“‘I cannot describe to you the perplexity into which I was thrown by the contents of this letter—nor the anxiety with which I awaited the opportunity of complying with the request contained in it. It seemed as if that moment was destined never to arrive, so tediously did the evening pass—so slow did the domestics seem in their preparations for retiring to rest.
“‘At length all was quiet in the château, and, with thanks to Heaven that it should at last be so, I muffled myself in my cloak, and ventured forth. The night was dark; there were neither moon nor stars; but so impressed was I by the tone of mystery in which my brother wrote, that I did not even carry with me the lantern with which I had returned from the villa, and drove back with blows my faithful dog who had attempted to follow me as usual, lest his bark might alarm the servants. It was a calm, still night—not a whisper was heard among the trees, nor the movement of any living thing among the bushes which skirted the garden-path down which I passed, with beating heart, towards the tank. It was situated in a hollow at the bottom of the garden, and in a place well fitted for concealment, being embosomed in trees, and surrounded by a thick hedge in order to shade the water from the sun, so that, even in the heat of summer, the air always struck damp and chill to any one coming to it from the broad sunlit alleys of the garden.
“‘At the end of the narrow path, so narrow that even two persons could not walk in it abreast, a flight of stone steps, always wet and slippery, reached to the edge of the reservoir, which, at certain seasons of the year, was extremely deep and dangerous. I stood upon the steps, and endeavoured to penetrate the darkness, but I could discern nothing, save here and there the reflection in the water of some faint vapoury star, struggling to disperse the cloud which hung before it. I stooped and ran my hand along the stone. Cesario was already there—the branch of alder was laid where he had mentioned in his letter. I called in low whispers, ‘Are you here, Cesario?’ There was no answer—not a sound, save, just at the very moment, and almost as if in reply, the low, melancholy howling of the dog whom I had repulsed on leaving the château, and who had remained watching at the door! I walked round stealthily to the gate by which my brother must have entered—perhaps I should find him awaiting me there. But no, the gate was open—he must be in the garden. Again did I call, and again, and still the same silence, and so I fancied that he must have arrived early, and, tired of tarrying in the same spot, was wandering through the grounds, but would most assuredly return to the place where he had appointed me to meet him. I sat down on the steps of the reservoir, consoled with this reflection, and waited on.
“‘Once or twice I fancied I heard footsteps approaching, and then I rose and paced in the direction whence I fancied the sound came. Then would I again call upon Cesario—again to meet with disappointment, and to sink once more upon the cold stone, in a paroxysm of anguish and impatience. By degrees, however, my ear became accustomed to the silence, and my eye to the utter darkness; and it happened with me then, as it has often done with others—my faculties became fatigued with watching and with listening, and I bent my head upon my knees, and fell into an unquiet slumber. I know not how long I remained thus, but when I awoke it was already dawn—the cold grey early dawn which precedes the rising of the sun. The birds were already twittering and chattering in the branches above my head, and old Volpe, the hound, whom I had beaten back on the night preceding, apparently set free by the opening of the door, was thrusting his cold nose into my hand, to attract my attention. I patted him kindly—he looked up into my face with an expression I shall never forget, and howled so very piteously that the sound thrilled to my very soul.
“‘I rose from my seat—every limb was paralysed with cold—every joint stiffened by the uneasy posture which I had maintained so long. I walked to and fro for an instant, in order to dissipate the sensation of misery which I experienced, and reflected with vexation on the situation in which I had been compelled to pass the night. I could not help accusing Cesario of negligence and want of feeling, in thus leaving me to watch and wait in uncertainty for so many hours. I was about to move from the spot, when I know not what instinct prompted me to gaze around the place once more. I even looked over the hedge into the tank, and the dog ran hurriedly down the steps and stood at the bottom, whining in that sorrowful, uneasy tone, which expresses a sense of misery and danger with more power than any human language. I was attracted by the peculiar steadiness with which the animal stood looking towards the opposite side of the tank, and mechanically I suffered my gaze to wander in the same direction.
“‘Suddenly the beating of my heart was stilled, my very respiration checked, and the cold perspiration oozed in large drops from my forehead, as though I had been standing beneath the heat of a burning sun! There, beneath the leaden light of the misty dawn, I could distinctly see a human form lying at the water’s-edge, still and motionless; the face was concealed, turned downwards from the light; but I knew that it was my brother, and with a shriek of agony I sprang forward to the spot, with frantic excitement tearing through the bushes which impeded my path. Before I had touched the body, I knew that life must be extinct. Not for a single moment did I labour under the puerile delusion so common to people in the like situation, but at once felt the certitude that my brother lay dead before me!
“‘Death is at all times a ghastly spectacle, but there are hours and seasons wherein its presence inspires far less horror than at others; the bed of sickness—the darkened room—the lighted tapers—the priest murmuring consolation to the lingering soul—these are the natural attendants on death, and soften the disgust and dread that we feel at its approach. But here, in the full light of the rising dawn, the birds carolling amid the branches—the distant song of the merry vintagers who were already busy at their labours on the opposite hill—all seemed to jar upon the feelings, and to inspire a supernatural horror, from which I am not free even now when thinking of that hour. I raised my brother in my arms. He had fallen forward from the bank, for his head was in the water, which circumstance I thought at first might have caused suffocation. The bank was steep and slippery, likely to have given way beneath his feet, and he must have been thus precipitated into the water, whence he could not extricate himself without help. This was my first impression, but, as I raised that lifeless form to the light, I perceived a deep and ghastly wound in his side, from which the blood had flowed, not freely, but in a thick, turbid pool, and, as it were, drop by drop! The knife with which the deed was done lay by his side upon the grass. I recognised it as his own—my father’s gift to him when a boy—the very knife he must have used to cut the branch from the alder, as the signal of his arrival in the garden. Cesario had died thus, this miserable death, while I had been the whole night within sight of his dying struggles—within hearing of his dying groan, and yet had seen, had heard nothing—and when tired of cursing his tardiness, had sat me down and slept almost within arm’s length of his bleeding corpse!
“‘The event caused the greatest consternation throughout the whole country. We were much beloved, for my father’s sake, and every inquiry was set on foot which could lead to a discovery of the means by which Cesario had met his death. But every measure proved fruitless, and I was forced to console myself with the opinion of Giordoni, who expressed a conviction that my brother, giving way to the melancholy which so long had preyed upon his mind, had committed suicide. The letter I had received seemed to many, by its tone of mystery, to betray symptoms of the excitement which usually precedes the execution of such a deed. Cesario was the first person buried in the new chapel of Saint Ignatius, Giordoni generously consenting to give absolution for his crime, and to attribute its commission to insanity.
“‘As my destiny had begun, so did it proceed. The whole of my property was given up to the Order. I had been led on, step by step, by the hope of meeting with my reward—the hand of Isabella—she who had prevailed upon me to concede every point to Giordoni, by promises of eternal love. In the hopes she had held out, consisted now my only happiness, for I had no longer a future of my own. Of the flourishing fortune which my father left me, I was permitted to claim but the share which fell to me as one of the meanest members of the “Society.”
“‘Even then I did not despair—for how could I imagine that I was to be deceived? How can I tell you all that followed—how the illusions, one by one, dropped from my vision, and left me as I am—without faith, without belief either in God or man!