Agnes, or, Beauty and Pleasure — page 27: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LLL LLL CL: ttt a a AGNES; OR, BEAUTY AND PLEASURE, 19 that of the other is now in the course of accom- plishment !” At first the lamp almost dropped from the hand of the Marchioness: it was literally slipping from between her fingers, when an instinctive dread of darkness in the awful position wherein she found herself placed, made her clutch it again in the twinkling of an eye, and then retain it with a species of spasmodic tenacity. But Oh! what horror fastened itself upon her mind—what con- sternation seized upon her brain—what mortal dread retained her ashy lips apart—her eyes fixed and wildly staring—her bosom upheaved—her limbs petrified as if she had in this respect turned into stone! For it was not merely that she heard a human yoice—because she had come thither in the expectation of meeting some one: but it was chiefly because the words that were thus breathed forth as it were from the midst of the solemn darkness that prevailed beyond the range of the lamplight, had for her a terrible significancy. Yes!—more terrible than the reader can at pre- sent comprehend !—for they were not mere threats, or warnings, or prophetic menaces which now for the first time only met her ears; but they seemed to be an echo—almost word for word, syllable for syllabla—of language which she herself had one night in her despair breathed on that very spot aud while gazing up at that very picture! And now she beheld a form gradually emerging from the darkness in the midst of which its voice had been speaking ;—and it was in consequence of the solemnity assumed by that voice that Lucregia had failed to recognise it as one which she had heard before. She stepped back a pace or two as she beheld the form; she strained her eves to ascertain whether it were Paoli: she just beheld enough to convince her that it was not ;— and then, utterly unable to endure the horrible torture of suspense any longer, aha Heteaneded. “Tn the name of God, who are you?” The effort with which she put the query, was the result of a sudden summoning of all her for- titude to her aid vrder the strong impulse of a _ feeling bordering on desperation: and now she _ felt stronger—nay, more, she was gladdened at her _ Own courage, while she was likewise still urged by ' @ sense of the most desperate position. rrr ts eee sen Her fingers tightened upon the handle of her dagger, and she stepped not back another pace as the form was now advancing more clasely towards her. — “You ask me who I am,” said the voice in response to her adjuration. ‘Do you not recog- nise me ?—does not your guilty conscience tell you who I amP Lam Edgar Marcellin !” “Ab? then die!” and as the words were still vibrating through the picture-gallery, the dagger gleamed in the feeble lamplight across the eyes of Edgar Marcellin—deep into his breast the keen blade penetrated—and down he fell, with only a low brief moan issuing from his lips. A look of fiendish triumph appeared upon the countenance of the Marchioness,—a look which for that brief fleeting space anuibilated all her natural beauty as completely as if a mask of red- hot iron had been for a moment applied to her features—so hideous and distorted were they with that look whieh swept over them! Then she glanced quickly around her—for it was now a son- SS er re ge en ne me mt sation of horror that smote her,—not merely hor- ror at the crime itself, but likewise on account of the apprehension that it might by some means be discovered. And then too the idea seized upon the Marchioness that the darkness which prevailed all around the small sphere of light which the little chamber-lamp gave forth, was peopled with spectres—nameless objects, of unknown yet ghastly shapes—gliding noiselessly there, ready to steal forth and wind their arms about her, or confront her with their horrible presence. As these ideas swept through the brain of Lucrezia Mirano, it suddenly struck her that she actually beheld a pair of eyes looking upon her from the midst of the obscurity. For an instant she was on the very point of screaming out: but that cry was hushed upon the brim of her lips, as she perceived that her terror was occasioned by the portrait of Lu: crezia Borgia! “Oh!” murmured the Marchioness, with a strong shudder that passed like an ice-chill over her frame, “that picture haunts me! Accursed be the day when it came into my possession! From that period date all my miseries—all my crimes!” The Marchioness averted her looks from the portrait: she bent them upon the form of the young Frenchman who lay at her feet—she saw that this form was motionless—and she said within herself, “He is dead! But now how to dispose of the corpse ?” She stood pondering this subject, still holding the lamp in one hand—the dagger in the other. Suddenly she was startled by a noise resembling a footstep: she glanced around—there was another feeble light now burning in the gallery—and the form that bore it was advancing towards her. An awful terror seized upon the Marchioness: but the next moment it lost all its superstitious por- tion and retained merely its natural ingredient— for she recognised Ciprina! “*Good heavens, dearest~Lucrezia!” exclaimed the young lady, not immediately perceiving the form of the young Frenchman upon the floor: “ what is the meaning Ab, my God!” and now Ciprina’s eyes caught the first glimpse of that form “He isa villain, Ciprina—and he has perished !” said the Marchioness, in a tone that was alike em- phatic and sombre, “Just heaven! is it possible? What! those features? Ah! ’tis Edgar!—yes, ’tis he!’’—and Ciprina was at the moment the personification of the most horrified amazement. “ Yes— tis Edgar Marcellin,” replied the Mar- chioness—“ the murderer of Giulio !” At this instant an extraordinary incident took place,—an occurrence which might well seem to be the result of a preternatural impulse. Edgar Mar- cellin slowly opened his eyes—raised himself half up to a sitting posture on the floor—and murmur- ing the words, “ Lucregia murderess ——— Giulio!” sank back with a heavy groan, either into the completest unconsciousness or into the embrace of death. Amazement was depicted upon the countenance of Ciprina : but ghastliest horror was displayed by the features of the Marchioness. A light suddenly seemed to flash in unto the brain of Ciprina: and pointing down to the prostrate form of the young Frenchman, she exclaimed, as she fixed her large ek Bee See eee books A (©) 5}