The consternation was now general; the extraordinary appearance and conduct of the stranger seemed to strike the greater part of the tribunal, a tribunal of the inquisition itself! with dismay. Several of the members rose from their seats; others called aloud for the officials, who kept guard at the doors of the hall, and inquired who had admitted the stranger, while the vicar-general and a few inquisitors conversed privately together, during which they frequently looked at the stranger and at Schedoni, as if they were the subjects of the discourse. Meanwhile the monk remained with the dagger in his grasp, and his eyes fixed on the Confessor, whose face was still averted, and who yet supported himself against the pillar.
At length, the vicar-general called upon the members who had arisen to return to their seats, and ordered that the officials should withdraw to their posts.
“Holy brethren!” said the vicar, “we recommend to you, at this important hour, silence and deliberation. Let the examination of the accused proceed; and hereafter let us inquire as to the admittance of the accuser. For the present, suffer him also to have hearing, and the father Schedoni to reply.
“We suffer him!” answered the tribunal, and bowed their heads.
Vivaldi, who, during the tumult, had ineffectually endeavoured to make himself heard, now profited by the pause which followed the assent of the inquisitors, to claim attention: but the instant he spoke several members impatiently bade that the examination should proceed, and the grand-vicar was again obliged to command silence, before the request of Vivaldi could be understood. Permission to speak being granted him, “That person,” said he, pointing to the stranger, “is the same who visited me in my prison; and the dagger the same he now displays! It was he, who commanded me to summon the penitentiary Ansaldo, and the father Schedoni. I have acquitted myself, and have nothing further to do in this struggle.”
The tribunal was again agitated, and the murmurs of private conversation again prevailed. Meanwhile Schedoni appeared to have recovered some degree of self-command; he raised himself, and, bowing to the tribunal, seemed preparing to speak; but waited till the confusion of sound that filled the hall should subside. At length he could be heard, and, addressing the tribunal, he said,
“Holy fathers! the stranger who is now before you is an impostor! I will prove that my accuser was once my friend; — you may perceive how much the discovery of his perfidy affects me. The charge he brings is most false and malicious!”
“Once the friend!” replied the stranger, with peculiar emphasis, “and what has made me the enemy! View these spots,” he continued, pointing to the blade of the poniard, “are they also false and malicious? are they not, on the contrary, reflected on the conscience?”
“I know them not,” replied Schedoni, “my conscience is unstained.”
“A brother’s blood has stained it!” said the stranger, in a hollow voice.
Vivaldi, whose attention was now fixed upon Schedoni, observed a livid hue overspread his complexion, and that his eyes were averted from this extraordinary person with horror: the spectre of his deceased brother could scarcely have called forth a stronger expression. It was not immediately that he could command his voice; when he could, he again appealed to the tribunal.
“Holy fathers!” said he, “suffer me to defend myself.”
“Holly fathers!” said the accuser, with solemnity, “hear! hear what I shall unfold!”
Schedoni, who seemed to speak by a strong effort only, again addressed the inquisitors; “I will prove,” said he, “that this evidence is not of a nature to be trusted.”
“I will bring such proof to the contrary!” said the monk. “And here,” pointing to Ansaldo, “is sufficient testimony that the Count di Bruno did confess himself guilty of murder.”
The court commanded silence, and upon the appeal of the stranger to Ansaldo, the penitentiary was asked whether he knew him. He replied, that he did not.
“Recollect yourself,” said the grand inquisitor, “it is of the utmost consequence that you should be correct on this point.”
The penitentiary observed the stranger with deep attention, and then repeated his assertion.
“Have you never seen him before?” said an inquisitor.
“Never, to my knowledge!” replied Ansaldo.
The inquisitors looked upon each other in silence.
“He speaks the truth,” said the stranger.
