# Zastrozzi/Chapter 8

His head reposed upon Matilda's bosom; he started from it violently, as if stung by a scorpion, and fell upon the floor. His eyes rolled horribly, and seemed as if starting from their sockets.
"Is she then dead? is Julia dead?" in accents scarcely articulate exclaimed Verezzi. "Ah, Matilda! was it you then who destroyed her? was it by thy jealous hand that she sank to an untimely grave?—Ah, Matilda! Matilda! say that she yet lives! Alas! what have I to do in this world without Julia?—an empty uninteresting void."
Every word uttered by the hapless Verezzi spoke daggers to the agitated Matilda.
Again overpowered by the acuteness of his sensations, he sank on the floor, and, in violent convulsions, he remained bereft of sense.
Matilda again raised him—again laid his throbbing head upon her bosom.—Again, as recovering, the wretched Verezzi perceived his situation—overcome by agonising reflection, he relapsed into insensibility.
One fit rapidly followed another, and at last, in a state of the wildest delirium, he was conveyed to bed.
Matilda found, that a too eager impatience had carried her too far. She had prepared herself for violent grief, but not for the paroxysms of madness which now seemed really to have seized the brain of the devoted Verezzi.
She sent for a physician—he arrived, and his opinion of Verezzi's danger almost drove the wretched Matilda to desperation.
Exhausted by contending passions, she threw herself on a sofa: she thought of the deeds which she had perpetrated to gain Verezzi's love; she considered that, should her purpose be defeated, at the very instant which her heated imagination had portrayed as the commencement of her triumph; should all the wickedness, all the crimes, into which she had plunged herself, be of no avail—this idea, more than remorse for her enormities, affected her.
She sat for a time absorbed in a confusion of contending thought: her mind was the scene of anarchy and horror: at last, exhausted by their own violence, a deep, a desperate calm took possession of her faculties. She started from the sofa, and, maddened by the idea of Verezzi's danger, sought his apartment.
On a bed lay Verezzi.
A thick film overspread his eye, and he seemed sunk in insensibility.
Matilda approached him—she pressed her burning lips to his—she took his hand—it was cold, and at intervals slightly agitated by convulsions.
A deep sigh, at this instant, burst from his lips—a momentary hectic flushed his cheek, as the miserable Verezzi attempted to rise.
Matilda, though almost too much agitated to command her emotions, threw herself into a chair behind the curtain, and prepared to watch his movements.
"Julia! Julia!" exclaimed he, starting from the bed, as his flaming eye-balls were unconsciously fixed upon the agitated Matilda, "where art thou? Ah! thy fair form now moulders in the dark sepulchre! would I were laid beside thee! thou art now an ethereal spirit!" and then, in a seemingly triumphant accent, he added, "But, ere long, I will seek thy unspotted soul—ere long I will again clasp my lost Julia!" Overcome by resistless delirium, he was for an instant silent—his starting eyes seemed to follow some form, which imagination had portrayed in vacuity. He dashed his head against the wall, and sank, overpowered by insensibility, on the floor.
Accustomed as she was to scenes of horror, and firm and dauntless as was Matilda's soul, yet this was too much to behold with composure. She rushed towards him, and lifted him from the floor. In a delirium of terror, she wildly called for help. Unconscious of every thing around her, she feared Verezzi had destroyed himself. She clasped him to her bosom, and called on his name, in an ecstasy of terror.
The domestics, alarmed by her exclamations, rushed in. Once again they lifted the insensible Verezzi into the bed—every spark of life seemed now to have been extinguished; for the transport of horror which had torn his soul was almost too much to be sustained. A physician was again sent for—Matilda, maddened by desperation, in accents almost inarticulate from terror, demanded hope or despair from the physician.
He, who was a man of sense, declared his opinion, that Verezzi would speedily recover, though he knew not the event which might take place in the crisis of the disorder, which now rapidly approached.
The remonstrances of those around her were unavailing, to draw Matilda from the bed-side of Verezzi.
She sat there, a prey to disappointed passion, silent, and watching every turn of the hapless Verezzi's countenance, as, bereft of sense, he lay extended on the bed before her.
The animation which was wont to illumine his sparkling eye was fled: the roseate colour which had tinged his cheek had given way to an ashy paleness—he was insensible to all around him. Matilda sat there the whole day, and silently administered medicines to the unconscious Verezzi, as occasion required.
Towards night, the physician again came. Matilda's head thoughtfully leant upon her arm as he entered the apartment.
"Ah, what hope? what hope?" wildly she exclaimed.
