Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “I understand,” answered Varillo with a faint shudder, for the strong and relentless personality of Gherardi overpowered him with a sense of terror which he could not wholly control.

  “Good! Then we will say no more. Brief words are best on such burning matters. To-morrow at six in the afternoon I will send for you. Be ready! Till then — try to rest — try to sleep without dreaming of a scaffold!”

  He folded his mantle around him again and prepared to depart.

  “Sleep,” he repeated. “Sleep with a cold heart and quiet mind! Think that it is only a woman’s name — a woman’s work — a woman’s honour, that stand in your way, — and congratulate yourself with the knowledge that the Church and her Divine authority will help you to remove all three! Farewell!”

  He turned, and unlocked the door of the cell. As he threw it open, he was confronted by the monk Ambrosio, who was outside on the very threshold.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded suspiciously. “I had a permit from the Superior to speak to your charge alone.”

  “And were you not alone?” returned Ambrosio smiling. “I was not with you! I was here as sentinel, to prevent anyone disturbing you. Poor Ambrosio — mad Ambrosio! He is no good at all except to guard the dead!”

  Gherardi looked at him scrutinizingly, and noted the lack-lustre eyes, the helpless childish expression, of the half-young, half-old face confronting his own.

  “Guard the dead as much as you please,” he said harshly. “But take heed how you spy on the living! Be careful of the sick man lying yonder — we want him back with us in Rome to-morrow.”

  Ambrosio nodded.

  “Back in Rome — good — good!” he said. “Then he is living after all! I thought he was dead in his sins as I am, — but you tell me he lives, and will go back to Rome! — Oh yes — I will take care of him — good care! — do not fear! I know how to guard him so that he shall not escape you!”

  Gherardi looked at him again sharply, but he was playing with his long rosary and smiling foolishly, and there seemed no use in wasting further speech upon him. So, muffling himself in his cloak, he strode away, and Ambrosio entered the cell.

  “You shall have meat and wine presently,” he said, approaching the bed where Florian lay. “The devil has given orders that you shall be well fed!”

  Varillo looked up and smiled kindly. He could assume any expression at command, and it suited his purpose just now to be all gentleness.

  “My poor friend!” he said compassionately. “Your wits are far astray! Devil? Nay — he who has just left us is more of a saint!”

  Ambrosio’s brown eyes flashed, but he maintained a grave and immovable aspect.

  “The devil has often mocked us in saint’s disguise,” he said slowly. “I tell the porter here every night to keep the gates well locked against him, — but this time it was no use; he has entered in. And now we shall have great work to get him out!”

  Varillo resting his head on one arm, studied him curiously.

  “You must have lived a strange life in the world!” he said. “That is if you were ever in the world at all. Were you?”

  “Oh yes, I was in the world,” replied Ambrosio calmly. “I was in the midst of men and women who passed their whole lives in acts of cruelty and treachery to one another. I never met a man who was honest; I never saw a woman who was true! I wondered where God was that He permitted such vile beings to live and take His name in vain. He seemed lost and gone, — I could not find Him!”

  “Ah!” ejaculated Florian languidly. “And did yon discover Him here? In this monastery?”

  “No — He is not here, for we are all dead men,” said Ambrosio. “And God is the God of the living, not the God of the dead! Shall I tell you where I found him?” And he advanced a step or two, raising one hand warningly as though he were entrusted with some message of doom— “I found Him in sin! I tried to live a life of truth in a world of lies, but the lies were too strong for me, — they pulled me down! I fell — into a black pit of crime — reckless, determined, conscious wickedness, — and so found God — in my punishment!”

  He clasped his hands together with an expression of strange ecstasy.

  “Down into the darkness!” he said. “Down through long vistas of shadow and blackness you go, glad and exultant, delighting in evil, and thinking ‘God sees me not!’ And then suddenly at the end, a sword of fire cuts the darkness asunder, — and the majesty of the Divine Law breaks your soul on the wheel!”

  He looked steadfastly at Varillo.

  “So you will find, — so you must find, if you ever go down into the darkness.”

  “Ay, if I ever go,” said Florian gently. “But I shall not.”

