Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (good novels to read TXT) đź“•
Dirk slightly smiled.
"Should I know more than you?"
The Margrave's son flushed.
"What you do know?--tell me."
Dirk's smile deepened.
"She was one Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rooselaare, she was sent to the convent of the White Sisters in this town."
"So you know it all," said Balthasar. "Well, what else?"
"What else? I must tell you a familiar tale."
"Certes, more so to you than to me."
"Then, since you wish it, here is your story, sir."
Dirk spoke in an indifferent voice well suited to the peace of the chamber; he looked at neither of his listeners, but always out of the window.
"She was educated for a nun and, I think, desired to become one of the Order of the White Sisters. But when she was fifteen her brother died and she became her father's heiress. So many entered the lists for her hand--they contracted her to you."
Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his slee
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Ambrose of Menthon complained of weakness; Dunk, waking in the dark,
heard him praying…heard, too, the rattle of the wooden rosary.
When the light came and they once more recommenced their journey the
saint was so feeble he was fain to lean on Dunk’s shoulder.
“I think I am dying,” he said; his face was flushed, his eyes burning,
he smiled continuously. “Let me reach Paris,” he added, “that I may
tell the Brethren of Blaise…”
The youth supporting him wept bitterly.
Towards noon they met a woodman’s cart that helped them on their way;
that night they spent in the stable of an inn; the next day they
descended into the valley of the Seine, and by the evening reached the
gates of Paris.
As the bells over all the beautiful city were ringing to vespers they
arrived at their destination, an old and magnificent convent
surrounded with great gardens set near the river bank.
The winter sky had broken at last, and wreathed and motionless clouds
curled back from a clear expanse of gold and scarlet, against which
the houses, churches and palaces rose from out the blue mist of
evening.
The straight roof of the convent, the little tower with its slow-moving bell, the bare bent fruit trees, the beds of herbs, sweet-smelling even now, the red lamp glowing in the dark doorway, showed
themselves to Dirk as he entered the gate,—he looked at them all
intently, and bitter distant memories darkened his hollow face.
The monks were singing the Magnificat; their thin voices came clearly
on the frosty air.
“Fecit potentiam in brachio suo: dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.”
Ambrose of Menthon took his feeble hand from Dunk’s arm and sank on
his knees.
“Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.”
But Dirk’s pale lips curled, and as he gazed at the sunset flaming
beyond the convent walls, there was a haughty challenge in his
brooding eyes.
“Esurientes implevit bonis, et divites dimisit manes.
Suscepit Israel puerum suum, recordatus misercordiae suae.”
The saint murmured the chanted words and clasped his hands on his
breast, while the sky brightened vividly above the wide waters of the
Seine.
“Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros Abraham et semini ejus in
saecula.”
The chant faded away on the still evening, but the saint remained
kneeling.
“Master,” whispered Dirk, “shall we not go in to them?”
Ambrose of Menthon raised his fair face.
“I am dying,” he smiled. “A keen flame licks up my blood and burns my
heart to ashes—’ Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus. ’” His voice
failed, he sank forward and his head fell against the grey beds of rue
and fennel.
“Alas! alas!” cried Dirk; he made no attempt to bring assistance nor
called aloud, but stood still, gazing with intent eyes at the
unconscious man.
But when the monks came out of the chapel and turned two by two
towards the convent, Dirk pulled off his worn cap.
“Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobiscum.”
“Amen,” said Dirk, then he ran lightly forward and flung himself
before the procession. “My father!” he cried, with a sob in his voice.
The priests stopped, the “amens” still trembling on their lips.
“Ambrose of Menthon lies within your gates a dying man,” said Dirk
meekly and sadly.
With little exclamations of awe and grief the grey-clad figures
followed him to where the saint lay.
“Ah me!” murmured Dirk. “The way has been so long, so rough, so cold.”
Reverently they raised Saint Ambrose.
“He has done with his body,” said an old monk, holding up the dying
man.
The flushed sky faded behind them; the saint stirred and half opened
his eyes.
“Blaise,” he whispered. “Blaise”—he tried to point to Dirk who knelt
at his feet—“he will tell you.” His eyes closed again, he strove to
pray; the “De profundis” trembled on his lips, he made a sudden upward
gesture with his hands, smiled and died.
For a while there was silence among them, broken only by a short sob
from Dunk, then the monks turned to the ragged, emaciated youth who
crouched at the dead feet.
“Blaise, he said,” one murmured, “it is the holy youth.”
Dirk roused himself as from a silent prayer, made the sign of the
cross and rose.
“Who art thou?” they asked reverently.
Dunk raised a tear-stained, weary face.
“The youth Blaise, my fathers,” he answered humbly.
THE POPE
CARDINAL LUIGI CAPRAROLA
The evening service in the Basilica of St. Peter was over; pilgrims,
peasants and monks had departed; the last chant of the officiating
Cardinal’s train still trembled on the incense-filled air and the slim
novices were putting out the lights, when a man, richly and
fantastically dressed, entered the bronze doors and advanced a little
way down the centre aisle.
