“Then show me a way to bring the wretch to judgment,” cried Franz, seizing Woislaw’s hands, while tears of anger sprang to his eyes. “Disgraced as I am, I cannot live.”
“You shall be revenged, and that within twenty-four hours, I hope; but only on two conditions—”
“I agree to them! I will do anything—” began the young man eagerly.
“The first is, that you do nothing, but leave everything in my hands,” interrupted Woislaw. “The second, that you will assist me in persuading Franziska to do what I shall represent to her as absolutely necessary. That young lady’s life is in more danger from Azzo than your own.”
“How? What?” cried Franz fiercely. “Franziska’s life in danger! And from that man? Tell me, Woislaw, who is this fiend?”
“Not a word will I tell either the young lady or you, until the danger is passed,” said Woislaw firmly. “The smallest indiscretion would ruin everything. No one can act here but Franziska herself, and if she refuses to do so she is irretrievably lost.”
“Speak, and I will help you. I will do all you wish, but I must know—”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” replied Woislaw. “I must have both you and Franziska yield to me unconditionally. Come now, come to her. You are to be mute on what has passed, and use every effort to induce her to accede to my proposal.”
Woislaw spoke firmly, and it was impossible for Franz to make any further objection; in a few moments they both entered the hall, where they found the young girls still anxiously awaiting them.
“Oh, I have been so frightened,” said Franziska, even paler than usual, as she held out her hand to Franz. “I trust all has ended peaceably.”
“Everything is arranged; a couple of words were sufficient to settle the whole affair,” said Woislaw cheerfully. “But Master Franz was less concerned in it than yourself, fair lady.”
“I! How do you mean?” said Franziska in surprise.
“I allude to your illness,” replied the other.
“And you spoke of that to Azzo? Does he, then, know a remedy which he could not tell me himself?” she inquired, smiling painfully.
“The knight Azzo must take part in your cure; but speak to you about it he cannot, unless the remedy is to lose all its efficacy,” replied Woislaw quietly.
“So it is some secret elixir, as the learned doctors who have so long attended me say, and through whose means I only grow worse,” said Franziska mournfully.
“It is certainly a secret, but is as certainly a cure,” replied Woislaw.
“So said all, but none has succeeded,” said the young lady peevishly.
“You might at least try it,” began Bertha.
“Because your friend proposes it,” said the other smiling. “I have no doubt that you, with nothing ailing you, would take all manner of drugs to please your knight; but with me the inducement is wanting, and therefore also the faith.”
“I did not speak of any medicine,” said Woislaw.
“Oh! a magical remedy! I am to be cured—what was it the quack who was here the other day called it?—‘by sympathy.’ Yes, that was it.”
“I do not object to your calling it so, if you like,” said Woislaw smiling; “but you must know, dear lady, that the measures I shall propose must be attended to literally, and according to the strictest directions.”
“And you trust this to me?” asked Franziska.
“Certainly,” said Woislaw hesitating; “but—”
“Well, why do you not proceed? Can you think that I shall fail in courage?” she asked.
“Courage is certainly necessary for the success of my plan,” said Woislaw gravely; “and it is because I give you credit for a large share of that virtue, I venture to propose it at all, although for the real harmlessness of the remedy I will answer with my life, provided you follow my directions exactly.”
“Well, tell me the plan, and then I can decide,” said the young lady.
“I can only tell you that when we commence our operations,” replied Woislaw.
“Do you think I am a child to be sent here, there, and everywhere, without a reason?” asked Franziska, with something of her old pettishness.
“You did me great injustice, dear lady, if you thought for a moment I would propose anything disagreeable to you, unless demanded by the sternest necessity,” said Woislaw; “and yet I can only repeat my former words.”
“Then I will not do it,” cried Franziska. “I have already tried so much—and all ineffectually.”
“I give you my honour as a knight, that your cure is certain, but you must pledge yourself solemnly and unconditionally to do implicitly what I shall direct,” said Woislaw earnestly.