  “No? — then perhaps you are there already?” said Ambrosio smiling, and playing with his rosary. “For those who say they will never sin have generally sinned!”

  Varillo held the same kind look of compassion in his eyes. He was fond of telling his fellow-artists that he had a “plastic” face, — and this quality served him well just now. He might have been a hero and martyr, from the peaceful and patient expression of his features, and he so impressed by his manner a lay-brother who presently entered to give him his evening meal, that he succeeded in getting rid of Ambrosio altogether.

  “You are sure you are strong enough to be left without an attendant?” asked the lay-brother solicitously, quite captivated by the gentleness of his patient. “There is a special evening service to-night in the chapel, and Ambrosio should be there to play the organ — for he plays well — but this duty had been given to Fra Filippo—”

  “Nay, but let Ambrosio fulfil his usual task,” said Varillo considerately. “I am much better — much stronger, — and as my good friend Monsignor Gherardi desires me to be in Rome to-morrow, and to stay with him till I am quite restored to health, I must try to rest as quietly as I can till my hour of departure.”

  “You must be a great man to have Domenico Gherardi for a friend!” said the lay-brother wistfully.

  Here Ambrosio suddenly burst into a loud laugh.

  “You are right! He is a great man! — one of the greatest in Rome, or for that matter in the world! And he means to be yet greater!” And with that he turned on his heel and left the cell abruptly.

  Varillo, languidly sipping the wine that had been brought to him with his food, looked after him with a pitying smile.

  “Poor soul!” he said gently.

  “He was famous once,” said the lay-brother, lowering his voice as he spoke. “One of the most famous sculptors in Europe. But something went wrong with his life, and he came here. It is difficult to make him understand orders, or obey them, but the Superior allows him to remain on account of his great skill in music. On that point at least he is sane.”

  “Indeed!” said Varillo indifferently. He was beginning to weary of the conversation, and wished to be alone. “It is well for him that he is useful to you in some regard. And now, my friend, will you leave me to rest awhile? If it be possible I shall try to sleep now till morning.”

  “One of us will come to you at daybreak,” said the lay-brother. “You are still very weak — you will need assistance to dress. Your clothes are here at the foot of the bed. I hope you will sleep well.”

  “Thank you!” said Varillo, conveying an almost tearful look of gratitude into his eyes— “You are very good to me! God bless you!”

  The lay-brother made a gentle deprecatory gesture of his hands and retired, and Varillo was left to his own reflections. He lay still, thinking deeply, and marvelling at the unexpected rescue out of his difficulties so suddenly afforded him.

  “With Gherardi to support me, I can say anything!” he mused, his heart beating quickly and exultingly. “I can say anything and swear anything! And even if the sheath of my dagger has been found, it will be no proof, for I can say it is not mine. Any lie I choose to tell will have Gherardi’s word to warrant it! — so I am safe — unless Angela speaks!”

  He considered
this possibility for a moment, then smiled.

  “But she never will! She is one of those strange women who endure without complaint, — she is too lofty and pure for the ways of the world, and the world naturally takes vengeance upon her. There is not a man born that does not hate too pure a woman; it is his joy to degrade her if he can! This is the way of Nature; what is a woman made for except to subject herself to her master! And when she rises superior to him — superior in soul, intellect, heart and mind, he sees in her nothing but an abnormal prodigy, to be stared at, laughed at, despised — but never loved! The present position of affairs is Angela’s fault, not mine. She should not have concealed the work she was doing from her lover, who had the right to know all her secrets!”

  He laughed, — a low malicious laugh, and then lay tranquilly on his pillows gazing at the gradually diminishing light. Day was departing — night was coming on, — and as the shadows lengthened, the solemn sound of the organ began to vibrate through the walls of the monastery like far-off thunder growing musical. With a certain sensuous delight in the beautiful, Varillo listened to it with pleasure; he had no mind to probe the true meaning of music, but the mere sound was soothing and sublime, and seemed in its gravity, to match the “tone” of the light that was gradually waning. So satisfied was he with that distant pulse of harmony that he began weaving some verses in his head to “His Absent Lady,” — and succeeded in devising quite a charming lyric to her whose honour and renown he was ready to kill. So complex, so curious, so callous, yet sensuous, and utterly egotistical was his nature, that had Angela truly died under his murderous blow, he would have been ready now to write such exquisite verses in the way of a lament for her loss, as should have made a world of sentimental women weep, not knowing the nature of the man.

