Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “My son!” ejaculated the woman, now again trembling from head to foot, and surveying Nisida’s countenance in a manner denoting the acutest suspense.

  “Your son is wounded—mortally wounded in a street skirmish——”

  “Wounded!” shrieked Margaretha. “Oh, dear lady—tell me all—tell me the worst! What has happened to my unfortunate son? He is dead—he is dead! Your manner convinces me that hope is past!”

  And she wrung her hands bitterly, while tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

  “No, he is not dead, Margaretha!” exclaimed Nisida; “but he is dying—and he implored me, by everything I deemed sacred, to hasten thither and fetch you to him, that he may receive your blessing and close his eyes in peace.”

  “In peace!” repeated the old woman bitterly: then, to herself she said, “Donna Nisida suspects not his perfidy—knows not all his wickedness.”

  “Delay not,” urged the lady, perceiving what was passing in her mind. “You are well aware that my brother, who, alas! has disappeared most mysteriously, dismissed Antonio abruptly from his service many months ago; but, whatever were the cause, it is forgotten, at least by me. So tarry not, but prepare to accompany me.”

  Margaretha hastened to her bedroom, and reappeared in a few minutes, completely dressed and ready to issue forth.

  “Keep close by me,” said Nisida, as she opened the house-door; “and breathe not a word as we pass through the streets. I have reasons of my own for assuming a disguise, and I wish not to be recognized.”

  Margaretha was too much absorbed in the contemplation of the afflicting intelligence which she had received, to observe anything at all suspicious in these injunctions; and thus it was that the two females proceeded in silence through the streets leading toward the Riverola mansion.

  By means of a pass-key Nisida opened the wicket-gate of the spacious gardens, and she traversed the grounds, Margaretha walking by her side. In a few minutes they reached a low door, affording admission into the basement-story of the palace, and of which Nisida always possessed the key.

  “Go first,” said the lady, in a scarcely audible whisper; “I must close the door behind us.”

  “But wherefore this way?” demanded Margaretha, a sudden apprehension starting up in her mind. “This door leads down to the cellars.”

  “The officers of justice are in search of Antonio—and I am concealing him for your sake,” was the whispered and rapid assurance given by Nisida. “Would you have him die in peace in your arms, or perish on the scaffold?”

  Margaretha shuddered convulsively, and hurried down the dark flight of stone steps upon which the door opened. Terrible emotions raged in her bosom—indescribable alarms, grief, suspicion, and also a longing eagerness to put faith in the apparent friendship of Nisida.

  “Give me your hand,” said the lady; and the hand that was thrust into hers was cold and trembling.

  Then Nisida hurried Margaretha along a narrow subterranean passage, in which the blackest night reigned; and, though the old woman was a prey to apprehensions that increased each moment to a fearful degree, she dared not utter a word either to question—to implore—or to remonstrate. At length they stopped; and Nisida, dropping Margaretha’s hand, drew back heavy bolts which raised ominous echoes in the vaulted passage. In another moment a door began to move stubbornly on its hinges; and almost at the same time a faint light gleamed forth—increasing in power as the door opened wider, but still attaining no greater strength than that which a common iron lamp could afford. Margaretha’s anxious glances were plunged into the cellar or vault to which the door opened, and whence the light came: but she saw no one within. It, however, appeared as if some horrible reminiscence, connected with the place, came back to her startled mind; for, falling on her knees, and clinging wildly to her companion, she cried in a piercing tone, “Oh! lady, wherefore have you brought me hither?—where is my son?—what does all this horrible mystery mean? But, chiefly now of all—why, why are we here—at this hour?”

  “In a few moments you shall know more!” exclaimed Nisida; and as she spoke, with an almost superhuman strength she dragged, or rather, flung the prostrate woman into the vault, rushing in herself immediately afterward, and closing the door behind her.

  “Holy God!” shrieked Margaretha, gazing wildly round the damp and naked walls of solid masonry, and then up at the lamp suspended to the arched ceiling, “is this the place? But no! you are ignorant of all that; it was not for that you brought me hither! Speak, lady, speak! Where is Antonio? What have I done to merit your displeasure? Oh, mercy! mercy! Bend not those terrible glances upon me! Your eyes flash fire! You are not Nisida—you are an evil spirit! Oh, mercy! mercy!”

