Her whole soul wrapped up in one idea, the guilty Matilda threw herself
into a chariot which waited at the door, and ordered the equipage to
proceed towards Passau.
Left to indulge reflection in solitude, her mind recurred to the object
nearest her heart--to Verezzi.
Her bosom was scorched by an ardent and unquenchable fire; and while
she thought of him, she even shuddered at the intenseness of her own
sensations.
“He shall love me--he shall be mine--mine for ever,” mentally
ejaculated Matilda.
The streets of Passau echoed to La Contessa di Laurentini’s equipage,
before, roused from her reverie, she found herself at the place of her
destination; and she was seated in her hotel in that city, before she
had well arranged her unsettled ideas. She summoned Ferdinand, a trusty
servant, to whom she confided everything. “Ferdinand,” said she, “you
have many claims on my gratitude. I have never had cause to reproach
you with infidelity in executing my purposes--add another debt to that
which I already owe you; find Il Conte Verezzi within three days, and
you are my best friend.” Ferdinand bowed, and prepared to execute her
commands. Two days passed, during which Matilda failed not to make
every personal inquiry, even in the suburbs of Passau.
Alternately depressed by fear, and revived by hope, for three days was
Matilda’s mind in a state of disturbance and fluctuation. The evening
of the third day, of the day on which Ferdinand was to return, arrived.
Matilda’s mind, wound up to the extreme of impatience, was the scene of
conflicting passions. She paced the room rapidly.
A servant entered, and announced supper.
“Is Ferdinand returned?” hastily inquired Matilda.
The domestic answered in the negative. She sighed deeply, and struck
her forehead.
Footsteps were heard in the ante-chamber without.
“There is Ferdinand!” exclaimed Matilda, exultingly, as he entered.
“Well, well! have you found Verezzi? Ah! speak quickly! Ease me of this
horrible suspense.”
“Signora!” said Ferdinand, “it grieves me much to be obliged to
declare that all my endeavours have been inefficient to find Il Conte
Verezzi----”
“Oh, madness! madness!” exclaimed Matilda, “is it for this that I
have plunged into the dark abyss of crime?--is it for this that I
have despised the delicacy of my sex, and, braving consequences, have
offered my love to one who despises me--who shuns me, as does the
barbarous Verezzi? But if he is in Passau--if he is in the environs of
the city, I will find him.”
Thus saying, despising the remonstrances of her domestics, casting off
all sense of decorum, she rushed into the streets of Passau. A gloomy
silence reigned through the streets of the city; it was past midnight,
and every inhabitant seemed to be sunk in sleep--sleep which Matilda
was almost a stranger to. Her white robes floated on the night air--her
shadowy and dishevelled hair flew over her form, which, as she passed
the bridge, seemed to strike the boatmen below with the idea of some
supernatural and ethereal form.
She hastily crossed the bridge. She entered the fields on the
right--the Danube, whose placid stream was scarcely agitated by the
wind, reflected her symmetrical form, as, scarcely knowing what
direction she pursued, Matilda hastened along its banks. Sudden horror,
resistless despair, seized her brain, maddened as it was by hopeless
love.
“What have I to do in this world, my fairest prospect blighted, my
fondest hope rendered futile?” exclaimed the frantic Matilda, as, wound
up to the highest pitch of desperation, she attempted to plunge herself
into the river.
But life fled; for Matilda, caught by a stranger’s arm, was prevented
from the desperate act.
Overcome by horror, she fainted.
Some time did she lie in a state of torpid insensibility, till the
stranger, filling his cup with water, and sprinkling her pallid
countenance with it, recalled to life the miserable Matilda.
What was her surprise, what was her mingled emotion of rapture
and doubt, when the moonbeam disclosed to her view the
countenance of Verezzi, as in anxious solicitude he bent over her
elegantly-proportioned form!
“By what chance,” exclaimed the surprised Verezzi, “do I see here La
Contessa di Laurentini? Did not I leave you at your Italian castella? I
had hoped you would have ceased to persecute me, when I told you that I
was irrevocably another’s.”
“Oh, Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, casting herself at his feet, “I
adore you to madness--I love you to distraction. If you have one spark
of compassion, let me not sue in vain--reject not one who feels it
impossible to overcome the fatal, resistless passion which consumes
her.”
“Rise, Signora,” returned Verezzi--“rise; this discourse is
improper--it is not suiting the dignity of your rank, or the delicacy
of your sex: but suffer me to conduct you to yon cottage, where,
perhaps, you may deign to refresh yourself, or pass the night.”
The moonbeams played upon the tranquil waters of the Danube, as Verezzi
silently conducted the beautiful Matilda to the humble dwelling where
he resided.
