The Monk

thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it! Judge then what must have been our consternation, our horror, when she was delivered the next day of a stillborn child, whom she immediately followed to the grave. How, señor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no surprise, no indignation? Is it possible that your sister’s infamy was known to you, and that still she possessed your affection? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I can say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes is no more, and to convince you that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed saviour, that three days have passed since she was buried.”

Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle. She then rose from her chair, and quitted the parlour. As she withdrew, she cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.

“Farewell, señor,” said she; “I know no remedy for this accident: I fear that even a second bull from the Pope will not procure your sister’s resurrection.”

Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction: but Don Raymond’s at the news of this event amounted to madness. He would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead, and continued to insist that the walls of St. Clare still confined her. No arguments could make him abandon his hopes of regaining her: every day some fresh scheme was invented for procuring intelligence of her, and all of them were attended with the same success.

On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his sister more: yet he believed that she had been taken off by unfair means. Under this persuasion, he encouraged Don Raymond’s researches, determined, should he discover the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe vengeance upon the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his sister affected him sincerely; nor was it the least cause of his distress that propriety obliged him for some time to defer mentioning Antonia to the duke. In the meanwhile his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira’s door. He had intelligence of all the movements of his mistress: as she never failed every Thursday to attend the sermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure of seeing her once a week, though in compliance with his promise, he carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long months passed away. Still no information was procured of Agnes: all but the Marquis credited her death; and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to his uncle. He had already dropped some hints of his intention to marry; they had been as favourably received as he could expect, and he harboured no doubt of the success of his application.

VI

While in each other’s arms entranced they lay,
They blessed the night, and cursed the coming day.

Lee

The burst of transport was past: Ambrosio’s lust was satisfied; pleasure fled, and shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, he drew himself from Matilda’s arms. His perjury presented itself before him: he reflected on the scene which had just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery. He looked forward with horror; his heart was despondent, and became the abode of satiety and disgust. He avoided the eyes of his partner in frailty; a melancholy silence prevailed, during which both seemed busied with disagreeable reflections.

Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and pressed it to her burning lips.

“Ambrosio!” she murmured in a soft and trembling voice.

The abbot started at the sound. He turned his eyes upon Matilda’s: they were filled with tears; her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion.

“Dangerous woman!” said he; “Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay my life, must pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be expiated? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet forever!”

“To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? To me, who have sacrificed for you the world’s pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost, which I preserved? Have I not shared in your guilt? Have you not shared in my pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging world? Let that world be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your vows of celibacy; man was not created for such a state; and were love a crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which life is a worthless gift: cease to reproach me with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports with the woman who adores you!”

As she spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor. Her bosom panted: she twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towards her, and glued her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire: the die was thrown: his vows were already broken; he had already committed the crime, and why should he refrain from enjoying its reward? He clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense of shame, he gave a loose to his intemperate appetites. While the fair wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render her lover’s transports still more exquisite, Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him: swift fled the night, and the morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda.

Intoxicated with pleasure, the monk rose from the siren’s luxurious