Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (216 page)

“It is probable he may have forgotten such confession, at this distance of time,” observed Vivaldi.

“Fear not but he will remember,” replied the stranger.

“But will his conscience suffer him to betray the secrets of a confession?” said Vivaldi.

“The tribunal command, and his conscience is absolved,” answered the monk, “He may not refuse to obey! You are further to direct your examiners to summon father Schedoni, to answer for the crimes which Ansaldo shall reveal.” The monk paused, and seemed waiting the reply of Vivaldi, who, after a momentary consideration, said,

“How can I do all this, and upon the instigation of a stranger! Neither conscience nor prudence will suffer me to assert what I cannot prove. It is true that I have reason to believe Schedoni is my bitter enemy, but I will not be unjust even to him. I have no proof that he is the Count di Bruno, nor that he is the perpetrator of the crimes you allude to, whatever those may be; and I will not be made an instrument to summon any man before a tribunal, where innocence is no protection from ignominy, and where suspicion alone may inflict death.”

“You doubt, then, the truth of what I assert?” said the monk, in a haughty tone.

“Can I believe that of which I have no proof?” replied Vivaldi.

“Yes, there are cases which do not admit of proof; under your peculiar circumstances, this is one of them; you can act only upon assertion. I attest,” continued the monk, raising his hollow voice to a tone of singular solemnity, “I attest the powers which are beyond this earth, to witness to the truth of what I have delivered!”

As the stranger uttered this adjuration, Vivaldi observed, with emotion, the extraordinary expression of his eyes; Vivaldi’s presence of mind, however, did not forsake him, and, in the next moment, he said, “But who is he that thus attests? It is upon the assertion of a stranger that I am to rely, in defect of proof! It is a stranger who calls upon me to bring solemn charges against a man, of whose guilt I know nothing!”

“You are not required to bring charges, you are only to summon him who will.”

“I should still assist in bringing forward accusations, which may be founded in error,” replied Vivaldi. “If you are convinced of their truth, why do not you summon Ansaldo yourself!”

“I shall do more,” said the monk.

“But why not summon also?” urged Vivaldi.

“I shall appear,” said the stranger, with emphasis.

Vivaldi, though somewhat awed by the manner, which accompanied these words, still urged his inquiries, “As a witness?” said he.

“Aye, as a dreadful witness!” replied the monk.

“But may not a witness summon others before the tribunal of the inquisition?” continued Vivaldi, faulteringly.

“He may,” said the stranger.

“Why then,” observed Vivaldi, “am I, a stranger to you, called upon to do that which you could perform yourself?”

“Ask no further,” said the monk, “but answer, whether you will deliver the summons?”

“The charges, which must follow,” replied Vivaldi, “appear to be of a nature too solemn to justify my promoting them. I resign the task to you.”

“When I summon,” said the stranger, “you shall obey!”

Vivaldi, again awed by his manner, again justified his refusal, and concluded with repeating his surprize, that he should be required to assist in this mysterious affair, “Since I neither know you, father,” he added, “nor the Penitentiary Ansaldo, whom you bid me admonish to appear.”

“You shall know me hereafter,” said the stranger, frowningly; and he drew from beneath his garment a dagger!

Vivaldi remembered his dream.

“Mark those spots,” said the monk.

Vivaldi looked, and beheld blood!

“This blood, added the stranger, pointing to the blade, “would have saved your’s! Here is some print of truth! Tomorrow night you will meet me in the chambers of death!”

As he spoke, he turned away; and, before Vivaldi had recovered from his consternation, the light disappeared. Vivaldi knew that the stranger had quitted the prison, only by the silence which prevailed there.

He remained sunk in thought, till, at the dawn of day, the man, on watch, unfastened the door of his cell, and brought, as usual, a jug of water, and some bread. Vivaldi inquired the name of the stranger who had visited him in the night. The centinel looked surpized, and Vivaldi repeated the question before he could obtain an answer.

“I have been on guard since the first hour,” said the man, and no person, in that time, has passed through this door!”

Vivaldi regarded the centinel with attention, while he made this assertion, and did not perceive in his manner any consciousness of falshood; yet he knew not how to believe what he had affirmed. “Did you hear no noise, either?” said Vivaldi. “Has all been silent during the night?”

“I have heard only the bell of San Dominico strike upon the hour,” replied the man, “and the watch word of the centinels.”

“This is incomprehensible!” exclaimed Vivaldi, “What! no footsteps, no voice?”

The man smiled contemptuously. “None, but of the centinels,” he replied.

“How can you be certain you heard only the centinel’s, friend?” added Vivaldi.

