Alphonsus, wrapped in reflection, was not much disposed to converse, and they had proceeded nearly a third of the way without speaking, when Jacques suddenly exclaimed, "Do you hear it, monsieur?"
"What?" asked Alphonsus.
"The bell, monsieur?"
"We are yet too distant from the castle to catch the sound," returned Alphonsus.
"So I thought, monsieur:—that was the reason I asked."
Had Jacques spoken the truth, he would have confessed that he found it very melancholy to proceed so far in silence, and that he despaired of drawing Alphonsus into conversation by any other subject, than the one on which his thoughts were then bent; his stratagem, however, answered but little to his wishes, for Alphonsus again sunk into silent reflection.
"The moon will be up presently, monsieur, it begins to grow a little light already."
Alphonsus raised his eyes for a moment to the atmosphere, and again dropped them to their former situation.
"I wonder how many stars there are, monsieur:—did you ever count them?"
"No."
"Nor I, monsieur;—I wonder whether any body ever did?"
No answer was returned.
"I dare say there are more than a thousand in all; I am sure I can see five hundred to-night, and there are often as many more on a clear night; a'n't there, monsieur?"
"Of what?"
"Stars, monsieur."
Jacques now anxiously waited for a rejoinder, but his hopes were deceived. Alphonsus had spoken to the few words he had accidentally heard, without entering into the subject to which they belonged.
Now the silence had been once broken, its recommencement appeared more unpleasant to Jacques, than whilst it had remained totally uninterrupted; his tongue ached to relieve his eyes and ears, which were unremittingly looking out for shapeless monsters, and listening for uncouth sounds; singing and whistling by night he had heard ridiculed as betraying fear; and he could for some time think on no other expedient to divert the way; at last a lucky thought entered his head: "I think I'll try and count the stars myself, monsieur," he said, and immediately began counting, une, deux, trois, &c. passing them, as he pronounced the number, on his fingers: he chuckled at this happy expedient; it exercised both his eyes and tongue, and amused his hearing; thus passed on another third of the way; Jacques never the nearer in his knowledge of the numeration of the heavenly bodies, but quite as near in reality as he wished to be. At last wearied by his employment, and not at all satisfied with hearing only his own voice, he desisted from his calculation, and lowered his eyes to the spot where he supposed to find Alphonsus walking by his side; but he was not there; for a few moments he stood motionless, then looking round on all sides, as far as the slender light of the faintly shining stars would permit him to carry his sight, and not beholding his companion, he ran straight forward in the path along which he supposed Alphonsus to have proceeded, as fast as he could move his legs, and attended by all the noise his overstrained voice could make.
Alphonsus, inattentive to every object but what was passing in his own mind, had insensibly passed his companion, whose pace had been retarded by his pretended studies, and had gained some ground upon him ere Jacques perceived his advance; now, however, roused from his reflections by Jacques' exclamations, he stopped for him, and they were quickly again united, to the no small satisfaction of one party; when an explanation of their parting took place on both sides, and Jacques determining not to let the conversation he had now raised, flag, asked Alphonsus "how many ghosts he had ever seen?"
"Not one," replied Alphonsus.
"Then you have seen one less than me, monsieur; and that's what always makes me afraid of being alone in the dark."
"Now I, on the contrary, should have supposed the dark to have been very agreeable to one of your credulous disposition."
"Why so, monsieur?"
"Because I should conceive that in it you could see neither objects to please nor alarm you."
"Oh dear, monsieur, how you talk! why ghosts always light themselves."
Alphonsus had not spirits either to rally Jacques on his false ideas, or to endeavour to correct them by the arguments of reason, and he remained silent.
Jacques had now a clue for conversation, and he chattered on about spirits, ghosts, and witches, to his own joint amusement and terror, till a few minutes brought them within sight of Cohenburg castle, and all his faculties were then absorbed in the use of his eyes.
