“Oh! return — instantly return!” impatiently replied Matilda to the question of the gondolier.
The gondolier, surprised, obeyed her, and they returned.
The spacious canal was crowded with gondolas; merriment and splendour reigned around, enchanting harmony stole over the scene; but, listless of the music, heeding not the splendour, Matilda sat lost in a maze of thought.
Fiercest vengeance revelled through her bosom, and, in her own mind, she resolved a horrible purpose.
Meanwhile, the hour was late, the moon had gained the zenith, and poured her beams vertically on the unruffled Adriatic, when the gondola stopped before Matilda’s mansion.
A sumptuous supper had been prepared for their return. Silently Matilda entered — silently Verezzi followed.
Without speaking, Matilda seated herself at the supper table: Verezzi, with an air of listlessness, threw himself into a chair beside her.
For a time neither spoke.
“You are not well to-night,” at last stammered out Verezzi: “what has disturbed you?”
“Disturbed me!” repeated Matilda: “why do you suppose that any thing has disturbed me?”
A more violent paroxysm of horror seemed now to seize Verezzi’s brain. He pressed his hand to his burning forehead — the agony of his mind was too great to be concealed — Julia’s form, as he had last seen her, floated in his fancy, and, overpowered by the resistlessly horrible ideas which pressed upon them, his senses failed him: he faintly uttered Julia’s name — he sank forward, and his throbbing temples reclined on the table.
“Arise! awake! prostrate, perjured Verezzi, awake!” exclaimed the infuriate Matilda, in a tone of gloomy horror.
Verezzi started up, and gazed with surprise upon the countenance of Matilda, which, convulsed by passion, flashed desperation and revenge.
“‘Tis plain,” said Matilda, gloomily, “‘tis plain, he loves me not.”
A confusion of contending emotions battled in Verezzi’s bosom: his marriage vow — his faith plighted to Matilda — convulsed his soul with indescribable agony.
Still did she possess a great empire over his soul — still was her frown terrible — and still did the hapless Verezzi tremble at the tones of her voice, as, in a phrensy of desperate passion, she bade him quit her for ever: “And,” added she, “go, disclose the retreat of the outcast Matilda to her enemies; deliver me to the inquisition, that a union with her you detest may fetter you no longer.”
Exhausted by breathless agitation, Matilda ceased: the passions of her soul flashed from her eyes; ten thousand conflicting emotions battled in Verezzi’s bosom; he knew scarce what to do; but, yielding to the impulse of the moment, he cast himself at Matilda’s feet, and groaned deeply.
At last the words, “I am ever yours, I ever shall be yours,” escaped his lips.
For a time Matilda stood immoveable. At last she looked on Verezzi; she gazed downwards upon his majestic and youthful figure; she looked upon his soul-illumined countenance, and tenfold love assailed her softened soul. She raised him — in an oblivious delirium of sudden fondness she clasped him to her bosom, and, in wild and hurried expressions, asserted her right to his love.
Her breast palpitated with fiercest emotions; she pressed her burning lips to his; most fervent, most voluptuous sensations of ecstasy revelled through her bosom.
Verezzi caught the infection; in an instant of oblivion, every oath of fidelity which he had sworn to another, like a baseless cloud, dissolved away; a Lethean torpor crept over his senses; he forgot Julia, or remembered her only as an uncertain vision, which floated before his fancy more as an ideal being of another world, whom he might hereafter adore there, than as an enchanting and congenial female, to whom his oaths of eternal fidelity had been given.
Overcome by unutterable transports of returning bliss, she started from his embrace — she seized his hand — her face was overspread with a heightened colour as she pressed it to her lips.
“And are you then mine — mine for ever?” rapturously exclaimed Matilda.
“Oh! I am thine — thine to all eternity,” returned the infatuated Verezzi: “no earthly power shall sever us; joined by congeniality of soul, united by a bond to which God himself bore witness.”
