The Monk: A Romance
perhaps had it been in his power, He wished to have protected me. Tell
him then, Father, only that I am dead, and that if He had any faults to
me, I forgave him from my heart. This done, I have nothing more to ask
for, than your prayers: Promise to remember my requests, and I shall
resign my life without a pang or sorrow.”
Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and proceeded to give her
absolution. Every moment announced the approach of Antonia’s fate: Her
sight failed; Her heart beat sluggishly; Her fingers stiffened, and
grew cold, and at two in the morning She expired without a groan. As
soon as the breath had forsaken her body, Father Pablos retired,
sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, Flora gave way
to the most unbridled sorrow.
Far different concerns employed Ambrosio: He sought for the pulse whose
throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove Antonia’s death but
temporal. He found it; He pressed it; It palpitated beneath his hand,
and his heart was filled with ecstacy. However, He carefully concealed
his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy
air, and addressing himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning
herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to permit her
listening to his counsels, and She continued to weep unceasingly.
The Friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about the
Funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha as He pretended,
should take place with all expedition. Plunged in grief for the loss of
her beloved Mistress, Flora scarcely attended to what He said. Ambrosio
hastened to command the Burial. He obtained permission from the
Prioress, that the Corse should be deposited in St. Clare’s Sepulchre:
and on the Friday Morning, every proper and needful ceremony being
performed, Antonia’s body was committed to the Tomb.
On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to present her
young Husband to Elvira. Various circumstances had obliged her to defer
her journey from Tuesday to Friday, and She had no opportunity of
making this alteration in her plans known to her Sister. As her heart
was truly affectionate, and as She had ever entertained a sincere
regard for Elvira and her Daughter, her surprize at hearing of their
sudden and melancholy fate was fully equalled by her sorrow and
disappointment. Ambrosio sent to inform her of Antonia’s bequest: At
her solication, He promised, as soon as Elvira’s trifling debts were
discharged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being settled, no
other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and She returned to Cordova
with all diligence.
CHAPTER X.
Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies
That earth hath seen or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair,
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.
COWPER.
His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the Assassins of his
Sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely his interest was suffering
in another quarter. As was before mentioned, He returned not to Madrid
till the evening of that day on which Antonia was buried. Signifying to
the Grand Inquisitor the order of the Cardinal-Duke (a ceremony not to
be neglected, when a Member of the Church was to be arrested publicly)
communicating his design to his Uncle and Don Ramirez, and assembling a
troop of Attendants sufficiently to prevent opposition, furnished him
with full occupation during the few hours preceding midnight.
Consequently, He had no opportunity to enquire about his Mistress, and
was perfectly ignorant both of her death and her Mother’s.
The Marquis was by no means out of danger: His delirium was gone, but
had left him so much exhausted that the Physicians declined pronouncing
upon the consequences likely to ensue. As for Raymond himself, He
wished for nothing more earnestly than to join Agnes in the grave.
Existence was hateful to him: He saw nothing in the world deserving his
attention; and He hoped to hear that Agnes was revenged, and himself
given over in the same moment.
Followed by Raymond’s ardent prayers for success, Lorenzo was at the
Gates of St. Clare a full hour before the time appointed by the Mother
St. Ursula. He was accompanied by his Uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello,
and a party of chosen Archers. Though in considerable numbers their
appearance created no surprize: A great Crowd was already assembled
before the Convent doors, in order to witness the Procession. It was
naturally supposed that Lorenzo and his Attendants were conducted
thither by the same design. The Duke of Medina being recognised, the
People drew back, and made way for his party to advance. Lorenzo placed
himself opposite to the great Gate, through which the Pilgrims were to
pass. Convinced that the Prioress could not escape him, He waited
patiently for her appearance, which She was expected to make exactly at
Midnight.
The Nuns were employed in religious duties established in honour of St.
Clare, and to which no Prophane was ever admitted. The Chapel windows
were illuminated. As they stood on the outside, the Auditors heard the
full swell of the organ, accompanied by a chorus of female voices, rise
upon the stillness of the night. This died away, and was succeeded by a
single strain of harmony: It was the voice of her who was destined to
sustain in the procession the character of St. Clare. For this office
the most beautiful Virgin of Madrid was always selected, and She upon
whom the choice fell esteemed it as the highest of honours. While
listening to the Music, whose melody distance only seemed to render
sweeter, the Audience was wrapped up in profound attention. Universal
silence prevailed through the Crowd, and every heart was filled with
reverence for religion. Every heart but Lorenzo’s. Conscious that among
those who chaunted the praises of their God so sweetly, there were some
who cloaked with devotion the foulest sins, their hymns inspired him
with detestation at their Hypocrisy. He had long observed with
disapprobation and contempt the superstition which governed Madrid’s
Inhabitants. His good sense had pointed out to him the artifices of the
Monks, and the gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and
supposititious reliques. He blushed to see his Countrymen the Dupes of
deceptions so ridiculous, and only wished for an opportunity to free
them from their monkish fetters. That opportunity, so long desired in
vain, was at length presented to him. He resolved not to let it slip,
but to set before the People in glaring colours how enormous were the
abuses but too frequently practised in Monasteries, and how unjustly
public esteem was bestowed indiscriminately upon all who wore a
religious habit. He longed for the moment destined to unmask the
Hypocrites, and convince his Countrymen that a sanctified exterior does
not always hide a virtuous heart.
