“Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do nothing. He says that he suspects the youth to be poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Oh! the unfortunate! It is then as I suspected! But let me not lose a moment; perhaps it may yet be time to save her.”
He said, and flew towards the cell of the novice. Several monks were already in the chamber; father Pablos was one of them, and held a medicine in his hand, which he was endeavouring to persuade Rosario to swallow. The others were employed in admiring the patient’s divine countenance, which they now saw for the first time. She looked lovelier than ever; she was no longer pale or languid; a bright glow had spread itself over her cheeks; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and her countenance was expressive of confidence and resignation.
“Oh! torment me no more!” was she saying to Pablos, when the terrified abbot rushed hastily into the cell; “my disease is far beyond the reach of your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it.” Then perceiving Ambrosio—“Ah, ’Tis he!” she cried; “I see him once again before we part for ever! Leave me, my brethren; much have I to tell this holy man in private.”
The monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the abbot remained together.
“What have you done, imprudent woman?” exclaimed the latter, as soon as they were left alone: “tell me; are my suspicions just? Am I indeed to lose you? Has your own hand been the instrument of your destruction?”
She smiled, and grasped his hand.
“In what have I been imprudent, father? I have sacrificed a pebble, and saved a diamond. My death preserves a life valuable to the world, and more dear to me than my own.—Yes, father, I am poisoned; but know, that the poison once circulated in your veins.”
“Matilda!”
“What I tell you I resolved never to discover to you but on the bed of death; that moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a cientipedoro. The physician gave you over, declaring himself ignorant how to extract the venom. I knew but of one means, and hesitated not a moment to employ it. I was left alone with you; you slept; I loosened the bandage from your hand; I kissed the wound, and drew out the poison with my lips. The effect has been more sudden than I expected. I feel death at my heart; yet an hour, and I shall be in a better world.”
“Almighty God!” exclaimed the abbot, and sunk almost lifeless upon the bed.
After a few minutes he again raised himself up suddenly, and gazed upon Matilda with all the wildness of despair.
“And you have sacrificed yourself for me! You die, and die to preserve Ambrosio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeed no hope? Speak to me, oh! speak to me! Tell me that you have still the means of life!”
“Be comforted, my only friend! Yes, I have still the means of life in my power; but it is a means which I dare not employ; it is dangerous; it is dreadful! Life would be purchased at too dear a rate,—unless it were permitted me to live for you.”
“Then live for me, Matilda; for me and gratitude!”—(He caught her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips.)—“Remember our late conversations; I now consent to every thing. Remember in what lively colours you described the union of souls; be it ours to realize those ideas. Let us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world’s prejudices, and only consider each other as brother and friend. Live then, Matilda, oh! live for me!”
“Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and myself: either I must die at present, or expire by the lingering torments of unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together, a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the devotion which is paid to a saint; I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! ’Tis a cold unfeeling word: my bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life past in sufferings, all that you value, is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be able to combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite your desires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no, Ambrosio, I must not live; I am convinced with every moment that I have but one alternative; I feel with every heart throb, that I must enjoy you or die.”
“Amazement! Matilda! Can it be you who speak to me?”
He made a movement as if to quit his seat. She uttered a loud shriek, and, raising herself half out of the bed, threw her arms round the friar to detain him.
“Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion: in a few hours I shall be no more: yet a little, and I am free from this disgraceful passion.”
“Wretched woman, what can I say to you? I cannot—I must not—But live, Matilda! oh, live!”
“You do not reflect on what you ask. What? live to plunge myself in infamy? to become the agent of hell? to work the destruction both of you and of myself? Feel this heart, father.”
She took his hand. Confused, embarrassed, and fascinated, he withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb under it.
“Feel this heart, father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and chastity: if it beats to-morrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh, let me then die to-day! Let me die while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous. Thus will I expire!”—(She reclined her head upon his shoulder; her golden hair poured itself over his chest.)—“Folded in your arms, I shall sink to sleep; your hand shall close my eyes for ever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not sometimes think of me? Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my tomb? Oh, yes, yes, yes! that kiss is my assurance.”
