THE FUNERAL--THE INTERRUPTION OF THE CEREMONY.
Eight days after the death of the Count of Riverola, the funeral took
place.
The obsequies were celebrated at night, with all the pomp observed
amongst noble families on such occasions. The church in which the corpse
was buried, was hung with black cloth; and even the innumerable wax
tapers which burned upon the altar and around the coffin failed to
diminish the lugubrious aspect of the scene.
At the head of the bier stood the youthful heir of Riverola; his pale
countenance of even feminine beauty contrasting strangely with the
mourning garments which he wore, and his eyes bent upon the dark chasm
that formed the family vault into which the remains of his sire were
about to be lowered.
Around the coffin stood Dr. Duras and other male friends of the
deceased: for the females of the family were not permitted, by the
custom of the age and the religion, to be present on occasions of this
kind.
It was eleven o'clock at night: and the weather without was stormy and
tempestuous.
The wind moaned through the long aisles, raising strange and ominous
echoes, and making the vast folds of sable drapery wave slowly backward
and forward, as if agitated by unseen hands. A few spectators, standing
in the background, appeared like grim figures on a black tapestry; and
the gleam of the wax tapers, oscillating on their countenances, made
them seem death-like and ghastly.
From time to time the shrill wail of the shriek-owl, and the flapping of
its wings against the diamond-paned windows of the church, added to the
awful gloom of the funeral scene.
And now suddenly arose the chant of the priests--the parting hymn for
the dead!
Francisco wept, for though his father had never manifested toward him an
affection of the slightest endearing nature, yet the disposition of the
young count was excellent; and, when he gazed upon the coffin, he
remembered not the coldness with which its inmate in his lifetime had
treated him--he thought only of a parent whom he had lost, and whose
remains were there!
And truly, on the brink of the tomb no animosity should ever find a
resting-place in the human heart. Though elsewhere men yield to the
influence of their passions and their feelings, in pursuing each his
separate interests--though, in the great world, we push and jostle each
other, as if the earth were not large enough to allow us to follow our
separate ways--yet, when we meet around the grave, to consign a fellow
creature to his last resting-place, let peace and holy forgiveness
occupy our souls. There let the clash of interests and the war of
jealousies be forgotten; and let us endeavor to persuade ourselves that,
as all the conflicting pursuits of life must terminate at this point at
last, so should our feelings converge to the one focus of amenity and
Christian love. And, after all, how many who have considered themselves
to be antagonists must, during a moment of solemn reflection, become
convinced that, when toiling in the great workshop of the world, they
have been engaged, in unconscious fraternity, in building up the same
fabric!
The priests were in the midst of their solemn chant--a deathlike silence
and complete immovability prevailed among the mourners and the
spectators--and the wind was moaning beneath the vaulted roofs, awaking
those strange and tomb-like sounds which are only heard in large
churches,--when light but rushing footsteps were heard on the marble
pavement; and in another minute a female, not clothed in a mourning
garb, but splendidly as for a festival, precipitated herself toward the
bier.
There her strength suddenly seemed to be exhausted; and, with a piercing
scream, she sank senseless on the cold stones.
The chant of the priest was immediately stilled; and Francisco hurrying
forward, raised the female in his arms, while Dr. Duras asked for water
to sprinkle on her countenance.
Over her head the stranger wore a white veil of rich material, which was
fastened above her brow by a single diamond of unusual size and
brilliant luster. When the veil was drawn aside, shining auburn tresses
were seen depending in wanton luxuriance over shoulders of alabaster
whiteness: a beautiful but deadly pale countenance was revealed; and a
splendid purple velvet dress delineated the soft and flowing outlines of
a form modeled to the most perfect symmetry.
She seemed to be about twenty years of age,--in the full splendor of
loveliness, and endowed with charms which presented to the gaze of those
around a very incarnation of the ideal beauty which forms the theme of
raptured poets.
And now, as the vacillating and uncertain light of the wax-candles
beamed upon her, as she lay senseless in the arms of the Count Riverola,
her pale, placid face appeared that of a classic marble statue; but
nothing could surpass the splendid effects which the funeral tapers
produced on the rich redundancy of her hair, which seemed dark where the
shadows rested on it, but glittering as with a bright glory where the
luster played on its shining masses.
In spite of the solemnity of the place and the occasion, the mourners
were struck by the dazzling beauty of that young female, who had thus
appeared so strangely amongst them; but respect still retained at a
distance those persons who were merely present from curiosity to witness
the obsequies of one of the proudest nobles of Florence.
At length the lady opened her large hazel eyes, and glanced wildly
around, a quick spasm passing like an electric shock over her frame at
the same instant; for the funeral scene burst upon her view, and
reminded her where she was, and why she was there.