The service lasted, till Midnight was announced by the Convent Bell.
That sound being heard, the Music ceased: The voices died away softly,
and soon after the lights disappeared from the Chapel windows.
Lorenzo’s heart beat high, when He found the execution of his plan to
be at hand. From the natural superstition of the People He had prepared
himself for some resistance. But He trusted that the Mother St. Ursula
would bring good reasons to justify his proceeding. He had force with
him to repel the first impulse of the Populace, till his arguments
should be heard: His only fear was lest the Domina, suspecting his
design, should have spirited away the Nun on whose deposition every
thing depended. Unless the Mother St. Ursula should be present, He
could only accuse the Prioress upon suspicion; and this reflection gave
him some little apprehension for the success of his enterprize. The
tranquillity which seemed to reign through the Convent in some degree
re-assured him: Still He expected the moment eagerly, when the presence
of his Ally should deprive him of the power of doubting.
The Abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the Convent by the
Garden and Cemetery. The Monks had been invited to assist at the
Pilgrimage. They now arrived, marching two by two with lighted Torches
in their hands, and chaunting Hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father
Pablos was at their head, the Abbot having excused himself from
attending. The people made way for the holy Train, and the Friars
placed themselves in ranks on either side of the great Gates. A few
minutes sufficed to arrange the order of the Procession. This being
settled, the Convent doors were thrown open, and again the female
Chorus sounded in full melody. First appeared a Band of Choristers: As
soon as they had passed, the Monks fell in two by two, and followed
with steps slow and measured. Next came the Novices; They bore no
Tapers, as did the Professed, but moved on with eyes bent downwards,
and seemed to be occupied by telling their Beads. To them succeeded a
young and lovely Girl, who represented St. Lucia: She held a golden
bason in which were two eyes: Her own were covered by a velvet bandage,
and She was conducted by another Nun habited as an Angel. She was
followed by St. Catherine, a palm-branch in one hand, a flaming Sword
in the other: She was robed in white, and her brow was ornamented with
a sparkling Diadem. After her appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a
number of Imps, who putting themselves into grotesque attitudes,
drawing her by the robe, and sporting round her with antic gestures,
endeavoured to distract her attention from the Book, on which her eyes
were constantly fixed. These merry Devils greatly entertained the
Spectators, who testified their pleasure by repeated bursts of
Laughter. The Prioress had been careful to select a Nun whose
disposition was naturally solemn and saturnine. She had every reason to
be satisfied with her choice: The drolleries of the Imps were entirely
thrown away, and St. Genevieve moved on without discomposing a muscle.
Each of these Saints was separated from the Other by a band of
Choristers, exalting her praise in their Hymns, but declaring her to be
very much inferior to St. Clare, the Convent’s avowed Patroness. These
having passed, a long train of Nuns appeared, bearing like the
Choristers each a burning Taper. Next came the reliques of St. Clare,
inclosed in vases equally precious for their materials and workmanship:
But they attracted not Lorenzo’s attention. The Nun who bore the heart
occupied him entirely. According to Theodore’s description, He doubted
not her being the Mother St. Ursula. She seemed to look round with
anxiety. As He stood foremost in the rank by which the procession past,
her eye caught Lorenzo’s. A flush of joy overspread her till then
pallid cheek. She turned to her Companion eagerly.
“We are safe!” He heard her whisper; “’tis her Brother!”
His heart being now at ease, Lorenzo gazed with tranquillity upon the
remainder of the show. Now appeared its most brilliant ornament. It was
a Machine fashioned like a throne, rich with jewels and dazzling with
light. It rolled onwards upon concealed wheels, and was guided by
several lovely Children, dressed as Seraphs. The summit was covered
with silver clouds, upon which reclined the most beautiful form that
eyes ever witnessed. It was a Damsel representing St. Clare: Her dress
was of inestimable price, and round her head a wreath of Diamonds
formed an artificial glory: But all these ornaments yielded to the
lustre of her charms. As She advanced, a murmur of delight ran through
the Crowd. Even Lorenzo confessed secretly, that He never beheld more
perfect beauty, and had not his heart been Antonia’s, it must have
fallen a sacrifice to this enchanting Girl. As it was, He considered