“Oh, I implore you to consent, Franziska. Our friend would not propose anything unnecessary,” said Bertha, taking both her cousin’s hands.
“And let me join my entreaties to Bertha’s,” said Franz.
“How strange you all are!” exclaimed Franziska, shaking her head. “You make such a secret of that which I must know if I am to accomplish it, and then you declare so positively that I shall recover, when my own feelings tell me it is quite hopeless.”
“I repeat, that I will answer for the result,” said Woislaw, “on the condition I mentioned before, and that you have courage to carry out what you commence.”
“Ha! now I understand; this, after all, is the only thing which appears doubtful to you,” cried Franziska. “Well, to show you that our sex are neither wanting in the will nor in the power to accomplish deeds of daring, I give my consent.”
With the last words, she offered Woislaw her hand.
“Our compact is thus sealed,” she pursued smiling. “Now say, Sir Knight, how am I to commence this mysterious cure?”
“It commenced when you gave your consent,” said Woislaw gravely. “Now, I have only to request that you will ask no more questions, but hold yourself in readiness to take a ride with me tomorrow an hour before sunset. I also request that you will not mention to your father a word of what has passed.”
“Strange!” said Franziska.
“You have made the compact; you are not wanting in resolution; and I will answer for everything else,” said Woislaw encouragingly.
“Well, so let it be. I will follow your directions,” said the lady, although she still looked incredulous.
“On our return you shall know everything; before that, it is quite impossible,” said Woislaw in conclusion. “Now go, dear lady, and take some rest; you will need strength for tomorrow.”
It was on the morning of the following day; the sun had not risen above an hour, and the dew still lay like a veil of pearls on the grass or dripped from the petals of the flowers swaying in the early breeze, when the knight Woislaw hastened over the fields towards the forest, and turned into a gloomy path, which by the direction one could perceive led towards the towers of Klatka. When he arrived at the old oak-tree we have before had occasion to mention, he sought carefully along the road for traces of human footsteps, but only a deer had passed that way. Seemingly satisfied with his search, he proceeded on his way, though not before he had half drawn his dagger from its sheath, as though to assure himself that it was ready for service in time of need.
Slowly he ascended the path; it was evident he carried something beneath his cloak. Arrived in the court, he left the ruins of the castle to the left, and entered the old chapel. In the chancel he looked eagerly and earnestly around. A deathlike stillness reigned in the deserted sanctuary, only broken by the whispering of the wind in an old thorn-tree which grew outside. Woislaw had looked round him ere he perceived the door leading down to the vault; he hurried towards it and descended. The sun’s position enabled its rays to penetrate the crevices, and made the subterranean chamber so light that one could read easily the inscriptions at the head and feet of the coffins. The knight first laid on the ground the packet he had hitherto carried under his cloak, and then going from coffin to coffin, at last remained stationary before the oldest o
f them. He read the inscription carefully, drew his dagger thoughtfully from its case, and endeavoured to raise the lid with its point. This was no difficult matter, for the rusty iron nails kept but a slight hold of the rotten wood. On looking in, only a heap of ashes, some remnants of dress, and a skull were the contents. He quickly closed it again, and went on to the next, passing over those of a woman and two children. Here things had much the same appearance, except that the corpse held together till the lid was raised, and then fell into dust, a few linen rags and bones being alone perceptible. In the third, fourth, and nearly the next half-dozen, the bodies were in better preservation: in some, they looked a sort of yellow-brown mummy; whilst in others a skinless skull covered with hair grinned from the coverings of velvet, silk, or mildewed embroideries; all, however, were touched with the loathsome marks of decay. Only one more coffin now remained to be inspected; Woislaw approached it, and read the inscription. It was the same that had before attracted the Knight of Fahnenberg: Ezzelin von Klatka, the last possessor of the tower, was described as lying therein. Woislaw found it more difficult to raise the lid here; and it was only by the exertion of much strength that he at length succeeded in extracting the nails. He did all, however, as quietly as if afraid of rousing some sleeper within; he then raised the cover, and cast a glance on the corpse. An involuntary “Ha!” burst from his lips as he stepped back a pace. If he had less expected the sight that met his eyes, he would have been far more overcome. In the coffin lay Azzo as he lived and breathed, and as Woislaw had seen him at the supper-table only the evening before. His appearance, dress, and all were the same; besides, he had more the semblance of sleep than of death—no trace of decay was visible—there was even a rosy tint on his cheeks. Only the circumstance that the breast did not heave distinguished him from one who slept. For a few moments Woislaw did not move; he could only stare into the coffin. With a hastiness in his movements not usual with him, he suddenly seized the lid, which had fallen from his hands, and laying it on the coffin, knocked the nails into their places. As soon as he had completed this work, he fetched the packet he had left at the entrance, and laying it on the top of the coffin, hastily ascended the steps, and quitted the church and the ruins.
