Chapter 12

Death Mansion... We have just returned. Clara did not want to spend the spring in London. She has been coughing lately. I don't know what is wrong. She appears to be suffering, although her eyes show the clear intensity as always. Clara refuses to have a doctor visit her. We are here alone... I don't want to oppose her will. Anyway, I can't. Her will is also mine. We love each other too much.

We love each other more than ever. Her body is my grandest treasure. Our love is stronger than anything.

We love each other more then ever, that couldn't be possible, but we love each other in a constant state of fluidity. The savor is still there and there is more.

I am attempting to exercise my hypnotism on Clara. I'm not clairvoyant and I can't put myself in a trance sufficiently enough to place myself in a veiled world. I would be too impetuous and probably would shatter the veil.

Clara can no longer rise out of bed. I have to feed her. I must perform her toilet. I take care of her because I love her and shower with my "amour protecteur".

Is she not after all, my very own self?

"Are you sleeping my love?"

Her voice is tight as a thin thread. She seems to hold her existence together by a miniscule thread which seem to glisten in its transparency.

Her arms are like skeletons and they attract me toward her. I feel that I am entering into the realm of death. I can feel her body weakening.

Her cough shakes my chest and her tears roll down my cheeks.

Clara is my wife and everything I have. She is my life, my soul, my end.

I love her, I adore her and I shall do anything to release her from this torment.

How terrible this passage of time is for us? I only have need of love. I want to hold her in my arms and feel her warmth. I must hear cry her love oath and then groan with delight. I want to have her cry out in a frenzy. I wish to feel her convulsions after the final aches of the act.

There is no more life in her. Her hand falls off the side of the bed. She is limp and pale.

How can this flesh dis which is called my own. Those thighs that glimmer in the pale light. That abdomen which drinks in a hollow of air. Where is the kiss of love, Mr. Death? This terrible state where no one returns.

No she is gone and yet it is only a half death that is before me. The logs on the fire illuminate the room and there is an eerieness that blends with my lonely condition.

My passions well inside and I can guess that she wishes that ultimate desire. But she is gone. It is a though I had just tendered the whip to her.

She is arid. Only her eyes are alive for the pierce my soul. I have the feeling that she is calling me to her saying "Come my love, you know what I wish." Is it really the end?

For a moment I thought that she was going to pronounce a final word. I didn't know what she would do.

But no, nothing. Even her eyes seem to blur. She has the uncontestable aspect of someone dead.

I throw myself on her and devour her with incoherent kiss that are mingled with sobs. This time I have complete possession of her...

Clara is there in all her nudity. She lying there like a rock and her body has already stiffened.

I still love her and I know what I am going to do. I shall give her my own warmth and life.

The hours pass slowly. Once more the day goes down and I am forced to light the candles around the cold corpse.

As long as I have sufficient force to keep her close to me I know Clara shall not leave me. She no longer coughs. My wife is beautiful. I can look at her from here to eternity. No one shall come here and seek us out. We shall always be together, alone, eternally in love.

Sometimes I think I hear her voice. It comes from my own interior.

She tells me her desire, her sexual need. I can feel her heat, yes, her very warmth. I enter in her and I come losing my breath.

How many nights and days have I remained by her side? I haven't counted the number of candles that burnt out and the ones that I have lighted mechanically. Clara my wife and my life, continues to provoke the spring of sex in me. I reserve all my caresses for her, all my tenderness, and all my vice.

She and I have know many things together...

I am tired... I think my forces are declining. My own fire is going slowly out: There is an ice in Clara's veins.

I can't bear it any longer. It is impossible to remain this way. How long to we have to live together? I am impotent in front of the inevitable. I can only fix my eyes on that loveable body that is turning into nothingness.

Everything has become so gray and my own form appears to seek the shadows of the cadaverous room. I await a miracle.

Suddenly from the outer tomb, her call brings me back to life. It boils in me and excites my senses once more. Step by step I advance toward Clara and I almost had the sensation that a slight trembling floated across her skin.

My hand touches the stony flesh. It slides down along the thighs and calves.

Like a madman I throw myself upon her in a passionate embrace. My mouth covers hers. Her body invades mine and her fingers seek out my sex. We are the happiest couple in the world. Clara is melting in me... No it isn't in me, but only against me.

I look down at this hideous mass and it repulses my eyes. Her lips are filled with liquid which streams from her inarticulate jaw. However her skin is glued to mine and adheres to my sweat and force.

A mass of semi-liquid fills the bed and leaves a putrid odor. This is my last ejaculation. My sperm enters the infinite... It is the end... for both of us... an extract from the daily "Morning Post" of April 17, 1938.

The manor of Lord Redgrave, curiously baptized by himself "Death Mansion" has taken fire last night. Neither Lord Redgrave nor his wife are believed to have been at home at the time of the unfortunate accident. However, an inquiry is being made as well as a thorough examination of the strange incendiary.