grief and affection for Agnes, with which this account was
interlarded. To end the business, He put the Pope's Bull into
the hands of the Domina, and insisted that, ill or in health, his
Sister should be delivered to him without delay.
The Prioress received the paper with an air of humility: But no
sooner had her eye glanced over the contents, than her resentment
baffled all the efforts of Hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread
itself over her face, and She darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage
and menace.
'This order is positive,' said She in a voice of anger, which She
in vain strove to disguise; 'Willingly would I obey it; But
unfortunately it is out of my power.'
Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprize.
'I repeat it, Segnor; to obey this order is totally out of my
power. From tenderness to a Brother's feelings, I would have
communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared
you to hear it with fortitude. My measures are broken through:
This order commands me to deliver up to you the Sister Agnes
without delay; I am therefore obliged to inform you without
circumlocution, that on Friday last, She expired.'
Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment's
recollection convinced him that this assertion must be false,
and it restored him to himself.
'You deceive me!' said He passionately; 'But five minutes past
since you assured me that though ill She was still alive.
Produce her this instant! See her I must and will, and every
attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing.'
'You forget yourself, Segnor; You owe respect to my age as well
as my profession. Your Sister is no more. If I at first
concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event so
unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In
truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what interest,
I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her wish of
quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to wish her
absence, and think her a disgrace to the Sisterhood of St.
Clare: But She has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more
culpable. Her crimes were great, and when you know the cause of
her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a
Wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on Thursday
last on returning from confession in the Capuchin Chapel. Her
malady seemed attended with strange circumstances; But She
persisted in concealing its cause: Thanks to the Virgin, we were
too ignorant to suspect it! Judge then what must have been our
consternation, our horror, when She was delivered the next day of
a stillborn Child, whom She immediately followed to the Grave.
How, Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no
surprize, no indignation? Is it possible that your Sister's
infamy was known to you, and that still She possessed your
affection? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I
can say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the
orders of his Holiness. Agnes is no more, and to convince you
that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed Saviour, that
three days have past since She was buried.'
Here She kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle. She
then rose from her chair, and quitted the Parlour. As She
withdrew, She cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.
'Farewell, Segnor,' said She; 'I know no remedy for this
accident: I fear that even a second Bull from the Pope will not
procure your Sister's resurrection.'
Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction: But Don
Raymond's at the news of this event amounted to Madness. He
would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead, and continued
to insist that the Walls of St. Clare still confined her. No
arguments could make him abandon his hopes of regaining her:
Every day some fresh scheme was invented for procuring
intelligence of her, and all of them were attended with the same
success.
On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his Sister
more: Yet He believed that She had been taken off by unfair
means. Under this persuasion, He encouraged Don Raymond's
researches, determined, should He discover the least warrant for
his suspicions, to take a severe vengeance upon the unfeeling
Prioress. The loss of his Sister affected him sincerely; Nor was
it the least cause of his distress that propriety obliged him
for some time to defer mentioning Antonia to the Duke. In the
meanwhile his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira's Door.
He had intelligence of all the movements of his Mistress: As She
never failed every Thursday to attend the Sermon in the Capuchin
Cathedral, He was secure of seeing her once a week, though in
compliance with his promise, He carefully shunned her
observation. Thus two long Months passed away. Still no
information was procured of Agnes: All but the Marquis credited
her death; and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments
to his Uncle. He had already dropt some hints of his intention
to marry; They had been as favourably received as He could
expect, and He harboured no doubt of the success of his
application.
CHAPTER III
While in each other's arms entranced They lay,
They blessed the night, and curst the coming day.
Lee.
The burst of transport was past: Ambrosio's lust was satisfied;
Pleasure fled, and Shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused
and terrified at his weakness, He drew himself from Matilda's
arms. His perjury presented itself before him: He reflected on
the scene which had just been acted, and trembled at the
consequences of a discovery. He looked forward with horror; His
heart was despondent, and became the abode of satiety and
disgust. He avoided the eyes of his Partner in frailty; A
melancholy silence prevailed, during which Both seemed busied
with disagreable reflections.
Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and
pressed it to her burning lips.
'Ambrosio!' She murmured in a soft and trembling voice.
The Abbot started at the sound. He turned his eyes upon
Matilda's: They were filled with tears; Her cheeks were covered
with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed to solicit his
compassion.
'Dangerous Woman!' said He; 'Into what an abyss of misery have
you plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay my
life, must pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I
was, to trust myself to your seductions! What can now be done?
How can my offence be expiated? What atonement can purchase the
pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my
quiet for ever!'
'To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? To me, who have sacrificed
for you the world's pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy
of sex, my Friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost,
which I preserved? Have _I_ not sha
red in YOUR guilt? Have YOU
not shared in MY pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists
ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging World? Let that
World be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and
blameless! Unnatural were your vows of Celibacy; Man was not
created for such a state; And were Love a crime, God never would
have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then banish those clouds
from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those pleasures freely,
without which life is a worthless gift: Cease to reproach me
with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports
with the Woman who adores you!'