  And thus did the miserable woman rave, as, kneeling on the cold, damp ground she extended her tightly-clasped hands in an imploring manner toward Nisida, who, drawn up to her full height, was contemplating the groveling wretch with eyes that seemed to shoot forth shafts of devouring flame! Terrible, indeed, was the appearance of Nisida! Like to an avenging deity was she—no longer woman in the glory of her charms and the elegance of her disguise, but a fury—a very fiend, an implacable demoness, armed with the blasting lightnings of infernal malignity and hellish rancor!

  “Holy Virgin, protect me!” shrieked Margaretha, every nerve thrilling with the agony of ineffable alarm.

  “Yes, call upon Heaven to aid you, vile woman!” said Nisida, in a thick, hoarse, and strangely altered voice, “for you are beyond the reach of human aid! Know ye whose remains—or rather the mangled portions of whose remains—lie in this unconsecrated ground? Ah! well may you start in horror and surprise, for I know all—all!”

  A terrific scream burst from the lips of Margaretha; and she threw her wild looks around as if she were going mad.

  “Detestable woman!” exclaimed Nisida, fixing her burning eyes more intently still on Margaretha’s countenance: “you are now about to pay the penalty of your complicity in the most odious crimes that ever made nights terrible in Florence! The period of vengeance has at length arrived! But I must torture ere I slay ye! Yes, I must give thee a foretaste of that hell to which your soul is so soon to plunge down! Know, then, that Antonio—your son Antonio—is no more. Not three hours have elapsed since he was slain—assassinated—murdered, if you will so call it—and by my commands.”

  “Oh! lady, have pity upon me—pity upon me, a bereaved mother!” implored the old woman, in a voice of anguish so penetrating, that vile as she was, it would have moved any human being save Nisida. “Do not kill me—and I will end my miserable days in a convent! Give me time to repent of all my sins—for they are numerous and great! Oh! spare me, dear lady—have mercy upon me—have mercy upon me!”

  “What mercy had you on them whose mangled remains are buried in the ground beneath your feet?” demanded Nisida, in a voice almost suffocated with rage. “Prepare for death—your last moment is at hand!” and a bright dagger flashed in the lamp-light.

  “Mercy—mercy!” exclaimed Margaretha, springing forward, and grasping Nisida’s knees.

  “I know not what mercy is!” cried the terrible Italian woman, raising the long, bright, glittering dagger over her head.

  “Holy God! protect me! Lady—dear lady, have pity upon me!” shrieked the agonized wretch, her countenance hideously distorted, and appallingly ghastly, as it was raised in such bitterly earnest appeal toward that of the avengeress. “Again I say mercy—mercy!”

  “Die, fiend!” exclaimed Nisida; and the dagger, descending with lightning speed, sunk deep into the bosom of the prostrate victim. A dreadful cry burst from the lips of the wretched woman; and she fell back—a corpse!

  “Oh! my dear—my well-beloved and never-to-be-forgotten mother!” said Nisida, falling upon her knees by the side of the body, and gazing intently upward—as if her eyes could pierce the entire building overhead, and catch a glimpse of the spirit of the parent whom she thus apostrophized—“pardon me—pardon me for this deed! Thou didst enj
oin me to abstain from vengeance—but when I thought of all thy wrongs, the contemplation drove me mad—and an irresistible power—a force which I could not resist—has hurried me on to achieve the punishment of this wretch who was so malignant an enemy of thine; dearest mother, pardon me—look not down angrily on thy daughter!”

  Then Nisida gave way to all the softer emotion which attended the reaction that her mind was now rapidly undergoing, after being so highly strung, as for the last few hours it was—and her tears fell in torrents. For some minutes she remained in her kneeling position, and weeping, till she grew afraid—yes, afraid of being in that lonely place, with the corpse stretched on the ground—a place, too, which for other reasons awoke such terrible recollections in her mind.

