Near a fortnight had elapsed without producing any appearance of
hostility from the marquis, when one night, long after the hour of
repose, Julia was awakened by the bell of the monastery. She knew it
was not the hour customary for prayer, and she listened to the sounds,
which rolled through the deep silence of the fabric, with strong
surprise and terror. Presently she heard the doors of several cells
creak on their hinges, and the sound of quick footsteps in the
passages--and through the crevices of her door she distinguished
passing lights. The whispering noise of steps increased, and every
person of the monastery seemed to have awakened. Her terror
heightened; it occurred to her that the marquis had surrounded the
abbey with his people, in the design of forcing her from her retreat;
and she arose in haste, with an intention of going to the chamber of
Madame de Menon, when she heard a gentle tap at the door. Her enquiry
of who was there, was answered in the voice of madame, and her fears
were quickly dissipated, for she learned the bell was a summons to
attend a dying nun, who was going to the high altar, there to receive
extreme unction.
She quitted the chamber with madame. In her way to the church, the
gleam of tapers on the walls, and the glimpse which her eye often
caught of the friars in their long black habits, descending silently
through the narrow winding passages, with the solemn toll of the bell,
conspired to kindle imagination, and to impress her heart with sacred
awe. But the church exhibited a scene of solemnity, such as she had
never before witnessed. Its gloomy aisles were imperfectly seen by the
rays of tapers from the high altar, which shed a solitary gleam over
the remote parts of the fabric, and produced large masses of light and
shade, striking and sublime in their effect.
While she gazed, she heard a distant chanting rise through the aisles;
the sounds swelled in low murmurs on the ear, and drew nearer and
nearer, till a sudden blaze of light issued from one of the portals,
and the procession entered. The organ instantly sounded a high and
solemn peal, and the voices rising altogether swelled the sacred
strain. In front appeared the _Padre Abate_, with slow and measured
steps, bearing the holy cross. Immediately followed a litter, on which
lay the dying person covered with a white veil, borne along and
surrounded by nuns veiled in white, each carrying in her hand a
lighted taper. Last came the friars, two and two, cloathed in black,
and each bearing a light.
When they reached the high altar, the bier was rested, and in a few
moments the anthem ceased. 'The _Abate_ now approached to perform the
unction; the veil of the dying nun was lifted--and Julia discovered
her beloved Cornelia! Her countenance was already impressed with the
image of death, but her eyes brightened with a faint gleam of
recollection, when they fixed upon Julia, who felt a cold thrill run
through her frame, and leaned for support on madame. Julia now for
the first time distinguished the unhappy lover of Cornelia, on whose
features was depictured the anguish of his heart, and who hung pale
and silent over the bier. The ceremony being finished, the anthem
struck up; the bier was lifted, when Cornelia faintly moved her hand,
and it was again rested upon the steps of the altar. In a few minutes
the music ceased, when lifting her heavy eyes to her lover, with an
expression of ineffable tenderness and grief, she attempted to speak,
but the sounds died on her closing lips. A faint smile passed over her
countenance, and was succeeded by a fine devotional glow; she folded
her hands upon her bosom, and with a look of meek resignation, raising
towards heaven her eyes, in which now sunk the last sparkles of
expiring life--her soul departed in a short deep sigh.
Her lover sinking back, endeavoured to conceal his emotions, but the
deep sobs which agitated his breast betrayed his anguish, and the
tears of every spectator bedewed the sacred spot where beauty, sense,
and innocence expired.
The organ now swelled in mournful harmony; and the voices of the
assembly chanted in choral strain, a low and solemn requiem to the
spirit of the departed.
Madame hurried Julia, who was almost as lifeless as her departed
friend, from the church. A death so sudden heightened the grief which
separation would otherwise have occasioned. It was the nature of
Cornelia's disorder to wear a changeful but flattering aspect. Though
she had long been declining, her decay was so gradual and
imperceptible as to lull the apprehensions of her friends into
security. It was otherwise with herself; she was conscious of the
change, but forbore to afflict them with the knowledge of the truth.
