Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf
Page 59
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At an early hour on the ensuing morning, Francisco di Riverola and his beautiful, blushing bride quitted the chamber where they had passed the night in each other’s arms, and repaired to the apartment where so many terrible mysteries had been revealed to them, and so many dreadful incidents had occurred on the preceding day. Hand in hand they had traversed the passages and the corridors leading to that room in which they had left Christian Rosencrux with the dead Wagner and the dying Nisida; hand in hand and silently they went—that fine young noble and charming bride!
On reaching the door of the chamber, Francisco knocked gently; and the glance of intelligence which passed between himself and Flora showed that each was a prey to the same breathless suspense; the same mingled feelings of bright hopes and vague fears. In a few moments the door was slowly opened; and the venerable old man appeared, his countenance wearing a solemn and mournful aspect. Then Francisco and the young countess knew that all was over; and tears started into their eyes.
Christian Rosencrux beckoned them to advance toward the bed, around which the curtains were drawn closer; and as they entered the room, the rapid and simultaneous glances which they cast toward the spot where Fernand Wagner fell down and surrendered up his breath, showed them that the corpse had been removed. Approaching the bed with slow and measured steps, Rosencrux drew aside the drapery; and for a moment Francisco and Flora shrank back from the spectacle which met their view; but at the next instant they advanced to the couch, and contemplated with mournful attention the scene presented to them. For there—upon that couch—side by side, lay Fernand Wagner and Nisida of Riverola—stiff, motionless, cold.
“Grieve not for her loss, children,” said Christian Rosencrux; “she has gone to a happier realm—for the sincere repentance which she manifested in her last hours has atoned for all the evil she wrought in her lifetime. From the moment, young lady, when she banished from her soul the rancor long harbored there against thee—from the instant that she received thee in her arms, and called thee sister—the blessing of Heaven was vouchsafed unto her. She was penitent, very penitent, while I administered to her the consolations of religion, and a complete change came over her mind. Grieve not, then, for her; happy on earth she never could have been again—but happy in heaven she doubtless now is!”
Francisco and the young countess knelt by the side of the couch, and prayed for a long time in silence, with their faces buried in their hands. When they again raised their heads, and glanced around, the venerable old man no longer met their eyes. Christian Rosencrux had departed, leaving Francisco and Flora in complete ignorance of his name; but they experienced a secret conviction that he was something more than an ordinary mortal; and the remembrance of the blessing which he had bestowed upon them the preceding day, shed a soothing and holy influence over their minds.
Little now remains to be said; a few brief observations and a rapid glance at the eventual fortunes and fates of the leading characters in the tale, will acquit us of our task. Nisida and Wagner were entombed in the same vault; and their names were inscribed upon the same mural tablet. The funeral was conducted with the utmost privacy—and the mourners were few, but their grief was sincere. And among them was Dr. Duras, who had loved Nisida as if she had been his own child. On the night following the one on which these obsequies took place, another funeral procession departed from the Riverola Palace to the adjacent church; and two coffins were on this occasion, as on the former, consigned to the family tomb. But the ceremony was conducted with even more privacy than the first; and one mourner alone was present. This was Francisco himself; and thus did he perform the sad duty of interring in sacred ground the remains of his ill-fated mother Vitangela and her brother Eugenio. The manuscript of the late Count of Riverola was burnt; the closet which so long contained such fearful mysteries was walled up; the chamber where so many dreadful incidents had occurred was never used during the lifetime of Francisco and Flora. The grand vizier remained with his army a few days beneath the walls of Florence: and during that time Isaachar ben Solomon so far recovered his health and strength, under the skillful care of an Egyptian physician, as to be able to visit his dwelling in the suburb of Alla Croce, and secure the immense wealth which he had amassed during a long life of activity and financial prosperity.
