“It is a place where the dead come!” responded the monk. “The dead in heart! the dead in soul — the dead in sin! They come to bury themselves, lest God should find them and crush them into dust before they have time to say a prayer! Like Adam and his wife, they hide themselves ‘from the presence of the Lord among the trees of the garden.’”
Varillo raised himself on one elbow, and stared at the pale face and smiling mouth of the speaker in fear and wonder.
“‘A place where the dead come!’” he echoed. “But you are alive — and so am I!”
“You may be — I am not,” said the monk quietly. “I died long ago! People who are alive say we are men, though we know ourselves to be ghosts merely. This place is called by the world a Trappist monastery, — you will go out of it if indeed you are alive — you must prove that first! But we shall never come out, because we are dead. One never comes out of the grave!”
With an effort Varillo tried to control the tremor of his nerves, and to understand and reason out these enigmatical sentences of his companion. He began to think — and then to remember, — and by and by was able to conjure up the picture of himself as he had last been conscious of existence, — himself standing outside the gates of a great building on the Campagna, and shaking the iron bars to and fro. It was a Trappist monastery then? — and he was being taken charge of by the Trappist Order? This fact might possibly be turned to his account if he were careful. He lay down once more on his pillow and closed his eyes, and under this pretence of sleep, pondered his position. What were they saying of him in Rome? Was Angela buried? And her great picture? What had become of it?
“How long have I been here?” he asked suddenly.
The monk gave a curious deprecatory gesture with his hands.
“Since you died! So long have you been dead!”
Varillo surveyed him with a touch of scorn.
“You talk in parables — like your Master!” he said with a feeble attempt at a laugh. “I am not strong enough to understand you! And if you are a Trappist monk, why do you talk at all? I thought one of your rules was perpetual silence?”
“Silence? Yes — everyone is silent but me!” said the monk— “I may talk — because I am only Ambrosio, — mad Ambrosio! — something wrong here!” And he touched his forehead. “A little teasing demon lives always behind my eyes, piercing my brain with darts of fire. And he obliges me to talk; he makes me say things I should not — and for all the mischief he works upon me I wear this — see!” — And springing up suddenly he threw aside the folds of his garment, and displayed his bare chest, over which a coarse rope was crossed and knotted so tightly, that the blood was oozing from the broken flesh on either side of it. “For every word I say, I bleed!”
Varillo gave a nervous cry and covered his eyes.
“Do not be afraid!” said Ambrosio, drawing his robe together again, “It is only flesh — not spirit — that is wounded! Flesh is our great snare, — it persuades us to eat, to sleep, to laugh, to love — the spirit commands none of these things. The spirit is of God — it wants neither food nor rest, — it is pure and calm, — it would escape to Heaven if the flesh did not cramp its wings!”
Varillo took his hand from his eyes and tossed himself back on his pillow with a petulant moan.
“Can they do nothing better for me than this?” he ejaculated. “To place me here in this wretched cell alone with a madman!”
Ambrosio stood by the pallet bed looking down upon him with a sort of child-like curiosity.
“No better than this?” he echoed. “Would you have anything better? Safe — safe from the world, — no one can find you or follow you — no one can discover your sin—”
“Sin! What sin!” demanded Varillo fiercely. “You talk like a fool — as you own yourself to be! I have committed no sin!”
“Good — good!” said Ambrosio. “Then you must be canonized with all the rest of the saints! And St. Peter’s shall be illuminated, and the Pope shall be carried in to see you and to lay his hands upon you, and they shall shout to him, ‘Tu es Petrus!’ and no one will remember what kind of a bruised, bleeding, tortured, broken-down Head of the Church stood before the multitude when Pilate cried ‘Ecce homo!’”
Varillo stared at him in unwilling fascination. He seemed carried beyond himself, — it was as though some other force spoke through him, and though he scarcely raised his voice, its tone was so clear, musical, and penetrative that it seemed to give light and warmth to the cold dullness of the cell.
