The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom — Complete
disposition, he begged to know by what channel he had received that
letter which he had been so kind as to forward to Vienna.
Joshua, who was ignorant of the contents of that epistle, and saw the
young gentleman extremely moved, would have eluded his inquiry, by
pretending he had forgot the circumstance; but when he understood the
nature of the case which was not explained without the manifestation of
the utmost inquietude, he heartily condoled the desponding lover,
telling him he had in vain employed all his intelligence about that
unfortunate beauty, in consequence of Melvil’s letter to him on that
subject; and then directed him to the house of the physician, who had
brought the fatal billet which had made him miserable.
No sooner did he receive this information than he took his leave
abruptly, with promise of returning next day, and hied him to the
lodgings of that gentleman, whom he was lucky enough to find at home.
Being favoured with a private audience, “When I tell you,” said he,
“that my name is Renaldo Count de Melvil, you will know me to be the
most unfortunate of men. By that letter, which you committed to the
charge of my worthy friend Joshua, the fatal veil was removed from my
eyes, which had been so long darkened by the artifices of incredible
deceit, and my own incurable misery fully presented to my view. If you
were acquainted with the unhappy fair, who hath fallen a victim to my
mistake, you will have some idea of the insufferable pangs which I now
feel in recollecting her fate. If you have compassion for these pangs,
you will not refuse to conduct me to the spot where the dear remains of
Monimia are deposited; there let me enjoy a full banquet of woe; there
let me feast that worm of sorrow that preys upon my heart. For such
entertainment have I revisited this (to me) ill-omened isle; for this
satisfaction I intrude upon your condescension at these unseasonable
hours; for to such a degree of impatience is my affliction whetted,
that no slumber shall assail mine eyelids, no peace reside within my
bosom, until I shall have adored that earthly shrine where my Monimia
lies! Yet would I know the circumstances of her fate. Did Heaven ordain
no angel to minister to her distress? were her last moments
comfortless? ha! was not she abandoned to indigence, to insults; left
in the power of that inhuman villain who betrayed us both? Sacred
Heaven! why did Providence wink at the triumph of such consummate
perfidy?”
The physician, having listened with complacency to this effusion,
replied, “It is my profession, it is my nature to sympathise with the
afflicted. I am a judge of your feelings, because I know the value of
your loss. I attended the incomparable Monimia in her last illness, and
am well enough acquainted with her story to conclude that she fell a
sacrifice to an unhappy misunderstanding, effected and fomented by that
traitor who abused your mutual confidence.”
He then proceeded to inform him of all the particulars which we have
already recorded, touching the destiny of the beauteous orphan, and
concluded with telling him he was ready to yield him any other
satisfaction which it was in his power to grant. The circumstances of
the tale had put Renaldo’s spirits into such commotion, that he could
utter nothing but interjections and unconnected words. When Fathom’s
behaviour was described, he trembled with fierce agitation, started
from his chair, pronouncing, “Monster! fiend! but we shall one day
meet.”
When he was made acquainted with the benevolence of the French lady, he
exclaimed, “O heaven-born charity and compassion! sure that must be
some spirit of grace sent hither to mitigate the tortures of life!
where shall I find her, to offer up my thanks and adoration?” Having
heard the conclusion of the detail, he embraced the relater, as the
kind benefactor of Monimia, shed a flood of tears in his bosom, and
pressed him to crown the obligation, by conducting him to the solitary
place where now she rested from all her cares.
The gentleman perceiving the transports of his grief were such as could
not be opposed, complied with his request, attended him in the vehicle,
and directed the coachman to drive to a sequestered field, at some
distance from the city, where stood the church, within whose awful
aisle this scene was to be acted. The sexton being summoned from his
bed, produced the keys, in consequence of a gratification, after the
physician had communed with him apart, and explained the intention of
Renaldo’s visit.
During this pause the soul of Melvil was wound up to the highest pitch
of enthusiastic sorrow. The uncommon darkness of the night, the solemn
silence, and lonely situation of the place, conspired with the occasion
of his coming, and the dismal images of his fancy, to produce a real
rapture of gloomy expectation, which the whole world would not have
persuaded him to disappoint. The clock struck twelve, the owl screeched
from the ruined battlement, the door was opened by the sexton, who, by
the light of a glimmering taper, conducted the despairing lover to a
dreary aisle, and stamped upon the ground with his foot, saying, “Here
the young lady lies interred.”
Melvil no sooner received this intimation, than falling on his knees,
and pressing his lips to the hallowed earth, “Peace,” cried he, “to the
gentle tenant of this silent habitation.” Then turning to the
bystanders, with a bloodshot eye, said, “Leave me to the full enjoyment
of this occasion; my grief is too delicate to admit the company even of
my friends. The rites to be performed require privacy; adieu, then,
here must I pass the night alone.”
The doctor, alarmed at this declaration, which he was afraid imported
some resolution fatal to his own life, began to repent of having been
accessory to the visit, attempted to dissuade him from his purpose, and
finding him obstinately determined, called in the assistance of the
sexton and coachman, and solicited the aid of Don Diego, to force
Renaldo from the execution of his design.