He bent his head to the altar, then paused and looked about him with
the air of a stranger. He was well used to magnificence, but this
first sight of the chapel of the Vatican caused him to catch his
breath. Surrounding him were near a hundred pillars, each of a
different marble and carving; they supported a roof that glittered
with the manifold colours of mosaic; the rich walls were broken by
numerous chapels, from which issued soft gleams of purple and violet
light; mysterious shrines of porphyry and cipolin, jasper and silver
showed here and there be—hind red lamps. A steady glow of candles
shone on a mosaic and silver arch, beyond which the high altar
sparkled like one great jewel; the gold lamps on it were still alight,
and it was heaped with white lilies, whose strong perfume was
noticeable even through the incense.
To one side of the high altar stood a purple chair, and a purple
footstool, the seat of the Cardinal, sometimes of the Pontiff. This
splendid and holy beauty abashed, yet inspired the stranger; he leant
against one of the smooth columns and gazed at the altar.
The five aisles were crossed by various shafts of delicate trembling
light that only half dispersed the lovely gloom; some of the columns
were slender, some massive—the spoils from ancient palaces and
temples, no two of them were alike; those in the distance took on a
sea-green hue, luminous and exquisite; one or two were of deep rose
red, others black or dark green, others again pure ghostly white, and
all alike enveloped in soft shadows and quivering lights, violet, blue
and red.
The novices were putting out the candles and preparing to close the
church; their swift feet made no sound; silently the little stars
about the high altar disappeared and deeper shadows fell over the
aisles.
The stranger watched the white figures moving to and fro until no
light remained, save the purple and scarlet lamps that cast rich rays
over the gold and stained the pure lilies into colour, then he left
his place and went slowly towards the door.
Already the bronze gates had been closed; only the entrance to the
Vatican and one leading into a side street remained open.
Several monks issued from the chapels and left by this last; the
stranger still lingered.
Down from the altar came the two novices, prostrated themselves, then
proceeded along the body of the church.
They extinguished the candles in the candelabra set down the aisles,
and a bejewelled darkness fell on the Basilica.
The stranger stood under a malachite and platinum shrine that blinded
with the glimmer and sparkle of golden mosaic; before it burnt
graduated tapers; one of the novices came towards it, and the man
waiting there moved towards him.
“Sir,” he said in a low voice, “may I speak to you?”
He spoke in Latin, with the accent of a scholar, and his tone was deep
and pleasant.
The novice paused and looked at him, gazed intently and beheld a very
splendid person, a man in the prime of life, tall above the ordinary,
and, above the ordinary, gorgeous to the eyes; his face was sunburnt
to a hue nearly as dark as his light bronze hair, and his Western eyes
showed clearly bright and pale in contrast; in his ears hung long
pearl and gold ornaments that touched his shoulders: his dress was
half Eastern, of fine violet silk and embroidered leather; he carried
in his belt a curved scimitar inset with turkis, by his side a short
gold sword, and against his hip he held a purple cap ornamented with a
plume of peacocks’ feathers, and wore long gloves fretted in the palm
with the use of rein and sword.
But more than these details did the stranger’s face strike the novice;
a face almost as perfect as the masks of the gods found in the
temples; the rounded and curved features were over-full for a man, and
the expression was too indifferent, troubled, almost weak, to be
attractive, but taken in itself the face was noticeably beautiful.
Noting the novice’s intent gaze, a flush crept into the man’s dark
cheek.
“I am a stranger,” he said. “I want to ask you of Cardinal Caprarola.
He officiated here to—day?”
“Yea,” answered the novice. “What can I tell you of him? He is the
greatest man in Rome–now his Holiness is dying,” he added.
“Why, I have heard of him—even in Constantinople. I think I saw him—
many years ago, before I went to the East.”
The novice began to extinguish the candles round the shrine.
“It may be, sir,” he said. “His Eminence was a poor youth as I might
be; he came from Flanders.”
“It was in Courtrai I thought I saw him.”
“I know not if he was ever there; he became a disciple of Saint
Ambrose of Menthon when very young, and after the saint’s death he
joined the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris—you have heard that,
sir?”
The stranger lowered his magnificent eyes.
“I have heard nothing—I have been away—many years; this man,
Cardinal Caprarola—he is a saint also—is he not?…tell me more of
him.”
The youth paused in his task, leaving half the candles alight to cast
a trembling glow over the man’s gold and purple splendour; he smiled.
“Born of Dendermonde he was, sir, Louis his name, in our tongue Luigi,
Blaise the name he took in the convent—he came to Rome, seven, nay,
it must be eight years ago. His Holiness created him Bishop of Ostia,
then of Caprarola, which last name he retains now he is Cardinal–he
is the greatest man in Rome,” repeated the novice.
“And a saint?” asked the other with a wistful eagerness.
“Certes, when he was a youth he was famous for his holy austere life,
now he lives in magnificence as befits a prince of the Church…he is
very holy.”
The novice put out the remaining candles, leaving only the flickering
red lamp.
“There was a great service here to-day?” the stranger asked.
“Yea, very many pilgrims were here.”
“I grieve that I was too late—think you Cardinal Caprarola would see
one unknown to him?” “If the errand warranted it, sir.”
From the rich shadows came a sigh.
“I seek peace—if it be anywhere it is in the hands of this servant of
God—my soul is sick, will he help me heal it?”
“Yea, I do think so.”
The youth turned, as he spoke, towards the little side door.
“I must close the Basilica, sir,” he added.
The stranger seemed to rouse himself from
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