He again clasped her to his bosom — again, as an earnest of fidelity, imprinted a fervent kiss on her glowing cheek; and, overcome by the violent and resistless emotions of the moment, swore, that nor heaven nor hell should cancel the union which he here solemnly and unequivocally renewed.
Verezzi filled an overflowing goblet.
“Do you love me?” inquired Matilda.
“May the lightning of heaven consume me, if I adore thee not to distraction! may I be plunged in endless torments, if my love for thee, celestial Matilda, endures not for ever!”
Matilda’s eyes flashed fiercest triumph; the exultingly delightful feelings of her soul were too much for utterance — she spoke not, but gazed fixedly on Verezzi’s countenance.
CHAPTER XV.
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts.
And take my milk for gall, ye murd’ring ministers.
Wherever, in your sightless substances.
Ye wait on nature’s mischief.
— Macbeth.
Verezzi raised the goblet which he had just filled, and exclaimed, in an impassioned tone —
“My adored Matilda! this is to thy happiness — this is to thy every wish; and if I cherish a single thought which centres not in thee, may the most horrible tortures which ever poisoned the peace of man, drive me instantly to distraction. God of heaven! witness thou my oath, and write it in letters never to be erased! Ministering spirits, who watch over the happiness of mortals, attend! for here I swear eternal fidelity, indissoluble, unalterable affection to Matilda!”
He said — he raised his eyes towards heaven — he gazed upon Matilda. Their eyes met — hers gleamed with a triumphant expression of unbounded love.
Verezzi raised the goblet to his lips — when, lo! on a sudden he dashed it to the ground — his whole frame was shook by horrible convulsions — his glaring eyes, starting from their sockets, rolled wildly around: seized with sudden madness, he drew a dagger from his girdle, and with fellest intent raised it high —
What phantom blasted Verezzi’s eyeball! what made the impassioned lover dash a goblet to the ground, which he was about to drain as a pledge of eternal love to the choice of his soul! and why did he, infuriate, who had, but an instant before, imagined Matilda’s arms an earthly paradise, attempt to rush unprepared into the presence of his Creator! — It was the mildly-beaming eyes of the lovely but forgotten Julia, which spoke reproaches to the soul of Verezzi — it was her celestial countenance, shaded by dishevelled ringlets, which spoke daggers to the false one; for, when he had raised the goblet to his lips — when, sublimed by the maddening fire of voluptuousness to the height of enthusiastic passion, he swore indissoluble fidelity to another — Julia stood before him!
Madness — fiercest madness — revelled through his brain. He raised the poniard high, but Julia rushed forwards, and, in accents of desperation, in a voice of alarmed tenderness, besought him to spare the dagger from his bosom — it was stained with his life’s-blood, which trickled fast from the point to the floor. She raised it on high, and impiously called upon the God of nature to doom her to endless torments, should Julia survive her vengeance.
She advanced towards her victim, who lay bereft of sense on the floor: she shook her rudely, and grasping a handful of her dishevelled hair, raised her from the earth.
“Knowest thou me?” exclaimed Matilda, in frantic passion—”knowest thou the injured Laurentini? Behold this dagger, reeking with my husband’s blood — behold that pale corse, in whose now cold breast, thy accursed image revelling, impelled to commit the deed which deprives me of happiness for ever.”
“Die! detested wretch,” exclaimed Matilda, in a paroxysm of rage, as she violently attempted to bathe the stiletto in the life-blood of her rival; but Julia starting aside, the weapon slightly wounded her neck, and the ensanguined stream stained her alabaster bosom.
She fell on the floor, but suddenly starting up, attempted to escape her bloodthirsty persecutor.
Nerved anew by this futile attempt to escape her vengeance, the ferocious Matilda seized Julia’s floating hair, and holding her back with fiend-like strength, stabbed her in a thousand places; and, with exulting pleasure, again and again buried the dagger to the hilt in her body, even after all remains of life were annihilated.