They advanced within a few yards of the building to a small elevation of the turf, where Alphonsus proposed they should sit down, and wait the expected sound of the bell. The moon was breaking from under a retiring cloud, and, shedding her partial influence on the building, while its shadow fell upon the place which Alphonsus had chosen for his watching post, gave a pleasing yet melancholy aspect to the scene. It produced sensations in the mind of Jacques which he felt at a loss to explain, and after repeated hesitations how to express himself, he exclaimed, "Well, if ever I am to see another ghost, I am sure this is just the place I should expect to meet it in!"
"Folly!" cried Alphonsus: "how should you expect to see what never existed?"
"Mon Dieu, monsieur, how you talk! why all the priests in the world should not make me believe, I did not see one that time I was going to mention to you."
"Well, well, then you did," said Alphonsus, softened by the scene into reflections too dear to be easily shaken off, and wishing to prevent their farther interruption by coalescing in opinion with his companion.
"I thought you would believe me at last, monsieur," said Jacques, who flattered himself he had made a convert of Alphonsus: "I'll tell you the whole story,—may I, monsieur?"
"Oh yes," replied Alphonsus, thoroughly determined not to attend to it, and hoping, by this indulgence of his friend's garrulity, to free himself from the trouble of replying to his questions.
Having cast his eyes around, as a kind of security preparative to his dismal story, and moved a few inches nearer to Alphonsus, Jacques, thus began: "When I was about fifteen years old, monsieur, my father lived in a little village about a lieue from Desmartin, on the road to Paris; ours was a lonely little cottage, for it stood quite at the end of the village, and above a hundred paces distant from the next house; my grandmother was alive then, poor old soul, and she was as much afraid of a ghost as me; so one winter's evening, just before we went to bed, there comes a rap, or indeed it was more like a scratch at the door. 'Come in,' says my father; nobody answered, nor the door did not open; so my father bid me open it, and I did, but nobody was there to be seen; so as I thought it might be somebody that had a mind to frighten us, and had hid themselves behind the wood-stack at the corner of the house, I ran to look, for it was moon-light; and there I saw a man in black, kneeling down, without a head; and when I called out for help, he got up and ran away as fast as ever he could, and when he had got a little way off, his back looked as white as snow.
"Well, monsieur, frightened enough I was, as you may suppose, and so was my father, for he saw it too: and a little while after my grandmother died. 'Now the murder's out,' says my father: 'that was a warning of la bonne's death: we shall see no more ghosts now.' 'I hope not, I am sure,' said I; but he was wrong: for about a month after, one night when the wind was high, there was such a noise in the kitchen after we were gone to bed, that it waked us all, and in a minute or two the door between my father's chamber and mine burst open, as if le diable lui même had kicked it; then again we heard the noise in the kitchen, and in a few minutes came such a crash, as if the very roof had split over our heads; I covered myself with the bed clothes; father said he would go down and see what it was, when, just as he was getting out of bed, there was such a rustling on the stairs; and then it seemed to come into the chamber under the door, and all on a sudden a long, deep, hoarse, frightful . . . ." At this instant the bell in the south turret of the castle tolled several strokes, which sounded on the air hollow and dismal; Alphonsus started from his seat, and Jac
ques remained sitting on the turf in a state of fear scarcely a degree removed from petrifaction.
CHAPTER XXIII
O, matter and impertinency mixt!
Reason in madness!
-LEAR
Count Byroff and Lauretta, eager to learn the result of Alphonsus's watching, had determined not to retire to rest till his return, which they imagined could not be later than an hour after midnight: however, he arrived not with the expected hour, and to add to their consternation, two o'clock brought back Jacques alone, with a countenance distorted by fear and anxiety.
Running up to count Byroff, he exclaimed, "Oh, monsieur, monsieur! the devils have got him; they have shut him up in that cursed old castle; I'd wager my life he never gets out again: pour l'amour de Dieu, let us raise the village here hard by, and pull down the walls."
Count Byroff could not be a moment at a loss to understand to whom he referred; but Lauretta, who had fainted, demanded his care prior to his asking an explanation of Jacques's words.
The landlord brought a glass of water to Lauretta.—"I told the young gentleman how it would be," he said, "if he would but have taken an old man's advice, and not have gone, he had been safe; I said there was no good in the spirits ringing that bell."
"I have seen three of them," returned Jacques, "as tall again as you or me, and all over as black as a crow, face, hands, and all."
"The virgin bless us all!" said the landlord, crossing himself, and raising his eyes to heaven.
In a few minutes Lauretta revived,—she flew to Jacques,—"Where is my Alphonsus?—is he in the castle?—answer me."
"Yes, locked in," replied Jacques; "but don't be afraid, madame: I dare say the ghosts don't mean to hurt him, for they are all gone away, and left him."
"Explain your words: what do you mean to convey by this inconsistent jargon?—Speak plainly, tell us every thing as it happened," said count Byroff.
"Why, monsieur, when the bell tolled—"
"Oh, then you have heard it;—aye, I knew I was right," interrupted the landlord.
"Oh yes, heard it, mon Dieu, I shall never forget it. When the bell tolled, monsieur Alphonsus said, he was sure then there must be somebody within the castle; and so he ran away to watch whether he could see a light in any part of the other side of the castle, and ordered me to keep my eye fixed on that opposite to which I was sitting. I sat still more than half an hour, and he did not come back: sometimes I ventured to look, and sometimes I did not: at last I saw him coming towards me; pleased enough was I, and I ran to meet him; he had seen nothing, no more had I. He said it was very odd, and he would only just try whether the gates were locked yet or not, and come back alone in the morning; and I told him I thought it would be much the best way. The great gate was locked: but when we came to a little gate at one end of the castle, it was partly open. He seemed very much surprised; and without saying any thing more to me, than bidding me wait for him where I was, and on no account to follow him, he ran in."
"In the dark?" said Lauretta.
"Yes, madame."
"He cannot be in any danger on that account," said count Byroff: "he doubtless knows every footstep about the castle."
"Angels guard him!" exclaimed Lauretta; the tears rolled swiftly down her cheeks.
"Go on," said the count to Jacques.
"Well, monsieur, I waited and waited, and he did not come back: I was frightened to stay very near the castle, so I went and sat myself down at a little distance opposite to the little gate, when presently out came the three black things I told you of, and——"
"What things?" eagerly asked Lauretta, who had not heard Jacques mention them before.
"Why, madame, ghosts I am sure they were, for they stalked past where I was sitting, without speaking, and I could not hear them set a foot; and the last of them locked the gate as he came out, for I heard the key turn in the lock."
"Did you try whether it was locked?" asked the count.
"No, monsieur, I durst not go near it, for fear they should appear again, and take me to task for meddling; so when I had waited a good while longer, and monsieur Alphonsus did not come, I ran home to tell you what had happened; and a fine solitary walk I have had of it, monsieur; graces à Dieu, that I got here at all;—only feel how warm I am with running," continued he, turning to the host.
Count Byroff and Lauretta fixed their eyes on each other in silence, but both their countenances expressively asked the important question of what steps could be taken for the best.
They could ask no foreign assistance without betraying the secret which Alphonsus so strongly wished to remain unknown, and the mystery attendant on which he might at the very moment be solving.
The determination of one moment, the reflection of the next rejected. Lauretta was suffering on the rack of apprehension, and count Byroff was tortured by the agony he perceived his child enduring.
In little more than an hour, a loud knock at the door called out the landlord; Alphonsus rushed in, and threw himself upon a seat, regardless of surrounding objects.
Neither the congratulations of Jacques on his safe return, nor the caresses of his Lauretta, could for some moments obtain even a look in return: a frantic wildness was depicted on his countenance, and his stretched eyes were fixed on vacancy.
Count Byroff requested the landlord and Jacques to retire, they reluctantly complied with his petition.
"Oh, Alphonsus!" said Lauretta, throwing herself on his neck, "what new affliction has happened to you?—what aggravated sorrow is it, that deprives you of the power of teaching me to sympathise in your grief?—Tell me, I beseech you! 'twere mitigation of the agony I now experience, to share with you the most complicated misery."
Alphonsus answered her not.
Sinking on her knees, she clasped his;—"Speak, I conjure you, if you love me: ease these cruel fears: what can I do to serve you?—Name what you wish, and you shall find me ready to obey you."
Springing from her side, "Hate me," he exclaimed with increasing wildness, "hate me! I know you will,—you must hate me."
