Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories (27 page)

It was only natural that the discourse should next turn to the knight Azzo, about whom everyone began to talk eagerly. Woislaw inquired as minutely as he had done with regard to Franziska’s illness about what concerned this stranger, from the first evening of their acquaintance down to his last visit, without, however, giving any opinion on the subject. The party were still in earnest conversation, when the door opened, and Azzo entered. Woislaw’s eyes remained fixed on him, as he, without taking any particular notice of the new arrival, walked up to the table, and seating himself, directed most of the conversation to Franziska and her father, and now and then made some sarcastic remark when Franz began to speak. The Turkish war again came on the
tapis,
and though Azzo only put in an occasional remark, Woislaw had much to say on the subject. Thus they had advanced late into the night, and Franz said smiling to Woislaw: “I should not wonder if day had surprised us, whilst listening to your entertaining adventures.”

“I admire the young gentleman’s taste,” said Azzo, with an ironical curl of the lip. “Stories of storm and shipwreck are, indeed, best heard on
terra firma,
and those of battle and death at a hospitable table or in the chimney corner. One has then the comfortable feeling of keeping a whole skin, and being in no danger, not even of taking cold.” With the last words, he gave a hoarse laugh, and turning his back on Franz, rose, bowed to the rest of the company, and left the room. The knight, who always accompanied Azzo to the door, now expressed himself fatigued, and bade his friends good night.

“That Azzo’s impertinence is unbearable,” cried Bertha when he was gone. “He becomes daily more rough, unpolite, and presuming. If only on account of Franziska’s dream, though of course he cannot help that, I detest him. Now, tonight, not one civil word has he spoken to anyone but Franziska, except, perhaps, some casual remark to my uncle.”

“I cannot deny that you are right, Bertha,” said her cousin. “One may forgive much to a man whom fate had probably made somewhat misanthropical; but he should not overstep the bounds of common politeness. But where on earth is Franz?” added Franziska, as she looked uneasily round. The young man had quietly left the room whilst Bertha was speaking.

“He cannot have followed the knight Azzo to challenge him?” cried Bertha in alarm.

“It were better he entered a lion’s den to pull his mane!” said Woislaw vehemently. “I must follow him instantly,” he added, as he rushed from the room.

He hastened over the threshold, out of the castle, and through the court before he came up to them. Here a narrow bridge with a slight balustrade passed over the moat by which the castle was surrounded. It appeared that Franz had only just addressed Azzo in a few hot words, for as Woislaw, unperceived by either, advanced under the shadow of the wall, Azzo said gloomily: “Leave me, foolish boy—leave me; for by that sun”—and he pointed to the full moon above them—“you will see those rays no more if you linger another moment on my path.”

“And I tell you, wretch, that you either give me satisfaction for your repeated insolence, or you die,” cried Franz, drawing his sword.

Azzo stretched forth his hand, and grasping the sword in the middle, it snapped like a broken reed. “I warn you for the last time,” he said in a voice of thunder as he threw the pieces into the moat. “Now, away—away, boy, from my path, or, by those below us, you are lost!”

“You or I! you or I!” cried Franz madly as he made a rush at the sword of his antagonist and strove to draw it from his side. Azzo replied not; only a bitter laugh half escaped from his lips; then seizing Franz by the chest, he lifted him up like an infant, and was in the act of throwing him over the bridge when Woislaw stepped to his side. With a grasp of his wonderful hand, into the springs of which he threw all his strength, he seized Azzo’s arm, pulled it down, and obliged him to drop his victim. Azzo seemed in the highest degree astonished. Without concerning himself further about Franz, he gazed in amazement on Woislaw.

“Who art thou who darest to rob me of my prey?” he asked hesitatingly. “Is it possible? Can you be—”

“Ask not, thou bloody one! Go, seek thy nourishment! Soon comes thy hour!” replied Woislaw in a calm but firm tone.

“Ha, now I know!” cried Azzo eagerly. “Welcome, blood-brother! I give up to you this worm, and for your sake will not crush him. Farewell; our paths will soon meet again.”

“Soon, very soon; farewell!” cried Woislaw, drawing Franz towards him. Azzo rushed away and disappeared.

Franz had remained for some moments in a state of stupefaction, but suddenly started as from a dream. “I am dishonoured, dishonoured forever!” he cried, as he pressed his clenched hands to his forehead.

“Calm yourself; you could not have conquered,” said Woislaw.

“But I will conquer, or perish!” cried Franz incensed. “I will seek this adventurer in his den, and he or I must fall.”