Claudine waited at the door, and had begun to fear that some mischance
had befallen Verezzi, as, when he arrived at the cottage-door, it was
long past his usual hour of return.
It was his custom, during those hours when the twilight of evening
cools the air, to wander through the adjacent rich scenery, though he
seldom prolonged his walks till midnight.
He supported the fainting form of Matilda as he advanced towards
Claudine. The old woman’s eyes had lately failed her, from extreme
age; and it was not until Verezzi called to her that she saw him,
accompanied by La Contessa di Laurentini.
“Claudine,” said Verezzi, “I have another claim upon your kindness;
this lady, who has wandered beyond her knowledge, will honour our
cottage so far as to pass the night here. If you would prepare the
pallet which I usually occupy for her, I will repose this evening
on the turf, and will now get supper ready. Signora,” continued he,
addressing Matilda, “some wine would, I think, refresh your spirits;
permit me to fill you a glass of wine.”
Matilda silently accepted his offer--their eyes met--those of Matilda
were sparkling and full of meaning.
“Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, “I arrived but four days since at
Passau--I have eagerly inquired for you--oh! how eagerly! Will you
accompany me to-morrow to Passau?”
“Yes,” said Verezzi, hesitatingly.
Claudine soon joined them. Matilda exulted in the success of her
schemes, and Claudine being present, the conversation took a general
turn. The lateness of the hour, at last, warned them to separate.
Verezzi, left to solitude and his own reflections, threw himself on
the turf, which extended to the Danube below. Ideas of the most gloomy
nature took possession of his soul; and, in the event of the evening,
he saw the foundation of the most bitter misfortunes.
He could not love Matilda; and though he never had seen her but in
the most amiable light, he found it impossible to feel any sentiment
towards her, save cold esteem. Never had he beheld those dark shades in
her character, which, if developed, could excite nothing but horror and
detestation; he regarded her as a woman of strong passions, who, having
resisted them to the utmost of her power, was at last borne away in the
current--whose brilliant virtues one fault had obscured--as such he
pitied her: but still he could not help observing a comparison between
her and Julia, whose feminine delicacy shrunk from the slightest
suspicion, even, of indecorum. Her fragile form, her mild, heavenly
countenance, was contrasted with all the partiality of love, to the
scintillating eye, the commanding countenance, the bold expressive
gaze, of Matilda.
He must accompany her on the morrow to Passau. During their walk, he
determined to observe a strict silence; or, at all events, not to
hazard one equivocal expression, which might be construed into what it
was not meant for.
The night passed away--morning came, and the tops of the far-seen
mountains were gilded by the rising sun.
Exulting in the success of her schemes, and scarcely able to disguise
the vivid feelings of her heart, the wily Matilda, as early as she
descended to the narrow parlour, where Claudine had prepared a simple
breakfast, affected a gloom she was far from feeling.
An unequivocal expression of innocent and mild tenderness marked her
manner towards Verezzi: her eyes were cast on the ground, and her every
movement spoke meekness and sensibility.
At last, breakfast being finished, the time arrived when Matilda,
accompanied by Verezzi, pursued the course of the river, to retrace her
footsteps to Passau. A gloomy silence for some time prevailed--at last
Matilda spoke:
“Unkind Verezzi! is it thus that you will ever slight me? is it for
this that I have laid aside the delicacy of my sex, and owned to you a
passion which was but too violent to be concealed? Ah! at least pity
me! I love you: oh! I adore you to madness!”
She paused--the peculiar expression which beamed in her dark eye, told
the tumultuous wishes of her bosom.
“Distress not yourself and me, Signora,” said Verezzi, “by these
unavailing protestations. Is it for you--is it for Matilda,” continued
he, his countenance assuming a smile of bitterest scorn, “to talk of
love to the lover of Julia?”
Rapid tears coursed down Matilda’s cheek. She sighed--the sigh seemed
to rend her inmost bosom.
So unexpected a reply conquered Verezzi. He had been prepared for
reproaches, but his feelings could not withstand Matilda’s tears.
“Ah! forgive me, Signora,” exclaimed Verezzi, “if my brain, crazed by
disappointments, dictated words which my heart intended not.”
“Oh,” replied Matilda, “it is I who am wrong: led on by the violence of
my passion, I have uttered words, the bare recollection of which fills
me with horror. Oh! forgive, forgive an unhappy woman, whose only fault
is loving you too well.”
As thus she spoke, they entered the crowded streets of Passau, and,
proceeding rapidly onwards, soon arrived at La Contessa di Laurentini’s
hotel.