The day passed. Before evening, Franziska requested her father to allow her to take a ride with Woislaw, under pretense of showing him the country. He, only too happy to think this a sign of amendment in his daughter, readily gave his consent; so followed by a single servant, they mounted and left the castle. Woislaw was unusually silent and serious. When Franziska began to rally him about his gravity and the approaching sympathetic cure, he replied that what was before her was no laughing matter; and that although the result would be certainly a cure, still it would leave an impression on her whole future life. In such discourse they reached the wood, and at length the oak, where they left their horses. Woislaw gave Franziska his arm, and they ascended the hill slowly and silently. They had just reached one of the half-dilapidated outworks where they could catch a glimpse of the open country, when Woislaw, speaking more to himself than to his companion, said: “In a quarter of an hour, the sun will set, and in another hour the moon will have risen; then all must be accomplished. It will soon be time to commence the work.”
“Then, I should think it was time to entrust me with some idea of what it is,” said Franziska, looking at him.
“Well, my lady,” he replied, turning towards her, and his voice was very solemn, “I entreat you, Franziska von Fahnenberg, for your own good, and as you love the father who clings to you with his whole soul, that you will weigh well my words, and that you will not interrupt me with questions which I cannot answer until the work is completed. Your life is in the greatest danger from the illness under which you are laboring; indeed, you are irrecoverably lost if you do not fully carry out what I shall now impart to you. Now, promise me to do implicitly as I shall tell you; I pledge you my knightly word it is nothing against Heaven, or the honour of your house; and, besides, it is the sole means for saving you.” With these words, he held out his right hand to his companion, while he raised the other to heaven in confirmation of his oath.
“I promise you,” said Franziska, visibly moved by Woislaw’s solemn tone, as she laid her little white and wasted hand in his.
“Then, come; it is time,” was his reply, as he led her towards the church. The last rays of the sun were just pouring through the broken windows. They entered the chancel, the best preserved part of the whole building; here there were still some old kneeling-stools, placed before the high altar, although nothing remained of that but the stonework and a few steps; the pictures and decorations had all vanished.
“Say an Ave; you will have need of it,” said Woislaw, as he himself fell on his knees.
Franziska knelt beside him, and repeated a short prayer. After a few moments, both rose.
“The moment has arrived! The sun sinks, and before the moon rises, all must be over,” said Woislaw quickly.
“What am I to do?” asked Franziska cheerfully.
“You see there that open vault!” replied the knight Woislaw, pointing to the door and flight of steps. “You must descend. You must go alone; I may not accompany you. When you have reached the vault you will find, close to the entrance, a coffin, on which is placed a small packet. Open this packet, and you will find three long iron nails and a hammer. Then pause for a moment; but when I begin to repeat the Credo in a loud voice, knock with all your might, first one nail, then a second, and then a third, into the lid of the coffin, right up to their heads.”
