He said — he raised his eyes towards heaven — he gazed upon Matilda. Their eyes met — hers gleamed with a triumphant expression of unbounded love.
Verezzi raised the goblet to his lips — when, lo! on a sudden he dashed it to the ground — his whole frame was shook by horrible convulsions — his glaring eyes, starting from their sockets, rolled wildly around: seized with sudden madness, he drew a dagger from his girdle, and with fellest intent raised it high —
What phantom blasted Verezzi’s eyeball! what made the impassioned lover dash a goblet to the ground, which he was about to drain as a pledge of eternal love to the choice of his soul! and why did he, infuriate, who had, but an instant before, imagined Matilda’s arms an earthly paradise, attempt to rush unprepared into the presence of his Creator! — It was the mildly-beaming eyes of the lovely but forgotten Julia, which spoke reproaches to the soul of Verezzi — it was her celestial countenance, shaded by dishevelled ringlets, which spoke daggers to the false one; for, when he had raised the goblet to his lips — when, sublimed by the maddening fire of voluptuousness to the height of enthusiastic passion, he swore indissoluble fidelity to another — Julia stood before him!
Madness — fiercest madness — revelled through his brain. He raised the poniard high, but Julia rushed forwards, and, in accents of desperation, in a voice of alarmed tenderness, besought him to spare the dagger from his bosom — it was stained with his life’s-blood, which trickled fast from the point to the floor. She raised it on high, and impiously called upon the God of nature to doom her to endless torments, should Julia survive her vengeance.
She advanced towards her victim, who lay bereft of sense on the floor: she shook her rudely, and grasping a handful of her dishevelled hair, raised her from the earth.
“Knowest thou me?” exclaimed Matilda, in frantic passion—”knowest thou the injured Laurentini? Behold this dagger, reeking with my husband’s blood — behold that pale corse, in whose now cold breast, thy accursed image revelling, impelled to commit the deed which deprives me of happiness for ever.”
Julia’s senses, roused by Matilda’s violence, returned. She cast her eyes upwards, with a timid expression of apprehension, and beheld the infuriate Matilda convulsed by fiercest passion, and a blood-stained dagger raised aloft, threatening instant death.
“Die! detested wretch,” exclaimed Matilda, in a paroxysm of rage, as she violently attempted to bathe the stiletto in the life-blood of her rival; but Julia starting aside, the weapon slightly wounded her neck, and the ensanguined stream stained her alabaster bosom.
She fell on the floor, but suddenly starting up, attempted to escape her bloodthirsty persecutor.
Nerved anew by this futile attempt to escape her vengeance, the ferocious Matilda seized Julia’s floating hair, and holding her back with fiend-like strength, stabbed her in a thousand places; and, with exulting pleasure, again and again buried the dagger to the hilt in her body, even after all remains of life were annihilated.
At last the passions of Matilda, exhausted by their own violence, sank into a deadly calm: she threw the dagger violently from her, and contemplated the terrific scene before her with a sullen gaze.
Before her, in the arms of death, lay him on whom her hopes of happiness seemed to have formed so firm a basis.
Before her lay her rival, pierced with innumerable wounds, whose head reclined on Verezzi’s bosom, and whose angelic features, even in death, a smile of affection pervaded.
There she herself stood, an isolated guilty being. A fiercer paroxysm of passion now seized her: in an agony of horror, too great to be described, she tore her hair in handfuls — she blasphemed the power who had given her being, and imprecated eternal torments upon the mother who had born her.
“And is it for this,” added the ferocious Matilda—”is it for horror, for torments such as these, that He, whom monks call all-merciful, has created me?”
She seized the dagger which lay on the floor.
“Ah! friendly dagger,” she exclaimed, in a voice of fiend-like horror, “would that thy blow produced annihilation! with what pleasure then would I clasp thee to my heart!”
She raised it high — she gazed on it — the yet warm blood of the innocent Julia trickled from its point.