When the day of the grand vizier’s departure arrived, he took a tender farewell of his sister Flora and his aunt, both of whom he loaded with the most costly presents; and in return, he received from Francisco a gift of several horses of rare breed and immense value. Nor did this species of interchange of proofs of attachment end here, for every year, until Ibrahim’s death, did that great minister and the Count of Riverola forward to each other letters and rich presents—thus maintaining to the end that friendship which had commenced in the Island of Rhodes, and which was cemented by the marriage of Francisco and Flora. Isaachar ben Solomon and Manuel d’Orsini accompanied the grand vizier to Constantinople, and were treated by him with every mark of distinction. But the Jew never completely recovered from the tortures which he had endured in the prison of the inquisition; and in less than two years from the date of his release, he died in the arms of the marquis, to whom he left the whole of his immense fortune. Manuel d’Orsini abjured Christianity, and entered the Ottoman service, in which his success was brilliant and his rise rapid, thanks to the favor of the grand vizier. The reader of Ottoman history will find the name of Mustapha Pasha frequently mentioned with honor in the reign of Solyman the Magnificent—and Mustapha Pasha, beglerbeg of the mighty province of Anatolia, was once Manuel d’Orsini.
For nearly sixteen years did Ibrahim Pasha govern the Ottoman realms in the name of the sultan: for nearly sixteen years did he hold the imperial seals which had been intrusted to him at a period when the colossal power of the empire seemed tottering to its fall. During that interval he raised the Ottoman name to the highest pinnacle of glory—extended the dominions of his master—and shook the proudest thrones in Christendom to their foundation. Ferdinand, King of Hungary, called him “brother,” and the Emperor Charles the Fifth of Germany styled him “cousin” in the epistolary communications which passed between them. But a Greek who had long, long cherished a deadly hatred against the puissant grand vizier, at last contrived to enter the service of the sultan in the guise of a slave; and this man, succeeding in gaining that monarch’s ear, whispered mysterious warnings against the ambition of Ibrahim. Solyman became alarmed; and, opening his eyes to the real position of affairs, perceived that the vizier was indeed far more powerful than himself. This was enough to insure the immediate destruction of a Turkish minister.
Accordingly, one evening, Ibrahim was invited to dine with the sultan, and to sleep at the imperial palace. Never had Solyman appeared more attached to his favorite than on this occasion and Ibrahim retired to a chamber prepared for him, with a heart elated by the caresses bestowed upon him by his imperial master. But in the dead of night he was awakened by the entrance of several persons into the room; and starting up with terror, the grand vizier beheld four black slaves, headed by a Greek, creep snake-like toward his couch. And that Greek’s countenance, sinister and menacing, was immediately recognized by the affrighted Ibrahim—though more than fifteen years had elapsed since he had set eyes upon those features. Short and ineffectual was the struggle against the messengers of death; the accursed bowstring encircled the neck of the unhappy Ibrahim, and at the moment when the vindictive Greek drew tight the fatal noose, the last words which hissed in the ears of the grand vizier, were—“The wrongs of Calanthe are avenged!”
Thus perished the most powerful minister that ever held the imperial seals of Ottoman domination;—and the long-pent-up but never subdued vindictive feelings of Demetrius were assuaged at length! Dame Francatelli had long been numbered with those who were gone to their eternal homes when the news of the death of Ibrahim Pasha reached Florence. But the Count and Countess of Riverola shed many, many tears at the sad and untimely fate of the
grand vizier.
Time, however, smooths down all grief; and happiness again returned to the Riverola Palace. For when Francisco and Flora looked around them and beheld the smiling progeny which had blessed their union,—when they experienced the sweet solace of each other’s sympathy, the outpourings of two hearts which beat as one, ever in unison, and filled with a mutual love which time impaired not,—then they remembered that it was useless and wrong to repine against the decrees of Providence; and, in this trusting faith in Heaven and in the enjoyment of each other’s unwearying affection, they lived to a good old age—dying at length in the arms of their children.
[THE END.]