At last the passions of Matilda, exhausted by their own violence, sank into a deadly calm: she threw the dagger violently from her, and contemplated the terrific scene before her with a sullen gaze.
Before her, in the arms of death, lay him on whom her hopes of happiness seemed to have formed so firm a basis.
Before her lay her rival, pierced with innumerable wounds, whose head reclined on Verezzi’s bosom, and whose angelic features, even in death, a smile of affection pervaded.
There she herself stood, an isolated guilty being. A fiercer paroxysm of passion now seized her: in an agony of horror, too great to be described, she tore her hair in handfuls — she blasphemed the power who had given her being, and imprecated eternal torments upon the mother who had born her.
“And is it for this,” added the ferocious Matilda—”is it for horror, for torments such as these, that He, whom monks call all-merciful, has created me?”
She seized the dagger which lay on the floor.
“Ah! friendly dagger,” she exclaimed, in a voice of fiend-like horror, “would that thy blow produced annihilation! with what pleasure then would I clasp thee to my heart!”
She raised it high — she gazed on it — the yet warm blood of the innocent Julia trickled from its point.
The guilty Matilda shrunk at death — she let fall the up-raised dagger — her sou had caught a glimpse of the misery which awaits the wicked hereafter, and, spite of her contempt of religion — spite of her, till now, too firm dependence on the doctrines of atheism, she trembled at futurity; and a voice from within which whispers “thou shalt never die!” spoke daggers to Matilda’s soul.
Whilst thus she stood entranced in a delirium of despair, the night wore away, and the domestic who attended her, surprised at the unusual hour to which they had prolonged the banquet, came to announce the lateness of the hour; but opening the door, and perceiving Matilda’s garments stained with blood, she started back with affright, without knowing the full extent of horror which the chamber contained, and alarmed the other domestics with an account that Matilda had been stabbed.
In a crowd they all came to the door, but started back in terror when they saw Verezzi and Julia stretched lifeless on the floor.
Summoning fortitude from despair, Matilda loudly called for them to return; but fear and horror overbalanced her commands, and, wild with affright, they all rushed from the chamber, except Ferdinand, who advanced to Matilda, and demanded an explanation.
Matilda gave it, in few and hurried words.
Ferdinand again quitted the apartment, and told the credulous domestics, that an unknown female had surprised Verezzi and Matilda; that she had stabbed Verezzi, and then committed suicide.
The crowd of servants, as in mute terror they listened to Ferdinand’s account, entertained not a doubt of the truth. — Again and again they demanded an explanation of the mysterious affair, and employed their wits in conjecturing what might be the cause of it; but the more they conjectured, the more were they puzzled; till at last a clever fellow, named Pietro, who, hating Ferdinand on account of the superior confidence with which his lady treated him, and supposing more to be concealed in this affair than met the ear, gave information to the police, and, before morning, Matilda’s dwelling was surrounded by a party of officials belonging to il consiglio di dieci.
Loud shouts rent the air as the officials attempted the entrance. Matilda still was in the apartment where, during the night, so bloody a tragedy had been acted; still in speechless horror was she extended on the sofa, when a loud rap at the door aroused the horror-tranced wretch. She started from the sofa in wildest perturbation, and listened attentively. Again was the noise repeated, and the officials rushed in.
They searched every apartment; at last they entered that in which Matilda, motionless with despair, remained.
Even the stern officials, hardy, unfeeling as they were, started back with momentary horror as they beheld the fair countenance of the murdered Julia; fair even in death, and her body disfigured with numberless ghastly wounds.
“This cannot be suicide,” muttered one, who, by his superior manner, seemed to be their chief, as he raised the fragile form of Julia from the ground, and the blood, scarcely yet cold, trickled from her vestments.
“Put your orders in execution,” added he.
Two officials advanced towards Matilda, who, standing apart with seeming tranquillity, awaited their approach.
“What wish you with me?” exclaimed Matilda haughtily.