The hour of her dissolution was sudden, even to herself; but it was
composed, and even happy. In the death of Cornelia, Julia seemed to
mourn again that of Hippolitus. Her decease appeared to dissolve the
last tie which connected her with his memory.
In one of the friars of the convent, madame was surprized to find the
father who had confessed the dying Vincent. His appearance revived the
remembrance of the scene she had witnessed at the castle of Mazzini;
and the last words of Vincent, combined with the circumstances which
had since occurred, renewed all her curiosity and astonishment. But
his appearance excited more sensations than those of wonder. She
dreaded lest he should be corrupted by the marquis, to whom he was
known, and thus be induced to use his interest with the _Abate_ for
the restoration of Julia.
From the walls of the monastery, Julia now never ventured to stray. In
the gloom of evening she sometimes stole into the cloisters, and often
lingered at the grave of Cornelia, where she wept for Hippolitus, as
well as for her friend. One evening, during vespers, the bell of the
convent was suddenly rang out; the _Abate_, whose countenance
expressed at once astonishment and displeasure, suspended the service,
and quitted the altar. The whole congregation repaired to the hall,
where they learned that a friar, retiring to the convent, had seen a
troop of armed men advancing through the wood; and not doubting they
were the people of the marquis, and were approaching with hostile
intention, had thought it necessary to give the alarm. The _Abate_
ascended a turret, and thence discovered through the trees a
glittering of arms, and in the succeeding moment a band of men issued
from a dark part of the wood, into a long avenue which immediately
fronted the spot where he stood. The clattering of hoofs was now
distinctly heard; and Julia, sinking with terror, distinguished the
marquis heading the troops, which, soon after separating in two
divisions, surrounded the monastery. The gates were immediately
secured; and the _Abate_, descending from the turret, assembled the
friars in the hall, where his voice was soon heard above every other
part of the tumult. The terror of Julia made her utterly forgetful of
the _Padre_'s promise, and she wished to fly for concealment to the
deep caverns belonging to the monastery, which wound under the woods.
Madame, whose penetration furnished her with a just knowledge of the
_Abate_'s character, founded her security on his pride. She therefore
dissuaded Julia from attempting to tamper with the honesty of a
servant who had the keys of the vaults, and advised her to rely
entirely on the effect of the _Abate_'s resentment towards the
marquis. While madame endeavoured to soothe her to composure, a
message from the _Abate_ required her immediate attendance. She
obeyed, and he bade her follow him to a room which was directly over
the gates of the monastery. From thence she saw her father,
accompanied by the Duke de Luovo; and as her spirits died away at the
sight, the marquis called furiously to the _Abate_ to deliver her
instantly into his hands, threatening, if she was detained, to force
the gates of the monastery. At this threat the countenance of the
_Abate_ grew dark: and leading Julia forcibly to the window, from
which she had shrunk back, 'Impious menacer!' said he, 'eternal
vengeance be upon thee! From this moment we expel thee from all the
rights and communities of our church. Arrogant and daring as you are,
your threats I defy--Look here,' said he, pointing to Julia, 'and
learn that you are in my power; for if you dare to violate these
sacred walls, I will proclaim aloud, in the face of day, a secret
which shall make your heart's blood run cold; a secret which involves
your honour, nay, your very existence. Now triumph and exult in
impious menace!' The marquis started involuntarily at this speech, and
his features underwent a sudden change, but he endeavoured to recover
himself, and to conceal his confusion. He hesitated for a few moments,
uncertain how to act--to desist from violence was to confess himself
conscious of the threatened secret; yet he dreaded to inflame the
resentment of the _Abate_, whose menaces his own heart too surely
seconded. At length--'All that you have uttered,' said he, 'I despise
as the dastardly subterfuge of monkish cunning. Your new insults add
to the desire of recovering my daughter, that of punishing you. I
would proceed to instant violence, but that would now be an imperfect
revenge. I shall, therefore, withdraw my forces, and appeal to a
higher power. Thus shall you be compelled at once to restore my
daughter and retract your scandalous impeachment of my honor.' Saying
this, the turned his horse from the gates, and his people following
him, quickly withdrew, leaving the _Abate_ exulting in conquest, and
Julia lost in astonishment and doubtful joy. When she recounted to
madame the particulars of the conference, she dwelt with emphasis on
the threats of the _Abate_; but madame, though her amazement was
heightened at every word, very well understood how the secret,
whatever it was, had been obtained. The confessor of Vincent she had
already observed in the monastery, and there was no doubt that he had
disclosed whatever could be collected from the dying words of Vincent.
