Читать книгу The Strange Friend of Tito Gil - Pedro Antonio de Alarcón - Страница 5

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No words could have astonished him more than those he had just heard.

“Friend! Wait!”

He had no friends.

But what astounded him more was the horrible feeling of cold that the hand of that shadow gave him; and even the tone of its voice chilled him like a polar wind, to the very marrow of his bones.

The night being dark, the poor orphan could not distinguish the features of the newly arrived being, though he did discern his black, flowing robes, which did not resemble those worn by either sex.

Full of doubts, mysterious fears and even a lively curiosity, Tito rose from the doorway where he had crouched, and murmured in a faint voice, broken by the chattering of his teeth:—“What do you wish?”

“That I ask thee!” responded the unknown being, linking his arm in Tito’s with affectionate familiarity.

“Who are you?” asked the poor shoemaker, who felt himself dying from the cold contact of that arm.

“I am he whom thou seekest.”

“Who?—I?—I seek nobody,” replied Tito, endeavoring to disengage himself.

“Then why didst thou call me?” replied the other, grasping his arm with more force.

“Ah! Leave me!”

“Calm thyself, Tito. I mean thee no harm,” added the mysterious being. “Come! Thou tremblest with hunger and cold! Yonder is an open tavern in which I have something to do to-night. Let us enter and refresh ourselves.”

“Well! but who are you?” asked Tito anew, his curiosity commencing to overcome his other feelings.

“I told thee when we met. We are friends—and observe that thou art the only one upon this earth to whom I give this name. Remorse binds me to thee. I have been the cause of all thy misfortunes.”

“But I do not know you,” replied the shoemaker.

“Nevertheless I have entered thy house many times. Through me thou wert left motherless the day of thy birth. I was the cause of the apoplexy that killed Juan Gil; I hurled thee from the palace of Rionuevo; removed thy housekeeper, and finally put this bottle of vitriol within thy reach.”

Tito shook with fear; his hair stood on end; he felt as if his contracted muscles were giving way.

“You are the Devil!” he exclaimed, with undisguised terror.

“Boy!” answered the black robed stranger in a tone of gentle reproof, “why dost thou think that? I am something more and better than the wretched being thou namest.”

“Who are you then?”

“Let us enter the inn and thou wilt know.”

Tito entered quickly, and placing the unknown being before the dim lamp looked at him with intense earnestness.

He appeared to be about thirty-three years of age, tall, pale, and beautiful, dressed in a long tunic, and black, flowing mantle; his long hair concealed by a peculiarly shaped black cap. He was beardless, but nevertheless not effeminate in appearance; and notwithstanding the strength and vigor of his countenance, he did not resemble a man. He appeared to be a human being without sex, a body without soul, or, more properly speaking, a soul without visible mortal body. One would call him a negative personality. His eyes were without brilliancy. They reminded one of the darkness of night; they were ghostly; eyes of sorrow, of death; but so gentle, so inoffensive, so profound in their dumbness that one could not withdraw his gaze. They attracted like the sea; fascinated like a deep abyss; consoled like forgetfulness. Scarcely had Tito fixed his eyes on those inanimate ones, when he felt as though a black veil enveloped him, that all was turning to chaos, and that the noise of the world was like that of a cyclone.

The strange being then uttered these words:—

“I am Death, my friend—I am Death, and God has sent me—God, who has reserved for thee a glorious place in heaven. Five times I have caused thee misery, but at last, I, the implacable deity, have had compassion on thee. When He ordered me to bring thy godless soul before the Tribunal, I prayed to Him to confide thy existence to me, and allow me to remain awhile at thy side, promising in the end to deliver thy spirit cleansed of sin and worthy of His glory. Heaven has not been deaf to my prayer. Thou art then the first mortal whom I ever approached whose body did not turn to cold ashes. Thou art my only friend. Listen, now, and learn the path to happiness and eternal salvation.”

When Death had finished speaking Tito murmured an inaudible word.

“I understand thee,” replied Death, “thou speakest of Elena de Monteclaro.”

“Yes,” answered the boy.

“I swear to thee that no other arm than thine or mine shall ever enfold her. And, besides, I promise to give thee the felicity of this world and of the other. With that thou hast all. I, my friend, am not the Omnipotent,—my power is very limited, very sad. I do not create. My province is to destroy. Nevertheless it lies in my hands to give thee strength, power and greater riches than that of princes and emperors. I will make thee a physician; but a physician! my friend, who will know, will see, and be able to speak to me. Dost thou divine the rest?”

Tito was amazed.

“Can it be possible?” he exclaimed, as though struggling with a nightmare.

“Yes, and something more which I will tell thee, but now I need only to advise thee that thou art not the son of Juan Gil. I hear the confessions of the dying, and I know that thou art the natural child of a more noble parent.”

“Hush!” exclaimed the poor boy, hiding his face in his hands. Then, inspired by a sudden idea, he said with indescribable horror:

“With which some day you intend to kill Elena?”

“Compose thyself,” answered the divinity. “Thou wilt never cause Elena’s death. Therefore, answer! Dost thou, or dost thou not, wish to be my friend?”

Tito answered with another question.

“Will you give me Elena in exchange?”

“I have told thee, yes.”

“Then here is my hand,” said the boy, offering it to Death. But at that moment a thought more horrible than the first assailed him.

“With these hands that clasp mine you killed my poor mother!”

“’Tis true, thy mother died,” answered Death. “Understand, however, that I did not cause her a single pain. I make no one suffer. He who torments thee to the last, is my rival Life; that Life that so many love.”

For answer the boy threw himself into the arms of Death.

“Come, then,” said the strange being.

“Where?”

“To the Granja palace, to commence thy practice as a physician.”

“But whom do we go to see there?”

“The ex-king, Philip V.”

“What! Is Philip to die?”

“Not yet; he must return, and reign again; and thou goest to offer him the crown.”

Tito bowed his head, crushed beneath the weight of so many new ideas.

Death took his arm and led him from the inn. They had not reached the door when they heard cries and lamentations behind them.

The proprietor of the house was dead.