Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (215 page)

“I was warned by yourself,” answered Vivaldi. “Now I know you well.”

“By me!” said the stranger, in a solemn tone.

“By you!” repeated Vivaldi: “you who also foretold the death of Signora Bianchi; and you are that enemy — that father Schedoni, by whom I am accused.”

“Whence come these questions?” demanded the vicar general. “Who has been authorised thus to interrogate the prisoner?”

No reply was made. A busy hum of voices from the tribunal succeeded the silence. At length, the murmuring subsided, and the monk’s voice was heard again.

“I will declare thus much,” it said, addressing Vivaldi; “I am not father Schedoni.”

The peculiar tone and emphasis, with which this was delivered, more than the assertion itself, persuaded Vivaldi that the stranger spoke truth; and, though he still recognized the voice of the monk of Paluzzi, he did not know it to be that of Schedoni. Vivaldi was astonished! He would have torn the veil from his eyes, and once more viewed this mysterious stranger, had his hands been at liberty. As it was, he could only conjure him to reveal his name, and the motives for his former conduct.

“Who is come amongst us?” said the vicar general, in the voice of a person, who means to inspire in others the awe he himself suffers.

“Who is come amongst us?” he repeated, in a louder tone. Still no answer was returned; but again a confused murmur sounded from the tribunal, and a general consternation seemed to prevail. No person spoke with sufficient preeminence to be understood by Vivaldi; something extraordinary appeared to be passing, and he awaited the issue with all the patience he could command. Soon after he heard doors opened, and the noise of persons quitting the chamber. A deep silence followed; but he was certain that the familiars were still beside him, waiting to begin their work of torture.

After a considerable time had elapsed, Vivaldi heard footsteps advancing, and a person give orders for his release, that he might be carried back to his cell.

When the veil was removed from his eyes, he perceived that the tribunal was dissolved, and that the stranger was gone. The lamps were dying away, and the chamber appeared more gloomily terrific than before.

The familiars conducted him to the spot at which they had received him; whence the officers who had led him thither, guarded him to his prison. There, stretched upon his bed of straw, in solitude and in darkness, he had leisure enough to reflect upon what had passed, and to recollect with minute exactness every former circumstance connected with the stranger. By comparing those with the present, he endeavoured to draw a more certain conclusion as to the identity of this person, and his motives for the very extraordinary conduct he had pursued. The first appearance of this stranger, among the ruins of Paluzzi, when he had said that Vivaldi’s steps were watched, and had cautioned him against returning to Villa Altieri, was recalled to his mind. Vivaldi re-considered, also, his second appearance on the same spot, and his second warning; the circumstances, which had attended his own adventures within the fortress; — the monk’s prediction of Bianchi’s death, and his evil tidings respecting Ellena, at the very hour when she had been seized and carried from her home. The longer he considered these several instances, as they were now connected in his mind, with the certainty of Schedoni’s evil disposition towards him, the more he was inclined to believe, notwithstanding the voice of seeming truth which had just affirmed the contrary, that the unknown person was Schedoni himself, and that he had been employed by the Marchesa, to prevent Vivaldi’s visits to Villa Altieri. Being thus an agent in the events of which he had warned Vivaldi, he was too well enabled to predict them. Vivaldi paused upon the remembrance of Signor Bianchi’s death; he considered the extraordinary and dubious cirumstances that had attended it, and shuddered as a new conjecture crossed his mind. — The thought was too dreadful to be permitted, and he dismissed it instantly.

Of the conversation, however, which he had afterwards held with the Confessor in the Marchesa’s cabinet, he recollected many particulars that served to renew his doubts as to the identity of the stranger; the behaviour of Schedoni when he was obliquely challenged for the monk of Paluzzi, still appeared that of a man unconscious of disguise; and above all, Vivaldi was struck with the seeming candour of his having pointed out a circumstance, which removed the probability that the stranger was a brother of the Santa del Pianto.

