OR, THE SKELETON'S BRIDE.

"This will hardly keep body and soul together," said Conrad Bergmann, as he eyed with a dissatisfied countenance some score of dingy kreutzers thrust into his palm by a "patron of early genius,"—one of those individuals who take great merit to themselves by just keeping their victims in that enviable position between life and death, between absolute starvation and hopeless, abject poverty, which effectually represses all efforts to excel, controls and quenches all but longings after immortality—who just fan the flame to let it smoke and quiver in the socket, but sedulously prevent it rising to any degree of steadiness and brilliance.

Conrad that morning had taken home a picture, his sole occupation for two months, and this patron, a dealer in the "fine arts," dwelling in the good, quiet city of Mannheim, had given him a sum equivalent to thirty-six shillings sterling for his labour. Peradventure, it was not in the highest style of art; but what Schwartzen BÄren or Weisse RÖsse—Black Bears, White Horses, Spread Eagles, and the like, the meanest, worst-painted signs in the city—would not have commanded a higher price?

In fact, Conrad had just genius enough to make himself miserable—to wit, by aspiring after those honours it was impossible to attain, keeping him thereby in a constant fret and disappointment, instead of being content with his station, or striving for objects within his reach. Could he have drudged on as some dauber of sign-posts, or taken to useful employment, he might doubtless have earned a comfortable sustenance. He had, however, like many another child of genius, a soul above such vulgarities; yearning after the ideal and the vain; having too much genius for himself and too little for the world; suspended in a sort of Mahomet's coffin between earth and heaven—contemned, rejected, by "gods, men, and columns."

Conrad Bergmann was about two-and-twenty, of good figure and well-proportioned features, complexion fair, bright bluish-grey eyes, whiskers well matched with a pale, poetical, it might be sickly hue of countenance, and an expression more inclining to melancholy than persons of such mean condition have a right to assume. His father had brought him up to a trade—an honest thriving business—to wit, that of knopfmacher (button-maker). But Conrad, the youngest, and his mother's favourite, happened to be indulged with more idle time than the rest, which, for the most part, was laudably expended in scrawling sundry hideous representations—all manner of things on walls and wainscots. Persevering in this occupation he was forthwith pronounced a genius. About the age of fifteen, Conrad saw a huge "St Christopher," by a native artist, and straightway his destiny was fixed. He struggled on for some years with little success save being pronounced by the gossips "marvellously clever." His performances wanted that careful and elaborate course of study indispensable even to the most exalted genius. They were not only glaring, tawdry, and ill-drawn, but worse conceived; flashy, crude accumulations of colour only rendering their defects more apparent. He was in a great measure self-taught. His impetuous, ardent imagination could not endure the labour requisite to form an artist. He would fain have read ere he had learned to spell; and the result might easily have been foretold.

His father died, and the family were but scantily provided for. Conrad was now forced to make, out a livelihood by what was previously an amusement, not having "a trade in his fingers;" and he toiled on, selling his productions for the veriest trifle. He had now no leisure for improvement in the first elements of his art.

"Better starve or beg, better be errand-boy or lackey, than waste my talents on such an ungrateful world. I'll turn conjurer—fire-eater—mountebank; set the fools agape at fairs and pastimes. Anything rather than killing—starving by inches. Why, the criminals at hard labour in the fortress have less work and better fare. I wish—I wish"——

"What dost wish, honest youth?" said a tall, heavy-eyed, beetle-browed, swarthy personage, who poked his face round from behind, close to that of the unfortunate artist, with great freedom and familiarity.

"I wish thou hadst better manners, or wast i' the stocks, where every prying impertinent should be," replied Conrad, being in no very placable humour with his morning's work. The stranger laughed, not at all abashed by this ill-mannered, testy rebuke, replying good-humouredly—

"Ah, ah! master canvas-spoiler. Wherefore so hasty this morning? My legs befit not the gyves any more than thine own. But many a man thrusts his favours where they be more rare than welcome. I would do thee a service."

"'Tis the hangman's, then, for that seems the only favour that befits my condition."

"Thou art cynical, bitter at thy disappointment. Let us discourse together hard by. A flask of good Rhenish will soften and assuage thy humours. A drop of kirchenwasser, too, might not be taken amiss this chill morning."

Nothing loth, Conrad followed the stranger, and they were soon imbibing some excellent vin du pays in a neighbouring tavern.

"Conrad Bergmann," began the stranger. "Ay, thou art surprised; but I know more than thy name. Wilt that I do thee a good office?"

"Not the least objection, friend, if the price be within reach. Nothing pay, nothing have, I reckon."

"The price? Nothing. At least nothing thou need care for. Thou art thirsting for fame, riches; for the honours of this world; for—for—the hand—the heart of thy beloved."

Amongst the rest of Conrad's calamities he had the misfortune to be in love.

"Thou art mighty fluent with thy guesses," replied he, not at all relishing these unpleasant truths; "and what if I am doomed to pine after the good I can never attain? I will bear my miseries, if not without repining, at least without thy pity;" and he arose to depart.

"All that thou pinest after is thine. All!" said the stranger.

"Mine! By what process?—whose the gift? Ha, ha!" and he drained the brimming glass, waiting a solution of his interrogatory.

"I will be thy instructor. Behold the renowned Doctor Gabriel Ras Mousa, who hath studied all arts and sciences in the world, who hath unveiled Nature in her most secret operations, and can make her submissive as a menial to his will. In a period incredibly short I engage to make thee the most renowned painter in Christendom."

"And the time requisite to perform this?"

"One month! Ay, by the wand of Hermes, in one month, under my teaching, shalt thou have thy desire. I watched thy bargain with the dealer yonder, and have had pity on thy youth and misfortunes."

"Humph—compassion! And the price?" again inquired Conrad, with an anxious yet somewhat dubious expression of tone.

"The price? Once every month shalt thou paint me a picture."

"Is that all?"

"All."

Now Conrad began to indulge some pleasant fancies. Dreams of hope and ambition hovered about him; but he soon grew gloomy and desponding as heretofore. He waxed incredulous.

"One month? Nothing less than a miracle! The time is too short. Impossible!"

"That is my business. I have both the will and the power. Is it a bargain?"

Conrad again drained the cup, and things looked brighter. He felt invigorated. His courage came afresh, and he answered firmly—

"A bargain."

"Give me thy hand."