She knew, also, that the secret would never be published, unless as a
punishment for immediate violence, it being one of the first
principles of monastic duty, to observe a religious secrecy upon all
matters entrusted to them in confession.
When the first tumult of Julia's emotions subsided, the joy which the
sudden departure of the marquis occasioned yielded to apprehension. He
had threatened to appeal to a higher power, who would compel the
_Abate_ to surrender her. This menace excited a just terror, and there
remained no means of avoiding the tyranny of the marquis but by
quitting the monastery. She therefore requested an audience of the
_Abate_; and having represented the danger of her present situation,
she intreated his permission to depart in quest of a safer retreat.
The _Abate_, who well knew the marquis was wholly in his power, smiled
at the repetition of his menaces, and denied her request, under
pretence of his having now become responsible for her to the church.
He bade her be comforted, and promised her his protection; but his
assurances were given in so distant and haughty a manner, that Julia
left him with fears rather increased than subdued. In crossing the
hall, she observed a man hastily enter it, from an opposite door. He
was not in the habit of the order, but was muffled up in a cloak, and
seemed to wish concealment. As she passed he raised his head, and
Julia discovered--her father! He darted at her a look of vengeance;
but before she had time even to think, as if suddenly recollecting
himself, he covered his face, and rushed by her. Her trembling frame
could scarcely support her to the apartment of madame, where she sunk
speechless upon a chair, and the terror of her look alone spoke the
agony of her mind. When she was somewhat recovered, she related what
she had seen, and her conversation with the _Abate_. But madame was
lost in equal perplexity with herself, when she attempted to account
for the marquis's appearance. Why, after his late daring menace,
should he come secretly to visit the _Abate_, by whose connivance
alone he could have gained admission to the monastery? And what could
have influenced the _Abate_ to such a conduct? These circumstances,
though equally inexplicable, united to confirm a fear of treachery and
surrender. To escape from the abbey was now inpracticable, for the
gates were constantly guarded; and even was it possible to pass them,
certain detection awaited Julia without from the marquis's people, who
were stationed in the woods. Thus encompassed with danger, she could
only await in the monastery the issue of her destiny.
While she was lamenting with madame her unhappy fate, she was summoned
once more to attend the _Abate_. At this moment her spirits entirely
forsook her; the crisis of her fate seemed arrived; for she did not
doubt that the _Abate_ intended to surrender her to the marquis, with
whom she supposed he had negotiated the terms of accommodation. It was
some time before she could recover composure sufficient to obey the
summons; and when she did, every step that bore her towards the
_Abate_'s room increased her dread. She paused a moment at the door,
'ere she had courage to open it; the idea of her father's immediate
resentment arose to her mind, and she was upon the point of retreating
to her chamber, when a sudden step within, near the door, destroyed
her hesitation, and she entered the closet. The marquis was not there,
and her spirits revived. The flush of triumph was diffused over the
features of the _Abate_, though a shade of unappeased resentment yet
remained visible. 'Daughter,' said he, 'the intelligence we have to
communicate may rejoice you. Your safety now depends solely on
yourself. I give your fate into your own hands, and its issue be upon
your head.' He paused, and she was suspended in wondering expectation
of the coming sentence. 'I here solemnly assure you of my protection,
but it is upon one condition only--that you renounce the world, and
dedicate your days to God.' Julia listened with a mixture of grief and
astonishment. 'Without this concession on your part, I possess not the
power, had I even the inclination, to protect you. If you assume the
veil, you are safe within the pale of the church from temporal
violence. If you neglect or refuse to do this, the marquis may apply
to a power from whom I have no appeal, and I shall be compelled at
last to resign you.
