The Monk (5 page)

“In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The nuns are always veiled.”

“No! no! I know better. On entering a place of worship, they ever take off their veils, from respect to the saint to whom ’Tis dedicated. But hark, they are coming! Silence! silence! Observe, and be convinced.”

“Good!” said Lorenzo to himself; “I may possibly discover to whom the vows are addressed of this mysterious stranger.”

Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil. The prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made a profound reverence as she passed the statue of St. Francis, the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her example, and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo’s curiosity. He almost began to despair of seeing the mystery cleared up, when, in paying her respects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up the light flashed full in her face. At the same moment she dexterously removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the procession.

“Ha!” said Christoval in a low voice, “here we have some little intrigue; no doubt.”

“Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.

“What, your sister? Diavolo! Then somebody, I suppose, will have to pay for our peeping.”

“And shall pay for it without delay,” replied the incensed brother.

The pious procession had now entered the abbey; the door was already closed upon it. The unknown immediately quitted his concealment, and hastened to leave the church: ere he could effect his intention, he descried Medina stationed in his passage. The stranger hastily retreated, and drew his hat over his eyes.

“Attempt not to fly me!” exclaimed Lorenzo; “I will know who you are, and what were the contents of that letter.”

“Of that letter?” repeated the unknown. “And by what title do you ask the question?”

“By a title of which I am now ashamed; but it becomes not you to question me. Either reply circumstantially to my demands, or answer me with your sword.”

“The latter method will be the shortest,” rejoined the other, drawing his rapier; “come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready.”

Burning with rage, Lorenzo hastened to the attack: the antagonists had already exchanged several passes, before Christoval, who at that moment had more sense than either of them, could throw himself between their weapons.

“Hold! hold! Medina!” he exclaimed; “remember the consequences of shedding blood on consecrated ground!”

The stranger immediately dropped his sword.

“Medina?” he cried. “Great God, is it possible! Lorenzo, have you quite forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?”

Lorenzo’s astonishment increased with every succeeding moment. Raymond advanced towards him; but with a look of suspicion he drew back his hand, which the other was preparing to take.

“You here, Marquis? What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a clandestine correspondence with my sister, whose affections———”

“Have ever been, and still are mine. But this is no fit place for an explanation. Accompany me to my hotel, and you shall know every thing. Who is that with you?”

“One whom I believe you to have seen before,” replied Don Christoval, “though probably not at church.”

“The condé d’Ossorio?”

“Exactly so, marquis.”

“I have no objection to entrusting you with my secret, for I am sure that I may depend upon your silence.”

“Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and therefore I must beg leave to decline your confidence. Do you go your own way, and I shall go mine. Marquis, where are you to be found?”

“As usual, at the hotel de las Cisternas; but remember that I am incognito, and that, if you wish to see me, you must ask for Alphonso d’Alvarada.”

“Good! good! Farewell, cavaliers!” said Don Christoval, and instantly departed.

“You, marquis,” said Lorenzo in the accent of surprise; “you, Alphonso d’Alvarada?”

“Even so, Lorenzo: but unless you have already heard my story from your sister, I have much to relate that will astonish you. Follow me, therefore, to my hotel without delay.”

At this moment the porter of the Capuchins entered the cathedral to lock up the doors for the night. The two noblemen instantly withdrew, and hastened with all speed to the palace de las Cisternas.

—

“Well, Antonia,” said the aunt, as soon as she had quitted the church, “what think you of our gallants? Don Lorenzo really seems a very obliging good sort of young man: he paid you some attention, and nobody knows what may come of it. But as to Don Christoval, I protest to you, he is the very phœnix of politeness; so gallant! so well-bred! so sensible, and so pathetic! Well! if ever man can prevail upon me to break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Christoval. You see, niece, that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: the very moment that I produced myself in Madrid, I knew that I should be surrounded by admirers. When I took off my veil, did you see, Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the condé? And when I presented him my hand, did you observe the air of passion with which he kissed it? If ever I witnessed real love, I then saw it impressed upon Don Christoval’s countenance!”

Now Antonia had observed the air with which Don Christoval had kissed this same hand; but as she drew conclusions from it somewhat different from her aunt’s, she was wise enough to hold her tongue. As this is the only instance known of a woman’s ever having done so, it was judged worthy to be recorded here.

The old lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same strain, till they gained the street in which was their lodging. Here a crowd collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing themselves on the opposite side of the street, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all these people together. After some minutes the crowd formed itself into a circle; and now Antonia perceived in the midst of it a woman of extraordinary height, who whirled herself repeatedly round and round, using all sorts of extravagant gestures. Her dress was composed of shreds of various-coloured silks and linens fantastically arranged, yet not entirely without taste. Her head was covered with a kind of turban ornamented with vine-leaves and wild flowers. She seemed much sun-burnt, and her complexion was of a deep olive; her eyes looked fiery and strange; and in her hand she bore a long black rod, with which she at intervals traced a variety of singular figures upon the ground, round about which she danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly she broke off her dance, whirled herself round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment’s pause she sung the following ballad:

T
HE
G
IPSY’S
S
ONG
.

Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses
   All that did ever mortal know:
Come, maidens, come! My magic glasses
   Your future husband’s form can show:

For ’Tis to me the power is given
   Unclosed the book of fate to see;
To read the fixed resolves of heaven,
   And dive into futurity.

I guide the pale moon’s silver waggon;
   The winds in magic bonds I hold;
I charm to sleep the crimson dragon,
   Who loves to watch o’er buried gold.

Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture
   Their sabbath strange where witches keep;
Fearless the sorcerer’s circle enter,
   And woundless tread on snakes asleep.

Lo! here are charms of mighty power!
   This makes secure an husband’s truth;
And this, composed at midnight hour,
   Will force to love the coldest youth.

If any maid too much has granted,
   Her loss this philtre will repair.
This blooms a cheek where red is wanted,
   And this will make a brown girl fair;

Then silent hear, while I discover
   What I in fortune’s mirror view;
And each, when many a year is over,
   Shall own the Gipsy’s sayings true.

“Dear aunt!” said Antonia when the stranger had finished, “is she not mad?”

“Mad? Not she, child; she is only wicked. She is a gipsy, a sort of vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes, and pilfering from those who come by their money honestly. Out upon such vermin! If I were king of Spain, every one of them should be burnt alive, who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks.”

These words were pronounced so audibly, that they reached the gipsy’s ears. She immediately pierced through the crowd, and made towards the ladies. She saluted them thrice in the eastern fashion, and then addressed herself to Antonia.

T
HE
G
IPSY
.

“Lady, gentle lady! know,
I your future fate can show;
Give your hand, and do not fear;
Lady, gentle lady! hear!”

“Dearest aunt!” said Antonia, “indulge me this once! let me have my fortune told me!”

“Nonsense, child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.”

“No matter; let me at least hear what she has to say. Do, my dear aunt, oblige me, I beseech you!”

“Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the thing——— Here, good woman, you shall see the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune.”

As she said this, she drew off her glove, and presented her hand. The gipsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply:

T
HE
G
IPSY
.

“Your fortune? You are now so old,
Good dame, that ’Tis already told:
Yet, for your money, in a trice
I will repay you in advice.
Astonished at your childish vanity,
Your friends all tax you with insanity,
And grieve to see you use your art
To catch some youthful lover’s heart.
Believe me, dame, when all is done,
Your age will still be fifty-one;
And men will rarely take an hint
Of love from two grey eyes that squint.
Take then my counsels; lay aside
Your paint and patches, lust and pride,
And on the poor those sums bestow,
Which now are spent on useless show.
Think on your Maker, not a suitor;
Think on your past faults, not on future;
And think Time’s scythe will quickly mow
The few red hairs, which deck your brow.

The audience rang with laughter during the gipsy’s address; and—“fifty-one,—squinting eyes,—red hair,—paint and patches,”—&c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choaked with passion, and loaded her malicious adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The swarthy prophetess for some time listened to her with a contemptuous smile: at length she made her a short answer, and then turned to Antonia.

T
HE
G
IPSY
.

“Peace, lady! What I said was true.
And now, my lovely maid, to you;
Give me your hand, and let me see
Your future doom, and heaven’s decree.”

In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and presented her white hand to the gipsy, who, having gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the following words:

T
HE
G
IPSY
.

“Jesus! what a palm is there!
Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,
Perfect mind and form possessing,
You would be some good man’s blessing:
But, alas! this line discovers
That destruction o’er you hovers;
Lustful man and crafty devil
Will combine to work your evil;
And from earth by sorrows driven,
Soon your soul must speed to heaven.
Yet your sufferings to delay,
Well remember what I say.
When you one more virtuous see
Than belongs to man to be,
One, whose self no crimes assailing,
Pities not his neighbour’s failing,
Call the gipsy’s words to mind:
Though he seem so good and kind,
Fair exteriors oft will hide
Hearts that swell with lust and pride.
Lovely maid, with tears I leave you.
Let not my prediction grieve you:
Rather, with submission bending,
Calmly wait distress impending,
And expect eternal bliss
In a better world than this.

Having said this, the gipsy again whirled herself round thrice, and then hastened out of the street with frantic gesture. The crowd followed her; and Elvira’s door being now unembarrassed, Leonella entered the house, out of humour with the gipsy, with her niece, and with the people; in short, with every body but herself and her charming cavalier. The gipsy’s predictions had also considerably affected Antonia; but the impression soon wore off, and in a few hours she had forgotten the adventure, as totally as had it never taken place.