“They speak only to pass the watch word, and the clash of their arms is heard at the same time.”

“But their footsteps! — how are they distinguished from those of other persons?”

“By the heaviness of their tread; our sandals are braced with iron. But why these questions, Signor?”

“You have kept guard at the door of this chamber?” said Vivaldi.

“Yes, Signor.”

“And you have not once heard, during the whole night, a voice from within it?”

“None, Signor.”

“Fear nothing from discovery, friend; confess that you have slumbered.”

“I had a comrade,” replied the centinel, angrily, “has he, too, slumbered! and if he had, how could admittance be obtained without our keys?”

“And those might easily have been procured, friend, if you were overcome with sleep. You may rely upon my promise of secrecy.”

“What!” said the man, “have I kept guard for three years in the Inquisition, to be suspected, by a heretic, of neglecting my duty?”

“If you were suspected by an heretic,” replied Vivaldi, “you ought to console yourself by recollecting that his opinions are considered to be erroneous.”

“We were watchful every minute of the night,” said the centinel, going.

“This is incomprehensible!” said Vivaldi, “By what means could the stranger have entered my prison?”

“Signor, you still dream!” replied the centinel, pausing, “No person has been here.”

“Still dream!” repeated Vivaldi, “how do you know that I have dreamt at all?” His mind deeply affected by the extraordinary circumstances of the dream, and the yet more extraordinary incident that had followed, Vivaldi gave a meaning to the words of the centinel, which did not belong to them.

“When people sleep, they are apt to dream,” replied the man, dryly. “I supposed you had slept, Signor.”

“A person, habited like a monk, came to me in the night, “resumed Vivaldi, and he described the appearance of the stranger. The centinel, while he listened, became grave and thoughtful.

“Do you know any person resembling the one I have mentioned,” said Vivaldi.

“No!” replied the guard.

“Though you have not seen him enter my prison,” continued Vivaldi, “you may, perhaps, recollect such a person, as an inhabitant of the Inquisition.”

“San Dominico forbid!”

Vivaldi, surprized at this exclamation, inquired the reason for it.

“I know him not,” replied the centinel, changing countenance, and he abruptly left the prison. Whatever consideration might occasion this sudden departure, his assertion that he had been for three years a guard of the Inquisition could scarcely be credited, since he had held so long a dialogue with a prisoner, and was, apparently, insensible of the danger he incurred by so doing.

Chapter 2
6

— “Is it not dead midnight?
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear?”
Shakespeare.

At about the same hour, as on the preceding night, Vivaldi heard persons approaching his prison, and, the door unfolding, his former conductors appeared. They threw over him the same mantle as before, and, in addition, a black veil, that completely muffled his eyes; after which, they led him from the chamber. Vivaldi heard the door shut, on his departure, and the centinels followed his steps, as if their duty was finished, and he was to return thither no more. At this moment, he remembered the words of the stranger when he had displayed the poniard, and Vivaldi apprehended the worst, from having thwarted the designs of a person apparently so malignant; but he exulted in the rectitude, which had preserved him from debasement, and, with the magnanimous enthusiasm of virtue, he almost welcomed sufferings, which would prove the firmness of his justice towards an enemy; for he determined to brave every thing, rather than impute to Schedoni circumstances, the truth of which he possessed no means of ascertaining.

While Vivaldi was conducted, as on the preceding night, through many passages, he endeavoured to discover, by their length, and the abruptness of their turnings, whether they were the same he had traversed before. Suddenly, one of his conductors cried “Steps!” It was the first word Vivaldi had ever heard him utter. He immediately perceived that the ground sunk, and he began to descend; as he did which, he tried to count the number of the steps, that he might form some judgment whether this was the flight he had passed before. When he had reached the bottom, he inclined to believe that it was not so; and the care which had been observed in blinding him, seemed to indicate that he was going to some new place.

He passed through several avenues, and then ascended; soon after which, he again descended a very long staircase, such as he had not any remembrance of, and they passed over a considerable extent of level ground. By the hollow sounds which his steps returned, he judged that he was walking over vaults. The footsteps of the centinels who had followed from the cell were no longer heard, and he seemed to be left with his conductors only. A second flight appeared to lead him into subterraneous vaults, for he perceived the air change, and felt a damp vapour wrap round him. The menace of the monk, that he should meet him in the chambers of death, frequently occurred to Vivaldi.

His conductors stopped in this vault, and seemed to hold a consultation, but they spoke in such low accents, that their words were not distinguishable, except a few unconnected ones, that hinted of more than Vivaldi could comprehend. He was, at length, again led forward; and soon after, he heard the heavy grating of hinges, and perceived that he was passing through several doors, by the situation of which Vivaldi judged they were the same he had entered the night before, and concluded, that he was going to the hall of the tribunal.