'But to ensure your safety, should the veil be your choice, we will
procure a dispensation from the usual forms of noviciation, and a few
days shall confirm your vows.' He ceased to speak; but Julia, agitated
with the most cruel distress, knew not what to reply. 'We grant you
three days to decide upon this matter,' continued he, 'at the
expiration of which, the veil, or the Duke de Luovo, awaits you.'
Julia quitted the closet in mute despair, and repaired to madame, who
could now scarcely offer her the humble benefit of consolation.
Meanwhile the _Abate_ exulted in successful vengeance, and the marquis
smarted beneath the stings of disappointment. The menace of the
former was too seriously alarming to suffer the marquis to prosecute
violent measures; and he had therefore resolved, by opposing avarice
to pride, to soothe the power which he could not subdue. But he was
unwilling to entrust the _Abate_ with a proof of his compliance and
his fears by offering a bribe in a letter, and preferred the more
humiliating, but safer method, of a private interview. His
magnificent offers created a temporary hesitation in the mind of the
_Abate_, who, secure of his advantage, shewed at first no disposition
to be reconciled, and suffered the marquis to depart in anxious
uncertainty. After maturely deliberating upon the proposals, the pride
of the _Abate_ surmounted his avarice, and he determined to prevail
upon Julia effectually to destroy the hopes of the marquis, by
consecrating her life to religion. Julia passed the night and the next
day in a state of mental torture exceeding all description. The gates
of the monastery beset with guards, and the woods surrounded by the
marquis's people, made escape impossible. From a marriage with the
duke, whose late conduct had confirmed the odious idea which his
character had formerly impressed, her heart recoiled in horror, and to
be immured for life within the walls of a convent, was a fate little
less dreadful. Yet such was the effect of that sacred love she bore
the memory of Hippolitus, and such her aversion to the duke, that she
soon resolved to adopt the veil. On the following evening she informed
the _Abate_ of her determination. His heart swelled with secret joy;
and even the natural severity of his manner relaxed at the
intelligence. He assured her of his approbation and protection, with a
degree of kindness which he had never before manifested, and told her
the ceremony should be performed on the second day from the present.
Her emotion scarcely suffered her to hear his last words. Now that her
fate was fixed beyond recall, she almost repented of her choice. Her
fancy attached to it a horror not its own; and that evil, which, when
offered to her decision, she had accepted with little hesitation, she
now paused upon in dubious regret; so apt we are to imagine that the
calamity most certain, is also the most intolerable!
When the marquis read the answer of the _Abate_, all the baleful
passions of his nature were roused and inflamed to a degree which
bordered upon distraction. In the first impulse of his rage, he would
have forced the gates of the monastery, and defied the utmost malice
of his enemy. But a moment's reflection revived his fear of the
threatened secret, and he saw that he was still in the power of the
Superior.
The _Abate_ procured the necessary dispensation, and preparations were
immediately began for the approaching ceremony. Julia watched the
departure of those moments which led to her fate with the calm
fortitude of despair. She had no means of escaping from the coming
evil, without exposing herself to a worse; she surveyed it therefore
with a steady eye, and no longer shrunk from its approach.
On the morning preceding the day of her consecration, she was informed
that a stranger enquired for her at the grate. Her mind had been so
long accustomed to the vicissitudes of apprehension, that fear was the
emotion which now occurred; she suspected, yet scarcely knew why, that
the marquis was below, and hesitated whether to descend. A little
reflection determined her, and she went to the parlour--where, to her
equal joy and surprise, she beheld--Ferdinand!
During the absence of the marquis from his castle, Ferdinand, who had
been informed of the discovery of Julia, effected his escape from
imprisonment, and had hastened to the monastery in the design of
rescuing her. He had passed the woods in disguise, with much
difficulty eluding the observation of the marquis's people, who were
yet dispersed round the abbey. To the monastery, as he came alone, he
had been admitted without difficulty.