“You must not mind me!” he went on softly, “My thoughts have all gone wrong, they tell me, — so have my words. I was young once — and in that time I used to study hard and try to understand what it was that God wished me to do with my life. But there were so many things — so much confusion — so much difficulty — and the end is — here!” He smiled. “Well! It is a quiet end, — they say the devil knocks at the gate of the monastery often at midnight, but he never enters in, — never — unless perchance you are he!”
Varillo turned himself about pettishly.
“If I were he, I should not trouble you long,” he said. “Even the devil might be glad to make exit from such a hole as this! Who is your Superior?”
“We have only one Superior, — God!” replied Ambrosio. “He who never slumbers or sleeps — He who troubles Himself to look into everything, from the cup of a flower to the heart of a man! Who shall escape the lightning of His glance, or think to cover up a hidden vileness from the discovery of the Most High?”
“I did not ask you for pious jargon,” said Varillo, beginning to lose temper, yet too physically weak to contend with the wordy vagaries of this singular personage who had evidently been told off to attend upon him. “I asked you who is the Head or Ruler of this community? Who gives you the daily rule of conduct which you all obey?”
Ambrosio’s brown eyes grew puzzled, and he shook his head.
“I obey no one,” he said. “I am mad Ambrosio! — I walk about in my grave, and speak, and sing, while others remain silent. I would tell you if I knew of anyone greater than God, — but I do not!”
Varillo uttered an impatient groan. It was no good asking this creature anything, — his answers were all wide of the mark.
“God,” went on Ambrosio, turning his head towards the light that came streaming in through the narrow window of the cell, “is in that sunbeam! He can enter where He will, and we never know when we shall meet Him face to face! He may possess with His spirit the chaste body of a woman, as in our Blessed Lady, — or He may come to us in the form of a child, speaking to the doctors in the temple and arguing with them on the questions of life and death. He is in all things; and the very beggar at our gates who makes trial of our charity, may for all we know, be our Lord disguised! Shall I tell you a strange story?”
Varillo gave a weary sign of assent, half closing his eyes. It was better this crazed fool should talk, he thought, than that he should lie there and listen, as it were, to the deadly silence which in the pauses of the conversation could be felt, like the brooding heaviness of a thick cloud hanging over the monastery walls.
“It happened long ago,” said Ambrosio. “There was a powerful prince who thought that to be rich and strong was sufficient to make all the world his own. But the world belongs to God, — and He does not always give it over to the robber and spoiler. This prince I tell you of, had been the lover of a noble lady, but he was false-hearted; and the false soon grow weary of love! And so, tiring of her beauty and her goodness, he stabbed her mortally to death, and thought no one had seen him do the deed. For the only witness to it was a ray of moonlight falling through the window — just as the sunlight falls now! — see!” And he pointed to the narrow aperture which lit the cell, while Florian Varillo, shuddering in spite of himself, lay motionless. “But when the victim was dead, this very ray of moonlight turned to the shape of a great angel, and the angel wore the semblance of our Lord, — and the glory and the wonder of that vision was as th
e lightning to slay and utterly destroy! And from that hour for many years, the murderer was followed by a ray of light, which never left him; all day he saw it flickering in his path, — all night it flashed across his bed, driving sleep from his eyes and rest from his brain! — till at last maddened by remorse he confessed his crime to a priest, and was taken into a grave like this, a monastery, — where he died, so they say, penitent. But whether he was forgiven, the story does not say!”
“It is a stupid story!” said Varillo, opening his eyes, and smiling in the clear, candid way he always assumed when he had anything to hide. “It has neither point nor meaning.”
“You think not?” said Ambrosio. “But perhaps you are not conscious of God. If you were, that sunbeam we see now should make you careful, lest an angel should be in it!”
“Careful? Why should I be careful?” Varillo half raised himself on the bed. “I have nothing to hide!”
At this Ambrosio began to laugh.