His conductors stopped again, and Vivaldi heard the iron rod strike three times upon a door; immediately a strange voice spoke from within, and the door was unclosed. Vivaldi passed on, and imagined that he was admitted into a spacious vault; for the air was freer, and his steps sounded to a distance.

Presently, a voice, as on the preceding night, summoned him to come forward, and Vivaldi understood that he was again before the tribunal. It was the voice of the inquisitor who had been his chief examiner.

“You, Vincentio di Vivaldi,” it said, “answer to your name, and to the questions which shall be put to you, without equivocation, on pain of the torture.”

As the monk had predicted, Vivaldi was asked what he knew of father Schedoni, and, when he replied, as he had formerly done to his mysterious visitor, he was told that he knew more than he acknowledged.

“I know no more,” replied Vivaldi.

“You equivocate,” said the inquisitor. “Declare what you have heard, and remember that you formerly took an oath to that prupose.”

Vivaldi was silent, till a tremendous voice from the tribunal commanded him to respect his oath.

“I do respect it,” said Vivaldi; “and I conjure you to believe that I also respect truth, when I declare, that what I am going to relate, is a report to which I give no confidence, and concerning even the probability of which I cannot produce the smallest proof.”

“Respect truth!” said another voice from the tribunal, and Vivaldi fancied he distinguished the tones of the monk. He paused a moment, and the exhortation was repeated. Vivaldi then related what the stranger had said concerning the family of Schedoni, and the disguise which the father had assumed in the convent of the Spirito Santo; but forbore even to name the penitentiary Ansaldo, and any circumstance connected with the extraordinary confession. Vivaldi concluded, with again declaring, that he had not sufficient authority to justify a belief in those reports.

“On what authority do you repeat them?” said the vicar-general.

Vivaldi was silent.

“On what authority?” inquired the inquisitor, sternly.

Vivaldi, after a momentary hesitation, said, “What I am about to declare, holy fathers, is so extraordinary— “

“Tremble!” said a voice close to his ear, which he instantly knew to be the monk’s, and the suddenness of which electrified him. He was unable to conclude the sentence.

“What is your authority for the reports” demanded the inquisitor.

“It is unknown, even to myself!” answered Vivaldi.

“Do not equivocate!” said the vicar-general.

“I solemnly protest” rejoined Vivaldi, “that I know not either the name or the condition of my informer, and that I never even beheld his face, till the period when he spoke of father Schedoni.”

“Tremble!” repeated the same low, but emphatic voice in his ear. Vivaldi started, and turned involuntarily towards the sound, though his eyes could not assist his curiosity.

“You did well to say, that you had something extraordinary to add,” observed the inquisitor. “‘Tis evident, also, that you expected something extraordinary from your judges, since you supposed they would credit these assertions.”

Vivaldi was too proud to attempt the justifying himself against so gross an accusation, or to make any reply.

“Why do you not summon father Ansaldo?” said the voice. “Remember my words!”

Vivaldi, again awed by the voice, hesitated, for an instant, how to act, and in that instant his courage returned.

“My informer stands beside me!” said Vivaldi, boldy; “I know his voice! Detain him; it is of consequence.”

“Whose voice?” demanded the inquisitor. “No person spoke but myself!”

“Whose voice?” said the vicar-general.

“The voice was close beside me,” replied Vivaldi. “It spoke low, but I knew it well.”

“This is either the cunning, or the frenzy of despair!” observed the vicar-general.

“Not any person is now beside you, except the familiars,” said the inquisitor, “and they wait to do their office, if you shall refuse to answer the questions put to you.”

“I persist in my assertion,” replied Vivaldi; “and I supplicate that my eyes may be unbound, that I may know my enemy.”

The tribunal, after a long private consultation, granted the request; the veil was withdrawn, and Vivaldi perceived beside him — only the familiars! Their faces, as is usual, were concealed. It appeared that one of these torturers must be the mysterious enemy, who pursued him, if, indeed, that enemy was an inhabitant of the earth! and Vivaldi requested that they might be ordered to uncover their features. He was sternly rebuked for so presumptuous a requisition, and reminded of the inviolable law and faith, which the tribunal had pledged, that persons appointed to their awful office should never be exposed to the revenge of the criminal, whom it might be their duty to punish.

“Their duty!” exclaimed Vivaldi, thrown from his guard by strong indignation. “And is faith held sacred with demons!”

