 | CHAPTER X. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
— Hadst thou not been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Noted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind.
Shakspeare.
The arrival of Sigismund's party at the hospice
preceded that of the other travellers more than an
hour. They were received with the hospitality
with which all were then welcomed at this celebrated
convent; the visits of the curious and the
vulgar not having blunted the benevolence of the
monks, who, mostly accustomed to entertain the
low-born and ignorant, were always happy to relieve
the monotony of their solitude by intercourse
with guests of a superior class. The good clavier
had prepared the way for their reception; for even
on the wild ridge of St. Bernard, we do not fare
the worse for carrying with us a prestige of that
rank and consideration that are enjoyed in the
world below. Although a mild Christian-like goodwill
were manifested to all, the heiress of Willading,
a name that was generally known and honored
between the Alps and the Jura, met with those
proofs of empressement and deference which betray
the secret thought, in despite of conventional forms,
and which told her, plainer than the words of welcome,
to see so fair and so noble a specimen of their
species within their dreary walls.
All this, however, was lost on Sigismund. He
was too much occupied with the events of the
morning to note other things; and, first committing
Adelheid and his sister to the care of their
women, he went into the open air in order to await
the arrival of the rest.
As it has been mentioned, the existence of the
venerable convent of St. Bernard dates from a
very remote period of Christianity. It stands on
the very brow of the precipice which forms the
last steep ascent in mounting to the Col. The
building is a high, narrow, but vast, barrack-looking
edifice, built of the ferruginous stone of the
region, having its gable placed toward the Valais,
and its front stretching in the direction of the
gorge in which it stands. Immediately before its
principal door, the rock rises in an ill-shapen hillock,
across which runs the path to Italy. This is
literally the highest point of the pass, as the building
itself is the most elevated habitable abode in
Europe. At this spot, the distance from rock to
rock, spanning the gorge, may be a hundred yards,
the wild and reddish piles rising on each side for
more than a thousand feet. These are merely
dwarfs, however, among their sister piles, several
of which, in plain view of the convent, reach to
the height of eternal snow. This point in the
road attained, the path began immediately to descend,
and the drippings of a snow-bank before
the convent door, which had resisted the greatest
heat of the past summer, ran partly into the valley
of the Rhone, and partly into Piedmont; the
waters, after a long and devious course through
the plains of France and Italy, meeting again in
the common basin of the Mediterranean. The
base of the rocks on its right and a little limpid
lake on its left, the latter occupying nearly the
entire cavity of the valley of the gorge. It then
disappears between natural palisades of rock, at
the other extremity of the Col. This is the point
where the superfluous waters of the lake find their
outlet, descending swiftly, in a brawling little
brook, on the sunny side of the Alps. The frontier
of Italy is met on the margin of the lake, a long
musket-shot from the abode of the Augustines, and
near the site of a temple that the Romans had
raised in honor of Jupiter, in his attribute of director
of storms.
Such was the outline of the view which presented
itself to Sigismund, when he left the building to
while away the time that must necessarily elapse
before the arrival of the rest of the party. The
hour was still early, though the great altitude of
the site of the convent had brought it beneath the
influence of the sun's rays an hour before. He
had learned from a servant of the Augustines, that
a number of ordinary travellers, of whom in the
fine season hundreds at a time frequently passed
the night in their dormitories, were now breaking
their fasts in the refectory of the peasants, and he
was willing to avoid the questions that their curiosity
might prompt when they came to hear what
had occurred lower down on the mountain. One
of the brotherhood was caressing four or five
enormous mastiffs, that were leaping about and
barking with deep throats in front of the convent,
while old Uberto moved among them with a gravity
and respect that better suited his years. Perceiving
his guest, the Augustine quitted the dogs, and, lifting
his eastern-looking cap, he gave him the salutation
of the morning. Sigismund met the frank
smile of the canon, who like himself was young,
desired, and a friendly discourse succeeded
while they paced along the margin of the lake,
holding the path that leads across the Col.
“You are young in your charitable office, brother,”
remarked the soldier, when familiarity was
a little established. “This will be among the first
of the winters you will have passed at your benevolent
post?”