"O mein Herr—not so hard. Thy grip is like a smithy vice."

"Beg pardon of thy tender extremities. To-morrow then, at this hour, we begin." Immediately after which intimation the stranger departed.

Conrad returned to his own dwelling. He felt restless, uneasy. Apprehensions of coming evil haunted him. Night was tenfold more appalling. Horrid visions kept him in continual alarm.

He arose feverish and unrefreshed. Yesterday's bargain did not appear so pleasant in his eyes; but fear gave way apace, and ere the appointed hour he was in his little workroom, where the mysterious instructor found him in anxious expectation. He drew the requisite materials from under his cloak, a well-primed canvas already prepared. The pallet was covered, and Conrad sat down to obey his master's directions.

"What shall be our subject?" inquired the pupil.

"A head. Proceed."

"A female?"

"Yes. But follow my instructions implicitly."

Conrad chalked out the outline. It was feebly, incorrectly drawn: but the stranger took his crayon, and by a few spirited touches gave life, vigour, and expression to the whole. Conrad was in despair.

"Oh that it were in my power to have done this!" he cried, putting one hand on his brow, and looking at the picture as though he would have devoured it.

"Now for colour," said the stranger; and he carefully directed his pupil how to lay in the ground, to mingle and contrast the different tints, in a manner so far superior to his former process, that Conrad soon began to feel a glow of enthusiasm. His fervour increased, the latent spark of genius was kindled. In short, the unknown seemed to have imbued him with some hitherto unfelt attributes—invested him either with new powers, or awakened his hitherto dormant faculties. As before, by a few touches, the crude, spiritless mass became living and breathing under the master's hand. Not many hours elapsed ere a pretty head, respectably executed, appeared on the canvas. Conrad was in high spirits.

He felt a new sense, a new faculty, as it were, created within him. He worked industriously. Every hour seemed to condense the labour and experience of years. He made prodigious advances. His master came daily at the same time, and at length his term of instruction drew to a close. The last morning of the month arrived; and Conrad, unknown to his neighbours, had attained to the highest rank in his profession. His paintings, all executed under the immediate superintendence of the stranger, were splendid specimens of art.

In the year ——, all Paris was moved with the extraordinary performances of a young artist, whose portraits were the most wonderful, and his miniatures the most exquisite, that eyes ever beheld. They looked absolutely as though endowed with life—real flesh and blood to all appearance; and happy were those who could get a painting from his hand. The price was enormous, and the marvellous facility with which they were despatched was not the least extraordinary part of the business. There was a mystery, too, about him, provokingly delightful, especially to the female portion of the community. In place of living in a gay and fashionable part of the city, his lodging was in a miserable garret, overlooking one of the gloomiest streets of the metropolis. His manners, too, were forbidding and reserved. Instead of exhibiting the natural buoyancy of his years, he looked careworn and dejected; nor was he ever known to smile.

After a period whispers got abroad that several of his female subjects came to strange and untimely deaths. They were seized with some dangerous malady, accompanied by frightful delusions. In general they fancied themselves possessed. Wailings, shrieks, and horrible blasphemies proceeded from the lips of the sufferers. These reports were doubtless exaggerated, the marvellous being a prodigiously accumulative and inventive faculty; yet enough remained, apparently authentic, to justify the most unfavourable suspicions.

About this time a young Italian lady of a noble house arrived on a visit to her brother in the suite of the Florentine embassy. This princely dame, possessed of great wealth and beauty, was not long unprovided with lovers; one especially, a handsome official in the royal household, De Vessey by name, and as gallant a cavalier as ever lady looked upon. But her term of absence being nigh expired, the lovers were in great perplexity; and nothing seemed so likely to contribute to their comfort during such unavoidable separation as a miniature portrait of each from the hands of this inimitable painter. Leonora sat first, and the lover was in raptures. Hour by hour he watched the progress of his work in a little gloomy chamber, where the artist, like some automaton fixture, was always found in the same place, occupied too as it might seem without intermission.

"The gaze of that strange painter distresses me inexpressibly," said Leonora to her companion, as they went for the last time to his apartment. "I have borne it hitherto without a murmur, but words cannot describe the reluctance with which I endure his glance; yet while I feel as though my very soul abhorred it, it penetrates—nay, drinks up and withers my spirit. Though I shrink from it, some influence or fascination, call it as thou wilt, prevents escape; I cannot turn away my eyes from his terrible gaze."

"Thou art fanciful, my love," said De Vessey; "the near prospect of our parting makes thee apt to indulge these gloomy impressions. Be of good cheer; nothing shall harm thee in my presence. 'Tis the last sitting; put on a well-favoured aspect, I beseech thee. Remember, this portraiture will be my only solace during the long long hours of thine absence."

As they entered the artist's chamber, the picture lay before him, which he seemed to contemplate with such absorbing intensity that he was hardly aware of their entrance. He did not weep, but grief and pity were strangely mingled in his glance. It was but for a moment; he quickly resumed his usual attitude and expression. Whether the previous conversation had made her lover liable to take the tone and character of her own thoughts, we know not; but for the first time he fancied Leonora's apprehensions were not entirely without excuse. He looked on the artist, and it excited almost a thrill of apprehension. But speedily chiding himself for these untoward fancies, he felt that little was apparent either in look or manner but what the painter's peculiar and unexampled genius might sufficiently explain.

Suddenly his attention was riveted on the lady. He saw her lips quiver and turn pale as though she would have swooned. In a moment he was at her side. The support seemed to re-animate the fainting maiden, her head drooping on his shoulder. Almost gasping for utterance, she whispered, "Take me hence, I want breath—air, air!" De Vessey lifted her in his arms and bore her forth into the open doorway. Trembling, shuddering, and looking round, the first words she uttered were—

"We are watched—by some unseen being in yonder chamber, I am persuaded. Didst not mark an antique, dismal-looking ebony cabinet immediately behind the painter?"

"I did, and admired its exquisite workmanship, as though wrought by some cunning hand."

"As I fixed my eyes on those little traceries, it might be fancy, but methought I saw the bright flash of a human eye gazing on me."

"Oh! my Leonora, indulge not these gloomy impressions. Throw off thy wayward fancies. 'Tis but the reflex image the mind mistakes for outward realities. When disordered she discerns not the substance from the shadow. Thou art well-nigh recovered. Come, come, let us in. To-day is the last of our task; prithee take courage and return."

"On one condition only; if thou take the chair first, and note well an open scroll to the right where those fawns and satyrs are carved."

"Agreed. And now shake off thy fears, my love."

De Vessey led her again to the apartment, and as though without consideration sat down, his face directly towards the cabinet. He fixed his eyes thereon a few seconds only, when Leonora saw him start up suddenly with a troubled aspect and grasp the hilt of his sword. Then turning to the painter he said, sternly—

"So!—We have intruders here, I trow."

"Intruders? None!" was the artist's reply, without betraying either surprise or alarm.

"That we'll see presently," said the cavalier, hastening to the cabinet; which, with hearty good-will, he essayed to open.

"Why this outrage?" inquired the painter, colouring with a hectic flush.

"Because 'tis my good pleasure," was the haughty reply. The door resisted his utmost efforts. "Doubtless held by some one within. Open, or by this good sword I'll make a passage through both door and carcase."

The hinges slowly gave way, the folding-doors swung open, and displayed a grinning skeleton.

"Ah! what lodger is this?"

"Mine art requires it," said the painter, with a ghastly smile; but in that smile was an expression so fearful, yet mysterious, that even De Vessey quailed before it. Another miniature portrait, a precise copy of the one in hand, hung from the neck of the skeleton.

Leonora, with a loud shriek, covered her face; but the lover, though far from satisfied himself, strove to assure his mistress, and besought her not to indulge any apprehension.

"You are disturbed, lady," said the artist. "'Tis but a harmless piece of earth, a mouldering fabric of dust, a thing, a form we must all one day assume. But to-morrow, to-morrow, if you will, we resume our work."

Leonora, relieved by the intimation, gladly consented, fain for a while to escape from this terrible chamber.

"Nought living was there, of a truth," said the cavalier, in evident perplexity, as they regained their coach. "But I saw plain enough, or imagination played me the prank, a semblance of a bright and flashing eye on the spot pointed out. Something incomprehensible hangs about the whole!"

Leonora agreed in this conclusion, expressing a fear lest harm should happen to themselves thereby. They were not ignorant of the whispers afloat, but hitherto treated them either with ridicule or indifference. Suspicion, however, once awake, mystery once apprehended, every circumstance, even the most trivial, is seized upon, the mind bending all to one grand object which haunts and excites the imagination.

Having left his companion at her brother's dwelling, De Vessey came to his own, moody and dispirited. A vague sense of some grievous but impending misfortune hung heavily upon him. Night brought no mitigation of his fears. Spectres, skeletons, and demon-painters haunted his slumbers. He awoke in greater torment than ever. The duplicate portrait was brought to his remembrance with a vividness, an intensity so appalling, that he almost expected to behold the skeleton wearer at his bedside.

Involved in a labyrinth of inextricable surmises, and not knowing what course to pursue, he arose early, and walked forth without aim or design towards the church of Notre Dame.

The red sun was just bursting through a thick atmosphere of mist, illuminating its two dark western towers, which looked even more gloomy under a bright and glowing sky, like melancholy in immediate contrast with hilarity and joy.

He passed the Morgue, or dead-house, where bodies found in the Seine are exposed, in order that they may be owned or recognised. Impelled by curiosity, he entered. One space alone was occupied. He could not surely be deceived when he saw the body of the unfortunate painter! Those features were too well remembered to be mistaken. Here was new ground for conjecture, fresh wonder and perplexity. He left this melancholy exhibition and entered the cathedral. Mass was celebrating at one of the altars. De Vessey joined in adoration, strolling away afterwards towards the vaults: one of them was open. From some vague, unaccountable impulse, he thus accosted the sexton:—

"Whose grave is this, friend?"

"A maid's—mayhap."

"Her name?"

"The only remaining descendant of the Barons Montargis."

"I have some knowledge of that noble gentlewoman; she was just about to be married. What might be the nature of her malady?"

"Why, verily there be as many guesses as opinions. The doctors were all at fault, and, 'tis said, even now in great dispute. The king's physician tried hard to save her. Old FrÈre Jeronymo, the confessor, will have it she was possessed; but all his fumigations, exorcisms, paters, and holy water could not cast out the foul fiend. She died raving mad!"

"A miserable portion for one so young and high-born. Was there no visible cause?"

"Cause!—Ay, marry; if common gossip be not an arrant jade. Her portrait had been taken by that same limner who, they say, has been taught in the devil's school, and can despatch a likeness with the twirl of his brush."

"And what of that?" cried De Vessey, in an agony of impatience.

"Why, the same fate has happened to several of our city dames. That is all."

"What has happened?"

"They have gone mad, and either felt or fancied some demon had gotten them in keeping. For my part, I pretend not to a knowledge of the matter. But you seem strangely moved, methinks."

The cavalier was nigh choking with emotion. Sick at heart, and with a fearful presentiment of impending evil, he turned suddenly away.

His next visit, as may be supposed, was to his mistress. He found her in great agitation. The portrait had been sent home the preceding night, and completely finished, lay before her—an exquisite—nay, marvellous—specimen of art. She was gazing on her own radiant counterpart as he entered. They both agreed that something more than ordinary ran through the whole proceedings, though unable to comprehend their meaning. De Vessey related his discovery in the Morgue, but not his subsequent interview with the sexton.

Ere night, Leonora was seized with a strange and frightful disease. Symptoms of insanity were soon developed. She uttered fearful cries; calling on the painter in language wild and incoherent, but of terrific import.

The lover was at his wits' end. He vowed to spare no efforts to save her, though scarcely knowing what course to pursue, or in what quarter to apply for help.

His first care was to seek the dwelling of a certain renowned doctor, a German, whose extraordinary cures and mode of treatment had won for him great wealth and reputation. Though by some accounted a quack and impostor, nevertheless De Vessey hoped, as a last resource, so cunning a physician might be able to point at once to the source and cure of this occult malady.

Doctor Herman Sichel lived in one of those high, antique, dreary-looking habitations, now pulled down, situate in the Rue d'Enfer. A common staircase conducted to several suites of apartments, tenanted by various occupants, and at the very summit dwelt this exalted personage.

A pull at the ponderous bell-handle gave notice of De Vessey's approach, when, after due deliberation, it might seem, and a long trial to the impatient querent, a little wicket was cautiously slid back, behind a grating in the door. A face, partially exhibited, demanded his errand.

"Thy master, knave!"

"He is in the very entrails of a sublime study. Not for my beard, grey though it be, dare I break in upon him."

"Mine errand is urgent," said De Vessey; "and, look thee, say a noble cavalier hath great need of succour at his hands."

"Grammercy, Sir Cavalier, and hath not everybody an errand of like moment?—thy business, peradventure, less urgent than fifty others whose suit I have denied this blessed day. I tell thee, my master may not be disturbed!"

De Vessey held up a coin temptingly before the grating. It would not go through, and the crusty Cerberus gently undid a marvellous array of chains, bars, and other ingenious devices, opening a slit wide enough for its insertion.

"Wider! thou trusty keeper," said the artful suitor outside. "I cannot fly through a key-hole!"

A hand was carefully protruded. The cavalier, espying his opportunity, thrust first his sword, afterwards himself, through the aperture, in spite of curses and entreaties from the greedy porter. He was immediately within a dark entrance or vestibule; the astonished and angry menial venting his wrath in no measured phrases on the intruder. De Vessey, in a peremptory tone, demanded to be led forthwith into the doctor's presence. The old man delayed for a while, almost speechless from several causes. His breath was nigh spent. Wrath on the one hand, fear of his master's displeasure on the other, kept him, like antagonistic forces, perpetually midway between both.

"Lead the way, knave, or, by the beard of St Louis, I'll seek him through the house! Quick! thou hast legs; if not, speak! Mine errand is urgent, and will not wait."

A stout and determined cavalier, with a strong gripe, and a sword none of the shortest, was not to be trifled with; and, after many expostulations, warnings, threats, had failed of their effect, he at length doggedly consented.

"Thou wilt give me the coin, then, Sir Cavalier?"

"Ay, when thou hast earned it. Away!"

Passing through a narrow passage, lighted from above, his conductor paused before a curiously-carved oaken door, at which three taps announced a message.

"Now enter, and pray for us both a safe deliverance. But, prithee, tell him it was not my fault thou hast gotten admission."

The door slowly opened, as though without an effort, and De Vessey was immediately in the presence of the physician, evidently to the surprise of the learned doctor himself, who angrily demanded his business and the ground of his intrusion.

"Mine hour is not yet come, young man. Wherefore shouldst thou, either by stratagem or force, thrust thyself, unbidden, into our presence?"

"To buy or beg thine aid, if it be possible. The case admits not of delay. I crave thy pardon, most reverend doctor, if that content thee; and, rest assured, no largess, no reward shall be too great, if thou restore one, I fear me, beyond earthly aid."

"Thus am I ever solicited," replied the sage, with a portentous scowl. He was clad in a gown of dark stuff, with slippers to match; his poll surmounted by a small black velvet skull-cap, from which his white, intensely white, hair escaped in great profusion. His visage was not swarthy, but of a leaden, pale complexion, where little could be discerned of the wondrous misrocosm within. Books, and manuscripts of ancient form and character, emblazoned in quaint and mystic devices, lay open on a long oak table, on which rested one elbow of the wise man; the other was thrown over an arm of the high-backed chair whereon he sat. The room contained plenty of litter in the shape of phials, boxes, and other strange furniture. A cupola furnace was just heated, the doctor apparently concocting some subtle compound.

"I am expected to wrest these helpless mortals even from the ravening jaws of the grave! My skill never tried until beyond other aid!"

"But this disorder is of a sudden emergency. A lady of high birth and lineage, a few hours since, was seized with a raging frenzy."

"A female, then?"

"Ay, and of such sweet temper and excellent parts, there be none to match with her, body or mind, in Christendom."

"When did this malady attack her?"

"Almost immediately after a portrait, made by the celebrated painter, was finished. Of him thou hast doubtless heard."

"The painter—ay! There be more than thou have rued his skill. Young man, thy pretty one is lost!"

"Lost? Oh, say not so! I will give thee thine utmost desire—riches—wealth thou hast never possessed, if thou restore her!"

"She is beyond my skill. Hast visited him since?"

"I have seen him. She is the last victim, if such be her fate. This very morning, betimes, I saw his body in the Morgue."

"They have found him, then?" said the doctor, sharply. "Yet our bodies are but exuviÆ. When cast off, this thinking, sentient principle within has another tabernacle assigned to it, until the great consummation of all things. But these are fables, idle tales, to the unlearned. Nevertheless, I pity thy cruel fate, and, if aid can be afforded, will call another to thine help. Hence! Thou shalt hear from me anon."

"And without loss of time; for every moment, methinks, our succour may come too late."

"I will forthwith seek out one whom I have heretofore taken knowledge of. Every science has its votaries—its adepts; and this evil case hath its remedy only by those skilled in arts called, however falsely, supernatural. Even now there be intelligences around us which the corporeal eye seeth not, nor can see, unless purged from the dross, the fumes of mortality. Some, peradventure, by long and patient study, have arrived on the very borders, the confines that separate visible from invisible things, and become, as it were, the medium of intercourse for mortals, who are by this means mightily aided in matters beyond ordinary research. Put thine ear to this shell. Mark its voice, like the sound of many waters. Are not these the invisible source, the essence of its being? Has not everything in like manner, even the most inanimate, a tongue, a language, peculiar to itself—a soul, a spirit, pervading its form, which moulds and fashions every substance according to its own nature? Now, this voice thou canst not interpret, being unskilled—knowing not the languages peculiar to every form and modification of matter; else would this beautiful type of the ever-rolling sea discourse marvellously to thine ear. But thou hast not the key to unclose its mystic tongue; hence, like any other unknown speech, 'tis but a confused jumble of unmeaning sound. I have little more knowledge than thyself, but there be those who can interpret. Vain man—presumptuous, ignorant—scoffs at knowledge beyond his reach, and thinks his own dim, nay, darkened reason, glimmering as in a dungeon, the narrow horizon that circumscribes his vision, the utmost boundary of all knowledge and existence, while beyond lies the infinite and unknown, utterly transcending his capacity and comprehension."

De Vessey drank up every word of this harangue; and something akin to hope rose in his bosom as he withdrew.

"Thou wilt have a message ere nightfall. An awful trial awaits thee ere the spell can be countervailed."

The cavalier withdrew, suffering many wistful remarks from the old doorkeeper, who marvelled greatly at the interview so graciously conceded by his master; while at the same time holding out his palm for the promised largess.

De Vessey waited impatiently at his own dwelling for the expected message. Evening drew on, dark and stormy. The wind roared along the narrow streets in sharp and irregular gusts; while, pacing his chamber in an agony of suspense, he fancied every sound betokened the approaching communication. At length, when expectation was almost weary, a louder rumbling was heard; a coach drew up at the door; a hasty knock, and a heavy tramp; then footsteps ascending the staircase. The door opened, and two gens-d'armes entered.

"We have authority and instructions for the arrest of one Sigismund de Vessey, on a charge of murder, made this day by deposition before the Mayor and Prefecture of the Ville de Paris. The individual so named, we apprehend, is before us."

"The same; though assuredly there is some mistake. Of whose death am I accused?"

"Of one Conrad Bergmann, a painter, whose body, last night thrown into the Seine, was to-day exposed in the Morgue. The rest will be explained anon."

"But an engagement—one, too, of a most important nature—demands my presence."

"No discretion is allowed us in this matter. The carriage waits."

However reluctant, De Vessey was forced to obey. Though confident of a speedy release, this arrest at so important a juncture was provoking enough. Leonora's recovery might probably depend on his exertions for the next few hours, which were now suddenly wrested from him.

Leaving word that he would shortly return, the cavalier stept into the vehicle, which immediately drove off.

In a little space the coach stopped, and De Vessey was invited to alight. He was led up a narrow staircase; a door flew open. He entered. Could it be; surely imagination betrayed his senses! He could scarcely believe himself once more in the apartment of the painter! Yet there was no mistaking what he saw. The ebony cabinet, the easel, table, chair—all left as he saw them yesterday. But the living occupants were strangely diverse. Two or three functionaries of the civil power; and in one corner a black cloth, spread on the floor, concealed some unknown object. The whole was lighted by a feeble lamp from the ceiling. A dusky haze from the damp, foggy atmosphere rendered objects ill-defined, indistinct, almost terrific to an excited imagination. In addition to the usual articles of furniture was a desk, with writing materials, at which one of the officers of justice appeared dictating something to his secretary.

On De Vessey's entrance, the scribe made some minute preparatory to his examination, which commenced as follows:—

"Sigismund de Vessey?"

"The same."

"Being accused upon oath before us of murder, thou art brought hither to confront thine accusers, and to answer this heinous charge. First, let the body be produced."

The cloth was removed, and De Vessey beheld the corpse lying on a mattress.

"Knowest thou this body?"

"I do," said the cavalier, firmly.

"When was he seen by thee alive, the last time?"

"Yesterday, about noon."

"Where?"

"In this chamber."

"Not since?"

"Yes, but not living."

"Dead, sayest thou?"

"This morning in the Morgue."

"Not previously?"

"I have not. But pray to what purport this examination?"

"This will appear presently. When taken out of the river marks were found upon the throat, as though from strangulation. Knowest thou aught of these?"

"I do not," said the accused, indignantly.

This answer being written down, the examination was resumed.

"We have testimony that the unfortunate victim and thyself were seen together about midnight; and, further, a short but violent struggle was heard, and a heavy plunge; afterwards an individual, with whom thou art identified, was seen departing in great haste, and entering the house well known as thy residence in the Rue de"——

"A most foul and wicked fabrication, for purposes of which as yet I am ignorant. Of such charges I hardly need affirm that I am innocent."

"Let the accuser stand forth."

To the surprise and horror of De Vessey there appeared from a recess the German doctor, Hermann Sichel, who, without flinching, recapitulated the foregoing accusation. Moreover, he swore in the most positive terms to his identity, and that not a doubt rested on his mind but De Vessey was the murderer.

"In this very apartment," said the witness, "he, De Vessey, drew his sword upon the painter yesterday, doubtless either from grudge or jealousy; being enamoured of a fair Italian dame, Leonora da Rimini."

"Most abominable of liars!" said the accused, eyeing him with a furious look. "How darest thou to my face bring this foul accusation. Thou shalt answer for it with thy blood!"

"Hear him! What need of further testimony? His own betrays him," said the doctor, with unblushing effrontery.

"We have other witness thou wilt not dare to gainsay," said the presiding officer. "This learned person is amply corroborated by evidence that must effectually silence all denial. He hath referred us to her who was present, Leonora da Rimini."

"Leonora! what, my own—my betrothed? She my accuser?"

"Spare thy speech and listen. We could not bring the maiden hither, insomuch as the nature of her malady admits not of removal: but her evidence and accusation are duly attested, taken at her own request, not many hours ago. The substance of her deposition is as follows:—A confession to her of thine intention to murder Conrad Bergmann, the artist aforesaid, being jealous of his attentions; and furthermore, in the agony of guilt, thou didst confess in her presence, having first strangled, and afterwards thrown him into the river, hoping thereby to conceal thy crime; then forcing her to swear she would keep the matter secret, and threatening her life in case it were divulged. This outrage, and this alone, hath nigh driven her frantic; her life being in jeopardy from thy violence. What sayest thou, Sigismund de Vessey?"

"A lie, most foul and audacious, trumped up by that impostor! Leonora? Impossible. I would not believe though it were from her own lips. Some demon hath possessed her. This disorder is more than common madness."

He looked around. The whole was like the phantasma of some terrible dream. Bewildered, and hardly knowing what course to pursue, in vain he attempted to shake the testimony of the hoary villain before him; and having at present none other means of rebutting the accusation, he was ordered into close custody until the morrow.

Utterly unprepared with evidence, he knew not where to apply. That he was the victim of some foul plot so far appeared certain; but for what purpose, and at whose instigation, was inexplicable.

Ere an hour had elapsed De Vessey found himself in one of the cells of a public dungeon, with ample leisure to form plans for proving his innocence. He determined early on the morrow to acquaint his friends, and employ a celebrated advocate to expose this villainous doctor, who no doubt had designs either on his purse or person.

In a while the prisoner fell asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. He was awakened by a sudden glare across his eyelids. At first, imagining he was under the influence of some extravagant dream, he made little effort to arouse himself. A figure stood beside the couch, a lamp lifted above his head. A friar's cowl concealed his features; his person, too, was enveloped in a coarse garment, with a huge rosary at his girdle.

"Mortal, awake and listen," said the unknown visitor. "Art weary of life, or does this present world content thee?"

"Who art thou?" said De Vessey, scarcely raising himself from the pallet.

"I am thy friend, thy deliverer, an' thou wilt."

"Thanks!" said the knight, springing from his recumbent posture.

"Stay!" replied the intruder; "there be conditions ere thou pass hence. Miserable offspring of Adam, ye still cling to your prison and your clay. Wherefore shrink from the separation, afraid to shake off your bonds, your loathsome carcase, and spring forth at once to life? Art thou prepared to fulfil one—but one condition for thy release?"

"Name it. Manifest my innocence; and if it be gold, thou shalt have thy desire. No hired advocate e'er yet held such a fee."

"Keep thy gold for baser uses; it buyeth not my benefits. But remember, thy life is not worth a week's purchase, neither is thy mistress's, forsooth, shouldest thou be witless enough to refuse. An ignominious death, a base exit for thyself—for her, madness and a speedy grave. One fate awaits ye both. Life and health, if thou consent, are yours."

"Thou speakest riddles. It were vain trying to comprehend their import. Name thy conditions. Aught that honour may purchase will I give."

The stranger threw back his cowl, displaying the features of the renowned Doctor Hermann Sichel. A gleam of lurid intelligence lighted his grim grey eyes, that might betoken either insanity or excitement.

Without reflecting for one moment on the hazard or imprudence of his conduct, De Vessey immediately rushed forward, grappled with his adversary, and threw him.

"Now will I have deadly vengeance, fiend! Take that!" said he, drawing forth a concealed poniard and thrusting with all his might. Scorn puckered the features of the pretended monk. The weapon's point was driven back, refusing to enter, as though his enemy held a charmed existence.

"Put back thy weapon; thou wilt have need of it elsewhere, silly one."

De Vessey was confounded at this unlooked-for result. His foe seemed invulnerable, and he slunk back.

"I forgive thee, poor fool! Put it back, I say. There—there; now to work—time hastens, and there is little space for parley."

"What is thy will?"

"Thy welfare, thy life: listen. Yonder unhappy wretch I have loaden with benefits, rescued from poverty, disgrace; lifted him to the pinnacle of his ambition—the highest rank in art. Base ingrate, he threatened to betray, to denounce, and I crushed the reptile. He is now what thou shalt be shortly unless my power be put forth for thy rescue. Not all the united efforts of man can deliver thee. Beyond earthly aid, thou diest the death of a dog!"

"Why dost thou accuse me of a crime, knowing that I am innocent?"

"To drive thee, helpless, into my power. Think not to escape save on one condition."

"Name it," said De Vessey.

"Self-preservation is the great, the paramount law of our nature; the most powerful impulse implanted in our being. All, all obey this impulse; and who can control or forbid its operation? Will not the most timid, the most scrupulous, if no alternative be afforded, slay the adversary who seeks his life; and does not the law both of earth and heaven hold him guiltless? Thou art now denounced. Innocent, thy life must be sacrificed. Thou diest, or another; there is no choice."

"But shall I murder the innocent?"

"And suppose it be. What thinkest thou? Two persons, equally guiltless, one of them must die. Self-preservation will prompt instinctively to action. Does not the drowning man cling to his companions; nay, rescue himself at the expense of another's life?"

De Vessey felt bewildered, if not convinced. Need we wonder if he yielded. Life or death; honour, disgrace. His mistress restored; his innocence proved. Life, with him, had scarcely been tasted. A glorious career awaited him; his lady-love smiling through the bright vista of the future; and——The tempter prevailed!

But who must be the victim? The appalling truth was not then disclosed. De Vessey promised to obey.

"But remember, no power, not even flight, can screen thee from my vengeance shouldst break thy vow. Take warning by the painter; the poor fool but hesitated, and his doom was swift as it was sure. Take this cowl and friar's garment; I was admitted by the jailer for thy shrift. The lamp will guide thee. Be bold, and fear not. I will remain; to-morrow they will find out their mistake, but I have other means of escape."

"And Leonora. How shall she be recovered?"

"That is a work of peril, and will need thine utmost vigilance. Rememberest thou the skeleton?"

"In the ebony cabinet?" inquired the cavalier, with a cold shudder.

"He hath her portrait, and will not lightly be persuaded to give his prey. Every month I am bound to furnish him a bride! My own life pays the forfeit of omission. Leonora is the next victim, unless thou prevail, betrothed to that grisly type of death!"

"Oh, horrible! Mine the bride of a loathsome skeleton! Of an atomy! A fiend! Monster, I will denounce thee. I care not for my own life. Of what worth if torn from hers. Wretch, give back my bride or"——

"Spare these transports. I am now thine only friend. Thou art now cut off from thy kin, shunned by mankind. To whom, then, wilt thou turn for help? Mine thou art for ever!"

De Vessey gasped for utterance.

"Nevertheless," continued his tormentor, "I will direct and help thee in this matter also. But 'tis a fearful venture. Hast thou courage?"

"If to rescue her, aught that human arm can achieve shall be done."

"He holds the portrait, I tell thee, with a steady gripe. Those skeleton fingers will be hard to unloose."

"I will break them or perish. This good"——

"Touch them not for thy life. Death, sure but lingering, awaits whomsoever they fasten upon. Take this key. It will admit thee to the apartment. To-night the deed must be accomplished, or to-morrow the maiden is beyond succour."

"And how is this charmed picture to be wrested from him?"

"An ebony wand lies at his feet; he will obey its touch. But whatsoever thou seest, be nothing daunted, nor let any silly terror scare thee from thy purpose. Now to thy task. But keep these marvels to thyself. If thou whisper—ay, to the winds—our compact, thou art not safe."

Soon De Vessey, enveloped in his disguise, found egress without difficulty. Once outside the prison, he hurried on, scarcely giving himself time for reflection.

The night was dark and stormy. Torches, distributed about the streets, rocked and swung to and fro in their sockets, the flames, with a strange and flickering glare, giving an unnatural distorted appearance to objects within reach; and to some solitary individual, at this late hour hurrying alone, the grim aspect of a demon or a spectre to the disturbed imagination of the lover. His courage, at times on the point of deserting him, revived when he remembered that another's life, dearer than his own, depended on his exertions. The streets, almost deserted, swam with continually accumulating torrents; but he felt not that terrible tempest; the turmoil, the conflict within, was louder than the roar and tumult of outward elements.

Almost ere he was aware he found himself opposite the entrance of the painter's habitation; a shudder, like a death-chill, shot through his frame. He applied his key. A distant gleam, a dim lurid light, seemed to quiver before him. He heard the quick jar, the withdrawing bolt, that gave him admittance, as though it were a spectral voice warning him to desist.

The unknown dangers he anticipated, rendered more terrific by their vague indefinite character, were enough to appal a stouter bosom. De Vessey would have faced and defied earthly perils, but these were almost beyond his fortitude to endure. Love, however, gave excitement, if not courage, and he resolved either to succeed or perish in the attempt. The stairs were partially illumined by an uncertain glimmer from a narrow window into the street. He felt his way, and every step sent the life-blood curdling to his heart. He reached the topmost stair; laid one hand on the latch. He listened; all was still save the hollow gusts that rumbled round the dwelling.

With a feeling somewhat akin to desperation he entered. A lamp, yet burning, emitted a feeble glare, but was well-nigh spent, giving a more dismal aspect to this lonely chamber. It was apparently unoccupied. The chair, the black funeral pall left by the officers of justice over the pallet, the mysterious cabinet, the desk where the painter usually sat, all remained undisturbed. De Vessey's attention was more particularly directed towards the cabinet; there alone, according to his instructions, were the means of deliverance. A cold, clammy perspiration, a freezing shiver, came upon him as he approached. He laid one hand on the latch; it resisted as before. He tried force, a loud groan was heard in the chamber. Every fibre of his frame seemed to grow rigid; every limb stiffened with horror; and he drew back.

This was a sorry beginning to the adventure, and he inwardly repented of his rashness. Looking round in extreme agony, his eyes rested on the black pall. Could it be, or was it from the expiring glimmer of the lamp? The drapery appeared to move. Another and a deeper groan! De Vessey for a space was unable to move; but his courage came apace, inasmuch as it was some relief, and a diversion from the awful mysteries of that grim cabinet. He approached the pallet hastily, throwing off the heavy coverlet. The recumbent body was yet beneath, but convulsed, as though struggling to free itself from an oppressive burden. De Vessey watched, while his blood froze with terror. Gradually these convulsive movements extended to the features. The lips quivered as though essaying to speak; the eye-balls rolling rapidly under their lids. A slight flush dawned upon the cheek; the hands were tightly closed, and another groan preceded one desperate attempt to throw off the load which prevented returning animation. At length the eyes opened with a ghastly stare; but evidently conveying no outward impression to the inward sense. With a loud shriek the body started up; then, uttering a wild and piercing cry, rolled on the floor, foaming and struggling for life as though with some powerful adversary.

"Save me!—save me!" was uttered in a tone so harrowing and dreadful, more than mortal agony, that De Vessey would have fled, but his limbs refused their office.

"He strangles me! Fiend—have—have mercy! Wilt thou not? Oh, mercy, mercy, Heaven!" His senses, though evidently bewildered, resumed their functions. With a glare of intense anguish he appeared as though supplicating help and deliverance.

"Who art thou?" was the first inquiry and symptom of returning reason. "I know thee, De Vessey. But why art thou here? Another victim. Yes, to torture me. Where am I? In my own chamber! Oh—that horrid cabinet! Yet—yet these cruel torments. Will they never end?"

De Vessey immediately perceived there was no delusion; the mortal form of the artist was really before him. Terrible though it were, yet it was a relief to have companionship with his kind, a being of flesh and blood beside him. He might now peradventure accomplish his task. Providence, maybe, had opened a way for his deliverance, and hope once more dawned on his spirit. He helped the miserable artist to regain his couch, and sought to soothe him, beseeching the helpless victim not to give way to frenzy, doubtless resulting from his strange and emaciated condition. A miracle or a spell had been wrought for his resuscitation; but the events of the last few hours were alike enigmas, beyond the common operations of nature to explain.

"Yesterday I attempted suicide," said the artist, "taking poison to escape a life insupportable to me. Fain would I have broken the chain which binds me to this miserable existence. But yon tyrant hath given me a charmed life. I cannot even die!"

"Thy body was dragged from the Seine."

"How?" inquired the artist, with an incredulous look.

"And exposed this morning in the Morgue," continued De Vessey.

"When will my sufferings cease? How have I prayed for deliverance from this infernal thraldom!"

"Yon deceiver hath doubtless thrown thee into the river, and supposing thou wert dead, he designs me to supply thy place; to carry on the dark mystery of iniquity, a glimpse of which hath already been revealed."

"Would that I had been left to perish—that my doom were ended. Avarice—ambition—how enslaved are your victims! How have I longed for my miserable cottage, my poverty, my obscurity—cold and pinching want, but a quiet conscience to season my scanty meal! I bartered all for gold, for fame and—misery! A cruel bondage! compared to which I could envy the meanest thing that crawls on this abject earth. In my trance I dreamed of green fields and babbling streams; of my brethren, my playmates, my days of innocence and sport, when all was freshness and anticipation—life one bright vista beyond, opening to sunny regions of rapture and delight. And now, what am I?—a wretch, degraded, undone—a spectacle of misery beyond what human thought can conceive. Doomed to years, ages it may be, of woe—to scenes of horror such as tongue ne'er told, and even imagination might scarce endure, and my miseries but a foretaste of that hereafter!"

Here the guilty victim writhed in a paroxysm of agony; his veins swollen almost to bursting. Whether real or imaginary, whether a victim to insanity or of some supernatural agent, its influence was not the less terrible in its effects. Starting suddenly from his grovelling posture, he cried, fixing his eyes on De Vessey with a searching glance—

"What brings thee hither?"

"Leonora is in jeopardy by your spells. I seek her deliverance."

"She is beyond rescue. Leonora da Rimini is The Skeleton's Bride."

Here the painter threw such a repulsive glance towards the cabinet that the cavalier shrank back as though expecting some grisly spectre from its portals; yet, himself the subject of an extraordinary fascination, he could not withdraw his gaze.

"Fly, fly, or thou art lost! My tormentor will be here anon—I would have saved her, and he fixed his burning gripe here, I feel it still; not a night passes that he comes not hither. Away! shouldest thou meet him thy doom is fixed, and for ever. I would not that another fell into his toils. Couldest thou know, ay, but as a whisper, the secrets of this prison-house, thy spirit would melt, thy flesh would shrink as though the hot wind of the desert had passed over it. What I have endured, and what I must endure, are alike unutterable."

"Thy keeper comes not to-night. He hath sent me to this chamber of death instead. He knows not thou art alive."

"Thee!—to—but I must not reveal; my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Nay, nay, it cannot be; none but a fiend could do his behest. Away! for thy life, away!"

De Vessey related the events of the last few hours. The artist ruminated awhile, then abruptly exclaimed—

"He hath some diabolical design thereupon which I am not yet able to fathom. That it is for thine undoing, Sir Knight, for thy misery here and hereafter, doubt not. Thou hast promised, but not yet offered him a victim. Thus far thou art safe; but he will pursue thee; and think not to escape his vengeance. How to proceed is beyond my counsel. Should midnight come, thou wouldest see horrors in this chamber that might quail the stoutest heart. Thou art bereft of life or reason if thou tarry."

"I leave not without an attempt, even should I fail, to wrench her, who is dearer to me than either, from that demon's grasp. I will not hence alone."

"Alas! I fear there is little hope; yet shall he not escape yonder prison before to-morrow. Even his arts cannot convey him through its walls; the magician's body, if such he be, is subject to like impediments with our own. This night, for good or ill, is thine."

"To work, then, to work," said De Vessey, as though inspired with new energy, "to the rescue, and by this good cross," kissing the handle of his sword, "I defy ye!"

By main force he attempted, and in the end tore open the door of the cabinet. The grinning skeleton was before him, the miniature in its grasp. A moment's pause. The cavalier carefully surveyed his prize. Suspended by an iron chain, the links entwined round its bony arm, rendered the picture difficult, if not impossible, to detach without touching the limbs. Gathering fresh courage from the countenance and smile of his beloved, he snatched the portrait, but the wearer was too tenacious of the charmed treasure, and resisted his utmost efforts. He thought a savage, a malicious grin crept upon his features. A smile more than usually hideous mocked him. From those hollow sockets too, or his imagination played strange antics, a faint glare shot forth. A dizzy terror crept over him. His brain reeled. His energies were becoming prostrate; and unless one desperate attempt could be made, all hopes of rescue were past. He sought the ebony wand, but forgetful or incautious, laid hold of the chain which encircled the skeleton's wrist. A bell answered to the pressure,—a deep hollow reverberation, like a death-knell, in his ear.

"Hark! that iron tongue—lost—lost! Oh! mercy, mercy!" shrieked the death-painter, covering his eyes.

At this moment De Vessey heard a noise like the jarring of bolts and hinges. Ere he was aware the skeleton's arms were fastened round him; the doors closed; the floor gave way under his feet. He felt the pressure relaxing; he fell; the hissing wind rushed in his ears. Stunned with his fall, he lay for a while in the dark, scarcely able to move. It was not long ere he was able to grope about. Rotting carcases and bones met his touch—a noisome charnel-house gorged with human bodies in all the various stages of decay. His heart sickened with a fearful apprehension that he was left to perish by a lingering death, like those around him. Despair for the first time benumbed his faculties. His courage gave way at the dreadful anticipation, and he grasped the very carcase on which he trod for succour.

Suddenly, a loud yell burst above him. A blaze of burning timbers flashed forth—crackling, they hissed, and fell into the vault. Through an opening overhead he saw the skeleton seized by devouring flames. They twined, they clung round it. Their forky tongues licked the bones that appeared to writhe and crawl in living agony.

Soon the chain which held the portrait gave way, and it dropped at his feet unhurt. A shriek issued from the flaming cabinet, and he saw the painter with a burning torch above. A maniac joy lighted up his features; he shouted to De Vessey, and with frantic gestures beckoned that he should escape.

"If thou canst climb yonder stair," he cried, "before the flames cut off thy retreat, thou art safe. See, Leonora is already free. Haste—this way—there—there—now leap—mind thy footing—'tis too frail—creep round—those rafters are unbroken; another spring, and thou mayest reach them in safety."

The flames were close upon him. He was nigh suffocated. A perilous attempt; but at length he gained the upper floor, and his deliverer exclaimed—

"Thanks, thanks, he is safe! By this good hand, too, that wrought your misery. Oh! that a life of penitence and prayer might atone for my guilt. It was a thought inspired by Heaven, prompted me to set on fire that insatiate demon, to whom my taskmaster offered those wretched victims, and every month a bride, on pain of his own destruction. What might be the nature of that skeleton form, or their compact, thou canst neither know nor understand. Even I, though nightly witnessing horrors which have given to youth the aspect and decrepitude of age, cannot explain. A connection, if not inseparable, yet intimate as body and soul, existed between those demon-haunted bones and yon monster who sought and accomplished my ruin. What I have seen must not, cannot be told. My lips are for ever sealed. But the flames are fast gaining on us. Let us hasten ere they prevent our retreat. The whole fabric will shortly be enveloped, and every record of this diabolical confederacy consumed. Go to thy lady-love. She is recovered, and as one newly-awakened from some terrific dream. With the earliest dawn hie thee to the prison lest he escape. Let him be instantly secured. When summoned, I will not fail to confront, to denounce the wretch. He cannot penetrate yonder walls save by fraud or stratagem. How I have escaped death is one of the mysteries which time perchance may never develop. One might fancy the cunning leech who supplied the drug did play me false. Instead of poison, mayhap, one of those potions of which we have heard, that so benumb and stupify the faculties that for a space they mimic death, nor can anything rouse or recover from its influence until the appointed time be past."

They hurried away as he spoke. De Vessey could scarcely wait until daylight. His first care was to secure the old sorcerer. He sought aid from the police, and, as far as might be, revealed the dreadful secret.

An immediate visit was made to the cell. On entering, its inmate was in bed—a scorched, a blackened corpse!

It may be supposed the lover was not long in attending on his mistress. She was free from disorder, and happily unconscious of what had passed during the interval, save that an ugly dream had troubled her. Nor was she aware that more than one night had elapsed. In a few days afterwards De Vessey led her to the altar.

The mystery was never fully penetrated. That imposture and partial insanity might be involved, and have the greatest share in its development, is beyond doubt; but they cannot explain the whole of these diabolical proceedings. That the powers of darkness may have power over the bodies of wicked and abandoned men cannot be denied.

Whether this narration discloses another instance of such mysterious agency our readers must determine.

What the painter knew was buried in eternal silence. The monks of La Trappe received a brother whose vows were never broken!