“You could not hurt him,” said Woislaw. “You would infallibly be the victim.”

“Then show me a way to bring the wretch to judgment,” cried Franz, seizing Woislaw’s hands, while tears of anger sprang to his eyes. “Disgraced as I am, I cannot live.”

“You shall be revenged, and that within twenty-four hours, I hope; but only on two conditions—”

“I agree to them! I will do anything—” began the young man eagerly.

“The first is, that you do nothing, but leave everything in my hands,” interrupted Woislaw. “The second, that you will assist me in persuading Franziska to do what I shall represent to her as absolutely necessary. That young lady’s life is in more danger from Azzo than your own.”

“How? What?” cried Franz fiercely. “Franziska’s life in danger! And from that man? Tell me, Woislaw, who is this fiend?”

“Not a word will I tell either the young lady or you, until the danger is passed,” said Woislaw firmly. “The smallest indiscretion would ruin everything. No one can act here but Franziska herself, and if she refuses to do so she is irretrievably lost.”

“Speak, and I will help you. I will do all you wish, but I must know—”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” replied Woislaw. “I must have both you and Franziska yield to me unconditionally. Come now, come to her. You are to be mute on what has passed, and use every effort to induce her to accede to my proposal.”

Woislaw spoke firmly, and it was impossible for Franz to make any further objection; in a few moments they both entered the hall, where they found the young girls still anxiously awaiting them.

“Oh, I have been so frightened,” said Franziska, even paler than usual, as she held out her hand to Franz. “I trust all has ended peaceably.”

“Everything is arranged; a couple of words were sufficient to settle the whole affair,” said Woislaw cheerfully. “But Master Franz was less concerned in it than yourself, fair lady.”

“I! How do you mean?” said Franziska in surprise.

“I allude to your illness,” replied the other.

“And you spoke of that to Azzo? Does he, then, know a remedy which he could not tell me himself?” she inquired, smiling painfully.

“The knight Azzo must take part in your cure; but speak to you about it he cannot, unless the remedy is to lose all its efficacy,” replied Woislaw quietly.

“So it is some secret elixir, as the learned doctors who have so long attended me say, and through whose means I only grow worse,” said Franziska mournfully.

“It is certainly a secret, but is as certainly a cure,” replied Woislaw.

“So said all, but none has succeeded,” said the young lady peevishly.

“You might at least try it,” began Bertha.

“Because your friend proposes it,” said the other smiling. “I have no doubt that you, with nothing ailing you, would take all manner of drugs to please your knight; but with me the inducement is wanting, and therefore also the faith.”

“I did not speak of any medicine,” said Woislaw.

“Oh! a magical remedy! I am to be cured—what was it the quack who was here the other day called it?—‘by sympathy.’ Yes, that was it.”

“I do not object to your calling it so, if you like,” said Woislaw smiling; “but you must know, dear lady, that the measures I shall propose must be attended to literally, and according to the strictest directions.”

“And you trust this to me?” asked Franziska.

“Certainly,” said Woislaw hesitating; “but—”

“Well, why do you not proceed? Can you think that I shall fail in courage?” she asked.

“Courage is certainly necessary for the success of my plan,” said Woislaw gravely; “and it is because I give you credit for a large share of that virtue, I venture to propose it at all, although for the real harmlessness of the remedy I will answer with my life, provided you follow my directions exactly.”

“Well, tell me the plan, and then I can decide,” said the young lady.

“I can only tell you that when we commence our operations,” replied Woislaw.

“Do you think I am a child to be sent here, there, and everywhere, without a reason?” asked Franziska, with something of her old pettishness.

“You did me great injustice, dear lady, if you thought for a moment I would propose anything disagreeable to you, unless demanded by the sternest necessity,” said Woislaw; “and yet I can only repeat my former words.”

“Then I will not do it,” cried Franziska. “I have already tried so much—and all ineffectually.”

“I give you my honour as a knight, that your cure is certain, but you must pledge yourself solemnly and unconditionally to do implicitly what I shall direct,” said Woislaw earnestly.

“Oh, I implore you to consent, Franziska. Our friend would not propose anything unnecessary,” said Bertha, taking both her cousin’s hands.

“And let me join my entreaties to Bertha’s,” said Franz.

“How strange you all are!” exclaimed Franziska, shaking her head. “You make such a secret of that which I must know if I am to accomplish it, and then you declare so positively that I shall recover, when my own feelings tell me it is quite hopeless.”

