The Monk: A Romance
Raymond, affection for you betrayed me. I was too confident of my
strength; But I depended no less on your honour than my own. I had
vowed never to see you more: Had it not been for the consequences of
that unguarded moment, my resolution had been kept. Fate willed it
otherwise, and I cannot but rejoice at its decree. Still my conduct has
been highly blameable, and while I attempt to justify myself, I blush
at recollecting my imprudence. Let me then dismiss the ungrateful
subject; First assuring you, Raymond, that you shall have no cause to
repent our union, and that the more culpable have been the errors of
your Mistress, the more exemplary shall be the conduct of your Wife.
Here Agnes ceased, and the Marquis replied to her address in terms
equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo expressed his satisfaction at
the prospect of being so closely connected with a Man for whom He had
ever entertained the highest esteem. The Pope’s Bull had fully and
effectually released Agnes from her religious engagements: The marriage
was therefore celebrated as soon as the needful preparations had been
made, for the Marquis wished to have the ceremony performed with all
possible splendour and publicity. This being over, and the Bride having
received the compliments of Madrid, She departed with Don Raymond for
his Castle in Andalusia: Lorenzo accompanied them, as did also the
Marchioness de Villa-Franca and her lovely Daughter. It is needless to
say that Theodore was of the party, and would be impossible to describe
his joy at his Master’s marriage. Previous to his departure, the
Marquis, to atone in some measure for his past neglect, made some
enquiries relative to Elvira. Finding that She as well as her Daughter
had received many services from Leonella and Jacintha, He showed his
respect to the memory of his Sister-in-law by making the two Women
handsome presents. Lorenzo followed his example—Leonella was highly
flattered by the attentions of Noblemen so distinguished, and Jacintha
blessed the hour on which her House was bewitched.
On her side, Agnes failed not to reward her Convent Friends. The worthy
Mother St. Ursula, to whom She owed her liberty, was named at her
request Superintendent of “The Ladies of Charity:” This was one of the
best and most opulent Societies throughout Spain. Bertha and Cornelia
not choosing to quit their Friend, were appointed to principal charges
in the same establishment. As to the Nuns who had aided the Domina in
persecuting Agnes, Camilla being confined by illness to her bed, had
perished in the flames which consumed St. Clare’s Convent. Mariana,
Alix, and Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims to the
popular rage. The three Others who in Council had supported the
Domina’s sentence, were severely reprimanded, and banished to religious
Houses in obscure and distant Provinces: Here they languished away a
few years, ashamed of their former weakness, and shunned by their
Companions with aversion and contempt.
Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded. Her wishes
being consulted, She declared herself impatient to revisit her native
land. In consequence, a passage was procured for her to Cuba, where She
arrived in safety, loaded with the presents of Raymond and Lorenzo.
The debts of gratitude discharged, Agnes was at liberty to pursue her
favourite plan. Lodged in the same House, Lorenzo and Virginia were
eternally together. The more He saw of her, the more was He convinced
of her merit. On her part, She laid herself out to please, and not to
succeed was for her impossible.
Lorenzo witnessed with admiration her beautiful person, elegant
manners, innumerable talents, and sweet disposition: He was also much
flattered by her prejudice in his favour, which She had not sufficient
art to conceal. However, his sentiments partook not of that ardent
character which had marked his affection for Antonia. The image of that
lovely and unfortunate Girl still lived in his heart, and baffled all
Virginia’s efforts to displace it. Still when the Duke proposed to him
the match, which He wished to earnestly to take place, his Nephew did
not reject the offer. The urgent supplications of his Friends, and the
Lady’s merit conquered his repugnance to entering into new engagements.
He proposed himself to the Marquis de Villa-Franca, and was accepted
with joy and gratitude. Virginia became his Wife, nor did She ever give
him cause to repent his choice. His esteem increased for her daily. Her
unremitted endeavours to please him could not but succeed. His
affection assumed stronger and warmer colours. Antonia’s image was
gradually effaced from his bosom; and Virginia became sole Mistress of
that heart, which She well deserved to possess without a Partner.
The remaining years of Raymond and Agnes, of Lorenzo and Virginia, were
happy as can be those allotted to Mortals, born to be the prey of
grief, and sport of disappointment. The exquisite sorrows with which
they had been afflicted, made them think lightly of every succeeding
woe. They had felt the sharpest darts in misfortune’s quiver; Those
which remained appeared blunt in comparison. Having weathered Fate’s
heaviest Storms, they looked calmly upon its terrors: or if ever they
felt Affliction’s casual gales, they seemed to them gentle as Zephyrs
which breathe over summer-seas.
CHAPTER XII.
——He was a fell despightful Fiend:
Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below:
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor keened;
Of Man alike, if good or bad the Foe.