The guilty Matilda shrunk at death — she let fall the up-raised dagger — her sou had caught a glimpse of the misery which awaits the wicked hereafter, and, spite of her contempt of religion — spite of her, till now, too firm dependence on the doctrines of atheism, she trembled at futurity; and a voice from within which whispers “thou shalt never die!” spoke daggers to Matilda’s soul.
Whilst thus she stood entranced in a delirium of despair, the night wore away, and the domestic who attended her, surprised at the unusual hour to which they had prolonged the banquet, came to announce the lateness of the hour; but opening the door, and perceiving Matilda’s garments stained with blood, she started back with affright, without knowing the full extent of horror which the chamber contained, and alarmed the other domestics with an account that Matilda had been stabbed.
In a crowd they all came to the door, but started back in terror when they saw Verezzi and Julia stretched lifeless on the floor.
Summoning fortitude from despair, Matilda loudly called for them to return; but fear and horror overbalanced her commands, and, wild with affright, they all rushed from the chamber, except Ferdinand, who advanced to Matilda, and demanded an explanation.
Matilda gave it, in few and hurried words.
Ferdinand again quitted the apartment, and told the credulous domestics, that an unknown female had surprised Verezzi and Matilda; that she had stabbed Verezzi, and then committed suicide.
The crowd of servants, as in mute terror they listened to Ferdinand’s account, entertained not a doubt of the truth. — Again and again they demanded an explanation of the mysterious affair, and employed their wits in conjecturing what might be the cause of it; but the more they conjectured, the more were they puzzled; till at last a clever fellow, named Pietro, who, hating Ferdinand on account of the superior confidence with which his lady treated him, and supposing more to be concealed in this affair than met the ear, gave information to the police, and, before morning, Matilda’s dwelling was surrounded by a party of officials belonging to il consiglio di dieci.
Loud shouts rent the air as the officials attempted the entrance. Matilda still was in the apartment where, during the night, so bloody a tragedy had been acted; still in speechless horror was she extended on the sofa, when a loud rap at the door aroused the horror-tranced wretch. She started from the sofa in wildest perturbation, and listened attentively. Again was the noise repeated, and the officials rushed in.
They searched every apartment; at last they entered that in which Matilda, motionless with despair, remained.
Even the stern officials, hardy, unfeeling as they were, started back with momentary horror as they beheld the fair countenance of the murdered Julia; fair even in death, and her body disfigured with numberless ghastly wounds.
“This cannot be suicide,” muttered one, who, by his superior manner, seemed to be their chief, as he raised the fragile form of Julia from the ground, and the blood, scarcely yet cold, trickled from her vestments.
“Put your orders in execution,” added he.
Two officials advanced towards Matilda, who, standing apart with seeming tranquillity, awaited their approach.
“What wish you with me?” exclaimed Matilda haughtily.
The officials answered not; but their chief, drawing a paper from his vest, which contained an order for the arrest of Matilda La Contessa di Laurentini, presented it to her.
She turned pale; but, without resistance, obeyed the mandate, and followed the officials in silence to the canal, where a gondola waited, and in a short time she was in the gloomy prisons of il consiglio di dieci.
A little straw was the bed of the haughty Laurentini; a pitcher of water and bread was her sustenance; gloom, horror, and desp
air pervaded her soul: all the pleasures which she had but yesterday tasted; all the ecstatic blisses which her enthusiastic soul had painted for futurity, like the unreal vision of a dream, faded away; and, confined in a damp and narrow cell, Matilda saw that all her hopes of future delight would end in speedy and ignominious dissolution.
Slow passed the time — slow did the clock at St. Mark’s toll the revolving hours as languidly they passed away.
Night came on, and the hour of midnight struck upon Matilda’s soul as her death knell.
A noise was heard in the passage which led to the prison.