The Castilian knowing his friend was then very unfit for common
altercation, interposed in the dispute, saying, “You need not be afraid
that he will obey the dictates of despair; his religion, his honour
will baffle such temptations; he hath promised to reserve his life for
the occasions of his friend; and he shall not be disappointed in his
present aim.” In order to corroborate this peremptory address, which
was delivered in the French language, he unsheathed his sword, and the
others retreating at sight of his weapon, “Count,” said he, “enjoy your
grief in full transport; I will screen you from interruption, though at
the hazard of my life; and while you give a loose to sorrow, within the
ghastly vault, I will watch till morning in the porch, and meditate
upon the ruin of my own family and peace.”
He accordingly prevailed upon the physician to retire, after he had
satisfied the sexton, and ordered the coachman to return by break of
day.
Renaldo, thus left alone, prostrated himself upon the grave, and poured
forth such lamentations as would have drawn tears from the most savage
hearer. He called aloud upon Monimia’s name, “Are these the nuptial
joys to which our fate hath doomed us? Is this the fruit of those
endearing hopes, that intercourse divine, that raptured admiration, in
which so many hours insensibly elapsed? where now are those attractions
to which I yielded up my captive heart? quenched are those genial eyes
that gladdened each beholder, and shone the planets of my happiness and
peace! cold! cold and withered are those lips that swelled with love,
and far outblushed the damask rose! and ah! forever silenced is that
tongue, whose eloquence had power to lull the pangs of misery and care!
no more shall my attention be ravished with the music of that voice,
which used to thrill in soft vibrations to my soul! O sainted spirit! O
unspotted shade of her whom I adored; of her whose memory I shall still
revere with ever-bleeding sorrow and regret; of her whose image will be
the last idea that forsakes this hapless bosom! now art thou conscious
of my integrity and love; now dost thou behold the anguish that I feel.
If the pure essence of thy nature will permit, wilt thou, ah! wilt thou
indulge this wretched youth with some kind signal of thy notice, with
some token of thy approbation? wilt thou assume a medium of embodied
air, in semblance of that lovely form which now lies mouldering in this
dreary tomb, and speak the words of peace to my distempered soul!
Return, Monimia, appear, though but for one short moment, to my longing
eyes! vouchsafe one smile! Renaldo will be satisfied; Renaldo’s heart
will be at rest; his grief no more will overflow its banks, but glide
with equal current to his latest hour! Alas! these are the raving of my
delirious sorrow! Monimia hears not my complaints; her soul, sublimed
far, far above all sublunary cares, enjoys that felicity of which she
was debarred on earth. In vain I stretch these eyes, environed with
darkness undistinguishing and void. No object meets my view; no sound
salutes mine ear, except the noisy wind that whistles through these
vaulted caves of death.”
In this kind of exclamation did Renaldo pass the night, not without a
certain species of woful enjoyment, which the soul is often able to
conjure up from the depths of distress; insomuch that, when the morning
intruded on his privacy, he could scarce believe it was the light of
day, so fast had fleeted the minutes of his devotion.
His heart being thus disburdened, and his impatience gratified, he
became so calm and composed, that Don Diego was equally pleased and
astonished at the air of serenity with which he came forth, and
embraced him with warm acknowledgments of his goodness and attachment.
He frankly owned, that his mind was now more at ease than he had ever
found it, since he first received the fatal intimation of his loss;
that a few such feasts would entirely moderate the keen appetite of his
sorrow, which he would afterwards feed with less precipitation.
He also imparted to the Castilian the plan of a monument, which he had
designed for the incomparable Monimia; and Don Diego was so much struck
with the description, that he solicited his advice in projecting
another, of a different nature, to be erected to the memory of his own
ill-fated wife and daughter, should he ever be able to re-establish
himself in Spain.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
HE RENEWS THE RITES OF SORROW, AND IS ENTRANCED.
While they amused themselves with this sort of conversation, the
physician returned with the coach, and accompanied them back to their
inn, where he left them to their repose, after having promised to call
again at noon, and conduct Renaldo to the house of Madam Clement, the
benefactress of Monimia, to whom he eagerly desired to be introduced.
The appointment was observed with all imaginable punctuality on both
sides. Melvil had arrayed himself in a suit of deep mourning, and he
found the good lady in the like habit, assumed upon the same occasion.
The goodness of her heart was manifest in her countenance; the
sensibility of the youth discovered itself in a flood of tears, which
he shed at her appearance. His sensations were too full for utterance;
nor was she, for some time, able to give him welcome. While she led him
by the hand to a seat, the drops of sympathy rushed into either eye;
and at length she broke silence, saying, “Count, we must acquiesce in
the dispensations of Providence; and quiet the transports of our grief,
with a full assurance that Monimia is happy.”
This name was the key that unlocked the faculty of his speech. “I must
strive,” said he, “to ease the anguish of my heart with that
consolation. But say, humane, benevolent lady, to whose compassion and