“It will make the eighth, as novice and as canon.
We are early trained to this kind of life, though
no practice will enable any of us to withstand the
effect which the thin air and intense cold produce
on the lungs many winters in succession. We go
down to Martigny when there is occasion, and
breathe an atmosphere better suited to man. Thou
hadst an angry storm below, the past night?”
“So angry, that we thank God it is over, and
that we are left to share your hospitality. Were
there many on the mountain besides ourselves, or
did any come up from Italy?”
“There were none but those who are now in
the common refectory, and none came from Aoste.
The season for the traveller is over. This is a
month in which we see only those who are much
pressed, and who have their reasons for trusting
the weather. In the summer we sometimes lodge
a thousand guests.”
“They whom ye receive have reason to be
thankful, reverend Augustine; for, in sooth, this
does not seem a region that abounds in its fruits.”
Sigismund and the monk looked around at the
vast piles of ragged naked rocks, and they smiled
as their eyes met.
“Nature gives literally nothing,” answered the
Augustine: “even the fuel that warms us is transported
leagues on the backs of mules, and thou
wilt readily conceive that of all others this is a
some of our ancient, and what were once rich,
endowments; and—”
The young canon hesitated to proceed.
“You were about to say, father, that they who
have the means to show gratitude are not always
unmindful of the wants of those, who share the
same hospitality without possessing the same ability
to manifest their respect for the institution.”
The Augustine bowed, and he turned the discourse
by pointing out the frontiers of Italy, and
the site of the ancient temple; both of which they
had this time reached. An animal moved among
the rocks, and attracted their attention.
“Can it be a chamois!” exclaimed Sigismund,
whose blood began to quicken with a hunter's
eagerness: “I would I had arms!”
“It is a dog, though not of our mountain breed!
The mastiffs of the convent have failed in hospitality,
and the poor beast has been driven to take
refuge in this retired spot, in waiting for his master,
who probably makes one of the party in the refectory.
See, they come; their approaching footsteps
have brought the cautious animal from his
cover.”
Sigismund saw, in truth, that a party of three
pedestrians was quitting the convent, taking the
path for Italy. A sudden and painful suspicion
flashed upon his mind. The dog was Nettuno,
most probably driven by the mastiffs, as the monk
had suggested, to seek a shelter in this retreat; and
one of those who approached, by his gait and
stature, was no other than his master.
“Thou knowest, father,” he said, with a clammy
tongue, for he was strangely agitated between
reluctance to accuse Maso of such a crime, and
horror at the fate of Jacques Colis, “that there has
been a murder on the mountain?”
The monk quietly assented. One who lived on
that road, and in that age, was not easily excited
by an event of so frequent occurrence. Sigismund
hastily recounted to his companion all the circumstances
that were then known to himself, and related
the manner in which he had first met the Italian on
the lake, and his general impressions concerning
his character.
“All come and go unquestioned here;” returned
the Augustine, when the other had ended. “Our
convent has been founded in charity, and we pray
for the sinner without inquiring into the amount
of his crime. Still we have authority, and it is
especially our duty, to keep the road clear that our
own purposes may not be defeated. I leave thee
to do what thou judgest most prudent and proper
in a matter so delicate.”
Sigismund was silent; but as the pedestrians
were drawing near, his resolution was soon and
sternly formed. The obligations that he owed to
Maso made him more prompt, for it excited a
jealous distrust of his own powers to discharge
what he conceived to be a duty. Even those late
events in which his sister was so wronged had their
share, too, on the decision of a mind so resolute to
be upright. Placing himself in the middle of the
path, he awaited the arrival of the party, while
the monk stood quietly at his side. When the travellers
were within speaking distance, the young
man first discovered that the companions of Il
Maledetto were Pippo and Conrad. Their several
rencontres had made him sufficiently acquainted
with the persons of the two latter, to enable him
to recognize them at a glance; and Sigismund
began to think the undertaking in which he had
embarked more grave than he had at first imagined.
Should there be a disposition to resist, he was but
one against three.