Matilda raised her head from the wall against which it was reclined, and eagerly listened, as if in expectation of an event which would seal her future fate. She still gazed, when the chains of the entrance were unlocked. The door, as it opened, grated harshly on its hinges, and two officials entered.
“Follow me,” was the laconic injunction which greeted her terror-struck ear.
Trembling, Matilda arose: her limbs, stiffened by confinement, almost refused to support her; but collecting fortitude from desperation, she followed the relentless officials in silence.
One of them bore a lamp, whose rays darting in uncertain columns, showed, by strong contrasts of light and shade, the extreme massiness of the passages.
The Gothic frieze above was worked with art; and the corbels, in various and grotesque forms, jutted from the tops of clustered pilasters.
They stopped at a door. Voices were heard from within: their hollow tones filled Matilda’s soul with unconquerable tremours. But she summoned all her resolution — she resolved to be collected during the trial; and even, if sentenced to death, to meet her fate with fortitude, that the populace, as they gazed, might not exclaim—”The poor Laurentini dared not to die.”
These thoughts were passing in her mind during the delay which was occasioned by the officials conversing with another whom they met there.
At last they ceased — an uninterrupted silence reigned: the immense folding doors were thrown open, and disclosed to Matilda’s view a vast and lofty apartment. In the centre, was a table, which a lamp, suspended from the centre, overhung, and where two stern-looking men, habited in black vestments, were seated.
Scattered papers covered the table, with which the two men in black seemed busily employed.
Two officials conducted Matilda to the table where they sat, and, retiring, left her there.
CHAPTER XVI.
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have;
Thou art the torturer of the brave.
Marmion.
One of the inquisitors raised his eyes; he put back the papers which he was examining, and in a solemn tone asked her name.
“My name is Matilda; my title La Contessa di Laurentini,” haughtily she answered; “nor do I know the motive for that inquiry, except it were to exult over my miseries, which you are, I suppose, no stranger to.”
“Waste not your time,” exclaimed the inquisitor sternly, “in making idle conjectures upon our conduct; but do you know for what you are summoned here?”
“No,” replied Matilda.
“Swear that you know not for what crime you are here imprisoned,” said the inquisitor.
Matilda took the oath required. As she spoke, a dewy sweat burst from her brow, and her limbs were convulsed by the extreme of horror, yet the expression of her countenance was changed not.
“What crime have you committed which might subject you to the notice of this tribunal?” demanded he, in a determined tone of voice.
Matilda gave no answer, save a smile of exulting scorn. She fixed her regards upon the inquisitor: her dark eyes flashed fiercely, but she spoke not.
“Answer me,” exclaimed he, “what to confess might save both of us needless trouble.”
Matilda answered not, but gazed in silence upon the inquisitor’s countenance.
He stamped thrice — four officials rushed in, and stood at some distance from Matilda.
“I am unwilling,” said the inquisitor, “to treat a female of high birth with indignity; but if you confess not instantly, my duty will not permit me to withhold the question.”
A deeper expression of contempt shaded Matilda’s beautiful countenance: she frowned, but answered not.
“You will persist in this foolish obstinacy?” exclaimed the inquisitor.—”Officials, do your duty.”
Instantly the four, who till now had stood in the back-ground, rushed forwards: they seized Matilda, and bore her into the obscurity of the apartment.
Her dishevelled ringlets floated in negligent luxuriance over her alabaster bosom: her eyes, the contemptuous glance of which had now given way to a confused expression of alarm, were almost closed; and her symmetrical form, as borne away by the four officials, looked interestingly lovely.
The other inquisitor, who, till now, busied by the papers which lay before him, had heeded not Matilda’s examination, raised his eyes, and beholding the form of a female, with a commanding tone of voice, called to the officials to stop.
Submissively they obeyed his order. — Matilda, released from the fell hands of these relentless ministers of justice, advanced to the table.
Her extreme beauty softened the inquisitor who had spoken last. He little thought that, under a form so celestial, so interesting, lurked a heart depraved, vicious as a demon’s.