  The last glimpse of day vanished, and the cell was only illuminated by a flickering gleam which crept through the narrow crevice of the door from the oil lamp outside in the corridor. The organ music ceased — to be followed by the monotonous chanting of the monks at their evening orisons, — and in turn, these too came to an end, and all was silent. Easily and restfully Florian Varillo, calling himself in his own mind poet, artist, and lover of all women rather than one, turned on his pillow and slept peacefully, — a calm deep sleep such as is only supposed to visit the innocent and pure of conscience, but which in truth just as often refreshes the senses of the depraved and dissolute, provided they are satisfied with evil as their good. How many hours he slept he did not know, but he was wakened at last by a terrible sense of suffocation, and he sat up gasping for breath, to find the cell full of thick smoke and burning stench. The flickering reflection of the lamp was gone, and as he instinctively leaped from his bed and grasped his clothes, he heard the monastery bell above him swinging to and fro, with a jarring heavy clang. Weak from the effects of his illness, and scarcely able to stand, he dragged on some of his garments, and rushing to the door threw it open, to be met with dense darkness and thick clouds of smoke wreathing towards him in all directions. He uttered a loud shriek.

  “Fire!”

  The bell clanged on slowly over his head, but otherwise there was no response. Stumbling along, blinded, suffocated, not knowing at any moment whether he might not be precipitated down some steep flight of stairs or over some high gallery in the building, he struggled to follow what seemed to be a cooling breath of air which streamed through the smoke as though blowing in from some open door, and as he felt his way with his hands on the wall he suddenly heard the organ.

  “Thank God!” he thought, “I am near the chapel! The fire has broken out in this part of the building — the monks do not know and are still at prayer. I shall be in time to save them all! . . .”

  A small tongue of red flame flashed upon his eyes — he recoiled — then pressed forward again, seeing a door in front of him. The organ music sounded nearer and nearer; he rushed to the door, half choked and dizzy, and pushing it open, reeled into the organ loft, where at the organ, sat the monk Ambrosio, shaking out such a storm of music as might have battered the gates of Heaven or Hell. Varillo leaped forward — then, as he saw the interior of the chapel, uttered one agonized shriek, and stood as though turned to stone. For the whole place was in flames! — everything from the altar to the last small statue set in a niche, was ablaze, and only the organ, raised like a carven pinnacle, appeared to be intact, set high above the blazing ruin. Enrapt in his own dreams, Ambrosio sat, pouring thunderous harmony out of the golden-tubed instrument which as yet, with its self-acting machinery, was untouched by the flames, and Varillo half-mad with terror, sprang at him like a wild beast

  “Stop!” he cried “Stop, fool! Do you not see — can you not understand — the monastery is on fire!”

  Ambrosio shook him off, his brown eyes were clear and bright, — his whole expression stern and resolved.

  “I know it,” he replied. “And we shall burn — you and I — together!”

  ‘Oh, mad brute!” cried Varillo. “Tell me which way to go! — where are the brethren?”

  “Outside!” he answered “Safe! — away at the farther end of the garden, digging their own graves, as usual! Do you not hear the bell? We are alone in the building! — I have locked the doors, — the fire is kindled inside! We shall be dead before the flames burst through!”

  “Madman!” shrieked Varillo, recoiling as the thick volumes of smoke rolled up from the blazing altar. “Die if you must! — but I will not! Where are the windows? — the doors?—”

  “Locked and bolted fast,” said Ambrosio, with a smile of triumph. “There is no loophole of escape for you! The world might let you go free to murder and betray, — but I — Ambrosio, — a scourge in the Lord’s hand — I will never let you go! Pray — pray before it is too late! I heard the devil tempt you — I heard you yield to his tempting! You were both going to ruin a woman — that is devil’s work. And God told me what to do — to burn the evil out by flame, and purify your soul! Pray, brother, pray! — for in the searching and tormenting fire it will be too late! Pray! Pray!”