Recovering herself almost as rapidly as she had succumbed beneath
physical and mental exhaustion, she started from Francisco's arms; and
turning upon him a beseeching, inquiring glance, exclaimed in a voice
which ineffable anguish could not rob of its melody: "Is it true--oh,
tell me is it true that the Count Riverola is no more?"
"It is, alas! too true, lady," answered Francisco, in a tone of the
deepest melancholy.
The heart of the fair stranger rebounded at the words which thus seemed
to destroy a last hope that lingered in her soul; and a hysterical
shriek burst from her lips as she threw her snow-white arms, bare to the
shoulders, around the head of the pall-covered coffin.
"Oh! my much-loved--my noble Andrea!" she exclaimed, a torrent of tears
now gushing from her eyes.
"That voice!--is it possible?" cried one of the spectators who had been
hitherto standing, as before said, at a respectful distance: and the
speaker--a man of tall, commanding form, graceful demeanor, wondrously
handsome countenance, and rich attire--immediately hurried toward the
spot where the young female still clung to the coffin, no one having the
heart to remove her.
The individual who had thus stepped forward, gave one rapid but
searching glance at the lady's countenance; and, yielding to the
surprise and joy which suddenly animated him, he exclaimed: "Yes--it is,
indeed, the lost Agnes!"
The young female started when she heard her name thus pronounced in a
place where she believed herself to be entirely unknown; and
astonishment for an instant triumphed over the anguish of her heart.
Hastily withdrawing her snow-white arms from the head of the coffin, she
turned toward the individual who had uttered her name, and he instantly
clasped her in his arms, murmuring, "Dearest--dearest Agnes, art thou
restored----"
But the lady shrieked, and struggled to escape from that tender embrace,
exclaiming, "What means this insolence? will no one protect me?"
"That will I," said Francisco, darting forward, and tearing her away
from the stranger's arms. "But, in the name of Heaven! let this
misunderstanding be cleared up elsewhere. Lady--and you, signor--I call
on you to remember where you are, and how solemn a ceremony you have
both aided to interrupt."
"I know not that man!" ejaculated Agnes, indicating the stranger. "I
come hither, because I heard--but an hour ago--that my noble Andrea was
no more. And I would not believe those who told me. Oh! no--I could not
think that Heaven had thus deprived me of all I loved on earth!"
"Lady, you are speaking of my father," said Francisco, in a somewhat
severe tone.
"Your father!" cried Agnes, now surveying the young count with interest
and curiosity. "Oh! then, my lord, you can pity--you can feel for me,
who in losing your father have lost all that could render existence
sweet!"
"No--you have not lost all!" exclaimed the handsome stranger, advancing
toward Agnes, and speaking in a profoundly impressive tone. "Have you
not one single relative left in the world? Consider, lady--an old, old
man--a shepherd in the Black Forest of Germany----"
"Speak not of him!" cried Agnes, wildly. "Did he know all, he would
curse me--he would spurn me from him--he would discard me forever! Oh!
when I think of that poor old man, with his venerable white hair,--that
aged, helpless man, who was so kind to me, who loved me so well, and
whom I so cruelly abandoned. But tell me, signor," she exclaimed, in
suddenly altered tone, while her breath came with the difficulty of
acute suspense,--"tell me, signor, does that old man still live?"
"He lives, Agnes," was the reply. "I know him well; at this moment he is
in Florence!"
"In Florence!" repeated Agnes; and so unexpectedly came this
announcement, that her limbs seemed to give way under her, and she would
have fallen on the marble pavement, had not the stranger caught her in
his arms.
"I will bear her away," he said; "she has a true friend in me."
And he was moving off with his senseless burden, when Francisco, struck
by a sudden idea, caught him by the elegantly slashed sleeve of his
doublet, and whispered thus, in a rapid tone: "From the few, but
significant words which fell from that lady's lips, and from her still
more impressive conduct, it would appear, alas! that my deceased father
had wronged her. If so, signor, it will be my duty to make her all the
reparation that can be afforded in such a case."
"'Tis well, my lord," answered the stranger, in a cold and haughty tone.
"To-morrow evening I will call upon you at your palace."
He then hurried on with the still senseless Agnes in his arms; and the
Count of Riverola retraced his steps to the immediate vicinity of the
coffin.
This scene, which so strangely interrupted the funeral ceremony, and
which has taken so much space to describe, did not actually occupy ten
minutes from the moment when the young lady first appeared in the
church, until that when she was borne away by the handsome stranger. The
funeral obsequies were completed; the coffin was lowered into the family
vault; the spectators dispersed, and the mourners, headed by the young
count, returned in procession to the Riverola mansion, which was
situated at no great distance.