“Buon giorno, Signor Capitano,” cried Maso,
saluting with his cap, when sufficiently near to
those who occupied the path; “we meet often,
and in all weathers; by day and by night; on the
land and on the water; in the valley and on the
mountain; in the city and on this naked rock, as
Providence wills. As many chances try men's
characters, we shall come to know each other in
time!”
“Thou hast well observed, Maso; though I fear
thou art a man oftener met than easily understood.”
“Signore, I am amphibious, like Nettuno here,
being part of the earth and part of the sea. As
the learned say, I am not yet classed. We are
repaid for an evil night by a fine day; and the
descent into Italy will be pleasanter than we found
the coming up. Shall I order honest Giacomo of
Aoste to prepare the supper, and to air the beds
for the noble company that is to follow? You
will scarce do more than reach his holstery before
the young and the beautiful will begin to think of
their pillows.”
“Maso, I had thought thee among our party,
when I left the Refuge this morning?”
“By San Thomaso! Signore, but I had the
same opinion touching yourself!”
“Thou wert early afoot it would seem, or thou
couldst not have so much preceded me?”
“Look you, brave Signor Sigismondo, for brave
I know you to be, and in the water a swimmer
little less determined than gallant Nettuno there—I
am a traveller, and have much need of my time,
which is the larger portion of my property. We
sea-animals are sometimes rich and sometimes
poor, as the wind happens to blow, and of late I
have been driven to struggle with foul gales and
troubled waves. To such a man, an hour of industry
in the morning often gives a heartier meal
Refuge sleeping soundly, even to the mules,”—
Maso laughed at his own fancies, as he included
the brutes in the party,—“and I reached the convent
just as the first touch of the sun tipped yonder
white peak with its purple light.”
“As thou left'st us so early, thou mayest not
have heard, then, that the body of a murdered man
was found in the bone-house—the building near
that in which we slept—and that it is the body of
one known?”
Sigismund spoke firmly and deliberately, as if
he would come by degrees to his purpose, while,
at the same time, he made the other sensible of his
being in earnest. Maso started. He made a movement
so unequivocally like one which would have
manifested an intention to proceed, that the young
man raised his hand to repulse him. But violence
was unnecessary, for the mariner instantly became
composed, and seemingly more disposed to listen.
“Where there has been a crime, Maso, there
must have been a criminal!”
“The Bishop of Sion could not have made
truth clearer to the sinner than yourself, Signor
Sigismondo! Your manner leads me to ask what
I have to do with this?”
“There has been a murder, Maso, and the murderer
is sought. The dead was found near the
spot where thou passed the night; I shall not conceal
the unhappy suspicions that are so natural.”
“Diamine! where did you pass the night yourself,
brave Capitano, if I may be so bold as to
question my superior? Where did the noble Baron
de Willading take his rest, and his fair daughter,
and one nobler and more illustrious than he, and
Pierre the guide, and—ay, and our friends, the
mules again?”
Maso laughed recklessly once more, as he made
disliked his levity, which he thought forced
and unnatural.
“This reasoning may satisfy thee, unfortunate
man, but it will not satisfy others. Thou wert
alone, but we travelled in company; judging from
thy exterior, thou art but little favored by fortune,
whereas we are more happy in this particular;
and thou hast been, and art still, in haste to depart,
while the discovery of the foul deed is owing to us
alone. Thou must return to the convent, that this
grave matter may, at least, be examined.”
Il Maledetto seemed troubled. Once or twice
he glanced his eye at the quiet athletic frame of
the young man, and then turned them on the path
in reflection. Although Sigismund narrowly watched
the workings of his countenance, giving a little
of his attention also, from time to time, to the
movements of Pippo and the pilgrim, he preserved
himself a perfectly calm exterior. Firm in his
purpose, accustomed to make extraordinary exertions
in his manly exercises, and conscious of his
great physical force, he was not a man to be easily
daunted. It is true that the companions of Maso
conducted themselves in a way to excite no additional
apprehensions on their account; for, on the
announcement of the murder, they moved away
from his person a little, as by a natural horror of
the hand that could have done the deed. They
now consulted together, and profiting by their situation
behind the back of the Italian, they made
signs to Sigismund of their readiness to assist should
it be necessary. He received the signal with satisfaction;
for, though he knew them to be knaves,
he sufficiently understood the difference between
audacious crime and mere roguery to believe they
might, in this instance at least, prove true.