  Starting to her feet—and neither waiting to extinguish the lamp, which she herself had lighted at an early period of the night, nor to withdraw her dagger from the bosom of the murdered Margaretha—Nisida fled from the vault, and regained her own apartment in safety, and unperceived.

  *****

  When morning dawned, Nisida rose from a couch in which she had obtained two hours of troubled slumber, and, having hastily dressed herself, proceeded to the chamber of her brother Francisco.

  But he was not there—nor had his bed been slept in during the past night.

  “He is searching after his Flora,” thought Nisida. “Alas, poor youth—how it grieves me thus to be compelled to thwart thee in thy love! But my oath—and thine interests, Francisco, demand this conduct on my part. And better—better it is that thou shouldst hear from strangers the terrible tidings that thy Flora is a prisoner in the dungeon of the inquisition, where she can issue forth only to proceed to the stake! Yes—and better, too, is it that she should die, than that this marriage shall be accomplished!”

  Nisida quitted the room, and repaired to the apartment where the morning repast was served up.

  A note, addressed to herself, lay upon the table. She instantly recognized the handwriting of Dr. Duras, tore open the billet, and read the contents as follows:

  “My brother Angelo came to me very late last night and informed me that a sense of imperious duty compelled him to change his mind relative to the two women Francatelli. He accordingly appeared on their behalf, and obtained a delay of eight days. But nothing can save them from condemnation at the end of this period, unless indeed immense interests be made on their account with the duke. My brother alone deserves your blame, dear friend; let not your anger fall on your affectionate and devoted servant.

  “Jeronymo Duras.”

  Nisida bit her lips with vexation. She now regretted she had effected the liberation of Francisco before she was convinced that Flora was past the reach of human mercy;—but, in the next moment she resumed her haughty composure, as she said within herself, “My brother may essay all his influence: but mine shall prevail!”

  Scarcely had she established this determination in her mind, when the door was burst open, and Francisco—pale, ghastly, and with eyes wandering wildly—staggered into the apartment.

  Nisida, who really felt deeply on his account, sprung forward—received him in her arms—and supported him to a seat.

  “Oh! Nisida, Nisida!” he exclaimed aloud, in a tone expressive of deep anguish; “what will become of your unfortunate brother? But it is not you who have done this! No—for you were not in Florence at the time which beheld the cruel separation of Flora and myself!”

  And, throwing himself on his sister’s neck, he burst into tears. He had apostrophized her in the manner just related, not because he fancied that she could hear or understand him; but because he forgot, in the maddening paroxysms of his grief, that Nisida was (as he believed) deaf and dumb! She wound her arms round him—she pressed him to her bosom—she covered his pale forehead with kisses; while her heart bled at the sight of his alarming sorrow.

  Suddenly he started up—flung his arms wildly about—and exclaimed, in a frantic voice, “Bring me my steel panoply! give me my burgonet—my cuirass—and my trusty sword;—and let me arouse all Florence to a sense of its infamy in permitting that terrible inquisition to exist! Bring me my armor, I say—the same sword I wielded on the walls of Rhodes—and I will soon gather a trusty band to aid me!”

  But, overcome with excitement, he fell forward—dashing his head violently upon the floor, before Nisida could save him. She pealed the silver bell that was placed upon the breakfast-table, and assistance soon came. Francisco was immediately conveyed to his chamber—Dr. Duras was sent for—and on his arrival, he pronounced the young nobleman to be laboring under a violent fever. The proper medical precautions were adopted; and the physician was in a few hours able to declare that Francisco was in no imminent danger, but that several days would elapse ere he could possibly become convalescent. Nisida remained by his bedside, and was most assiduous—most tender—most anxious in her attentions toward him; and when he raved, in his delirium, of Flora and the inquisition, it went to her very heart to think that she was compelled by a stern necessity to abstain from exerting her influence to procure the release of one whose presence would prove of far greater benefit to the sufferer than all the anodynes and drugs which the skill of Dr. Duras might administer!

  CHAPTER LXII.