The officials answered not; but their chief, drawing a paper from his vest, which contained an order for the arrest of Matilda La Contessa di Laurentini, presented it to her.
She turned pale; but, without resistance, obeyed the mandate, and followed the officials in silence to the canal, where a gondola waited, and in a short time she was in the gloomy prisons of il consiglio di dieci.
A little straw was the bed of the haughty Laurentini; a pitcher of water and bread was her sustenance; gloom, horror, and despair pervaded her soul: all the pleasures which she had but yesterday tasted; all the ecstatic blisses which her enthusiastic soul had painted for futurity, like the unreal vision of a dream, faded away; and, confined in a damp and narrow cell, Matilda saw that all her hopes of future delight would end in speedy and ignominious dissolution.
Slow passed the time — slow did the clock at St. Mark’s toll the revolving hours as languidly they passed away.
Night came on, and the hour of midnight struck upon Matilda’s soul as her death knell.
A noise was heard in the passage which led to the prison.
Matilda raised her head from the wall against which it was reclined, and eagerly listened, as if in expectation of an event which would seal her future fate. She still gazed, when the chains of the entrance were unlocked. The door, as it opened, grated harshly on its hinges, and two officials entered.
“Follow me,” was the laconic injunction which greeted her terror-struck ear.
Trembling, Matilda arose: her limbs, stiffened by confinement, almost refused to support her; but collecting fortitude from desperation, she followed the relentless officials in silence.
One of them bore a lamp, whose rays darting in uncertain columns, showed, by strong contrasts of light and shade, the extreme massiness of the passages.
The Gothic frieze above was worked with art; and the corbels, in various and grotesque forms, jutted from the tops of clustered pilasters.
They stopped at a door. Voices were heard from within: their hollow tones filled Matilda’s soul with unconquerable tremours. But she summoned all her resolution — she resolved to be collected during the trial; and even, if sentenced to death, to meet her fate with fortitude, that the populace, as they gazed, might not exclaim—”The poor Laurentini dared not to die.”
These thoughts were passing in her mind during the delay which was occasioned by the officials conversing with another whom they met there.
At last they ceased — an uninterrupted silence reigned: the immense folding doors were thrown open, and disclosed to Matilda’s view
a vast and lofty apartment. In the centre, was a table, which a lamp, suspended from the centre, overhung, and where two stern-looking men, habited in black vestments, were seated.
Scattered papers covered the table, with which the two men in black seemed busily employed.
Two officials conducted Matilda to the table where they sat, and, retiring, left her there.
CHAPTER XVI.
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have;
Thou art the torturer of the brave.
Marmion.
One of the inquisitors raised his eyes; he put back the papers which he was examining, and in a solemn tone asked her name.
“My name is Matilda; my title La Contessa di Laurentini,” haughtily she answered; “nor do I know the motive for that inquiry, except it were to exult over my miseries, which you are, I suppose, no stranger to.”
“Waste not your time,” exclaimed the inquisitor sternly, “in making idle conjectures upon our conduct; but do you know for what you are summoned here?”
“No,” replied Matilda.
“Swear that you know not for what crime you are here imprisoned,” said the inquisitor.
Matilda took the oath required. As she spoke, a dewy sweat burst from her brow, and her limbs were convulsed by the extreme of horror, yet the expression of her countenance was changed not.
“What crime have you committed which might subject you to the notice of this tribunal?” demanded he, in a determined tone of voice.
Matilda gave no answer, save a smile of exulting scorn. She fixed her regards upon the inquisitor: her dark eyes flashed fiercely, but she spoke not.
“Answer me,” exclaimed he, “what to confess might save both of us needless trouble.”
Matilda answered not, but gazed in silence upon the inquisitor’s countenance.
He stamped thrice — four officials rushed in, and stood at some distance from Matilda.
“I am unwilling,” said the inquisitor, “to treat a female of high birth with indignity; but if you confess not instantly, my duty will not permit me to withhold the question.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley Page 135