Some particulars, also, of the stranger’s conduct did not agree with what might have been expected from Schedoni, even though the Confessor had really been Vivaldi’s enemy; a circumstance which the latter was no longer permitted to doubt. Nor did those particular circumstances accord, as he was inclined to believe, with the manner of a being of this world; and, when Vivaldi considered the suddenness and mystery, with which the stranger had always appeared and retired, he felt disposed to adopt again one of his earliest conjectures, which undoubtedly the horrors of his present abode disposed his imagination to admit, as those of his former situation in the vaults of Paluzzi, together with a youthful glow of curiosity concerning the marvellous, had before contributed to impress them upon his mind.

He concluded his present reflections as he had began them — in doubt and perplexity; but at length found a respite from thought and from suffering in sleep.

Midnight had been passed in the vaults of the Inquisition; but it was probably not yet two o’clock, when he was imperfectly awakened by a sound, which he fancied proceeded from within his chamber. He raised himself to discover what had occasioned the noise; it was, however, impossible to discern any object, for all was dark, but he listened for a return of the sound. The wind only, was heard moaning among the inner buildings of the prison, and Vivaldi concluded, that his dream had mocked him with a mimic voice.

Satisfied with this conclusion, he again laid his head on his pillow of straw, and soon sunk into a slumber. The subject of his waking thoughts still haunted his imagination, and the stranger, whose voice he had this night recognized as that of the monk of Paluzzi, appeared before him. Vivaldi, on perceiving the figure of this unknown, felt, perhaps, nearly the same degrees of awe, curiosity, and impatience that he would have suffered, had he beheld the substance of this shadow. The monk, whose face was still shrowded, he thought advanced, till, having come within a few paces of Vivaldi, he paused, and, lifting the awful cowl that had hitherto concealed him, disclosed — not the countenance of Schedoni, but one which Vivaldi did not recollect ever having seen before! It was not less interesting to curiosity, than striking to the feelings. Vivaldi at the first glance shrunk back; — something of that strange and indescribable air, which we attach to the idea of a supernatural being, prevailed over the features; and the intense and fiery eyes resembled those of an evil spirit, rather than of a human character. He drew a poniard from beneath a fold of his garment, and, as he displayed it, pointed with a stern frown to the spots which discoloured the blade; Vivaldi perceived they were of blood! He turned away his eyes in horror, and, when he again looked round in his dream, the figure was gone.

A groan awakened him, but what were his feelings, when, on looking up, he perceived the same sigure standing before him! It was not, however, immediately that he could convince himself the appearance was more than the phantom of his dream, strongly impressed upon an alarmed fancy. The voice of the monk, for his face was as usual concealed, recalled Vivaldi from his error; but his emotion cannot easily be conceived, when the stranger, slowly lifting that mysterious cowl, discovered to him the same awful countenance, which had characterized the vision in his slumber. Unable to inquire the occasion of this appearance, Vivaldi gazed in astonishment and terror, and did not immediately observe, that, instead of a dagger, the monk held a lamp, which gleamed over every deep furrow of his features, yet left their shadowdy markings to hint the passions and the history of an extraordinary life.

“You are spared for this night,” said the stranger, “but for tomorrow” — he paused.

“In the name of all that is most sacred,” said Vivaldi, endeavouring to recollect his thoughts, “who are you, and what is your errand?”

“Ask no questions,” replied the monk, solemnly;— “but answer me.”

Vivaldi was struck by the tone, with which he said this, and dared not to urge the inquiry at the present moment.

“How long have you known father Schedoni?” continued the stranger, “Where did you first meet?

“I have known him about a year, as my mother’s Confessor,” replied Vivaldi. “I first saw him in a corridor of the Vivaldi palace; it was evening, and he was returning from the Marchesa’s closet.”

“Are you certain as to this?” said the monk, with peculiar emphasis. “It is of consequence that you should be so.”

“I am certain,” repeated Vivaldi.

“It is strange,” observed the monk, after a pause, “that a circumstance, which must have appeared trivial to you at the moment, should have left so strong a mark on your memory! In two years we have time to forget many things!” He sighed as he spoke.

