little cove of froth-covered rocks and logs.

(Neither the dog nor the shotgun was ever recovered, which added to the mystery of the death.)

The stricken Veronica wept and wept, as much for the senselessness of Aaron’s death as for the death itself: for to her there was no mystery, there was only the fact that she would never see Aaron again, never exchange words with him again. . . . No matter how they had quarreled they had loved each other very much.

How ugly that death was, and how
pointless!
If the headstrong young man had only listened to his father’s words . . . No, Veronica could not bear it; she
would
not bear it. She wept for days on end and would allow no one to comfort her.

Until Ragnar Norst returned.

One morning he drove up the graveled lane in the stately black car (whose engine was overheated), and insisted that he be allowed to see Miss Veronica: for he had learned, in Washington, of Aaron’s death, and he knew at once that Veronica must be comforted if she was to survive the crisis. She was so exquisite, so sensitive, the horror of a brute accidental death might undermine her health. . . .

The very sight of Norst enlivened her. But she took care, being a discreet young woman, to hide her feelings; and, indeed, a moment later, the memory of her brother’s death swept over her once again, and she succumbed to a fresh attack of weeping. So Norst took her aside, and walked with her along the lake, at first saying nothing at all, and even urging her to cry; and then, when it seemed to him that she was somewhat stronger, he began to query her about death. About, that is, her fear of death.

Was it death itself that terrified her . . . or the accidental nature of that particular death? Was it
death
that so alarmed, or the fact that she would not (or so she assumed) ever see her brother again?

Above the choppy dark waters of Lake Noir they paused, to listen to waves lapping against the shore. It was nearly sundown. Veronica shuddered, for a faint chill breeze had arisen, and quite naturally, quite gracefully, Norst slipped his arm about her shoulders. He was breathing heavily. He gave off an air of excitement and exhilaration. But his voice was steady, steady and restrained, and Veronica gave no indication that she was aware of his emotion; indeed, she kept her gaze shyly averted. She wondered only if he was aware of the bloodstone she wore, hidden inside her shirtwaist. But of course he could hardly be aware of it . . . he could hardly know, under the circumstances. . . .

His arm tightened about her slender shoulders and he brought his mouth close to her ear. In a gentle, trembling voice he began to speak of death: death and love: death and love and lovers: and how, by the sacrament of death, lovers are united, and their profane love redeemed. Veronica’s heart beat so powerfully she could barely concentrate on his words. She was aware of his nearness, his almost overwhelming nearness; she was terrified that he would kiss her, as he had in her dreams, and abuse her, ignoring her astonished cries. . . . “Veronica, my dearest,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand, turning her face so that he might look into her eyes, “you must know that lovers who die together transcend the physical nature of the human condition . . . the tedious physical nature of the human condition. . . . You must know that a pure spiritual love redeems the grossness of the flesh. . . . So long as I am beside you, to guide you, to protect you, there is nothing to fear . . . nothing, nothing to fear . . . in this world or the next. I would
never
allow you to suffer, my dear girl, do you understand? . . . do you trust me?”

Her eyelids were suddenly heavy; she was nearly overcome by a sense of lassitude, vaguely erotic, that very much resembled the lassitude of her most secret dreams. Norst’s voice was gentle, soothing, rhythmic as the waves of Lake Noir, beating against her, washing over her. . . . Ah, she could not have protested
had
he attempted to kiss her!

But he was speaking, still, of love. Of lovers who would “eagerly” die for each other. “I for you, my dear sweet girl, and you for me—if you love me—and by that we are redeemed. It is so simple, and yet so profound! Do you see? Do you understand? Your brother’s death offended you because it was an animal’s death—brute, senseless, accidental, unshared—and with your sensitivity you crave meaning, and beauty, and a spiritual transcendence. You crave redemption, as I do. For by death in one another’s arms, my love, we
are
redeemed . . . and all else is unadorned
unimagined
folly, from which you are perfectly justified to turn aside in horror. Do you understand, my love? Ah, but you will!—you
will.
Only have faith in me, my dearest Veronica.”

Faintly she murmured that she did not understand. And she felt so suddenly exhausted, she must lay her head against his shoulder.

“Life and death both, if unadorned by love,” Norst continued, in a rapid, low, excited voice, “are ignominious . . . mere folly . . . mere accident. They are indistinguishable when not enhanced by passion. For ordinary people, as you must have seen by now, are little more than aphids . . . rats . . . brute unthinking animals . . . quite beneath our contempt, really . . .
unless
of course they frustrate us . . . in which case they must be taken into
account
. . . taken into account and dealt with . . . ugly as that might seem. Do you see, my dear? Yes? No? You must trust me, and all will become clear. You must have faith in me, Veronica, for you know, don’t you, that I love you, and that I have sworn to have you . . . from a time long past . . . a time you cannot remember and I, I can but dimly recall. . . . As for ordinary people, my dear, you must give them no thought . . . you will one day learn to deal with them as I do, only out of necessity . . . I will guide you, I will protect you, if only you will have faith. . . . And you
must
not fear death, for the death of lovers, dying into love, being born again through love, has nothing of the crudity of ordinary death about it: do you understand?”

