“Yes!” replied Matilda; “Since you have made me feel that life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appall me: I will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase your possession, and remember that a moment passed in your arms in this world o’er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to enquire by what means I shall preserve myself.”
He did so in a manner the most binding.
“I thank you, my beloved. This precaution is necessary, for though you know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices: the business on which I must be employed this night might startle you from its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me; are you possessed of the key of the low door on the western side of the garden?”
“The door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the key, but can easily procure it.”
“You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at midnight; watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my actions; leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the key, and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching! Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.”
The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he opened the door, Father Pablos made his appearance.
“I come,” said the latter, “to enquire after the health of my young patient.”
“Hush!” replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; “Speak softly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for he wishes to repose.”
Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the bell ring, accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as he entered the chapel. Guilt was new to him, and he fancied that every eye could read the transactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray; his bosom no longer glowed with devotion; his thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda’s secret charms. But what he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, he redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and never appeared more devoted to heaven as since he had broken through his engagements. Thus did he unconsciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incontinence; he had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to seduction almost irresistible; but he was now guilty of a voluntary fault by endeavouring to conceal those into which another had betrayed him.
The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his cell. The pleasures which he had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented a confused chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and fear. He looked back with regret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had been his portion. He had indulged in excesses whose very idea but four and twenty hours before he had recoiled at with horror. He shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or on Matilda’s, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had cost him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that people of whom he was then the idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness; apprehension magnified to him the horrors of punishment, and he already fancied himself in the prisons of the inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda’s beauty, and those delicious lessons which, once learnt, can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself. He considered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; he cursed his foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of love and woman. He determined at all events to continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and what consequences he had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to every rule of his order save chastity, he doubted not to retain the esteem of men, and even the protection of heaven. He trusted easily to be forgiven so slight and natural a deviation from his vows: but he forgot that having pronounced those vows, incontinence, in laymen the most venial of errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes.
Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy. He threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his strength exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda’s order, he visited not her cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the refectory that