Without awaiting the order of the tribunal, the familiars immediately covered Vivaldi’s face with the veil, and he felt himself in their grasp. He endeavoured, however, to disentangle his hands, and, at length, shook these men from their hold, and again unveiled his eyes; but the familiars were instantly ordered to replace the veil.

The inquisitor bade Vivaldi to recollect in whose presence he then was, and to dread the punishment which his resistance had incurred, and which would be inflicted without delay, unless he could give some instance, that might tend to prove the truth of his late assertions.

“If you expect that I should say more,” replied Vivaldi, “I claim, at least, protection from the unbidden violence of the men who guard me. If they are suffered, at their pleasure, to sport with the misery of their prisoner, I will be inflexibly silent; and, since I must suffer, it shall be according to the laws of the tribunal.”

The vicar-general, or, as he is called, the grand inquisitor, promised Vivaldi the degree of protection he claimed, and demanded, at the same time, what were the words he had just heard.

Vivaldi considered, that, though justice bade him avoid accusing an enemy of suspicious circumstances, concerning which he had no proof, yet, that neither justice nor common sense required he should make a sacrifice of himself to the dilemma in which he was placed: he, therefore, without further scruple, acknowledged, that the voice had bidden him require of the tribunal to summon one father Ansaldo, the grand penitentiary of the Santa del Pianto, near Naples, and also father Schedoni, who was to answer to extraordinary charges, which would be brought against him by Ansaldo. Vivaldi anxiously and repeatedly declared, that he knew not the nature of the charges, nor that any just grounds for them existed.

These assertions seemed to throw the tribunal into new perplexity. Vivaldi heard their busy voices in low debate, which continued for a considerable time. In this interval, he had leisure to perceive the many improbabilities that either of the familiars should be the stranger who so mysteriously haunted him; and among these was the circumstance of his having resided so long at Naples.

The tribunal, after some time had elapsed in consultation, proceeded on the examination, and Vivaldi was asked what he knew of father Ansaldo. He immediately replied, that Ansaldo was an utter stranger to him, and that he was not even acquainted with a single person residing in the Santa del Pianto or who had any knowledge of the penitentiary.

“How!” said the grand inquisitor.

“You forget that the person, who bade you require of this tribunal to summon Ansaldo, has knowledge of him.”

“Pardon me, I do not forget,” replied Vivaldi; “and I request it may be remembered that I am not acquainted with that person. If, therefore, he had given me any account of Ansaldo, I could not have relied upon its authenticity.” Vivaldi again required of the tribunal to understand that he did not summon Ansaldo, or any other person, before them, but had merely obeyed their command, to repeat what the stranger had said.

The tribunal acknowledged the justness of this injunction, and exculpated him from any harm that should be the consequence of the summons. But this assurance of safety for himself was not sufficient to appease Vivaldi, who was alarmed left he should be the means of bringing an innocent person under suspicion. The grand inquisitor again addressed him, after a general silence had been commanded in the court.

“The account you have given of your informer,” said he, “is so extraordinary, that it would not deserve credit, but that you have discovered the utmost reluctance to reveal the charges he gave you, from which, it appears, that, on your part, at least, the summons is not malicious. But are you certain that you have not deluded yourself, and that the voice beside you was not an imaginary one, conjured up by your agitated spirits?”

“I am certain,” replied Vivaldi, with firmness.

“It is true,” resumed the grand inquisitor, “that several persons were near you, when you exclaimed, that you heard the voice of your informer; yet no person heard it besides yourself!”

“Where are those persons now?” demanded Vivaldi.

“They are dispersed: alarmed at your accusation.”

“If you will summon them,” said Vivaldi, “and order that my eyes may be uncovered, I will point out to you, without hesitation, the person of my informer, should he remain among them.”

The tribunal commanded that they should appear, but new difficulties arose. It was not remembered of whom the crowd consisted; a few individuals only were recollected, and these were summoned.

Vivaldi, in solemn expectation, heard steps and the hum of voices gathering round him, and impatiently awaited for the words that would restore him to sight, and, perhaps, release him from uncertainty. In a few moments, he heard the command given; the veil was once more removed from his eyes, and he was ordered to point out the accuser. Vivaldi threw an hasty glance upon the surrounding strangers.

“The lights burn dimly,” said he, “I cannot distinguish these faces.”

It was ordered that a lamp should be lowered from the roof, and that the strangers should arrange themselves on either side of Vivaldi. When this was done, and he glanced his eyes again upon the crowd, “He is not here!” said Vivaldi; “not one of these countenances resembles the monk of Paluzzi. Yet, stay; who is he that stands in the shade behind those persons on the left? Bid him lift his cowl!”