  THE SICK-ROOM—FLORENCE IN DISMAY.

  It was about an hour past daybreak on the 1st of October,—five days after the incidents related in the three preceding chapters. Nisida, worn out with long watchings and vigils in her brother’s chamber, had retired to her own apartment; but not before she had seen Francisco fall into a sleep which, under the influence of a narcotic ordered by the physician, promised to be long and soothing. The lady had not quitted the chamber of the invalid ten minutes, when the door was slightly opened; and some one’s looks were plunged rapidly and searchingly into the room:—then the visitor, doubtless satisfied by the result of his survey, stole cautiously in.

  He advanced straight up to the table which stood near the bed, drew a small vial from the bosom of his doublet—and poured its crystal contents into the beverage prepared to quench the thirst of the invalid. Then, as he again secured the vial about his person, he murmured, “The medicament of Christian Rosencrux will doubtless work greater wonders than those of Dr. Duras, skilled though the latter be!”

  Having thus mused to himself, the visitor shook Francisco gently; and the young count awoke, exclaiming petulantly that he was athirst. A goblet of the beverage containing the Rosicrucian fluid, was immediately conveyed to his lips, and he drank the refreshing draught with eagerness.

  The effect was marvelous, indeed;—a sudden tinge of healthy red appeared upon the cheeks a moment before so ashy pale—and fire once more animated the blue eyes—and Francisco recovered complete consciousness and self-possession for the first time since the dread morning when he was attacked with a dangerous illness.

  He closed his eyes for a few minutes; and when he opened them again, he was surprised to perceive by his bedside a young, well-attired, and very handsome man, whose countenance appeared to be familiar to him.

  “Count of Riverola,” said the visitor, bending over him, and speaking in a low but kind tone, “despair not! Succor is at hand—and ere forty-eight hours shall have passed away, your well-beloved Flora will be free!”

  Joy lighted up the countenance of the young nobleman, as these delightful words met his ears; and, seizing his consoler’s hand, he exclaimed:

  “A thousand thanks for this assurance! But, have we not met before?—or was it in those wild dreams which have haunted my imagination that I have seen thee?”

  “Yes—we have met before, count,” was the reply. “Dost thou not remember Fernand Wagner?”

  Francisco passed his hand across his brow, as if to settle his scattered thoughts: then, at the expiration of a few moments, he said: “Oh! yes—I recollect you—I know that I had conceived a great friendship for you, when some strange incident—I cannot remember what, and it is of no matter—parted us!”

  “
Do not excite yourself too much by racking your memory to decipher the details of the past,” returned Wagner. “I dare not stay another minute with you now: therefore listen attentively to what more I have to say. Yield yourself not up to despondency—on the contrary, cherish every hope that is dear to you. Within a few days Flora shall be yours! Yes—solemnly do I assure you that all shall take place as I affirm. But YOUR agency is not needed to insure her liberation: Heaven will make use of OTHER means. Compose your mind, then,—and suffer not yourself to be tortured by vain fears as to the future. Above all, keep my visit to thee a profound secret—intimate not to thy sister Nisida that thou hast seen me. Follow my counsel in all these respects—and happiness is in store for thee!”

  Fernand pressed the young count’s hand warmly as he terminated these rapidly delivered injunctions, and then retreated from the chamber ere the invalid had time to utter a syllable indicative of his gratitude.

  But how different was Francisco now—how different did Nisida find him, on her return to his room, from what he was when she had left him two hours before! Nor less was Dr. Duras astonished, at his next visit, to perceive that his patient had made in those two hours as rapid strides toward convalescence as he could barely have hoped to see accomplished in a week.

  In obedience to a hint rapidly conveyed by a signal from Nisida to the physician, the latter touched gently upon the subject of Flora Francatelli; but Francisco, resolute in his endeavors to follow the advice of Fernand Wagner, and to avoid all topics calculated to excite, responded briefly, and immediately spoke on another matter.

  But he did not think the less deeply on that interesting subject. No; he cherished the image of his Flora, and the hope of being yet united to her, with an enthusiasm which a love so ardent as his passion alone could feel.