He therefore mildly addressed her; and telling her that, on some future day, her examination would be renewed, committed her to the care of the officials, with orders to conduct her to an apartment better suited to her rank.
The chamber to which she followed the officials was spacious and well furnished, but large iron bars secured the windows, which were high, and impossible to be forced.
Left again to solitude, again to her own gloomy thoughts — her retrospection but horror and despair — her hopes of futurity none — her fears many and horrible — Matilda’s situation is better conceived than described.
Floating in wild confusion, the ideas which presented themselves to her imagination were too horrible for endurance.
Deprived, as she was, of all earthly happiness, fierce as had been her passion for Verezzi, the disappointment of which sublimed her brain to the most infuriate delirium of resistless horror, the wretched Matilda still shrunk at death — she shrunk at the punishment of those crimes, in whose perpetration no remorse had touched her soul, for which, even now, she repented not, but as they had deprived her of terrestrial enjoyments.
She thought upon the future state — she thought upon the arguments of against the existence of a Deity: her inmost soul now acknowledged their falsehood, and she shuddered as she reflected that her condition was irretrievable.
Resistless horror revelled through her bosom: in an intensity of racking thought she rapidly paced the apartment; at last, overpowered, she sank upon a sofa.
At last the tumultuous passions, exhausted by their own violence, subsided: the storm, which so lately had agitated Matilda’s soul, ceased; a serene calm succeeded, and sleep quickly overcame her faculties.
Confused visions flitted in Matilda’s imagination whilst under the influence of sleep; at last they assumed a settled shape.
Strangely brilliant and silvery clouds seemed to flit before her sight: celestial music, enchanting as the harmony of the spheres, serened Matilda’s soul, and, for an instant, her situation forgotten, she lay entranced.
On a sudden the music ceased; the azure concavity of heaven seemed to open at the zenith, and a being, whose countenance beamed with unutterable beneficence, descended.
It seemed to be clothed in a transparent robe of flowing silver: its eye scintillated with super-human brilliancy, whilst her dream, imitating reality almost to exactness, caused the entranced Matilda to suppose that it addressed her in these words: —
“Poor sinning Matilda! repent, it is not yet too late. — God’s mercy is unbounded. — Repent! and thou mayest yet be saved.”
These words yet tingled i
n Matilda’s ears; yet were her eyes lifted to heaven, as if following the visionary phantom who had addressed her in her dream, when, much confused, she arose from the sofa.
A dream so like reality made a strong impression upon Matilda’s soul.
The ferocious passions, which so lately had battled fiercely in her bosom, were calmed: she lifted her eyes to heaven: they beamed with an expression of sincerest penitence; for sincerest penitence, at this moment, agonised whilst it calmed Matilda’s soul.
“God of mercy! God of heaven!” exclaimed Matilda; “my sins are many and horrible, but I repent.”
Matilda knew not how to pray; but God, who from the height of heaven penetrates the inmost thoughts of terrestrial hearts, heard the outcast sinner, as in tears of true and agonising repentance she knelt before him.
She despaired no longer — She confided in the beneficence of her Creator; and, in the hour of adversity, when the firmest heart must tremble at his power, no longer a hardened sinner, demanded mercy. And mercy, by the All-benevolent of heaven, is never refused to those who humbly, yet trusting in his goodness, ask it.
Matilda’s soul was filled with a celestial tranquillity. She remained upon her knees in mute and fervent thought: she prayed; and, with trembling, asked forgiveness of her Creator.
No longer did that agony of despair torture her bosom. True, she was ill at ease: remorse for her crimes deeply affected her; and though her hopes of salvation were great, her belief in God and a future state firm, the heavy sighs which burst from her bosom, showed that the arrows of repentance had penetrated deeply.
Several days passed away, during which the conflicting passions of Matilda’s soul, conquered by penitence, were mellowed into a fixed and quiet depression.
Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series Page 135