“Such were my motives for making that will which you are destined to hear read, doubtless before the time comes for you to peruse this manuscript. And having made that will, and experiencing the sad certainty that my unfortunate daughter will never become qualified to inherit my title and fortune, but that the name of Riverola must be perpetuated through your marriage, I have determined that to you and to your bride alone shall the dread secrets of the cabinet be revealed.”
Thus terminated the manuscript.
Powerful in meaning and strong in expression as the English language may be rendered by one who has the least experience in the proper combination of words, yet it becomes totally inadequate to the task of conveying an idea of those feelings—those harrowing emotions—those horrifying sentiments, which were excited in the breasts of Francisco di Riverola and the beautiful Flora by the revolution of the manuscript. At first the document begat a deep and mournful interest, as it related the interviews of the late count with Vitangela in the streets of Naples; then amazement was engendered by the announcement of that lovely and unhappy being’s ignominious parentage—but a calmness was diffused through the minds of Flora and Francisco, as if they had found a resting place amidst the exciting incidents of the narrative when they reached that part which mentioned the marriage.
Their feelings were, however, destined to be speedily and most painfully wrung once more; and Francisco could scarcely restrain his indignation—yes, his indignation even against the memory of his deceased father—when he perused those injurious suspicions which were recorded in reference to the honor of his mother. Though unable to explain the mystery in which all that part of the narrative was involved, yet he felt firmly convinced that his mother was innocent; and he frequently interrupted himself in the perusal of the manuscript to give utterance to passionate ejaculations expressive of that opinion. But it was when the hideous tragedy rapidly developed itself, and the history of the presence of two skeletons in the closet was detailed, it was then that language became powerless to describe the mingled wrath and disgust which Francisco felt, or to delineate the emotions of boundless horror and wild amazement that were excited in the bosom of Flora. In spasmodic shuddering did the young countess cling to her husband when she had learned how fearfully accurate was the manner in which the few lines of the manuscript which she had read many months previously in Nisida’s boudoir, fitted in the text, and how appalling was the tale which the entire made. She was cruelly shocked, and her heart bled for that fine young man whom she was so proud to call her husband, but whom his late father had loathed to recognize as a son. And Nisida—what were her feelings as she lay stretched upon a couch, listening to the contents of the manuscript which she had read before? At first one hope—one idea was dominant in her soul, the hope that Flora would be crushed even to death by revelations which were indeed almost sufficient to overwhelm a gentle disposition and freeze the vital current in the tender and compassionate heart.
But as Francisco read on, and when he came to those passages which described the sufferings and the cruel fate of her mother, then Nisida became a prey to the most torturing feelings—dreadful emotions were expressed by her convulsed countenance and wildly-glaring eyes—and she muttered deep and bitter anathemas against the memory of her own father. For well does the reader know that she had loved her mother to distraction; and thus the horrifying detail of the injuries heaped upon the head and on the name of that revered parent aroused all her fiercest passions of rage and hate as completely as if that history had been new to her, and as if she were now becoming acquainted with it for the first time. Indeed, so powerful, so terrible, was the effect produced by the revival of all those dread reminiscences and heart-rending emotions on the part of Nisida that, forgetting her malignant spite and her infernal hope with regard to Flora, she threw her whole soul into the subject of the manuscript: and the torrent of feelings to which she thus gave way was crushing and overwhelming to a woman of such fierce passions, and who had received so awful a shock as that which had stretched her on the couch where she now lay. For the fate of him whom she had loved with such ardor, and the revulsion that her affection experienced on account of the ghastly spectacle which Wagner presented to her view in his dying moments—the disgust and loathing which had been inspired in her mind by the thought that she had ever fondled that being in her arms and absolutely doted on the superhuman beauty that had changed to such revolting ugliness, it was all this that had struck her down—paralyzed her—inflicted a mortal, though not an instantaneous blow upon that woman so lately full of energy, so strong in moral courage, and so full of vigorous health. Thus impressed with the conviction that her end was approaching, the moment the perusal of the manuscript was concluded the Lady Nisida said, in a faint and dying tone of voice:
“Francisco, draw near—as near as possible—and listen to what I have now to communicate, for it is in my power to clear up all doubt, all mystery relative to the honor of our sainted mother, and convince thee that no stigma, no disgrace attaches itself to thy birth!”
“Alas! my beloved sister,” exclaimed the young count, “you speak in a faint voice, you are very ill! In the name of the Holy Virgin! I conjure you to allow me to send for Dr. Duras!”
“No, Francisco,” said Nisida, her voice recovering somewhat of its power as she continued to address him: “I implore you to let me have my own way, to follow my own inclinations! Do not thwart me, Francisco; already I feel as if molten lead were pouring through my brain, and a tremendous weight lies upon my heart! Forbear, then, from irritating me, my well-beloved Francisco——”
“Oh! Nisida,” cried the young count, throwing his arms around his sister’s neck and embracing her fondly; “if you love me now, if you ever loved me, grant me one boon! By the memory of our sainted mother I implore you, by your affection for her I adjure you, Nisida——”