The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a solitary lamp darted upon Matilda’s figure, and shed through the chamber a dim, mysterious light. No prying eye or curious ear was near the lovers: nothing was heard but Matilda’s melodious accents. Ambrosio was in the full vigour of manhood; he saw before him a young and beautiful woman, the preserver of his life, the adorer of his person; and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the grave. He sat upon her bed; his hand rested upon her bosom; her head reclined voluptuously upon his breast. Who then can wonder if he yielded to the temptation? Drunk with desire, he pressed his lips to those which sought them; his kisses vied with Matilda’s in warmth and passion: he clasped her rapturously in his arms; he forgot his vows, his sanctity, and his fame; he remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.
“Ambrosio! Oh, my Ambrosio!” sighed Matilda.
“Thine, ever thine,” murmured the friar, and sunk upon her bosom.
*
The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to have been brought into Spain from that island in the vessel of Columbus.
C
HAP
. III.
——These are the villains
Whom all the travellers do fear so much
.
——Some of them are gentlemen
,
Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth
Thrust from the company of awful men
.
T
WO
G
ENTLEMEN OF
V
ERONA
.
The marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in silence. The former employed himself in calling every circumstance to his mind, which related might give Lorenzo’s the most favourable idea of his connexion with Agnes. The latter, justly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarrassed by the presence of the marquis: the adventure which he had just witnessed forbad his treating him as a friend; and Antonia’s interests being entrusted to his mediation, he saw the impolicy of treating him as a foe. He concluded from these reflections, that profound silence would be the wisest plan, and waited with impatience for Don Raymond’s explanation.
They arrived at the hotel de las Cisternas. The marquis immediately conducted him to his apartment, and began to express his satisfaction at finding him at Madrid. Lorenzo interrupted him.
“Excuse me, my lord,” said he with a distant air, “if I reply somewhat coldly to your expressions of regard. A sister’s honour is involved in this affair: till that is established, and the purport of your correspondence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my friend. I am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct; and hope that you will not delay the promised explanation.”
“First give me your word, that you will listen with patience and indulgence.”
“I love my sister too well to judge her harshly; and, till this moment, I possessed no friend so dear to me as yourself. I will also confess, that your having it in your power to oblige me in a business which I have much at heart, makes me very anxious to find you still deserving my esteem.”
“Lorenzo, you transport me! No greater pleasure can be given me, than an opportunity of serving the brother of Agnes.”
“Convince me that I can accept your favours without dishonour, and there is no man in the world to whom I am more willing to be obliged.”
“Probably you have already heard your sister mention the name of Alphonso d’Alvarada?”
“Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal, circumstances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a child, she was consigned to the care of her aunt, who had married a German nobleman. At his castle she remained till two years since, when she returned to Spain, determined upon secluding herself from the world.”
“Good God! Lorenzo, you knew of her intention, and yet strove not to make her change it?”
“Marquis, you wrong me: the intelligence which I received at Naples shocked me extremely, and I hastened my return to Madrid for the express purpose of preventing the sacrifice. The moment that I arrived, I flew to the convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had chosen to perform her noviciate. I requested to see my sister. Conceive my surprise, when she sent me a refusal: she declared positively that, apprehending my influence over her mind, she would not trust herself in my society, till the day before that on which she was to receive the veil. I supplicated the nuns; I insisted upon seeing Agnes; and hesitated not to avow my suspicions, that her being kept from me was against her own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation of violence, the prioress brought me a few lines, written in my sister’s well-known hand, repeating the message already delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment’s conversation with her were as fruitless as the first. She was inflexible, and I was not permitted to see her till the day preceding that on which she entered the cloister, never to quit it more. This interview took place in the presence of our principal relations. It was for the first time since her childhood that I saw her, and the scene was most affecting: she threw herself upon my bosom, kissed me, and wept bitterly. By every possible argument, by tears, by prayers, by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her intention. I represented to her all the hardships of a religious life; I painted to her imagination all the pleasures which she was going to quit; and besought her to disclose to me what occasioned her disgust to the world. At this last question she turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faster. She entreated me not to press her on that subject; that it sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and that a convent was the only place where she could now hope for tranquillity. She persevered in her design, and made her profession. I visited her frequently at the grate; and every moment that I passed with her made me feel more affliction at her loss. I was shortly after obliged to quit Madrid; I returned but yesterday evening, and, since then, have not had time to call at St. Clare’s convent.”