She understood. Yet of course she did not understand. But her head was so heavy, her eyelids burned with the need to close, if only he would embrace her, if only he would whisper to her the words she so fervently wished to hear. . . . He had declared his love for her; she had heard it; she
had
heard it; yet he had not, yet, declared his wish to marry her; he had said nothing about speaking to her father, or . . .

Suddenly he drew away from her. He was quite agitated, and rubbed both hands vigorously against his eyes. “My dear Veronica,” he said, in a different voice, “I must get you back home. What can I be thinking of, keeping you out here in this cold wind—!”

She opened her eyes wide in disbelief.

“I
must
get you home, you poor girl,” Norst murmured.

THAT NIGHT VERONICA
felt feverish, and despite the drop in temperature she left her French doors open. And she experienced a dream that was by far the most alarming, and the most curiously exhilarating, of any dream she had yet experienced.

She was, and yet she was not, unconscious. She slept, but at the same time was quite aware of her bed, her surroundings, and the fact that she lay asleep, her long thick hair loose on her pillow, the bloodstone exposed on her breast. I am asleep, she thought clearly, as if her spirit floated above her body, how strange, how wonderful, I am lying there asleep and my lover is shortly to come to me, and no one will know. . . .

Almost at once Norst did appear. He must have climbed over the balcony railing, for a moment later he stood before the window, dressed as usual in his frock coat, his white shirt glaringly white in the darkness, his goatee and the savage little curls on either side of his forehead vividly defined. He was silent. He was expressionless. Somewhat taller than his daylight self—Veronica, paralyzed, unable even to make her eyelids flutter, estimated that he must be nearly seven feet tall—he stood for a long moment without moving, simply gazing upon her with an expression of—was it infinite longing, infinite sorrow?—was it yearning?—love?

Ragnar, she tried to whisper. My dear. My bridegroom.

She would have opened her arms to him, but she could not move; she lay paralyzed beneath the covers. Asleep and yet fully awake: conscious of her wild accelerated heartbeat and of
his
heartbeat as well. Ragnar, she whispered. I love you as I have never loved any other man. . . .

Then he was close beside her bed, without having seemed to move.

He was close beside her bed, stooping over her, and she tried to raise her arms to him—ah, how she wanted to slide her arms about his neck!—how she wanted to pull him to her! But she could not move, she could do no more than draw in her breath sharply as he stooped to kiss her. She saw his dark moist eyes drawing near, she saw his mouth, his parted lips, and felt his breath—his warm, ragged, rather meaty breath—she smelled his breath which was dank, and somewhat fetid—it put her dizzily in mind of the farm—the farm laborers hauling carcasses—hogs strung up by their hind legs—blood gushing from their slashed throats, into enormous tubs—She drew in his breath, which was sour with something dried and stale and old, very old, and in a swoon she began to laugh, every part of her was being tickled, tickled to delirium, to a delicious frantic delirium, and she did not mind his breath, she did not mind it at all, or his agitation, his impatience, his roughness, the grinding of his teeth against hers in a harsh kiss—she did not mind at all—not at all—she wanted to shout, and pound at him with her fists—she wanted to scream—to throw herself about the bed—to kick off the covers, which so exasperatingly pressed upon her—and she was so hot—slick with perspiration—she could smell her own body, her bodily heat—it was shameful, and yet delicious—it made her want to snort with laughter—it made her want to grab hold of her lover—seize him by the hair, by the hair, and pummel him, and press his head against her, his face against her breasts—like that—yes, exactly like that—she could not bear it, what he was doing to her—his lips, his tongue, his sudden hard teeth—she could not bear it—she would scream, she would go mad, snorting, shouting, tearing at him with her nails—My lover, my bridegroom, she would scream, my husband, my
soul
—

AS THE DAYS
and weeks passed, and Veronica sank ever more deeply into a state of languid, sweet melancholy, it was commonly believed that the shock of Aaron’s death had plunged her into a “black mood” and that she would, in time, emerge from it. Yet Veronica rarely thought of her brother. Her imagination dwelt almost exclusively upon Ragnar Norst. Throughout the long, tiresome day she yearned for the night, when Norst came to her, unfailingly, and gathered her up passionately in his arms, and made her his bride. There was no need for him to speak of love any longer; what happened between them went beyond love. Indeed, the trivial notion of love—and marriage as well—now struck Veronica as uninteresting. That she had once hoped Ragnar Norst would ask her father for permission to marry her—! That she had once imagined him an ordinary man, and herself an ordinary woman—! Well, she had been a very innocent girl at the time.