“I remember the circumstance,” said Vivaldi, “because I was struck with his appearance; the evening was far advanced — it was dusk, and he came upon me suddenly. His voice startled me; as he passed he said to himself— “It is for vespers.” At the same time I heard the bell of the Spirito Santo.”

“Do you know who he is?” said the stranger, solemnly.

“I know only what he appears to be,” replied Vivaldi.

“Did you never hear any report of his past life?”

“Never,” answered Vivaldi.

“Never any thing extraordinary concerning him,” added the monk.

Vivaldi paused a moment; for he now recollected the obscure and imperfect story, which Paulo had related while they were confined in the dungeon of Paluzzi, respecting a confession made in the church of the Black Penitents; but he could not presume to affirm, that it concerned Schedoni. He remembered also the monk’s garments, stained with blood, which he had discovered in the vaults of that fort. The conduct of the mysterious being, who now stood before him, with many other particulars of his own adventures there, passed like a vision over his memory. His mind resembled the glass of a magician, on which the apparitions of long-buried events arise, and as they fleet away, point portentously to shapes half-hid in the duskiness of futurity. An unusual dread seized upon him; and a superstition, such as he had never before admitted in an equal degree, usurped his judgment. He looked up to the shadowy countenance of the stranger; and almost believed he beheld an inhabitant of the world of spirits.

The monk spoke again, repeating in a feverer tone, “Did you never hear any thing extraordinary concerning father Schedoni?”

“Is it reasonable,” said Vivaldi, recollecting his courage, “that I should answer the questions, the minute questions, of a person who refuses to tell me even his name?”

“My name is passed away — it is no more remembered,” replied the stranger, turning from Vivaldi,— “I leave you to your fate.”

“What fate?” asked Vivaldi, “and what is the purpose of this visit? I conjure you, in the tremendous name of the Inquisition, to say!”

“You will know full soon; have mercy on yourself!”

“What fate?” repeated Vivaldi.

“Urge me no further,” said the stranger; “but answer to what I shall demand. Schedoni— “

“I have told all that I certainly know concerning him,” interrupted Vivaldi, “the rest is only conjecture.”

“What is that conjecture? Does it relate to a consession made in the church of the Black Penitents of the Santa Maria del Pianto?

“It does!” replied Vivaldi with surprise.

“What was that confession?”

“I know not,” answered Vivaldi.

“Declare the truth,” said the stranger, sternly.

“A confession,” replied Vivaldi, “is sacred, and forever buried in the bosom of the priest to whom it is made. How, then, is it to be supposed, that I can be acquainted with the subject of this?”

“Did you never hear, that father Schedoni had been guilty of some great crimes, which he endeavours to erase from his conscience by the severity of penance?”

“Never!” said Vivaldi.

“Did you never hear that he had a wife — a brother?”

“Never!”

“Nor the means he used — no hint of — murder, of— “

The stranger paused, as if he wished Vivaldi to fill up his meaning, Vivaldi was silent and aghast.

“You know nothing then, of Schedoni,” resumed the monk after a deep pause— “nothing of his past life?

“Nothing, except what I have mentioned,” replied Vivaldi.

“Then listen to what I shall unfold!” continued the monk, with solemnity. “Tomorrow night you will be again carried to the place of torture; you will be taken to a chamber beyond that in which you were this night. You will there witness many extraordinary things, of which you have not now any suspicion. Be not dismayed; I shall be there, though, perhaps, not visible.”

“Not visible!” exclaimed Vivaldi.

“Interrupt me not, but listen. — When you are asked of father Schedoni, say — that he has lived for fifteen years in the disguise of a monk, a member of the Dominicans of the Spirito Santo, at Naples. When you are asked who he is, reply — Ferando Count di Bruno. You will be asked the motive, for such disguise. In reply to this, refer them to the Black Penitents of the Santa Maria del Pianto, near that city; bid the inquisitors summon before their tribunal one father Ansaldo di Rovalli, the grand penitentiary of the society, and command him to divulge the crimes confessed to him in the year 1752, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of April, which was then the vigil of Santo Marco, in a confessional of the Santa del Pianto.”