Franziska stood thunderstruck; her whole body trembled, and she could not utter a word. Woislaw perceived it.
“Take courage, dear lady!” said he. “Think that you are in the hands of Heaven, and that, without the will of your Creator, not a hair can fall from your head. Besides, I repeat, there is no danger.”
“Well, then, I will do it,” cried Franziska, in some measure regaining courage.
“Whatever you may hear, whatever takes place inside the coffin,” continued Woislaw, “must have no effect upon you. Drive the nails well in, without flinching: your work must be finished before my prayer comes to an end.”
Franziska shuddered, but again recovered herself. “I will do it; Heaven will send me strength,” she murmured softly.
“There is one thing more,” said Woislaw hesitatingly; “perhaps it is the hardest of all I have proposed, but without it your cure will not be complete. When you have done as I have told you, a sort of”—he hesitated—“a sort of liquid will flow from the coffin; in this dip your finger, and besmear the scratch on your throat.”
“Horrible!” cried Franziska. “This liquid is blood. A human being lies in the coffin.”
“An unearthly one lies therein! That blood is your own, but it flows in other veins,” said Woislaw gloomily. “Ask no more; the sand is running out.”
Franziska summoned up all her powers of mind and body, went towards the steps which led to the vault, and Woislaw sank on his knees before the altar in quiet prayer. When the lady had descended, she found herself before the coffin on which lay the packet before mentioned. A sort of twilight reigned in the vault, and everything around was so still and peaceful, that she felt more calm, and going up to the coffin, opened the packet. She had hardly seen that a hammer and three long nails were its contents when suddenly Woislaw’s voice rang through the church, and broke the stillness of the aisles. Franziska started, but recognized the appointed prayer. She seized one of the nails, and with one stroke of the hammer drove it at least an inch into the cover. All was still; nothing was heard but the echo of the stroke. Taking heart, the maiden grasped the hammer with both hands, and struck the nail twice with all her might, right up to the head into the wood. At this moment commenced a rustling noise; it seemed as though something in the interior began to move and to struggle. Franziska drew back in alarm. She was already on the point of throwing away the hammer and flying up the steps, when Woislaw raised his
voice so powerfully, and so entreatingly, that in a sort of excitement, such as would induce one to rush into a lion’s den, she returned to the coffin, determined to bring things to a conclusion. Hardly knowing what she did, she placed a second nail in the centre of the lid, and after some strokes this was likewise buried to its head. The struggle now increased fearfully, as if some living creature were striving to burst the coffin. This was so shaken by it, that it cracked and split on all sides. Half distracted, Franziska seized the third nail; she thought no more of her ailments, she only knew herself to be in terrible danger, of what kind she could not guess: in an agony that threatened to rob her of her senses and in the midst of the turning and cracking of the coffin, in which low groans were now heard, she struck the third nail in equally tight. At this moment, she began to lose consciousness. She wished to hasten away, but staggered; and mechanically grasping at something to save herself by, seized the corner of the coffin, and sank fainting beside it on the ground.
A quarter of an hour might have elapsed when she again opened her eyes. She looked around her. Above was the starry sky, and the moon, which shed her cold light on the ruins and on the tops of the old oak-trees. Franziska was lying outside the church walls, Woislaw on his knees beside her, holding her hand in his.
“Heaven be praised that you live!” he cried, with a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to doubt whether the remedy had not been too severe, and yet it was the only thing to save you.”
Franziska recovered her full consciousness very gradually. The past seemed to her like a dreadful dream. Only a few moments before, that fearful scene; and now this quiet all around her. She hardly dared at first to raise her eyes, and shuddered when she found herself only a few paces removed from the spot where she had undergone such terrible agony. She listened half unconsciously, now to the pacifying words Woislaw addressed to her, now to the whistling of the servant, who stood by the horses, and who, to while away his time, was imitating the evening-song of a belated cowherd.
Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories Page 23