“Thou wilt return to the convent, Maso,” resumed
a struggle with a man who had done him and those
he loved so much service, though resolved to discharge
what he conceived to be an imperious
duty: “this pilgrim and his friend will be of our
party, in order that, when we quit the mountain, all
may leave it blameless and unsuspected.”
“Signor Sigismondo, the proposal is fair; it has
a touch of reason, I allow; but unluckily it does
not suit my interests. I am engaged in a delicate
mission, and too much time has been already lost
by the way to waste more without good cause. I
have great pity for poor Jacques Colis—”
“Ha! thou knowest the sufferer's name, then;
thy unlucky tongue hath betrayed thee, Maso!”
Il Maledetto was again troubled. His features
betrayed it, for he frowned like a man who had
committed a grave fault in a matter touching an
important interest. His olive complexion changed,
and his interrogator thought that his eye quailed
before his own fixed look. But the emotion was
transient, and shuddering, as if to shake off a
weakness, his appearance became once more natural
and composed.
“Thou makest no reply?”
“Signore, you have my answer; affairs press,
and my visit to the convent of San Bernardo has
been made. I am bound to Aoste, and should be
happy to do your bidding with the worthy Giacomo.
I have but a step to make to find myself in the dominions
of the house of Savoy; and, with your
leave, gallant Capitano, I will now take it.”
Maso moved a little aside with the intention to
pass Sigismund, when Pippo and Conrad threw
themselves on him from behind, pinning his arms
to his sides by main force. The face of the Italian
grew livid, and he smiled with the contempt and
hatred of an inveterately angered man. Assembling
energy and courage of a lion, shouting—
“Nettuno!”
The struggle was short but fierce. When it terminated,
Pippo lay bleeding among the rocks with
a broken head, and the pilgrim was gasping near
him under the tremendous gripe of the animal.
Maso himself stood firm, though pale and frowning
like one who had collected all his energies, both
physical and moral, to meet this emergency.
“Am I a brute, to be set upon by the scum of
the earth?” he cried: “if thou wouldst aught with
me, Signor Sigismondo, raise thine own arm, but
strike not with the hands of these base reptiles;
thou wilt find me a man, in strength and courage,
at least not unworthy of thyself.”
“The attack on thy person, Maso, was not
made by my order, nor by my desire,” returned
Sigismund, reddening. “I believe myself sufficient
to arrest thee; and, if not, here come assistants
that thou wilt scarce deem it prudent to
resist.”
The Augustine had stepped on a rock the moment
the struggle commenced, whence he made a
signal which brought all the mastiffs from the convent.
These powerful animals now arrived in a
group, apprized by their instinct that strife was
afoot. Nettuno immediately released the pilgrim
and stood at bay; too faithful to desert his master
in his need, and yet too conscious of the force opposed
to him to court a contest so unequal. Luckily
for the noble dog, the friendship of old Uberto
proved his protection. When the younger animals
saw their patriarch disposed to amity, they
forbore their attack, waiting at least for another
signal to be given. In the mean while, Maso had
time to look about him, and to form his decision
had been previously the case.
“Signore,” he answered, “since it is your pleasure,
I will return among the Augustines. But I
ask, as simple justice, that, if I am to be hunted
by dogs as a beast of prey, all who were in the
same circumstances as myself may become subject
to the same rule. This pilgrim and the Neapolitan
came up the mountain yesterday, as well
as myself, and I demand their arrest until they too
can give an account of themselves. It will not be
the first time that we have been inhabitants of the
same prison.”
Conrad crossed himself in submission, neither he
nor Pippo raising any objection to the step. On
the contrary, each frankly admitted it was no more
than equitable on its face.