THOMSON.
On the day following Antonia’s death, all Madrid was a scene of
consternation and amazement. An Archer who had witnessed the adventure
in the Sepulchre had indiscreetly related the circumstances of the
murder: He had also named the Perpetrator. The confusion was without
example which this intelligence raised among the Devotees. Most of them
disbelieved it, and went themselves to the Abbey to ascertain the fact.
Anxious to avoid the shame to which their Superior’s ill-conduct
exposed the whole Brotherhood, the Monks assured the Visitors that
Ambrosio was prevented from receiving them as usual by nothing but
illness. This attempt was unsuccessful: The same excuse being repeated
day after day, the Archer’s story gradually obtained confidence. His
Partizans abandoned him: No one entertained a doubt of his guilt; and
they who before had been the warmest in his praise were now the most
vociferous in his condemnation.
While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with the utmost
acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the pangs of conscious villainy, and
the terrors of punishment impending over him. When He looked back to
the eminence on which He had lately stood, universally honoured and
respected, at peace with the world and with himself, scarcely could He
believe that He was indeed the culprit whose crimes and whose fate He
trembled to envisage. But a few weeks had elapsed, since He was pure
and virtuous, courted by the wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded
by the People with a reverence that approached idolatry: He now saw
himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins, the object of
universal execration, a Prisoner of the Holy Office, and probably
doomed to perish in tortures the most severe. He could not hope to
deceive his Judges: The proofs of his guilt were too strong. His being
in the Sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion at the discovery,
the dagger which in his first alarm He owned had been concealed by him,
and the blood which had spirted upon his habit from Antonia’s wound,
sufficiently marked him out for the Assassin. He waited with agony for
the day of examination: He had no resource to comfort him in his
distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude: If He read the
Books of morality which were put into his hands, He saw in them nothing
but the enormity of his offences; If he attempted to pray, He
recollected that He deserved not heaven’s protection, and believed his
crimes so monstrous as to baffle even God’s infinite goodness. For
every other Sinner He thought there might be hope, but for him there
could be none. Shuddering at the past, anguished by the present, and
dreading the future, thus passed He the few days preceding that which
was marked for his Trial.
That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison door was unlocked,
and his Gaoler entering, commanded him to follow him. He obeyed with
trembling. He was conducted into a spacious Hall, hung with black
cloth. At the Table sat three grave, stern-looking Men, also habited in
black: One was the Grand Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause
had induced to examine into it himself. At a smaller table at a little
distance sat the Secretary, provided with all necessary implements for
writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take his station at the
lower end of the Table. As his eye glanced downwards, He perceived
various iron instruments lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms
were unknown to him, but apprehension immediately guessed them to be
engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty prevented
himself from sinking upon the ground.
Profound silence prevailed, except when the Inquisitors whispered a few
words among themselves mysteriously. Near an hour past away, and with
every second of it Ambrosio’s fears grew more poignant. At length a
small Door, opposite to that by which He had entered the Hall, grated
heavily upon its hinges. An Officer appeared, and was immediately
followed by the beautiful Matilda. Her hair hung about her face wildly;
Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a
melancholy look upon Ambrosio: He replied by one of aversion and
reproach. She was placed opposite to him. A Bell then sounded thrice.
It was the signal for opening the Court, and the Inquisitors entered
upon their office.
In these trials neither the accusation is mentioned, or the name of the
Accuser. The Prisoners are only asked, whether they will confess: If
they reply that having no crime they can make no confession, they are
put to the torture without delay. This is repeated at intervals, either
till the suspected avow themselves culpable, or the perseverance of the
examinants is worn out and exhausted: But without a direct
acknowledgment of their guilt, the Inquisition never pronounces the
final doom of its Prisoners.
In general much time is suffered to elapse without their being
questioned: But Ambrosio’s trial had been hastened, on account of a
solemn Auto da Fe which would take place in a few days, and in which
the Inquisitors meant this distinguished Culprit to perform a part, and
give a striking testimony of their vigilance.
The Abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder: The crime of
Sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to Matilda’s. She had been
seized as an Accomplice in Antonia’s assassination. On searching her
Cell, various suspicious books and instruments were found which
justified the accusation brought against her. To criminate the Monk,
the constellated Mirror was produced, which Matilda had accidentally
left in his chamber. The strange figures engraved upon it caught the
attention of Don Ramirez, while searching the Abbot’s Cell: In
consequence, He carried it away with him. It was shown to the Grand
Inquisitor, who having considered it for some time, took off a small
golden Cross which hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the Mirror.
Instantly a loud noise was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the
steel shivered into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed the
suspicion of the Monk’s having dealt in Magic: It was even supposed
that his former influence over the minds of the People was entirely to
be ascribed to witchcraft.