Now, they resound only one feeble voice--and even that will, ere long, be heard no more! My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away like those, who have preceded you--like those, who, as they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are made up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer to their graves.But such reflections are useless, I had almost said criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since, otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a future one.But enough of this; let us go on.'
Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he entered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark arras gave to it.He approached the bed, with an emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; 'What can this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it.
'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, looking within the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to be buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.'
The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought, and evidently much affected.Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked him with a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support him through the night? 'If you doubt this,' added the Count, 'do not be ashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, without exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.'
Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling in his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he blushed, and his hesitation ceased.
'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun;and I am grateful for your consideration.On that hearth I will make a fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.'
'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness of the night, if you do not sleep?'
'When I am weary, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear to sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me.'
'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment.Ihave too much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you will be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors.
To-morrow, I shall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall then be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error.Good night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember what I lately said to you.'
'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you with the light.'
He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door; on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night, who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them, and fastened it.Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the rooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had done before, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealed himself in them, for the purpose of frightening him.No one, however, but himself, was in these chambers, and, leaving open the doors, through which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whose spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him.For a moment he stood, looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he turned, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of the large mirrors, he started.Other objects too were seen obscurely on its dark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily into the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the oriel, and opened it.All within was still.On looking round, his eye was arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he gazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise; and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed-room, where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place, for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence.He now drew a small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and some cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself.When he had finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.--It was a volume of old Provencal tales.Having stirred the fire upon the hearth, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes, which the page disclosed.