“We are poor travellers on whom many accidents
have already alighted, and we may well be
pressed to reach the end of our journey,” said the
pilgrim; “but, that justice may be done, we shall
submit without a murmur. I am loaded with the
sins of many besides my own, however, and St.
Peter he knows that the last are not light. This
holy canon will see that masses are said in the
convent chapel in behalf of those for whom I travel;
this duty done, I am an infant in your hands.”
The good Augustine professed the perfect readiness
of the fraternity to pray for all who were in
necessity, with the single proviso that they should
be Christians. With this amicable understanding
then, the peace was made between them, and the
parties immediately took the path that led back to
the convent. On reaching the building, Maso, with
the two travellers who had been found in his company,
were placed in safe keeping in one of the
rooms of the solid edifice, until the return of the
Satisfied with himself for the part he had acted
in the late affair, Sigismund strolled into the chapel,
where, at that early hour, some of the brotherhood
were always occupied in saying masses in
behalf of the souls of the living or of the dead.
He was here when he received a note from the
Signor Grimaldi, apprizing him of the arrest of
his father, and of the dark suspicions that were so
naturally connected with the transaction. It is
unnecessary to dwell on the nature of the shock
he received from this intelligence. After a few
moments of bitter anguish, he perceived the urgency
of making his sister acquainted with the
truth as speedily as possible. The arrival of the
party from the Refuge was expected every moment,
and by delay he increased the risk of Christine's
hearing the appalling fact from some other
quarter. He sought an audience, therefore, with
Adelheid, the instant he had summoned sufficient
self-command to undertake the duty.
Mademoiselle de Willading was struck with the
pale brow and agitated air of the young soldier, at
the first glance of her eye.
“Thou hast permitted this unexpected blow to
affect thee unusually, Sigismund,” she said, smiling,
and offering her hand; for she felt that the
circumstances were those in which cold and heartless
forms should give place to feeling and sincerity.
“Thy sister is tranquil, if not happy.”
“She does not know the worst—she has yet to
learn the most cruel part of the truth, Adelheid;
they have found one concealed among the dead of
the bone-house, and are now leading him here as
the murderer of poor Jacques Colis!”
“Another!” said Adelheid, turning pale in alarm;
“we appear to be surrounded by assassins!”
“No, it cannot be true! I know my poor father's
mildness of disposition too well; his habitual
tenderness to all around him; his horror at the
sight of blood, even for his odious task!”
“Sigismund, thy father!”
The young man groaned. Concealing his face
with his hands, he sank into a seat. The fearful
truth, with all its causes and consequences, began
to dawn upon Adelheid. Sinking upon a chair
herself, she sat long looking at the convulsed and
working frame of Sigismund in silent horror. It
appeared to her, that Providence, for some great
but secret purpose, was disposed to visit them all
with more than a double amount of its anger, and
that a family which had been accursed for so
many generations, was about to fill the measure
of its woes. Still her own true heart did not
change. On the contrary, its long-cherished and
secret purpose rather grew stronger under this
sudden appeal to its generous and noble properties,
and never was the resolution to devote herself, her
life, and all her envied hopes, to the solace of his
unmerited wrongs, so strong and riveted as at that
trying moment.
In a little time Sigismund regained enough self-command
to be able to commence the narrative of
what had passed. They then concerted together
the best means to make Christine acquainted with
that which it was absolutely necessary she should
now know.
“Tell her the simple truth,” added Sigismund;
“it cannot long be concealed, and it were better
that she knew it; but tell her, also, my firm dependence
on our father's innocence. God, for one
of those inscrutable purposes which set human intelligence
at defiance, has made him a common
executioner, but the curse has not extended to his
nature. Trust me, dearest Adelheid, a more gentle
of the poor Balthazar—the despised and persecuted
Balthazar. I have heard my mother dwell upon
the nights of anguish and suffering that have preceded
the day on which the duties of his office
were to be discharged; and often have I heard that
admirable woman, whose spirit is far more equal
to support our unmerited fortunes, declare she has
often prayed that he and all that are hers might
die, so that they died innocently, rather than one
of a temper so gentle and harmless should again
be brought to endure the agony she had witnessed!”