The physician calmed her, and bid her not despair: then observing her pallid countenance, he said, he believed she required his skill as much as his patient.
"Oh! heed me not," she exclaimed; "but how is Verezzi? will he live or die?"
The physician advanced towards the emaciated Verezzi—he took his hand.
A burning fever raged through his veins.
"Oh, how is he?" exclaimed Matilda, as, anxiously watching the humane physician's countenance, she thought a shade of sorrow spread itself over his features—"but tell me my fate quickly," continued she: "I am prepared to hear the worst—prepared to hear that he is even dead already."
As she spoke this, a sort of desperate serenity overspread her features—she seized the physician's arm, and looked steadfastly on his countenance, and then, as if overcome by unwonted exertions, she sank fainting at his feet.
The physician raised her, and soon succeeded in recalling her fleeted faculties.
Overcome by its own violence, Matilda's despair became softened, and the words of the physician operated as a balm upon her soul, and bid her feel hope.
She again resumed her seat, and waited with smothered impatience for the event of the decisive crisis, which the physician could now no longer conceal.
She pressed his burning hand in hers, and waited, with apparent composure, for eleven o'clock.
Slowly the hours passed—the clock of Passau tolled each lingering quarter as they rolled away, and hastened towards the appointed time, when the chamberdoor of Verezzi was slowly opened by Ferdinand.
"Ha! why do you disturb me now?" exclaimed Matilda, whom the entrance of Ferdinand had roused from a profound reverie.
"Signora!" whispered Ferdinand—"Signor Zastrozzi waits below: he wishes to see you there."
"Ah!" said Matilda thoughtfully, "conduct him here."
Ferdinand departed to obey her—footsteps were heard in the passage, and immediately afterwards Zastrozzi stood before Matilda.
"Matilda!" exclaimed he, "why do I see you here? what accident has happened which confines you to this chamber?"
"Ah!" replied Matilda, in an undervoice, "look in that bed—behold Verezzi! emaciated and insensible—in a quarter of an hour, perhaps, all animation will be fled—fled for ever!" continued she, as a deeper expression of despair shaded her beautiful features.
Zastrozzi advanced to the foot of the bed—Verezzi lay, as if dead, before his eyes; for the ashy hue of his lips, and his sunken inexpressive eye, almost declared that his spirit was fled.
Zastrozzi gazed upon him with an indefinable expression of insatiated vengeance—indefinable to Matilda, as she gazed upon the expressive countenance of her coadjutor in crime.
"Matilda! I want you; come to the lower saloon; I have something to speak to you of," said Zastrozzi.
"Oh! if it concerned my soul's eternal happiness, I could not now attend," exclaimed Matilda, energetically: "in less than a quarter of an hour, perhaps, all I hold dear on earth will be dead; with him, every hope, every wish, every tie which binds me to earth. Oh!" exclaimed she, her voice assuming a tone of extreme horror, "see how pale he looks!"
Zastrozzi bade Matilda farewell, and went away.
The physician yet continued watching, in silence, the countenance of Verezzi: it still retained its unchanging expression of fixed despair.
Matilda gazed upon it, and waited with the most eager, yet subdued impatience, for the expiration of the few minutes which yet remained— she still gazed.
The features of Verezzi's countenance were slightly convulsed.
The clock struck eleven.
His lips unclosed—Matilda turned pale with terror; yet mute, and absorbed by expectation, remained rooted to her seat.
She raised her eyes, and hope again returned, as she beheld the countenance of the humane physician lighted up with a beam of pleasure.
She could no longer contain herself, but, in an ecstasy of pleasure, as excessive as her grief and horror before had been violent, in rapid and hurried accents questioned the physician. The physician, with an expressive smile, pressed his finger on his lip. She understood the movement; and, though her heart was dilated with sudden and excessive delight, she smothered her joy, as she had before her grief, and gazed with rapturous emotion on the countenance of Verezzi, as, to her expectant eyes, a blush of animation tinged his before—pallid countenance. Matilda took his hand—the pulses yet beat with feverish violence. She gazed upon his countenance—the film, which before had overspread his eye, disappeared: returning expression pervaded its orbit, but it was the expression of deep, of rooted grief.
The physician made a sign to Matilda to withdraw.
She drew the curtain before her, and, in anxious expectation, awaited the event.
A deep, a long-drawn sigh, at last burst from Verezzi's bosom. He raised himself—his eyes seemed to follow some form, which imagination had portrayed in the remote obscurity of the apartment, for the shades of night were but partially dissipated by a lamp which burnt on a table behind. He raised his almost nerveless arm, and passed it across his eyes, as if to convince himself, that what he saw was not an illusion of the imagination. He looked at the physician, who sat near to and silent by the bedside, and patiently awaited whatever event that might occur.
Verezzi slowly arose, and violently exclaimed, "Julia! Julia! my longlost Julia, come!" And then, more collectedly, he added, in a mournful tone, "Ah no! you are dead; lost, lost for ever!"
He turned round, and saw the physician, but Matilda was still concealed.
"Where am I?" inquired Verezzi, addressing the physician. "Safe, safe," answered he: "compose yourself; all will be well."
"Ah, but Julia?" inquired Verezzi, with a tone so expressive of despair, as threatened returning delirium.
"Oh! compose yourself," said the humane physician: "you have been very ill: this is but an illusion of the imagination; and even now, I fear, that you labour under that delirium which attends a brain-fever."
Verezzi's nerveless frame again sunk upon the bed—still his eyes were open, and fixed upon vacancy: he seemed to be endeavouring to arrange the confusion of ideas which pressed upon his brain.
Matilda undrew the curtain; but, as her eye met the physician's, his glance told her to place it in its original situation.
As she thought of the events of the day her heart was dilated by tumultuous, yet pleasurable emotions. She conjectured, that were Verezzi to recover, of which she now entertained but little doubt, she might easily erase from his heart the boyish passion which before had possessed it; might convince him of the folly of supposing that a first attachment is fated to endure for ever; and, by unremitting assiduity in pleasing him—by soft, quiet attentions, and an affected sensibility, might at last acquire the attainment of that object, for which her bosom had so long and so ardently panted.
Soothed by these ideas, and willing to hear from the physician's mouth a more explicit affirmation of Verezzi's safety than his looks had given, Matilda rose, for the first time since his illness, and, unseen by Verezzi, approached the physician.—"Follow me to the saloon," said Matilda.
The physician obeyed, and, by his fervent assurances of Verezzi's safety and speedy recovery, confirmed Matilda's fluctuating hopes. "But," added the physician, "though my patient will recover if his mind be unruffled, I will not answer for his re-establishment should he see you, as his disorder, being wholly on the mind, may be possibly augmented by—"
The physician paused, and left Matilda to finish the sentence; for he was a man of penetration and judgement, and conjectured that some sudden and violent emotion, of which she was the cause, occasioned his patient's illness. This conjecture became certainty, as, when he concluded, he observed Matilda's face change to an ashy paleness.
"May I not watch him—attend him?" inquired Matilda imploringly.
"No," answered the physician: "in the weakened state in which he now is, the sight of you might cause immediate dissolution."
Matilda started, as if overcome by horror at the bare idea, and promised to obey his commands.
The morning came—Matilda arose from a sleepless couch, and with hopes yet unconfirmed sought Verezzi's apartment.
She stood near the door, listening.—Her heart palpitated with tremulous violence, as she listened to Verezzi's breathing—every sound from within alarmed her. At last she slowly opened the door, and, though adhering to the physician's directions in not suffering Verezzi to see her, she could not deny herself the pleasure of watching him, and busying herself in little offices about his apartment.
She could hear Verezzi question the attendant collectedly, yet as a person who was ignorant where he was, and knew not the events which had immediately preceded his present state.
At last he sank into a deep sleep—Matilda now dared to gaze on him: the hectic colour which had flushed his cheek was fled, but the ashy hue of his lips had given place to a brilliant vermilion—She gazed intently on his countenance.
A heavenly, yet faint smile, diffused itself over his countenance—his hand slightly moved.
Matilda, fearing that he would awake, again concealed herself. She was mistaken; for, on looking again, he still slept.
She still gazed upon his countenance. The visions of his sleep were changed, for tears came fast from under his eyelids, and a deep sigh burst from his bosom.
Thus passed several days: Matilda still watched, with most affectionate assiduity, by the bedside of the unconscious Verezzi.
The physician declared that his patient's mind was yet in too irritable a state to permit him to see Matilda, but that he was convalescent.
One evening she sat by his bedside, and gazing upon the features of the sleeping Verezzi, felt unusual softness take possession of her soul—an indefinable and tumultuous emotion shook her bosom—-her whole frame thrilled with rapturous ecstasy, and seizing the hand, which lay motionless beside her, she imprinted on it a thousand burning kisses.
"Ah, Julia! Julia! is it you?" exclaimed Verezzi, as he raised his enfeebled frame; but perceiving his mistake, as he cast his eyes on Matilda, sank back, and fainted.
Matilda hastened with restoratives, and soon succeeded in recalling to life Verezzi's fleeted faculties.