“Then, till I mentioned it, you never heard the name of Alphonso d’Alvarada?”
“Pardon me: my aunt wrote me word, that an adventurer so called had found means to get introduced into the castle of Lindenberg; that he had insinuated himself into my sister’s good graces; and that she had even consented to elope with him. However, before the plan could be executed, the cavalier discovered, that the estates which he believed Agnes to possess in Hispaniola, in reality belonged to me. This intelligence made him change his intention; he disappeared on the day that the elopement was to have taken place; and Agnes, in despair at his perfidy and meanness, had resolved upon seclusion in a convent. She added, that as this adventurer had given himself out to be a friend of mine, she wished to know whether I had any knowledge of him. I replied in the negative. I had then very little idea, that Alphonso d’Alvarada and the marquis de las Cisternas were one and the same person: the description given me of the first, by no means tallied with what I knew of the latter.”
“In this I easily recognize Donna Rodolpha’s perfidious character. Every word of this account is stamped with marks of her malice, of her falsehood, of her talents for misrepresenting those whom she wishes to injure. Forgive me, Medina, for speaking so freely of your relation. The mischief which she has done me authorises my resentment; and when you have heard my story, you will be convinced that my expressions have not been too severe.”
He then began his narrative in the following manner:—
HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND,
Marquis de las Cisternas
.
Long experience, my dear Lorenzo, has convinced me how generous is your nature: I waited not for your declaration of ignorance respecting your sister’s adventures, to suppose that they had been purposely concealed from you. Had they reached your knowledge, from what misfortunes should both Agnes and myself have escaped! Fate had ordained it otherwise. You were on your travels when I first became acquainted with your sister; and as our enemies took care to conceal from her your direction, it was impossible for her to implore by letter your protection and advice.
On leaving Salamanca, at which university, as I have since heard, you remained a year after I quitted it, I immediately set out upon my travels. My father supplied me liberally with money; but he insisted upon my concealing my rank, and presenting myself as no more than a private gentleman. This command was issued by the counsels of his friend the duke of Villa Hermosa, a nobleman for whose abilities and knowledge of the world I have ever entertained the most profound veneration.
“Believe me,” said he, “my dear Raymond, you will hereafter feel the benefits of this temporary degradation. ’Tis true, that as the condé de las Cisternas you would have been received with open arms, and your youthful vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions showered upon you from all sides. At present, much will depend upon yourself; you have excellent recommendations, but it must be your own business to make them of use to you: you must lay yourself out to please; you must labour to gain the approbation of those to whom you are presented: they who would have courted the friendship of the condé de las Cisternas will have no interest in finding out the merits, or bearing patiently with the faults, of Alphonso d’Alvarada: consequently, when you find yourself really liked, you may safely ascribe it to your good qualities, not your rank; and the distinction shewn you will be infinitely more flattering. Besides, your exalted birth would not permit your mixing with the lower classes of society, which will now be in your power, and from which, in my opinion, you will derive considerable benefit. Do not confine yourself to the illustrious of those countries through which you pass. Examine the manners and customs of the multitude: enter into the cottages; and, by observing how the vassals of foreigners are treated, learn to diminish the burthens, and augment the comforts, of your own. According to my ideas of those advantages which a youth destined to the possession of power and wealth may reap from travel, he should not consider as the least essential, the opportunity of mixing with the classes below him, and becoming an eye-witness of the sufferings of the people.”