“Oh, you are happy — happy!” he exclaimed. “You are the first I ever heard say that! Nothing to hide! Oh, fortunate, fortunate man! Then indeed you should not be here — for we all have something to hide, and we are afraid even of the light, — that is why we make such narrow holes for it; we are always praying God not to look at our sins, — not to uncover them and show us what vile souls we are — we men who could be as gods in life, if we did not choose to be devils—”
Here he suddenly broke off, and a curious grey rigidity stole over his features, as if some invisible hand were turning him into stone. His eyes sparkled feverishly, but otherwise his face was the lace of the dead. The horrible fixity of his aspect at that moment, so terrified Varillo that he gave a loud cry, and almost before he knew he had uttered it, another monk entered the cell. Varillo gazed at him affrightedly, and pointed to Ambrosio. The monk said nothing, but merely took the rigid figure by its arm and shook it violently. Then, as suddenly as he had lost speech and motion, Ambrosio recovered both, and went on talking evenly, taking up the sentence he had broken off— “If we did not choose to be as devils, we might be as gods!” Then looking around him with a smile, he added, “Now you are here, Filippo, you will explain!”
The monk addressed as Filippo remained silent, still holding him by the arm, and presently quietly guiding him, led him out of the cell. When the two brethren had disappeared, Varillo fell back on his pillows exhausted.
“What am I to do now?” he thought. “I must have been here many days! — all Rome must know of Angela’s death — all Rome must wonder at my absence — all Rome perhaps suspects me of being her murderer! And yet — this illness may be turned to some account. I can say that it was caused by grief at hearing the sudden news of her death — that I was stricken down by my despair — but then — I must not forget — I was to have been in Naples. Yes — the thing looks suspicious — I shall be tracked! — I must leave Italy. But how?”
Bathed in cold perspiration he lay, wondering, scheming, devising all sorts of means of escape from his present surroundings, when he became suddenly aware of a tall dark figure in the cell, — a figure muffled nearly to its eyes, which had entered with such stealthy softness and silence as to give almost the impression of some supernatural visitant. He uttered a faint exclamation — the figure raised one hand menacingly.
“Be silent!” These words were uttered in a harsh whisper. “If you value your life, hold your peace till I have said what I come to say!”
Moving to the door of the cell, the mysterious visitor bolted it across and locked it — then dropped the disguising folds of his heavy mantle and monk’s cowl, and disclosed the face and form of Domenico Gherardi. Paralysed with fear Varillo stared at him, — every drop of blood seemed to rush from his heart to his brain, turning him sick and giddy, for in the dark yet fiery eyes of the priest, there was a look that would have made the boldest tremble.
“I knew that you were here,” he said, his thin lips widening at the corners in a slight disdainful smile. “I saw you at the inn on the road to Frascati, and watched you shrink and tremble as I spoke of the murder of Angela Sovrani! You screened your face behind a paper you were reading, — that was not necessary, for your hand shook, — and so betrayed itself as the hand of the assassin!”
With a faint moan, Varillo shudderingly turned away and buried his head in his pillow.
“Why do you now wish to hide yourself?” pursued Gherardi. “Now when you are an honest man at last, and have shown yourself in your true colors? You were a liar hitherto, but now you have discovered yourself to be exactly as the devil made you, why you can look at me without fear — we understand each other!”
Still Varillo hid his eyes and moaned, and Gherardi thereupon laid a rough hand on his shoulder.
“Come, man! You are not a sick child to lie cowering there as though seized by the plague! What ails you? You have done no harm! You tried to kill something that stood in your way, — I admire you for that! I would do the same myself at any moment!”
Slowly Varillo lifted himself and looked up at the dark strong face above him.
“A pity you did not succeed!” went on Gherardi, “for the world would have been well rid of at least one feminine would-be ‘genius,’ whose skill puts that of man to shame! But perhaps it may comfort you to know that your blow was not strong enough or deep enough, and that your betrothed wife yet lives to wed you — if she will!”
“Lives!” cried Florian. “Angela lives!”
“Ay, Angela lives!” replied Gherardi coldly. “Does that give you joy? Does your lover’s heart beat with ecstasy to know that she — twenty times more gifted than you, a hundred times more famous than you, a thousand times more beloved by the world than you — lives, to be crowned with an immortal fame, while you are relegated to scorn and oblivion! Does that content you?”
A dull red flush crept over Varillo’s cheeks, — his hand flenched the coverlet of his bed convulsively.
“Lives!” He muttered. “She lives! Then it must be by a miracle! For I drove the steel deep . . . deep home!”
Gherardi looked at him curiously, with the air of a scientist watching some animal writhing under vivisection.
“Perhaps Cardinal Felix prayed for her!” he said mockingly, “and even as he healed the crippled child in Rouen he may have raised his niece from the dead! But miracle or no miracle, she lives. That is why I am here!”
“Why — you — are — here?” repeated Varillo mechanically.
“How dull you are!” said Gherardi tauntingly. “A man like you with a dozen secret intrigues in Rome, should surely be able to grasp a situation better! Angela Sovrani lives, I tell you, — I am here to help you to kill her more surely! Your first attempt was clumsy, — and dangerous to yourself, but — murder her reputation, amico, murder her reputation! — and so build up your own!”
Slowly Varillo turned his eyes upon him. Gherardi met them unflinchingly, and in that one glance the two were united in the spirit of their evil intention.
“You are a man,” went on Gherardi, watching him closely. “Will you permit yourself to be baffled and beaten in the race for fame by a woman? Shame on you if you do! Listen! I am prepared to swear that you are innocent of having attempted the murder of your affianced wife, and I will also assert that the greater part of her picture was painted by you, though you were, out of generosity and love for her, willing to let her take the credit of the whole conception!”
Varillo started upright.
“God!” he cried. “Is it possible! Will you do this for me?”
“Not for you — No,” said Gherardi contemptuously. “I will do nothing for you! If I saw you lying in the road at my feet dying for want of a drop of water, I would not give it to you! What I do, I do for myself — and the Church!”
By this time Varillo had recovered his equanimity. A smile came readily to his lips as he said —
“Ah, the Church! Excellent institution! Like charity, it covers a multitude of sins!”
“It exists for that object,” answered Gherardi with a touch of ironical humor. “Its own sins it covers, — and shows up the villainies of those who sin outside its jurisdiction. Angela Sovrani is one of these, — her uncle the Cardinal is another, — Sylvie Hermenstein—”
“What of her?” cried Varillo, his eyes sparkling. “Is her marriage broken off?”
“Broken off!” Gherardi gave a fierce gesture. “Would that it were! No! She renounces the Church for the sake of Aubrey Leigh — she leaves the faith of her fathers—”
“And takes the wealth of her fathers with her!” finished Varillo, maliciously. “I see! I understand! The Church has reason for anger!”
“It has reason!” echoed Gherardi. “And we of the Church choose you as the tool wherewith to work our vengeance. And why? Because you are a born liar! — because you can look straight in the eyes of man or woman, and swear to a falsehood without flinching! — because you are an egotist, and will do anything to serve yourself — because you have neither heart nor conscience — nor soul nor feeling, — because you are an animal in desires and appetite,-because of this, I say, we yoke you to our chariot wheels, knowing you may be trusted to drive over and trample down the creatures that might be valuable to you if they did not stand in your way!”
Such bitterness, such scorn, such loathing were in his accents, that even the callous being he addressed was stung, and made a feeble gesture of protest.
“You judge me harshly,” he began —
Gherardi laughed.
“Judge you! Not I! No judgment is wanted. I read you like a book through and through, — a book that should be set on Nature’s Index Expurgatorius, as unfit to meet the eyes of the faithful! You are a low creature, Florian Varillo, — and unscrupulous as I am myself, I despise you for meanness greater than even I am capable of! But you are a convenient tool, ready to hand, and I use you for the Church’s service! If you were to refuse to do as I bid you, I would brand you through the world as the murderer you are! So realize to the full how thoroughly I have you in my power. Now understand me, — you must leave this place to-morrow. I will send my carriage for you, and you shall come at once to me, to me in Rome as my guest, — my HONOURED guest!” And he emphasized the word sarcastically. “You are weak and ill yet, they tell me here, — so much the better for you. It will make you all the more interesting! You will find it easier to play the part of injured innocence! Do you understand?”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 514