As She spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor. Her
bosom panted: She twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew
him towards her, and glewed her lips to his. Ambrosio again
raged with desire: The die was thrown: His vows were already
broken; He had already committed the crime, and why should He
refrain from enjoying its reward? He clasped her to his breast
with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense of
shame, He gave a loose to his intemperate appetites. While the
fair Wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every
refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss
of her possession, and render her Lover's transports still more
exquisite, Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him:
Swift fled the night, and the Morning blushed to behold him still
clasped in the embraces of Matilda.
Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the Syren's
luxurious Couch. He no longer reflected with shame upon his
incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven. His
only fear was lest Death should rob him of enjoyments, for which
his long Fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite.
Matilda was still under the influence of poison, and the
voluptuous Monk trembled less for his Preserver's life than his
Concubine's. Deprived of her, He would not easily find another
Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully, and
so safely. He therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the
means of preservation which She had declared to be in her
possession.
'Yes!' replied Matilda; 'Since you have made me feel that Life is
valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall
appall me: I will look upon the consequences of my action
boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they present. I will
think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase your possession,
and remember that a moment past in your arms in this world
o'er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take
this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to enquire
by what means I shall preserve myself.'
He did so in a manner the most binding.
'I thank you, my Beloved. This precaution is necessary, for
though you know it not, you are under the command of vulgar
prejudices: The Business on which I must be employed this night,
might startle you from its singularity, and lower me in your
opinion. Tell me; Are you possessed of the Key of the low door
on the western side of the Garden?'
'The Door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and
the Sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the Key, but can easily
procure it.'
'You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at
midnight; Watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare,
lest some prying eye should observe my actions; Leave me there
alone for an hour, and that life is safe which I dedicate to
your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion, do not visit me
during the day. Remember the Key, and that I expect you before
twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching! Leave me; I will
pretend to sleep.'
The Friar obeyed, and left the Cell. As He opened the door,
Father Pablos made his appearance.
'I come,' said the Latter, 'to enquire after the health of my
young Patient.'
'Hush!' replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; 'Speak
softly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profound
slumber, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not
disturb him at present, for He wishes to repose.'
Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the
Abbot to Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the
Chapel. Guilt was new to him, and He fancied that every eye
could read the transactions of the night upon his countenance.
He strove to pray; His bosom no longer glowed with devotion; His
thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda's secret charms. But
what He wanted in purity of heart, He supplied by exterior
sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, He redoubled
his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and never appeared
more devoted to Heaven as since He had broken through his
engagements. Thus did He unconsciously add Hypocrisy to perjury
and incontinence; He had fallen into the latter errors from
yielding to seduction almost irresistible; But he was now guilty
of a voluntary fault by endeavouring to conceal those into which
Another had betrayed him.
The Matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his Cell. The
pleasures which He had just tasted for the first time were still
impressed upon his mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented
a confused Chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and
fear. He looked back with regret to that peace of soul, that
security of virtue, which till then had been his portion. He had
indulged in excesses whose very idea but four and twenty hours
before He had recoiled at with horror. He shuddered at
reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or on
Matilda's, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had
cost him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of
that People of whom He was then the Idol. Conscience painted to
him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness; Apprehension
magnified to him the horrors of punishment, and He already
fancied himself in the prisons of the Inquisition. To these
tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's beauty, and those delicious
lessons which, once learnt, can never be forgotten. A single
glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself. He
considered the pleasures of the former night to have been
purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and
honour. Their very remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; He
cursed his foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in
obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of Love
and Woman. He determined at all events to continue his commerce
with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might
confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided his
irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and
what consequences He had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to
every rule of his order save Chastity, He doubted not to retain
the esteem of Men, and even the p
rotection of heaven. He trusted
easily to be forgiven so slight and natural a deviation from his
vows: But He forgot that having pronounced those vows,
Incontinence, in Laymen the most venial of errors, became in his
person the most heinous of crimes.
Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy.
He threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit
his strength exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke
refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient
to Matilda's order, He visited not her Cell during the day.
Father Pablos mentioned in the Refectory that Rosario had at
length been prevailed upon to follow his prescription; But that
the medicine had not produced the slightest effect, and that He
believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the Grave. With
this opinion the Abbot agreed, and affected to lament the
untimely fate of a Youth, whose talents had appeared so
promising.
The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the
Porter the Key of the low door opening into the Cemetery.
Furnished with this, when all was silent in the Monastery, He
quitted his Cell, and hastened to Matilda's. She had left her
bed, and was drest before his arrival.
'I have been expecting you with impatience,' said She; 'My life
depends upon these moments. Have you the Key?'
'I have.'
'Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!'
She took a small covered Basket from the Table. Bearing this in
one hand, and the Lamp, which was flaming upon the Hearth, in the
other, She hastened from the Cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both
maintained a profound silence. She moved on with quick but
cautious steps, passed through the Cloisters, and reached the
Western side of the Garden. Her eyes flashed with a fire and
wildness which impressed the Monk at once with awe and horror.
A determined desperate courage reigned upon her brow. She gave
the Lamp to Ambrosio; Then taking from him the Key, She unlocked
the low Door, and entered the Cemetery. It was a vast and
spacious Square planted with yew trees: Half of it belonged to
the Abbey; The other half was the property of the Sisterhood of
St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of Stone. The Division
was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally
The Monk - A Romance Page 25