  And pressing his hands again upon the organ he struck out a passage of chords like the surging of waves upon the shore or storm-winds in the forest, and began to sing,

  “Confutatis maledictis Flammis acribus addictis Voci me cum benedictis!”

  Infuriated to madness but too physically weak to struggle with one who, though wandering in brain, was sound in body, Varillo tried to drag him from his seat, — but the attempt was useless. Ambrosio seemed possessed by a thousand electric currents of force and resolution combined. He threw off Varillo as though he were a mere child, and went on singing —

  “Oro supplex et acclinis Cor contritum quasi cinis: Gere curam mei finis. . . . . Lacrymosa dies illa,—”

  Driven to utter desperation, Varillo stood for a moment inert, — then, suddenly catching sight of a rope hanging from one of the windows close at hand, he rushed to it and pulled it furiously. The top of the window yielded, and fell open on its hinge — the smoke rushed up to the aperture, and Florian, still clinging to the rope, shouted, “Help! — Help!” with all the force he could muster. But the air blowing strongly against the smoke fanned the flames in the body of the chapel, — they leaped higher and higher, — and — seeing the red glow deepening about him, Ambrosio smiled.— “Cry your loudest, you will never be heard!” he said— “Those who are busy with graves have done with life! You had best pray while you have time — let God take you with His name on your lips!”

  And as the smoke and flame climbed higher and higher and began to wreathe itself about the music gallery, he resumed his solemn singing.

  “Lacrymosa dies illa, Qua resurgat ex favilla Judicandus homo reus Huic ergo parce, Deus: Pie Jesu Domine Dona eis requiem!”

  But Varillo still shrieked “Help!” and his frenzied cries were at last answered. The great bell overhead ceased ringing suddenly, — and its cessation created an effect of silence even amid the noise of the crackling fire and the continued gr
ave music of the organ. Then came a quick tramp of many feet — a hubbub of voices — and loud battering knocks at the chapel door. Ambrosio laughed triumphantly.

  “We are at prayers!” he cried— “We admit no one! The devil and I are at prayers!”

  Varillo sprang at him once more.

  “Madman! Show me the way!” he screamed. “Show me the way down from this place or I will strangle you!”

  “Find your own way!” answered Ambrosio— “Make it — as you have always made it! — and follow it — to Hell!”

  As he spoke the gallery rocked to and fro, and a tall flame leaped at the organ like a living thing ready to seize and devour. Still the knocking and hammering continued, and still Ambrosio played wild music — till all at once the chapel door was broken open and a group of pale spectral faces in monk’s cowls peered through the smoke, and then retreated again.

  “Help!” shrieked Varillo— “Help!”

  But the air rushing through the door and meeting with that already blowing through the window raised a perfect pyramid of flame which rose straight up and completely encircled the organ. With a frightful cry Varillo rushed to Ambrosio’s side, and cowering down, clung to his garments.

  “Oh, God! — Oh, God! Have mercy!—”

  “He will have mercy!” said Ambrosio, still keeping his hands on the organ-keys and drawing out strange plaintive chords of solemn harmony— “He will have mercy — be sure of it! Ambrosio will ask Him to be merciful! — Ambrosio has saved you from crime worse than death, — Ambrosio has cleansed you by fire! Ambrosio will help you to find God in the darkness!”

  Smoke and flame encircled them, — for one moment more their figures were seen like black specks in the wreathing columns of fire — for one moment more the music of the organ thundered through the chapel, — then came a terrific crash — a roar of the victorious flames as they sprang up high to the roof of the building, and then — then nothing but a crimson glare on the Campagna, seen for miles and miles around, and afterwards described to the world by the world’s press as the “Burning Down of a Trappist Monastery” in which no lives had been lost save those of one Fra Ambrosio, long insane, who was supposed to have kindled the destructive blaze in a fit of mania, — and of a stranger, sick of malarial fever, whom the monks had sheltered, name unknown.