Chapter VI.

During the following day the sick woman remained in a state of terrible agitation, and at night the doctors were obliged again to administer a powerful narcotic, which caused her to fall into a deep sleep.

The count was occupied in arranging some papers that were scattered upon an antique ebony escritoire, ornamented in its various compartments with exquisite carved work and paintings. In it Ismena kept her papers. It had been opened that afternoon by her order to take out the writing materials she had demanded.

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Ismena had learned English from her father, to whom that tongue was perfectly familiar, and, as the husband replaced the papers, he fixed his eyes sadly upon a translation she had begun, grieved to think that she would never finish it. It was from "Hamlet," and his glance rested upon the last lines she had written--the monologue of King Claudius in the third act. The writing was indistinct, as if traced by a trembling hand. The translation, in which one familiar with the original would have noted some voluntary omissions, ran as follows:

"My crime is already rank; it calls to heaven. Upon it weighs the first curse that entered the world--that of the fratricide! My desire and my will impel me to pray, and yet I cannot, for the weight of my crime is greater than the force of my intention, and, like a man in whom two powers contend, I vacillate between ceding to the pressure of my guilt or giving myself up to my good intentions. But for what is mercy, if not to descend upon the brow of the sinner? And has not prayer the double virtue of preventing a fall and of lifting the fallen by obtaining his pardon? Then will I lift my eyes to heaven. But what form of prayer is appropriate to my crime? Can I ask and hope for forgiveness? Is there water enough in the gentle clouds to wash the blood from the hand of the fratricide? Is there remission for him who continues in the enjoyment of the benefits of his sin--his queen, his crown, his vain-glory? Ah! no, there cannot be! The gilded hand of iniquity may sink justice in the corrupted currents of the world, and the very price of guilt may buy the law of man. But there, on high, it is not so: there artifice obtains nothing and falsehood is of no avail: there, in the kingdom of truth, the deed will stand naked, and the sinner will have to be his own accuser. What, then, remains to us? To try the virtue or repentance? Ah! yes, it can do all. But, alas! if the sinner would repent and cannot? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O soul, that in trying to free thyself entangled thyself the more in the meshes of thy sin!--angels, hasten to its aid!--melt, heart of steel!--inflexible knees, be bent! Alas! the words have flown, but wings are wanting to the heart; and the words that reach heaven without the heart find no entrance there!"

This imperfect translation, though it gave but a faint idea of the beautiful and elevated poetry of the writer, filled the general with admiration, for his was a mind accessible to all things beautiful and good. But when he glanced at his wife, who lay so pale upon her white bed, like a withered lily upon the snow, he reflected in all simplicity: "Why seek these pictures of crime and passion? Why should the dove imitate the boding cry of the owl? Why should the gentle lamb try to repeat the roar of the wounded and bloody lion?"

Having put the papers in their place, he seated himself at the foot of his wife's bed, and lifted his heart to God in a fervent petition for the life of her he loved.

The alcove in which Ismena lay opened into the parlor, and at this moment, with the pertinacity of a recollection always repulsed yet for ever returning, the clock struck eleven. Its metallic strokes, vibrating and pausing in the silence, suggested the idea of justice knocking at a closed door--justice, against whom there is no door that can remain for ever closed!

These clear sounds startled Ismena, and she awoke with a smothered moan.

The general, alarmed by her wild looks and confused words, approached, and, encircling her with his arms, said:

"Compose yourself, Ismena, for you are better; the healthy sleep you have had for several hours is restoring your strength."

"Have I been asleep?" she murmured. "Asleep on the brink of my sepulchre as if it offered me rest! Asleep when so little time remains to arrange my accounts in this world! Sit down, sir, for so I will address you, and not as my husband. I am not worthy to be your wife. I do not wish to talk to you as to a companion, but as a judge whose clemency I implore."

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The general, taking no notice of these strange words, which he attributed to delirium, endeavored to tranquillize his wife, telling her to put off the explanations she wished to make until she should be stronger; but Ismena persisted in being heard, and continued:

"I am about to die, and I leave all the good things of this world without sorrow; all except one, that I still desire and would fain carry with me to the grave. You, who have been to me father, husband, and benefactor, do not deny what none but you can give! For that which I implore, sir, is your forgiveness."

The general, as he listened, became more and more confirmed in the belief that his wife was raving, and again begged her not to agitate herself as she was doing. But Ismena only implored him the more earnestly to listen without interrupting her.

"If a woman," she said, "who has expiated a crime by all that remorse can inflict of torture and ruin; by the loss of health, of peace, and of life; if this wretch, in her dying agony and despair, can inspire the least compassion, oh! you who have been the most generous of men, you who have strewn my life with flowers, have one branch of olive for the hour of my death! Hear, without repulsing me, without deserting me in my last moments, without making my last agony more intolerable by your curse, a confession which will prove to you that my heart is not entirely perverted, since I have the courage to make it."

A cold sweat stood upon the forehead of the dying woman; her stiffening fingers worked convulsively; the words issued from her lips more interruptedly and fainter, like the last drops of blood from a mortal wound. Nevertheless, making one last heroic effort, she went on.

"I know that I am about to stab you to the heart, but by this means only can I die at peace with God. Here," she continued, drawing a sealed paper from under her pillow, "is a declaration made by me, for the purpose of preventing a dishonest usurpation, and signed by two reverend witnesses, which will prove to you that--Ramon--is not our son!" On hearing these words, the general sprang from his chair, but, overwhelmed with grief and astonishment, sank back again, exclaiming:

"Ramon! Ramon not my son! Whose, then, is he?"

"Only God knows, for his wretched parents abandoned him; he is a foundling."

"But with what motive?" The general paused a moment and then continued with indignation: "I see the motive!--ambition!--pride! Oh! what iniquity!"

"Have pity on my misery!" implored Ismena, wringing her hands.

"You are a base woman!" cried the general, with all the indignation of probity against dishonesty, and all the aversion of virtue to the thought of a crime.

Ismena had never before heard the paternal voice of her husband assume the firm and terrible tone with which he now cast her treachery in her face, and she sank under it as if struck by lightning. His profound sorrow and stern condemnation seemed to open an abyss between him and her, and render it impossible for the lips which had pronounced that severe sentence ever to utter the pardon she craved more than life. Pardon! most beautiful and perfect fruit of love, of which the value is so great that God's Son gave his blood to buy it, and which, therefore, his Father grants for a single tear, so great is his mercy! Pardon, divine gift, that pride neither asks nor yields, but that humility both implores and concedes. Pardon, that, like an efficacious intercession, lifts the sinner to heaven.

Had she perchance waited too long to ask it? For one moment the torrent of angry blood had swept generosity and sacred mercy from the heart of him she had injured; and must she die in that moment? {251} She sprang from the bed, and, falling upon her knees, laid her clenched hands against his breast, shrieking in a voice intercepted by the death-rattle:

"Pardon!"

Her last thought, her last feeling, her last breath dissolved in that last word. It reached the heart of her husband. Bending forward, he caught her in his arms, and lifted--a corpse.

And from the clock, as if time had waited for this moment to toll a voluntary and pious passing bell, there issued twelve slow and measured strokes.