“I repeat, that I will answer for the result,” said Woislaw, “on the condition I mentioned before, and that you have courage to carry out what you commence.”

“Ha! now I understand; this, after all, is the only thing which appears doubtful to you,” cried Franziska. “Well, to show you that our sex are neither wanting in the will nor in the power to accomplish deeds of daring, I give my consent.”

With the last words, she offered Woislaw her hand.

“Our compact is thus sealed,” she pursued smiling. “Now say, Sir Knight, how am I to commence this mysterious cure?”

“It commenced when you gave your consent,” said Woislaw gravely. “Now, I have only to request that you will ask no more questions, but hold yourself in readiness to take a ride with me tomorrow an hour before sunset. I also request that you will not mention to your father a word of what has passed.”

“Strange!” said Franziska.

“You have made the compact; you are not wanting in resolution; and I will answer for everything else,” said Woislaw encouragingly.

“Well, so let it be. I will follow your directions,” said the lady, although she still looked incredulous.

“On our return you shall know everything; before that, it is quite impossible,” said Woislaw in conclusion. “Now go, dear lady, and take some rest; you will need strength for tomorrow.”

It was on the morning of the following day; the sun had not risen above an hour, and the dew still lay like a veil of pearls on the grass or dripped from the petals of the flowers swaying in the early breeze, when the knight Woislaw hastened over the fields towards the forest, and turned into a gloomy path, which by the direction one could perceive led towards the towers of Klatka. When he arrived at the old oak-tree we have before had occasion to mention, he sought carefully along the road for traces of human footsteps, but only a deer had passed that way. Seemingly satisfied with his search, he proceeded on his way, though not before he had half drawn his dagger from its sheath, as though to assure himself that it was ready for service in time of need.

Slowly he ascended the path; it was evident he carried something beneath his cloak. Arrived in the court, he left the ruins of the castle to the left, and entered the old chapel. In the chancel he looked eagerly and earnestly around. A deathlike stillness reigned in the deserted sanctuary, only broken by the whispering of the wind in an old thorn-tree which grew outside. Woislaw had looked round him ere he perceived the door leading down to the vault; he hurried towards it and descended. The sun’s position enabled its rays to penetrate the crevices, and made the subterranean chamber so light that one could read easily the inscriptions at the head and feet of the coffins. The knight first laid on the ground the packet he had hitherto carried under his cloak, and then going from coffin to coffin, at last remained stationary before the oldest of them. He read the inscription carefully, drew his dagger thoughtfully from its case, and endeavoured to raise the lid with its point. This was no difficult matter, for the rusty iron nails kept but a slight hold of the rotten wood. On looking in, only a heap of ashes, some remnants of dress, and a skull were the contents. He quickly closed it again, and went on to the next, passing over those of a woman and two children. Here things had much the same appearance, except that the corpse held together till the lid was raised, and then fell into dust, a few linen rags and bones being alone perceptible. In the third, fourth, and nearly the next half-dozen, the bodies were in better preservation: in some, they looked a sort of yellow-brown mummy; whilst in others a skinless skull covered with hair grinned from the coverings of velvet, silk, or mildewed embroideries; all, however, were touched with the loathsome marks of decay. Only one more coffin now remained to be inspected; Woislaw approached it, and read the inscription. It was the same that had before attracted the Knight of Fahnenberg: Ezzelin von Klatka, the last possessor of the tower, was described as lying therein. Woislaw found it more difficult to raise the lid here; and it was only by the exertion of much strength that he at length succeeded in extracting the nails. He did all, however, as quietly as if afraid of rousing some sleeper within; he then raised the cover, and cast a glance on the corpse. An involuntary “Ha!” burst from his lips as he stepped back a pace. If he had less expected the sight that met his eyes, he would have been far more overcome. In the coffin lay Azzo as he lived and breathed, and as Woislaw had seen him at the supper-table only the evening before. His appearance, dress, and all were the same; besides, he had more the semblance of sleep than of death—no trace of decay was visible—there was even a rosy tint on his cheeks. Only the circumstance that the breast did not heave distinguished him from one who slept. For a few moments Woislaw did not move; he could only stare into the coffin. With a hastiness in his movements not usual with him, he suddenly seized the lid, which had fallen from his hands, and laying it on the coffin, knocked the nails into their places. As soon as he had completed this work, he fetched the packet he had left at the entrance, and laying it on the top of the coffin, hastily ascended the steps, and quitted the church and the ruins.