"Never! witness heaven!—can you suppose so meanly of me, that accumulated misfortune shall win from me the regard of him I once have loved? The hard dealing of the world towards you, shall only strengthen my love for you; and if you still account it as worthy your possession as you once did, your loss shall be your gain."
"Oh that I were worthy of that treasure!" he cried: "but an angel's love like yours must draw down curses on a wretch, whose disobedience to a mother's last command has called her from the silent grave!—Yes, I have seen her!—seen her honoured shade, come to upbraid me for my want of confidence in her commands; to scorch my eyes, and swell with tides of grief my heart-strings till they crack, and end the torture of this maddened brain!"—Again he sunk into the chair.
Lauretta wept, and count Byroff supported her in his arms.—"Oh, my foreboding heart!" she cried, "this danger I foresaw."
" 'Tis here," cried Alphonsus, again starting up; "here, hot and rankling: a parent's curse for disobedience, shot from the glaring eyes of death!"—He turned to Lauretta: his eye regained its wonted calmness.—"Do not you curse me too: I never disobeyed you; say, you will not."
"Have I not this instant conjured you to listen to my vows of love, of truth, of constancy?"
"But you may turn cruel."—The tears stole down his cheek.—"My mother was once kind, as you are now; and for one, one act of disobedience, though my rent heart could no longer exist in uncertainty, she has—Oh, had you seen her!" a sigh, drawn from the bottom of his heart, followed:—falling on his knees, he clasped Lauretta's hand, and pulled her down by him;—"Pray with me; pray to my mother for her forgiveness."—He clasped his hands, and seemed to pray inwardly some moments, whilst his countenance underwent various changes of frantic sorrow and pain: at length he exclaimed, "Oh! revoke, revoke—" The remainder of the sentence died on his tongue, and he fell to the ground.
Count Byroff immediately called in the assistan
ce of Jacques, and Alphonsus was conveyed between them to a bed; and it was, for nearly an hour, a doubt to the count whether he lived or not: at length, when he again raised his eyelids, his eyes which had before betrayed the wildest frenzy, bespoke the most painful sorrow: he looked anxiously round the apartment, and discovering Lauretta, he beckoned eagerly to her; she flew to his side: he grasped her hand in his,—"Do not leave me! promise you will not leave me."
"Indeed I will not," she answered.
"Why are you not in bed?" he rejoined: "I have had so horrid a dream!—Oh!"
Lauretta turned her face aside to conceal her tears.
Alphonsus looked steadfastly on count Byroff:—"You here, my friend? and you too?" observing Jacques—"Did you hear me call out in my dream?"—He then seemed suddenly to observe that he was not undressed, and lying only on the outside of the bed; he looked round in surprise, and tacit inquiry of the cause: then, seeming to recollect himself, he started, a degree of wildness flashed in his eyes, and he exclaimed, "It was reality; it was no dream; would to God it had been!"
The night passed on mournfully: Alphonsus answered rationally, but in slow and despondent accents, to every question that bordered not upon the subject which tingled on his heart. Once count Byroff ventured to touch upon the tender chord; his words then became incoherent, and his gestures indicated a heated brain.
Lauretta became more affected, and count Byroff more alarmed. Jacques wept, prayed, consoled Lauretta, and advised the count by turns, not forgetting to whisper at intervals to the landlord, "that he was sure the black devils had done all the mischief." The host on his part entreated the count, that a friar might be sent for, to pray by Alphonsus, from the monastery of the Holy Spirit, which he said was not above half a league distant.
Alphonsus continued in the same state; and towards noon Lauretta entreated that the landlord's advice might be put in execution. Count Byroff had not much faith in the effect of prayer on a mind disordered by frenzy, but readily consented to the petition of his daughter; and the landlord offered himself to be their messenger to the monastery: some travellers, however, entering at the very moment the host was about to set out, he was obliged to delay going; but Lauretta's anxiety making every lost moment of consequence to the salvation of her husband, a little boy from the neighbouring village, who happened by chance to be passing by, was prevailed on by the promise of a trifling reward to show Jacques the road to the holy mansion.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 275