Forgive me, Lorenzo, if I seem tedious in my narration: the close connexion which now exists between us, makes me anxious that you should know every particular respecting me; and in my fear of omitting the least circumstance which may induce you to think favourably of your sister and myself, I may possibly relate many which you may think uninteresting.
I followed the duke’s advice; I was soon convinced of its wisdom. I quitted Spain, calling myself by the assumed title of Don Alphonso d’Alvarada, and attended by a single domestic of approved fidelity. Paris was my first station. For some time I was enchanted with it, as indeed must be every man who is young, rich, and fond of pleasure. Yet, among all its gaieties, I felt that something was wanting to my heart: I grew sick of dissipation: I discovered that the people among whom I lived, and whose exterior was so polished and seducing, were at bottom frivolous, unfeeling, and insincere. I turned from the inhabitants of Paris with disgust, and quitted that theatre of luxury without heaving one sigh of regret.
I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to visit most of the principal courts. Prior to this expedition, I meant to make some little stay at Strasbourg. On quitting my chaise at Luneville, to take some refreshment, I observed a splendid equipage, attended by four domestics in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. Soon after, as I looked out of the window, I saw a lady of noble presence, followed by two female attendants, step into the carriage, which drove off immediately.
I enquired of the host who the lady was that had just departed.
“A German baroness, monsieur, of great rank and fortune; she has been upon a visit to the duchess of Longueville, as her servants informed me. She is going to Strasbourg, where she will find her husband, and then both return to their castle in Germany.”
I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg that night. My hopes, however, were frustrated by the breaking down of my chaise: the accident happened in the middle of a thick forest, and I was not a little embarrassed as to the means of proceeding. It was the depth of winter; the night was already closing round us; and Strasbourg, which was the nearest town, was still distant from us several leagues. It seemed to me that my only alternative to passing the night in the forest, was to take my servant’s horse and ride on to Strasbourg; an undertaking at that season very far from agreeable. However, seeing no other resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it: accordingly, I communicated my design to the postillion, telling him that I would send people to assist him as soon as I reached Strasbourg. I had not much confidence in his honesty; but Stephano being well armed, and the driver, to all appearance, considerably advanced in years, I believed I ran no risk of losing my baggage.
Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented itself of passing the night more agreeably than I expected. On mentioning my design of proceeding by myself to Strasbourg, the postillion shook his head in disapprobation.
“It is a long way,” said he; “you will find it a difficult matter to arrive there without a guide: besides, monsieur seems unaccustomed to the season’s severity; and ’Tis possible that, unable to sustain the excessive cold——”
“What use is there to present me with all these objections?” said I, impatiently interrupting him: “I have no other resource; I run still greater risk of perishing with cold by passing the night in the forest.”
“Passing the night in the forest?” he replied. “Oh, by St. Denis! we are not in quite so bad a plight as that comes to yet. If I am not mistaken, we are scarcely five minutes walk from the cottage of my old friend Baptiste: he is a wood-cutter, and a very honest fellow. I doubt not but he will shelter you for the night with pleasure. In the mean time, I can take the saddle-horse, ride to Strasbourg, and be back with proper people to mend your carriage by break of day.”
“And, in the name of God,” said I, “how could you leave me so long in suspense? Why did you not tell me of this cottage sooner? What excessive stupidity!”
“I thought, that perhaps monsieur would not deign to accept——”
“Absurd! Come, come; say no more, but conduct us without delay to the woodman’s cottage.”
He obeyed, and we moved onwards: the horses contrived, with some difficulty, to drag the shattered vehicle after us. My servant was become almost speechless, and I began to feel the effects of the cold myself before we reached the wished-for cottage. It was a small but neat building: as we drew near it, I rejoiced at observing through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our conductor knocked at the door: it was some time before any one answered; the people within seemed in doubt whether we should be admitted.