“It is unhappy that he should be here at so
luckless a moment! What unhappy motive can
have led thy father to this spot, at a time so extraordinary?”
“Christine will tell thee that she expected to see
him at the convent. We are a race proscribed,
Mademoiselle de Willading, but we are human.”
“Dearest Sigismund—”
“I feel my injustice, and can only pray to be
forgiven. But there are moments of feeling so
intense, that I am ready to believe and treat all of
my species as common enemies. Christine is an
only daughter, and thou thyself, beloved Adelheid,
kind, dutiful, and good as I know thee to be, art
not more dear to the Baron de Willading than my
poor sister is among us. Her parents have yielded
her to thy generous kindness, for they believe it
for her good; but their hearts have been wrung
by the separation. Thou didst not know it, but
Christine took her last embrace of her mother here
on the mountain, at Liddes, and it was then agreed
that her father should watch her in safety over the
Col, and bestow the final blessing at Aoste. Mademoiselle
de Willading, you move in pride, surrounded
by many protectors, who are honored in
doing you service; but the abased and the hunted
and without obtrusion! The love and tenderness
of Balthazar would pass for mockery with the
vulgar! Such is man in his habits and opinions,
when wrong usurps the place of right.”
Adelheid saw that the moment was not favorable
for urging consolation, and she abstained from a
reply. She rejoiced, however, to hear the presence
of the headsman so satisfactorily accounted for,
though she could not quiet herself from an apprehension
that the universal weakness of human nature,
which so suddenly permits the perversion of
the best of our passions to the worst, and the dreadful
probability that Balthazar, suffering intensely
by this compelled separation from his daughter, on
accidentally encountering the man who was its
cause, might have listened to some violent impulse
of resentment and revenge. She saw also that
Sigismund, in despite of his general confidence in
the principles of his father, had fearful glimmerings
of some such event, and that he fearfully anticipated
the worst, even while he most professed confidence
in the innocence of the accused. The interview
was soon ended, and they separated; each endeavoring
to invent plausible reasons for what had
happened.
The arrival of the party from the refuge took
place soon afterwards. It was followed by the
necessary explanations, and a more detailed narrative
of all that had passed. A consultation was
held between the chiefs of the brotherhood and the
two old nobles, and the course it was most expedient
to pursue was calmly and prudently discussed.
The result was not known for some hours later.
It was then generally proclaimed in the convent
that a grave and legal investigation of all the facts
was to take place with the least possible delay.
The Col of St. Bernard, as has been stated already,
but what then the allied state of the Valais. The
crime had consequently been committed within the
jurisdiction of that country; but as the Valais was
thus leagued with Switzerland, there existed such
an intimate understanding between the two, that it
was rare any grave proceedings were had against
a citizen of either in the dominion of the other,
without paying great deference to the feelings and
the rights of the country of the accused. Messengers
were therefore dispatched to Vévey, to inform
the authorities of that place of a transaction which
involved the safety of an officer of the great canton,
(for such was Balthazar,) and which had cost
a citizen of Vaud his life. On the other hand, a
similar communication was sent to Sion, the two
places being about equidistant from the convent,
with such pressing invitations to the authorities to
be prompt, as were deemed necessary to bring on
an immediate investigation. Melchior de Willading,
in a letter to his friend the bailiff, set forth the inconvenience
of his return with Adelheid at that
late season, and the importance of the functionary's
testimony, with such other statements as were likely
to effect his wishes; while the superior of the brotherhood
charged himself with making representations,
with a similar intent, to the heads of his own
republic. Justice in that age was not administered
as frankly and openly as in this later period, its
agents in the old world exercising even now a discretion
that we are not accustomed to see confided
to them. Her proceedings were enveloped in darkness,
the blind deity being far more known in her
decrees than in her principles, and mystery was
then deemed an important auxiliary of power.
With this brief explanation we shall shift the
time to the third day from that on which the travellers
the succeeding chapter for an account of what it
brought forth.
| CHAPTER X. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |