Joseph Wilmot, or, The Memoirs of a Man-Servant — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

JOSEPH WILMOT; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A MAN-SERVANT. 37 intendant, who presided, directed tbe under- servants to be summoned from their own hall; and when the entire domestic establishment was congregated, the intendant addressed us in the following manner :— “ T am now about to speak by command of the Marshal, who exercises within these walls a para- mount authority in his capacity of our young ducal master’s guardian. Listen, then, to what I have to say. In the course of the coming night strange sounds and noises may reach your ears: but you are not to be alarmed—and you will keep your chambers. On no account and on no pre- text is any one to issue forth. For the present I can say no more—I am forbidden to be explicit : but in the morning you will comprehend where. fore these commands have been issued through me.” The intendant ceased; and not a syllable was spoken by any of his listeners. We all seemed to feel that whatsoever his solemnly mysterious allusions pointed at, was a subject too sacred for the display of curiosity. We separated to our respective chambers; and no doubt all the rest felt as I did—namely, under the influence of a species of awe-inspiring terror. But a terror at what ? the reader may ask. I can scarcely give any explanation. It was not that I feared any- thing would happen to myself: but there was something so strange, so ominous in the mandate which had been issued, and in the warning which had prepared us to hear unusual sounds and noises, that it was impossible to avoid expe- riencing a feeling which cannot be otherwise de- fined than that of a vague and unknown terror. To think of retiring to rest, was—for me at least—out of the question. The death-scene at the Luxembourg Prison haunted me with all its hor- rors; and now too I was every moment expecting to catch the first of those sounds—whatever they were to be—of which the intendant had spoken. Thus were my ears keenly alive to the faintest noise which met them. The creaking of a board —the rustling of the leaves in the garden—the whirr of the bat’s wings in the air,—everything startled me. Frankly do I admit that my sensa. tions were tinctured with superstition—and yet in no such definite way that there was any particular thing which I apprehended. One hour passed— and at about eleven o’clock I heard footsteps and voices in the garden upon which my window looked. The night was exceedingly dark: but even if it had been quite light, I should not have opened the casement—for after the intendant’s injunction, I conceived it would be improper and indelicate to exhibit any curiosity. But I sat in my chamber, and listened. I heard the sounds of heavy wheels rolling on the gravel-walk beneath ; and I recognised them to be those of barrows which men were bringing into the premises. Then I heard the continuous noise of bricks being shot out of those barrows; and these were succeeded by the clattering of trowels, as if masons were engaged in some particular work. But what could it be? Not the faintest idea could I form; and I sat conjecturing while the sounds continued and the work went on. Thus the greater portion of the night was passed; and I sought not my couch. Daylight came—but still I did not open the window; and SS aS it a age A arar Sin ee REE SA a Can GID OG at about five o’clock in the morning the work, whatever it was, appeared to have been completed, —for the clatter of the trowels had ceased—the men were wheeling away the barrows—I heard some one who remained sweeping the gravel-walk —and then all was still. “What could it have meant?” I asked myself for the hundredth time; and then retired to rest, —sleep soon stealing upon me from the effects of exhaustion. It was eight o’clock when I awoke. I felt weak, ill, and languid, as well as deeply distressed in spirits. Having performed my toilet, I went down stairs; and at once proceeded into the garden,—where I found a dozen of my fellow. servants grouped together and gazing with a sort of bewildered awe towards the windows of the apartment which had been the scene of the fearful tragedy. But those windows—where were they P Nothing but screens of brick and mortar met my view :—compact masonry filled up the spaces in which the windows were set. For upwards of a minute I stood riveted to the spot,—my looks riveted likewise on those results of the night’s mysterious work. At length I gazed slowly round upon my fellow-servants ; and Amelie, with a pale countenance, drew me somewhat aside,—saying in a low half-hushed voice, “ It was by the Marshal’s order! The intendant has just explained all that he left unsaid last evening. And not only the windows, but the door also of that room is walled up. Not an article has been removed thence: everything belonging to the chamber is therein immured !” “But what could be the Marshal’s feeling in }taking so strange a step?” I inquired, well nigh lost in utter astonishment. “He would suffer nothing which belonged to his deceased daughter to be destroyed; and yet it was impossible to leave the very furniture which was blood-stained with the tragedy, to be used in that apartment, and the sight of it constantly re. minding whomsvever should enter of the catas- trophe which there took place. And it was like- wise out of regard for the feelings of the young Duke—who will doubtless be here to-day—that the Marshal was anxious to prevent him from witnessing the scene of his mother’s: death and of his father’s crime. Therefore to accomplish all these aims, there was but one course to pursue and he has pursued it !” The explanation was complete enough: but it effaced not from my mind the painful and almost dismayed sensation which the walling-yp of that room had produced upon it. There appeared to me something dreadful—I might even say horrible —in the idea of thus converting the scene of the tragedy into a mausoleum eternally enshrining the blood-stained objects which bore tremendous testi- mony to the foul deed. It seemed to be likewise a strange morbid feeling—a false and unnatural one —that had preferred such sepulchral preservation of those fearful relics to their complete and imme- diate destruction. And as for sparing the feelings of him who now bore the title of Duke de Paulin, by the walling-up of that chamber, it appeared to me a perfect mockery: for never could he set foot in the garden without having his eyes riveted upon the walls which shut in the place where his mother had perished so miserably and where his father SS (EO)