This extraordinary fact did not fail to strike the tribunal, and to astonish Vivaldi. Since the accuser confirmed it, Vivaldi was at a loss to understand the means by which he could have become acquainted with the guilt of Schedoni, who, it was not to be supposed, would have acknowledged crimes of such magnitude as those contained in the accusation, to any person, except, indeed, to his Confessor, and this Confessor, it appeared, was so far from having betrayed his trust to the accuser, that he did not even know him. Vivaldi was no less perplexed as to what would be the nature of the testimony with which the accuser designed to support his charges: but the pause of general amazement, which had permitted Vivaldi these considerations, was now at an end; the tribunal resumed the examination, and the grand inquisitor called aloud,
“You, Vincentio di Vivaldi, answer with exactness to the questions that shall be put to you.”
He was then asked some questions relative to the person, who had visited him in prison. In his answers, Vivaldi was clear and concise, constantly affirming, that the stranger was the same, who now accused Schedoni.
When the accuser was interrogated, he acknowledged, without hesitation, that Vivaldi had spoken the truth. He was then asked his motive for that extraordinary visit.
“It was,” replied the monk, “that a murderer might be brought to justice.”
“This,” observed the grand inquisitor, “might have been accomplished by fair and open accusation. If you had known the charge to be just, it is probable that you would have appealed directly to this tribunal, instead of endeavouring infidiously to obtain an influence over the mind of a prisoner, and urging him to become the instrument of bringing the accused to punishment.”
“Yet I have not shrunk from discovery,” observed the stranger, calmly; “I have voluntarily appeared.”
At these words, Schedoni seemed again much agitated, and even drew his hood over his eyes.
“That is just,” said the grand inquisitor, addressing the stranger: “but you have neither declared your name, or whence you come!”
To this remark the monk made no reply; but Schedoni, with reviving spirit, urged the circumstance, in evidence of the malignity and falshood of the accuser.
“Wilt thou compel me to reveal my proof?” said the stranger: “Darest thou to do so?”
“Why should I fear thee?” answered Schedoni.
“Ask thy conscience!” said the stranger, with a terrible frown.
The tribunal again suspended the examination, and consulted in private together.
To the last exhortation of the monk, Schedoni was silent. Vivaldi observed, that during this short dialogue, the Confessor had never once turned his eyes towards the stranger, but apparently avoided him, as an object too affecting to be looked upon. He judged, from this circumstance, and from some other appearances in his conduct, that Schedoni was guilty; yet the consciousness of guilt alone did not perfectly account, he thought, for the strong emotion, with which he avoided the sight of his accuser — unless, indeed, he knew that accuser to have been, not only an accomplice in his crime, but the actual assassin. In this case, it appeared natural even for the stern and subtle Schedoni to betray his horror, on beholding the person of the murderer, with the very instrument of crime in his grasp. On the other hand, Vivaldi could not but perceive it to be highly improbable, that the very man who had really committed the deed should come voluntarily into a court of justice, for the purpose of accusing his employer; that he should dare publicly to accuse him, whose guilt, however enormous, was not more so than his own.
The extraordinary manner, also, in which the a
ccuser had proceeded in the commencement of the affair, engaged Vivaldi’s consideration; his apparent reluctance to be seen in this process, and the artful and mysterious plan by which he had caused Schedoni to be summoned before the tribunal, and had endeavoured that he should be there accused by Ansaldo, indicated, at least to Vivaldi’s apprehension, the fearfulness of guilt, and, still more, that malice, and a thirst of vengeance, had instigated his conduct in the prosecution. If the stranger had been actuated only by a love of justice, it appeared that he would not have proceeded toward it in a way thus dark and circuitous, but have sought it by the usual process, and have produced the proofs, which he even now asserted he possessed, of Schedoni’s crimes. In addition to the circumstances, which seemed to strengthen a supposition of the guiltlessness of Schedoni, was that of the accuser’s avoiding to acknowledge who he was, and whence he came. But Vivaldi paused again upon this point; it appeared to be inexplicable, and he could not imagine why the accuser had adopted a style of secrecy, which, if he persisted in it, must probably defeat the very purpose of the accusation; for Vivaldi did not believe that the tribunal would condemn a prisoner upon the testimony of a person who, when called upon, should publicly refuse to reveal himself, even to them. Yet the accuser must certainly have considered this circumstance before he ventured into court; notwithstanding which, he had appeared!
These reflections led Vivaldi to various conjectures relative to the visit he had himself received from the monk, the dream that had preceded it, the extraordinary means by which he had obtained admittance to the prison, the declaration of the centinels, that not any person had passed the door, and many other unaccountable particulars; and, while Vivaldi now looked upon the wild physiognomy of the stranger, he almost fancied, as he had formerly done, that he beheld something not of this earth.
“I have heard of the spirit of the murdered,” said he, to himself— “restless for justice, becoming visible in our world— “ But Vivaldi checked the imperfect thought, and, though his imagination inclined him to the marvellous, and to admit ideas which, filling and expanding all the faculties of the soul, produce feelings that partake of the sublime, he now resisted the propensity, and dismissed, as absurd, a supposition, which had begun to thrill his every nerve with horror. He awaited, however, the result of the examination, and what might be the further conduct of the stranger, with intense expectation.
When the tribunal had, at length, finally determined on the method of their proceedings, Schedoni was first called upon, and examined as to his knowledge of the accuser. It was the same inquisitor who had formerly interrogated Vivaldi, that now spoke. “You, father Schedoni, a monk of the Spirito Santo convent, at Naples, otherwise Ferando Count di Bruno, answer to the questions which shall be put to you. Do you know the name of this man who now appears as your accuser?”
“I answer not to the title of Count di Bruno,” replied the Confessor, “but I will declare that I know this man. His name is Nicola di Zampari.”
“What is his condition?”
“He is a monk of the Dominican convent of the Spirito Santo,” replied Schedoni. “Of his family I know little.”
“Where have you seen him?”
“In the city of Naples, where he has resided, during some years, beneath the same roof with me, when I was of the convent of San Angiolo, and since that time, in the Spirito Santo.”
“You have been a resident at the San Angiolo?” said the inquisitor.
“I have,” replied Schedoni; “and it was there that we first lived together in the confidence of friendship.”
“You now perceive how ill placed was that confidence,” said the inquisitor, “and repent, no doubt, of your imprudence?”
The wary Schedoni was not entrapped by this observation.
“I must lament a discovery of ingratitude,” he replied, calmly, “but the subjects of my confidence were too pure to give occasion for repentance.”
“This Nicola di Zampari was ungrateful, then? You had rendered him services?” said the inquisitor.
“The cause of his enmity I can well explain,” observed Schedoni, evading, for the present, the question.
“Explain,” said the stranger, solemnly.
Schedoni hesitated; some sudden consideration seemed to occasion him perplexity.
“I call upon you, in the name of your deceased brother,” said the accuser, “to reveal the cause of my enmity!”
Vivaldi, struck by the tone in which the stranger spoke this, turned his eyes upon him, but knew not how to interpret the emotion visible on his countenance.
The inquisitor commanded Schedoni to explain himself; the latter could not immediately reply, but, when he recovered a self-command, he added,
“I promised this accuser, this Nicola di Zampari, to assist his preferment with what little interest I possessed; it was but little. Some succeeding circumstances encouraged me to believe that I could more than fulfil my promise. His hopes were elevated, and, in the fulness of expectation — he was disappointed, for I was myself deceived, by the person in whom I had trusted. To the disappointment of a choleric man, I am to attribute this unjust accusation.” Schedoni paused, and an air of dissatisfaction and anxiety appeared upon his features. His accuser remained silent, but a malicious smile announced his triumph.
“You must declare, also, the services,” said the inquisitor, “which merited the reward you promised.”
“Those services were inestimable to me,” resumed Schedoni, after a momentary hesitation; “though they cost di Zampari little: they were the consolations of sympathy, the intelligence of friendship, which he administered, and which gratitude told me never could be repaid.”