When he learned the conditions of the _Abate_'s protection, and that
the following day was appointed for the consecration of Julia, he was
shocked, and paused in deliberation. A period so short as was this
interval, afforded little opportunity for contrivance, and less for
hesitation. The night of the present day was the only time that
remained for the attempt and execution of a plan of escape, which if
it then failed of success, Julia would not only be condemned for life
to the walls of a monastery, but would be subjected to whatever
punishment the severity of the _Abate_, exasperated by the detection,
should think fit to inflict. The danger was desperate, but the
occasion was desperate also.
The nobly disinterested conduct of her brother, struck Julia with
gratitude and admiration; but despair of success made her now hesitate
whether she should accept his offer. She considered that his
generosity would most probably involve him in destruction with
herself; and she paused in deep deliberation, when Ferdinand informed
her of a circumstance which, till now, he had purposely concealed, and
which at once dissolved every doubt and every fear. 'Hippolitus,' said
Ferdinand, 'yet lives.'--'Lives!' repeated Julia faintly,--'lives, Oh!
tell me where--how.'--Her breath refused to aid her, and she sunk in
her chair overcome with the strong and various sensations that pressed
upon her heart. Ferdinand, whom the grate withheld from assisting her,
observed her situation with extreme distress. When she recovered, he
informed her that a servant of Hippolitus, sent no doubt by his lord
to enquire concerning Julia, had been lately seen by one of the
marquis's people in the neighbourhood of the castle. From him it was
known that the Count de Vereza was living, but that his life had been
despaired of; and he was still confined, by dangerous wounds, in an
obscure town on the coast of Italy. The man had steadily refused to
mention the place of his lord's abode. Learning that the marquis was
then at the abbey of St Augustin, whither he pursued his daughter, the
man disappeared from Mazzini, and had not since been heard of.
It was enough for Julia to know that Hippolitus lived; her fears of
detection, and her scruples concerning Ferdinand, instantly vanished;
she thought only of escape--and the means which had lately appeared so
formidable--so difficult in contrivance, and so dangerous in
execution, now seemed easy, certain, and almost accomplished.
They consulted on the plan to be adopted, and agreed, that in
attempting to bribe a servant of the monastery to their interest, they
should incur a danger too imminent, yet it appeared scarcely
practicable to succeed in their scheme without risquing this. After
much consideration, they determined to entrust their secret to no
person but to madame. Ferdinand was to contrive to conceal himself
till the dead of night in the church, between which and the monastery
were several doors of communication. When the inhabitants of the abbey
were sunk in repose, Julia might without difficulty pass to the
church, where Ferdinand awaiting her, they might perhaps escape either
through an outer door of the fabric, or through a window, for which
latter attempt Ferdinand was to provide ropes.
A couple of horses were to be stationed among the rocks beyond the
woods, to convey the fugitives to a sea-port, whence they could easily
pass over to Italy. Having arranged this plan, they separated in the
anxious hope of meeting on the ensuing night.
Madame warmly sympathized with Julia in her present expectations, and
was now somewhat relieved from the pressure of that self-reproach,
with which the consideration of having withdrawn her young friend from
a secure asylum, had long tormented her. In learning that Hippolitus
lived, Julia experienced a sudden renovation of life and spirits.
From the languid stupefaction which despair had occasioned she revived
as from a dream, and her sensations resembled those of a person
suddenly awakened from a frightful vision, whose thoughts are yet
obscured in the fear and uncertainty which the passing images have
impressed on his fancy. She emerged from despair; joy illumined her
countenance; yet she doubted the reality of the scene which now opened
to her view. The hours rolled heavily along till the evening, when
expectation gave way to fear, for she was once more summoned by the
_Abate_. He sent for her to administer the usual necessary exhortation
on the approaching solemnity; and having detained her a considerable
time in tedious and severe discourse, dismissed her with a formal
benediction.