“Of sympathy! of friendship!” said the grand-vicar. “Are we to believe that a man, who brings false accusation of so dreadful a nature as the one now before us, is capable of bestowing the consolations of sympathy, and of friendship? You must either acknowledge, that services of a less disinterested nature won your promises of reward; or we must conclude that your acenser’s charge is just. Your assertions are inconsistent, and your explanation too trivial, to deceive for a moment.”
“I have declared the truth,” said Schedoni, haughtily.
“In which instance?” asked the inquisitor; “for your assertions contradict each other!”
Schedoni was silent. Vivaldi could not judge whether the pride which occasioned his silence was that of innocence, or of remorse.
“It appears, from your own testimony,” said the inquisitor, “that the ingratitude was your’s, not your accuser’s, since he consoled you with kindness, which you have never returned him! — Have you any thing further to say?”
Schedoni was still silent.
“This, then, is your only explanation?” added the inquisitor.
Schedoni bowed his head, The inquisitor then, addressing the accuser, demanded what he had to reply.
“I have nothing to reply,” said the stranger, with malicious triumph; “the accused has replied for me!”
“We are to conclude, then, that he has spoken truth, when he asserted you to be a monk of the Spirito Santo, at Naples?” said the inquisitor.
“You, holy father,” said the stranger, gravely, appealing to the inquisitor, “can answer for me, whether I am.”
Vivaldi listened with emotion.
The inquisitor rose from his chair, and with solemnity replied, “I answer, then, that you are not a monk of Naples.”
“By that reply,” said the vicar-general, in a low voice, to the inquisitor, “I perceive you think father Schedoni is guilty.”
The rejoinder of the inquisitor was delivered in so low a tone, that Vivaldi could not understand it. He was perplexed to interpret the answer given to the appeal of the stranger. he thought that the inquisitor would not have ventured an assertion thus positive, if his opinion had been drawn from inference only; and that he should know the accuser, while he was conducting himself towards him as a stranger, amazed Vivaldi, no less than if he had underst
ood the character of an inquisitor to be as artless as his own. On the other hand, he had so frequently seen the stranger at Paluzzi, and in the habit of a monk, that he could hardly question the assertion of Schedoni, as to his identity.
The inquisitor, addressing Schedoni, said, “Your evidence we know to be in part erroneous; your accuser is not a monk of Naples, but a servant of the most holy Inquisition. Judging, from this part of your evidence, we must suspect the whole.”
“A servant of the Inquisition!” exclaimed Schedoni, with unaffected surprize. “Reverend father! your assertion astonishes me! You are deceived, however strange it may appear, trust me, you are deceived! You doubt the credit of my word; I, therefore, will assert no more. But inquire of Signor Vivaldi; ask him, whether he has not often, and lately, seen my accuser at Naples, and in the habit of a monk.”
“I have seen him at the ruins of Paluzzi, near Naples, and in the ecclesiastical dress,” replied Vivaldi, without waiting for the regular question, “and under circumstances no less extraordinary than those which have attended him here. But, in return for this frank acknowledgment, I require of you, father Schedoni, to answer some questions which I shall venture to suggest to the tribunal — By what means were you informed that I have often seen the stranger at Paluzzi — and was you interested or not in his mysterious conduct towards me there?”
To these questions, though formally delivered from the tribunal, Schedoni did not deign to reply.
“It appears, then,” said the vicar-general, “that the accuser and the accused were once accomplices.”
The inquisitor objected, that this did not certainly appear; and that, on the contrary, Schedoni seemed to have given his last questions in despair; an observation which Vivaldi thought extraordinary from an inquisitor.
“Be it accomplices, if it so please you,” said Schedoni, bowing to the grand vicar, without noticing the inquisitor: “you may call us accomplices, but I say, that we were friends. Since it is necessary to my own peace, that I should more fully explain some circumstances attending our intimacy, I will own that my accuser was occasionally my agent, and assisted in preserving the dignity of an illustrious family at Naples, the family of the Vivaldi. And there, holy father,” added Schedoni, pointing to Vincentio, “is the son of that ancient house, for whom I have attempted so much!”
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 208